#did i get ridiculously sunburned? yes

[cornsobsessions]

i <3 camping

[ankmankpank]

Aaron Z. x baby sis!reader

Tw: cussing and a sunburn maybe?? Nothing else, 4*town playing basketball shirtless as fuck. Ur not even a baby, just 4. I don’t have the talent to write and it’s maybe cringe at some places. I mean, I just had the idea and rlly wanted to do something with it, i don’t even care if it’s not well written. (I’m gonna kms)

4*TOWN was a world famous boy band , we know that. But they were also human, which meant they had their families too.

And you, you were one of the members' little sister, Aaron Z.’s! He was 18 years older than you, which meant that you were 4 now, babe.

And your parents had to leave for a summer vacation, so they gave you to Aaron Z. for the summer who lived with the other members of 4*TOWN by second. To make work easier, or who knows why. Which meant, you lived with them too now.

But the thing was, Z. haven’t met you since your birth. Your parents never treated him well, except than buying him everything he needed since they were mad rich. It’s not like they treat you any better, you’re just a kid and you don’t really care how strict they are. How much does reputation matter for them. How much they expect from you, or how much they expected from Z. before the band took off and he decided to leave.

He wanted to get you out of there, but he couldn’t. And it’s not like he wanted to go back anyway.

So, this is how is it now.

It was a waaarm, warm afternoon and the boys were playing basketball outside on their court in the garden. And none of them would really leave you unsupervised(except T.), so you were sitting at one of the benches next to the court with two horse toys in your little hands, which were given to you by Jesse after Z. had a speech to him about not knowing what the fuck to do with a kid. It wasn’t like he didn’t want you there, he did! He was glad that he could finally meet you properly and that you were finally out of that hell of a sadly huge house that he was forced to grow up in, it’s just.. he was scared that he will fuck this up.

But like, playing with horsies and having zero problems in the world at all wasn’t so entertaining to you at the moment.

So you shifted your attention towards the boys. And maybe you didn’t pay attention to this detail at all, but fangirls would go mad crazy to see them like this. Shirtless, moving and jumping around, and sweat dripping off them as they playfully teased each other and T. sometimes started play fighting with Robaire. Truly a sight, too bad you didn’t care at all.

BOOOOOOOOORING, you wanted to go to an amusement park, the beach, a funeral just to wander off halfway into it and scare some birds! Just let something happen already.

“What’s up, Sweetcheeks?” FUCK AARON T. SCARED YOU.

T. chuckled at the way you jumped slightly as he sat down next to you on the bench, drying his face and sweaty body with a towel while he drank from his bottle. The five bottles and the towels were next to you on the ridiculously huge bench, you even thought about doing bowling with them, if you’d know how to do that.

“It’s hot.” You whined. “I’m bored.” You continued. “And I’m tired without even moving. How are you still alive?” You were swinging your feet as you talked, the two horses now on the bench on the other side of you.

But like, really. Did being shirtless help? Or it was the moving? He’s fit and you’re not? He’s 22? He was weird.

“I’m okay, Little Z. This is just a quick break then we’re back at it again.” T. told you as he closed the bottle and put it back at it’s place, taking a look at the others still playing before looking back at you. “But you need to be careful when it’s hot like this, baby. Do you need anything?”

“No I don’t.” You shook your little head. You didn’t think you did, but not like you wanted to do anything right now.

“Oh yes you do.” Walked Aaron Z. over to the two of you, patting T.’s shoulder to tell him that he can go now.

With that, T. and Z. switched places, now Z. sitting next to you, taking the tube of sunscreen next to the bottles before putting you into his lap with a quiet. “C’mere.”

“But I already have sunscreen on!”

“But you need more.” Z.’s expression stayed the usual I-wouldn’t-care-if-there-was-a-bomb-on-my-back face, popping open the small tube and applying some to the tip of his fingers. He pushed your hair back with one hand and he applied it to your puffy face with the other, happy that you’re not complaining while he’s putting it on.

You put your tongue out a little, angry that it was a defeat. “But the sunscreen is warm now! It was out in the sun too! Didn’t it get a sunburn?”

“Don’t be stupid and let me finish.”

By those words, people would think he didn’t care. But he did. His fingers were soft, gentle, as if he was afraid that he’d break you any moment. Z. was careful to apply it everywhere where the sun reached you. When he was finished, he took his bottle to pour some water into his palm before getting your scalp wet with it.

And the water was sooo cold it was SO good!

Just a moment after him finally drinking, which he thought could wait after he made sure you’re all safe from the sun, Z. scratched you behind your ear. The paparazzi would eat this moment up.

“Don’t you need sunscreen?” You asked him, pouting that he applied yours perfectly, so you couldn’t even slip out of his hands because of the slippery sunscreen. No, he had to do it perfectly.

“No.”

“Then can you put sunscreen on my horsies too? Or can I put it on for them?” You asked him, eyes shining as you pointed to the two horses next to the two of you on the bench.

A few seconds of silence went by, and your big brother sighed. But then he grabbed the tube of sunscreen off the bench, and started applying it on the horse toys’ ears, one by one.

“Thank you!” You chirped as you stood up on his lap, quickly hugging his neck before you climbed out of his lap, back to your place.

They were always surprised how bubbly you were. How cute, oh my god. Look at you! You were always smiling, you loved every bug, every flower and everyone with no break at all! Tae was an absolute sweetheart to you and Z. was… Z., but you still treated them the same!

Not caring if Z. didn’t hug back sometimes.

With that, he was gone. Back on the game, with T. clinging into his neck like you did before, whining that how much he missed him and they were totally going to lose.

They all looked so sweaty and hot. It was weird how they weren't even thinking about how much they sweat, or that they were shirtless. That's the difference between boys and girls, boys can just do whatever they want without caring.

You envied them. Not for the fame or something like that, no.

For being boys, being older than you, being free when around each other, having fun.

You had fun too, but there was something different about boys being boys. Their personalities. The way that Z. looked like he’s going to hit his head into the wall until there’s a dent in his forehead every time T. decided to have a conversation. You liked watching them.

But you quickly got bored of this thought chain too.

You got off the bench and ran off into the big garden of the mansion, taking your horse toys with you. Your little legs ran off, your small hands holding the horse toys while you ran. The grass was soft beneath your feet, and you felt the sun on your puffy little face.

You didn't know where you were walking, but you went deeper and deeper into the huge garden while your big brother played with the others and laughed at each other. They were still yelling and swearing at each other, like they always do. They were nice to be around, you just couldn’t focus on something for more than 30 minutes.

You found yourself in a very quiet place. It was so calm and peaceful.

You were so busy playing with the grass, dirt, mud and flowers and bugs. It was like this little place belonged just to you, that you didn’t notice that sun was starting to go down, creating the most beautiful colors as it settled in the west. You had your bug friends named one by one, the rock castle you built just for them, their personalities and connections, you didn’t need anything else!

Well, maybe except another round of sunscreen. You didn’t know how long you were out in the sun, but you had fun. Had fun, it’s just that your face felt hot. And legs. And it had a funny feeling with it.

Mhm, shit.

Aaron Z.-1

You-0

You stayed longer than you should have. You knew that.

You won at having fun, but definitely lost at being scolded.

The sky was now a weak blue and pink color, the sun was about to set and it was so calm and peaceful just being outside in the garden by yourself. You didn’t care about your sunburn, but that wouldn’t stop your big brother from getting very, very angry once he saw you.

“There you are.”

You turned around as you heard your big brother’s voice, he found you! Hi Z.!!

"How long were you here?" He said sternly, not even giving you the time to explain as he quickly walked towards you. Just to notice that you were basically swimming in dirt, and.. was that a bug crawling on your arm?

“Umm.. since you put sunscreen on me and my horses.” You smiled, dusting off your dirty hands on your little overall. Tae chose your clothes for today, you thought he had a good taste! Even though that good taste, you already ruined it with the mud, so you didn’t stand up from the grass. You loved sitting in it!

He groaned, knowing that you definitely did get a sunburn.

“It’s been 5 hours. You’ve been out here with no protection from the sun. Have you seen your face?” He said, pointing towards your face as he crouched down to your level.

His hands slowly approached your cheeks, as he brushed your face, feeling how hot it was. Fuuuck.

“No, but it does hurt though..” You mumbled, patting your little arms with your little hands. “And my arm does too..” And it was hot. And it felt bad.

You realized now how burned you were by the sun. That was not good.

"Show me your shoulders and back," your big brother said with concern as he took off your overall and pulled down your undershirt slightly, to check your back and shoulders.

"This is not good. At all. Get up." He frowned, his eyes softening up for a moment. Then he sighed. He lifted you up effortlessly and carried you. You saw him doing all typa sports before, but it was so cool that how easy he could carry you!

You were always amazed by him.

He was going straight to Jesse with you. He knew that you liked talking to Jesse, and he also knew that Jesse enjoyed your company too. He knew how to deal with kids of course, so Z. often asked for advice from him.

“Mmhmhm.” You groaned. You didn’t want to go inside, you wanted to stay out to play. Though, your skin hurt and you felt hot and tired so you didn’t complain. Not like you really had the energy to. So, you laid your puffy cheek on his collarbone, not caring that it hurt, you didn’t rest your little heavy head for hours. And you pretty much needed that.

He probably didn’t know how to express it, but he really did feel bad for you. He really did care and most of all, he loved you. A lot. This was new to him too and he wanted to do it right, and even he didn’t know, Z. did it the best. He was the best.

[cyndrastic]

i’m on a roll here

firm believer in the fact that Kenny and Vic went back to Hawaii for their honeymoon since it marks the first time they really bonded as kids

also yes those are the necklaces they get at the end of “Going Native.” In my au they start dating in 6th grade, and wear the necklaces every day. Even when they are forced apart somewhere between end of middle school-start of high school, they promise they’re still together and to remember each other every day by wearing their matching shark teeth. Then, one day after around a decade (i don’t have an exact timeline for this yet), they find each other again and they’re both still wearing the necklaces. Even if they’d both kind of moved on (Vic had hooked up with people and Kenny had a wife [rip]), the fact that they both still wore the necklaces gave them hope that maybe after all that time, the relationship would work again. And it did.

i put way much thought into this so i’m just gonna put some random details and things i like about this drawing under the cut

Kenny and Vic are kinda matching by both wearing blue and yellow. Kenny’s got a blue shirt and yellow shorts and Vic’s got a yellow shirt and blue shorts. It’s subtle cause they didn’t want everyone to think they’re the super weird always matching newlyweds, but eventually they relent that they are those annoying people and when they get back to South Park they by a bunch of those obnoxious couples shirts (my mind goes to some i saw that just said “i’m his ->” “<- i’m he’s” and idk why but that’s super funny to me)

their nails are matching blue <3

I feel like Kenny would be the guy entirely against sunscreen. Sensory issue moment. Therefore, he doesn’t wear any the whole honeymoon. However, he’s got a ridiculous pain tolerance so his sunburn doesn’t bother him too much. Vic, on the other hand, reapplies every 30 minutes but fries under the sun like you wouldn’t believe, so Ken has to help him reapply and apply aloe at the end of the day.

on that note: Kenny’s sunglasses tan line

if it’s important to anyone, their youngest kid (at the time) is the one who made the little tree heart and sun doodles at the bottom of the picture

[bubbl3zdaseaotter37]

Whumptober 2024

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

A/N: I got another prompt done on time today! Yippeeee! Anyways, I’m (semi) proud to present my first COMPLETED Lockwood & Co. prompt for Whumptober. Enjoy your dose of oblivious Locklyle for the day ;)

“I told you it was going to be sunny today.”

“Yes, well—”

“And hot.”

“We work after sund—"

“And to leave that ridiculous coat behind.”

“I always wear it, and it’s never been a problem. Until today.”

I stared at Lockwood, his nose and cheeks burnt an impressive shade of scarlet. His skin was still clammy from when he had passed out earlier that day from heat exhaustion, and he had a cool, wet towel hastily thrown over his bare shoulders.

“It’s never a problem, until it is,” George hollered peevishly from the kitchen. “Like when that ‘weak shade’ wasn’t a problem until it was a spectre that really hated three underinformed agents digging up its calcified remains.”

Lockwood sighed, then flinched as I put another dab of the burn cream on his face.

“Don’t know why you insisted on doing this yourself,” Lockwood muttered. He was still very grumpy about the whole affair, but I couldn’t get the image of how very pale he had appeared when he had passed out. How hot his face had felt when I had placed my palm on his forehead to check his temperature. Thank goodness DEPRAC already had a van there. Lockwood did have a point about how unlikely it was for an agent to get heatstroke.

Actually, his cheeks still felt rather hot, but I quickly attributed that to his minor sunburns.

“Would you rather George did it?” I asked, and Lockwood pursed his lips. George’s voice was farther away now, echoing up from the basement as he filed away our case from the previous night.

“—did he let you finish your research? No! Always blundering about and hoping that things shake out alright…”

“No,” he replied decisively.

I smiled triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.”

With that, our conversation lapsed into silence. The door to the basement must had swung shut on its own – its old, heavy hinges tended to do so – because we caught only occasional snippets of George’s ranting from downstairs.

“You’re not actually mad, are you, Luce?”

Lockwood’s sudden question caught me off guard, and I froze with my hand halfway out of the jar of burn ointment. Confused, I prompted, “about what?”

“Ah— about the whole coat thing,” he replied, obviously trying for a more casual tone in an attempt to resurrect the conversation. His gaze drifted behind me as he busily examined one of the many masks and other trinkets hung up on the wall.

“No.” It was a simple answer for a simple dilemma. When it came down to it, that wasn’t what was bothering me about this in the first place. “I just wish you hadn’t waited to tell everyone you felt like you were about to pass out because of said coat. There is such thing as dressing for the weather, you know.”

“So I have been told,” he said dryly.

Shaking my head slowly, I put another daub of the ointment on Lockwood’s nose. “You surprised us, that’s all,” I said quietly. It’s never a good thing to see your coworkers passing out spontaneously on the job, even more so in my profession. Because sometimes they never came back from that.

“Ah…” Lockwood trailed off. I stared at the ointment jar on the side table. The table was scattered with biscuit crumbs and who knew what else. We really needed to clean up around there.

“Thank you.”

I looked back at Lockwood, his reddened, splotchy face now coated in a slimy layer of the ointment, his usually flawless dark hair sticking out in odd directions, white shirt smeared with dirt and felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. Somehow, even with all of that, he managed to look perfectly relaxed, dignified even.

Fixing the lid back on the ointment jar, I smiled and suggested, “tea?”

It had been far too long since any of us had a proper shower and a lie down, but that sounded like the best way to start winding down now. Besides, maybe we could win back George’s good graces if we fixed a good plate of tea and biscuits by the time he finished in the basement.

“That sounds wonderful, Lucy.”

[emailsfromanactor]

A harsh review/account of opening night from The New York Review of Books, mentioned by neither Redfield nor Sterne. I happened across it while looking up celebrities in the opening night audience.

*

The Gielgud-Burton Hamlet: Notes on a First Night Dwight Macdonald May 14, 1964 issue

“fiasco… 2. a complete or ridiculous failure, esp. of a dramatic performance, or of any pretentious undertaking.” —Webster’s Unabridged (2nd. ed.)—

The first disappointment was the audience. I arrived early to find the place swarming with cops like a Hitchcock (or Mack Sennett) film, a hundred and fifty of them the papers said. They were masterfully tough with ordinary citizens who tried to infiltrate their defenses—“You wanna go to the station?” one asked a nice-looking young woman after some previous dialogue I missed; “Yes,” she said bravely, but I was able to create a diversion by pushing past without showing my ticket—and they were apologetically ineffective with more substantial-appearing citizens who had tickets (they never did get them herded into the lobby). All very American, like the TV trucks, the photograph garlanded with cameras, the brilliant lights that flooded on whenever a celebrity was thought to be disembarking from a Carey limousine. The trouble was that, while the mob in front of the theater looked like Celebrities—the handsomely gowned and coiffed women, mostly “of a certain age,” and their flushed, hard-faced escorts bursting impressively out of tuxedoes—they were not and knew they were not and, like the uncoiffed, untuxedoed, unticketed mob on the wrong side of the police lines, were hanging around in the simple, touching hopes of seeing somebody that was. But Celebrities were in short supply: the only ones I can attest to personally were Lillian Hellman (who left in the entr’acte) and Otto Preminger. (“Are we still on speaking terms Otto?” I asked, thinking of the latest bad review I’d given him: “Of course,” he grinned as we shook hands, “But I wish we were on writing terms”; a real pro.) And even if one adds, from the papers—you don’t know what you’ve experienced at these non-events until you read the papers—Dolores Del Rio, Gwen Verdon, Margaret Leighton, Hermione Gingold, Montgomery Clift, and Lee Radziwill, well I mean to say what do you have really? The one big Celebrity we were all waiting for arrived, with a clatter of mounted police and a few screams, at a remote side entrance into which she instantly vanished. She also disappeared, in the entr’acte, to visit her husband in his dressing room, or so I read in the papers. The only interesting dialogue I overheard was between a hairdo and a tuxedo: “Hey, you look great, Sam, all sunburned!” “Yeah, just back from Puerto Rico.”

When I finally gave up and took my seat, I was not encouraged to see the curtain was up on a bare stage. Bad omen; last time was Kazan’s J.B., and here even less promising: a rehearsal stage with position marks on the floor and the lathes aggressively exposed in the underpinnings of the sole concession to stage design: a higher level. The one moment of excitement that has survived for me in our theater all the way back to The Bat and The Unknown Purple is when the house lights go down, the footlights come up, and the curtain begins to rise: a moment of hope, despite all past experience, before the infinite magic of the possible has begun to be ground down by the extremely finite machinery of the actual. We were to be deprived even of this. I thought, but, as with other aspects of this confused, style-less production, it turned out we weren’t exactly. When the house lights went down, the curtain was lowered—surely some kind of theatrical landmark?—to rise at once on the same bleak prospect, this time with Francisco at his post; enter Bernardo. “Who’s there?” “Nay, answer me, stand and unfold yourself.” “Long live the king!” And we were off. In a manner of speaking.

“This is a Hamlet acted in rehearsal clothes, stripped of all extraneous trappings, unencumbered by a reconstruction of any particular historical period.” So, in the program notes, Sir John Gielgud, who directed and who was, I think, chiefly responsible for the fiasco. Charging the customers eight bucks to see a rehearsal may have been attractive as a fashionable gimmick—the medium’s the thing now—or as a way of saving money, but Sir John’s justification is nonsense. There is no escaping history even disguised in rehearsal clothes, since these were different in 1864 from today, while in 1764 they would have been what we now call “costumes.” The only historically “unencumbered” Hamlet would be a nudist one—and in fact I once saw in Paris a scene in which Ophelia, at least, was stripped and unencumbered except for a cache-sexe. And what is extraneous about actors, like the rest of us, wearing appropriate dress (“trappings”)? There is much to be said for a modern-dress Hamlet like the excellent one Basil Sidney did around 1926, as a way of freeing the play from that massively fake Irving-Belasco scenery and those boguslooking halberds and doublets right out of the costume warehouse. There is also much to be said for a freshly interpreted period production like Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, where the clothes (especially the men’s hats) were fantastic and beautiful while the sets had the clear, simple colors of the backgrounds in good Renaissance paintings. But there are no advantages, beside cheapness, in a rehearsal-clothes Hamlet; one would think even an actor might see that. Hamlet is, among other things, a drama of court intrigues, of power politics; it begins and ends with soldiers; when Fortinbras comes on at the end, it is not merely to clean up the corpses, it is also because power too, just can’t be left lying about on the stage. Modern dress marks the social dimension: Fortinbras wears a uniform, the servants livery, the courtiers dinner jackets or lounge suits, the soldiers trench coats, the king and queen formal dress with decorations. Rehearsal clothes, while not a-historical, are a-social. Fortinbras marches in wearing slacks and a sweater; Horatio wears a windbreaker; courtiers, servants, soldiers are indistinguishably casual and tweedy. “Boy, did they need those costumes!” I overheard a girl say in the entr’acte.

In Basil Sidney’s Hamlet—or in Orson Welles’s Julius Caesar ten years later—I forgot the modern dress in a few minutes, but here those rehearsal clothes were always offputting. Especially since Sir John tried to have it both ways: Hamlet conveniently wore an elegantly fitted jersey and pants of deepest black, with gleamingly polished black pumps; Polonius and Claudius wore well-pressed, neatly buttoned suits with neckties; Gertrude and Ophelia semi-formal bodices with long flowing skirts—all of which made the sweatered, tieless servants and nobles constantly puzzling. And the players in the play-within-a-play were elaborately costumed, even to stylized masks. A very peculiar rehearsal.

Sir John also skimped on the cast, an ill-assorted crew who never seemed to be getting through to each other. There were at least four unharmonized acting styles. Traditional Shakespearean: Burton, George Rose’s gravedigger, Eileen Herlie’s Gertrude, Dillon Evans’s Osric. Broadway: Hume Cronyn’s Polonius, William Redfield’s Guildenstern. Indeterminate: John Cullum’s Laertes, Alfred Drake’s Claudius. Amateur Night: Robert Milli’s Horatio, Linda Marsh’s Ophelia. There were some good performances. Rose is still a superb Shakespearean clown (and one of the few times when Burton seemed to be relating to others—and enjoying himself—was when he was matching wits with him) and Cronyn gave a briskly professional, and original, interpretation of Polonius, rapping his lines out like a spry old top executive, full of smug know-how. But he was out of key with the Shakespeareans. The great triumph was Gielgud’s recorded voice as the ghost—what splendid lines Hamlet, Senior, has, by the way, one can see where his son got his flair for self-expression—which was beautifully articulated and cadenced, and at the same time coarse as if the vocal cords were deliquescing like those of Poe’s M. Valdemar: “the sound was harsh and broken and hollow…the voice seemed to reach our ears from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth…it impressed me as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch.” The great disaster, even worse than the breathy ranting of Horatio, was poor Miss Marsh’s Ophelia—her mad scene was as embarrassing as if one were watching a pretty young thing really going nuts before one’s eyes. The Times’s egregious Mr. Taubman, while enthusing—I think this ghastly word is justified here—about everything else, did feel obliged to note that Miss Marsh was “in a little over her head as Ophelia,” though adding at once, as if frightened by his daring, “she manages the Mad Scene with a touch of rue.” The rue was all in the audience, however.

I expected Richard Burton’s Hamlet to be tough, virile, even brutal, but, perhaps because Sir John toned him down too much, he proved to be full of boyish charm, if anything a little epicene. He was Mercutio rather than Hamlet, best in the satiric speeches like the “Get thee to a nunnery” one, where his delivery rose to real power at the end: “You jig, you amble, and you lisp…and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say we will have no more marriages…” (Did I detect an un-easy rustling in the audience?) His voice is an extraordinary musical instrument, but he used it with the coldness of a virtuoso; for all the Welsh charm, there was surprisingly little feeling in his performance. Also he seemed to have no middle range, nothing between soft complaint or ingratiation and a full-throated bellow. One cannot perhaps expect any actor to render all the facets of Hamlet, but two are essential: he was a prince and he was an intellectual. Burton missed both. He was without dignity; there was no space between him and the others; he was always edging up to them, shrinking away from them, handling them, bullying them, more like a teddy boy than a prince, shamelessly “indicating” and leaping about the stage. (This must have been Sir John’s directorial fault.) He ruins the play scene, for instance, by swarming all over Gertrude and Claudius, as when Ophelia says of the Prologue, “This brief, my lord”, and he replies “As woman’s love,” actually pointing to Gertrude; and later, after the Player Queen has vowed eternal constancy, addressing his “If she should break it now!” directly to Gertrude. Nor is he convincing as an intellectual. Hamlet is constantly bringing himself up short with self-criticism after he has torn a passion to tatters and split the ear of the groundlings; with Burton, one believes in the latter mood but not in the former. He roars out satisfactorily “Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O vengeance!” but when he goes on, “Why, what an ass am I!” and accuses himself of unpacking his heart with words like a whore and cursing “like a very drab,” in Burton’s delivery these lines are just another kind or rodomontade. I suppose “To be or not to be” is by now a hopeless proposition—the actor must see it approaching as a skier sees himself gliding toward a suicidally steep slope. Burton adopts the modern, sophisticated strategy of trying to throw it away. But it won’t be thrown away.

Apparently Burton felt something was wrong about the first night. He blamed the audience in one interview: “They did not pay attention. They were awed with themselves. There were so many celebrities out on the other side of the footlights they hardly had time to notice us.” But there were not many celebrities, and even if there had been what does he expect if he insists on marrying Elizabeth Taylor? On the radio, I’m told, he was more realistic, blaming himself, which is to his credit, since, with the expected exception of Walter Kerr (and the less expectable one of John Chapman of the News) the critics were as usual—uncritical.

Maybe they hadn’t made the mistake I did of re-reading the text. What a work! There seems to be a tag in every other line, tags that have become mortised so deeply into us we often don’t know when we are echoing them, formulations that have become part of the racial unconscious, of our very language. Only the King James Bible, from the same miraculous half-century, contains a larger stock of wonderful chestnuts. And a central character, direct and ambiguous, crafty and noble, tender and cruel, elevated and ribald, intellectualizing everything and yet also acting out his contradictions—can this hero, who is the play more than any other of Shakespeare’s heroes, and whose motivations and character have been matters of dispute among scholars and critics for centuries, can one reasonably expect any actor to render him fully on the stage, or any company to rise to the greatness of the language—the “big” lines are by no means limited to Hamlet’s part—or any director to make dramatic a work that is essentially literary and intellectual without losing those qualities? Lear’s moral impressionism can be more moving, and coherent, on the stage (the cinema might be an even better medium) than when read in cold print. Or, the opposite case, that tightly constructed melodrama, Macbeth, so perfectly designed for the theater, with a clearly defined villain and villainess, the most “advanced” and realistic psychology (the dialogues between Macbeth and his Lady before and after Duncan’s and Banquo’s murders often sound like Ibsen, or Freud) combined with great set pieces of rhetoric that “work” theatrically and, unlike Hamlet’s soliloquies, don’t require the actor to create a whole personality as a launching-pad. So perhaps no actor can ever give us the complete Hamlet of the text—as no singer can fulfill the impossible demands Wagner made—and perhaps Hamlet will always read better than it plays. Still, Sir John and Mr. Burton might have done better.

[nocturne-pisces]

*holds out hand* gimme virgin!Jake Jensen content please

For Science

A/N: we're going to ignore that this took me like... way too long. ilu kink twin.

Pairing: Innocent!Jake Jensen x Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: This is porn with plot. Don't come for me.

Pooch’s son’s first birthday was a pool party in the middle of the summer, the sun beating down on everyone’s back as they tried their best to keep from getting burnt. Well, everyone except Jake, who insisted that he didn’t burn. You’d managed to talk him into a 20 spf, knowing that he only did it to keep you from hovering, but he still ended up red as a lobster come sundown. He hadn’t even felt it yet but the bright red that painted across the hard muscle of his shoulders called like a neon sign.

“Jesus fuck, JJ, can you not feel that?” Sitting around the fire pit you reached a hand out and poked him in the shoulder, the skin where you touched turned white before flooding back with deep red.

“Not really, just feels a little tight. Why, is it bad?” He tries his best to get his head to turn on his neck so he can see over his shoulder, but it doesn’t afford him much of an angle and he just ends up looking ridiculous.

“Yeah, real bad. C’mon, let me put some aloe on it.”

“Listen, I-“ Jake started to refuse, be it pride or guilt that kept him from wanting to be taken care of, you didn’t really care.

“You can either come in the house and let me put aloe on the sunburn or I can go find your laptop and send your google search history to your sister, Captain.” Jake hated when you used his rank against him. You’d been the last to join the team but you outranked him only because you’d been in a different specialized branch before the Losers.

“Yes, Major.” He threw back, shaking his head as he took another sip from the beer he held. You stood, ruffling the spiked hair on his head before turning towards the back door.

“Good boy.”

You missed how he nearly choked, the praise catching him off guard and sending a burning through his limbs and his cheeks. Pooch didn’t miss it though, a knowing smile spreading across his face as he watched the two of you retreat, calling after you, “There’s some aloe in the guest bathroom!”

You didn’t look back, waving your thanks before you heard Jake slide the glass door shut behind you. He followed you all the way up the stairs and down the hall to the guest bedroom, the attached bathroom dark before you flipped the light on. He leaned against the door frame, or he tried to, as soon as the temperature contrast hit him, he jumped back to attention and sucked a breath in through his teeth.

“Dumbass,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you searched through the cabinet under the sink to find the bottle of aloe that Pooch had mentioned. You located it in the back of the cabinet, pulling it out and ushering Jake back into the guest room before pushing down on his shoulder so he’d sit down on the trunk at the end of the bed.

“Be nice, I’m injured. The sun beat me up.” You cocked your head at him, giving him a stern look where his bottom lip was hutted out melodramatically.

“The sun didn’t beat you up, you just didn’t put on sunscreen like I told you to.” You don’t see the smile that pulls at Jake’s lips, he loves being care for by you, no matter how much disdain you show for it. There’s something in the neighborhood of maternal that takes you over every time he gets hurt or shows discomfort, something in you that wants to wrap him up close to your chest and keep him safe. He’s large and goofy and awkward and so smart, too smart for his own good and you can’t help but want to protect all of his optimism from all the monsters you knew existed in this world. But he signed up for this just like you did and you had no idea how someone as golden as him ended up in some of the dark places the team ended up in.

You squirted the aloe into your palm, rubbing your hands together to warm it up so you didn’t shock his skin with the cool gel.

“Shirt off, nerd,” you said, nudging him with your elbow. He reached behind his head and grabbed the back of his collar, pulling his tank top up and over his head, leaving the rippling muscles in his back in plain view. Your mouth watered, just like it did earlier when he pulled himself out of Pooches pool and his trunks clung to his thick thighs. Even that wasn’t the first time you’d been confronted with this urge to sink your teeth into him.

The initial sting of your hands on his skin is uncomfortable as he tries to squirm away from you.

“I know, I know I’m sorry, give it just a second it’ll stop,” you soothe, gently spreading aloe over his shoulder. You could feel the muscle rolling under your hands, his body reacting to your touch like your fingers were electric and his skin is conductive.

His head drops between his shoulders as the current takes over, static fuzzing at the edges of his brain and all he can focus on is your hands, the sun warmed body so close to his that if he leans back just a little bit, he might explode from the feeling of your exposed skin on his.

It takes you a few moments to work the aloe across his shoulders and back, tracing back up to make sure you ventured over the red on his neck. When the pads of your fingers slide over the soft spot under his ear you hear the low groan that rips its way through Jake’s chest, followed by a choked cough; like he was trying to cover it up, but the resounding silence lent you the acoustics to hear how hard he swallowed.

“Are you okay?” You took your hands back and Jake wanted to whine from the loss.

“I uh- yeah, I’m fine.” His tone was heavy as you watched a new flush creep over the tips of his ears and into his cheeks. You climbed off the bed and out from behind him before you stepped into his line of sight, wiping the remainder of the aloe on your old t-shirt. When he opened his eyes to look up at you, you took in the deep red in his cheeks.

“Is your face burnt too? I can put some aloe on it—”

He cut you off with a shake of his head.

“No, I just- uh,” he anchors his jaw shut and swallows again, like he either can’t or doesn’t want to say what he needs to say.

“What is it?” You kneeled in front of him, concern painting your features again as you looked up into his face. He turned his head, avoiding eye contact so that he didn’t have to see your amusement when he admitted it.

“You just uhm- I don’t get a whole lot of uh- affection, and it’s affected me.” Your eyebrows knit together when he finally spits it all out, not understanding at first, but then he squirms in his seat and it clicks into place.

“Oh. No worries, Jake, it happens.”

You didn’t laugh, you didn’t judge him, you weren’t mean. You treated it like a bodily function that everyone was prone to. Your hand rose to cup his cheek, turning his gaze back to yours so you could give him a soft smile. The dopey, love sick smile that he returns sets your heart thrumming a violent beat against your ribs.

He catches your wrist and holds your hand against his face, the stubble on his cheeks prickling into your palm. “I’m not- I’ve never,” you watch him struggle to tell you what you already know, his smile fading, and you can’t do it anymore.

“I know.”

His electric blue eyes snap up to yours, the question dancing in his pupils as he lets go of your wrist.

“You know?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. Everyone has their own timeline.”

“What if I want to change that?” He asks, anxiety laced and unsure.

“Then change it, but don’t rush it because you feel like you have to fulfill some kind of quota, or because you feel like you’re on a time limit. My best advice is to just make sure it’s something you want and that it’s something you’re ready for, usually it feels better if it means something.”

You give him another soft smile that tears open the floodgates behind his ribcage. As you stand and try to retreat from the room your pulled back when his large hand circles your wrist again and he stands himself, preparing to chase after you if he needed to.

“What if I want you to change that?”

You turn, eyes wide as you gaze up at him, appraising his words and reassuring yourself that they were rooted in truth, rooted in something deeper than physical.

When you spoke, your tone was gentle, but it was still a warning. “I would tell you to make sure it means something before you cross that line.” You could see the gears turn in his head, the careful calculations that he was making as he added up everything and then subtracted his inhibitions.

For an all-consuming moment you don’t think he’ll do it, you think you’ve scared him into inaction, but then he closes the gap between you and places your hand back on his face; right where he feels like it belongs. You’re pressed up against his still-shirtless torso when he lets go of the breath he feels like he was holding for far too long.

“It would mean the world.”

“Then get to it, Captain.”

His hands are at your waist viper-strike fast, heaving you up and against his chest while your arms wrap around his neck.

“You’re gonna have to show me what you like,” he says, panting, millimeters from your mouth.

“You’ve always been good at taking orders,” you respond, your fingers threading into the hair at the base of his skull before you kiss him.

You capture his bottom lip with yours, tongue laving over it and dipping inside to dance with his when his jaw drops open with a groan. He takes a couple haphazard steps towards the side of the bed, one hand catching the back of your head so he can lay you down gently underneath him. You pull back for a moment, gently removing his glasses from his face and setting them on the mattress next to you before you hook your foot over his hip and flip the two of you over.

There’s a moment when you lean down to kiss him again where he felt like he was being descended upon by an angel, your face the only thing in focus against the blur of everything behind you. He’d seen your face so many times in so many different contexts before this moment that he believed he could write a novel, but the portrait that hovered above him was worth more words than he thought existed in the English lexicon.

He was solid under you as you steadied yourself against his chest, the rapid thump thump of his heart under your right hand. You connect your lips to his again, languid strokes of tongue on tongue, slowly memorizing the taste of the other. Big, warm hands glide up your thighs, squeezing the flesh of your ass under the fabric of your shorts. They ghost up to your hips and roll down against his jeans, delicious friction against your clit behind bathing suit bottoms that leaves you gasping.

Jake feels the intense heat creep up his neck, a carnal need to hear that hitch in breath again. Another roll leaves you under him, the assault of his lips moving over your jaw and down your neck. He wedges his fingers under the hem of your shorts and bathing suit bottoms, pulling gently as you angle your hips up to give him leverage. They fall to the floor in a pile, your shirt and bikini following.

The vast expanse of skin under him sends a jolt up his spine, a soft fuck falling out of his mouth when he leans back to take it all in. A giggle trills through the room, your soft laughter bringing his attention back to your face. You anchor a foot on his chest, a gentle shove has him catching your ankle.

“You know you can touch, right?”

“Oh, I’m gonna…”

He leaves a soft kiss on your ankle, trailing them up your calf, lowering himself down on the bed so he could leave open mouthed kisses between your thighs. His gaze trained on your face the whole time, determined to decipher the meaning behind every little sound you made. The sweet musk of your wet washed over him when he left one final hot kiss on your mound.

He wasn’t completely inept, he understood anatomy. There was just a lot of information rolling around in his brain that he had never had the chance to put into practice. So, when he spread you open with his thumbs, flattened his tongue, and licked a hot stripe up your cunt, you keened for him.

Jake loved how you tasted, sweet and heady on his lips as he sucked your sensitive bud into his mouth. He pulls another gasp from your chest, curling up to wrap your fingers in his hair and keep him in place. The tip of his tongue circled it inside his mouth, your whole body beginning to tremble.

“Fuck, Jake, waitwaitwai…”

You felt him grin against your skin, pressing your thighs into either side of his head when they locked him in place. His blatant insubordination resulted in the snap explosion of heat in your belly, your spine bowing off the bed as he swallowed down every drop you gave him. It didn’t really matter to him that he couldn’t breathe, he’d gladly go out like this.

Ecstasy verges on overstimulation and you reach between your legs and push at his head, a wet pop sounding when he released you. You stared at him wide eyed, like a new threat had presented itself.

Jake climbed back up your body, gazing up at you through his lashes as he gave attention to each of your nipples in turn, large hand cupping and kneading the one his mouth wasn’t on. Your skin goosebumped under the rough pads of his fingers.

“Are you sure you’ve never don’t this before?” You were breathless, the spark he was setting alight across your skin blazing into a rolling fire.

“I’ve done some stuff,” he replies.

“Well, then allow me to bridge the gap.” You reached between your legs and tugged on the belt to his shorts, freeing him from the confines of his clothing quickly and with precision. He stepped off the bed long enough to drop his shorts in the floor, the swollen red tip of his dick bouncing off of the cut of his adonis belt. You to let another gasp fall from you when you took in the size of him.

His eyes moved to the sound, alarm spreading across his features. “Is everything- I mean we don’t have to- I know it’s not—”

“I swear to God if you’re about to say I know it’s not much I will actually have to swing, Jensen.”

“Hey, be nice. He’s shy.” Jake took himself in hand, pumping lazily, a cocky grin replacing the insecurity.

“Jake…”

It was his last warning and he apparently knew it, too. The bed dipped when he climbed back between your legs, holding himself up on one arm.

“Last chance to back out,” he says, the pleading look in his eyes telling you he didn’t want that in the slightest.

“Stop talking.”

You hooked a leg around his hips, bringing him forward enough so you could grip his leaking cock. He let out a hiss, the muscles in his stomach going taut when you guided the head through your soaked folds before it caught at your entrance. Jake held himself above you on shaky arms, mentally fighting back the urge to bury himself to the hilt in one swift movement.

“C’mon, slowly,” you encouraged. He started forward, the slow sear stretch of him filling you bowing your back off the mattress, mewling when he bottomed out.

“Oh, fuck,” he panted, taking breaths to keep himself from making this an incredibly short experience.

“Yeah? You like that?”

He answered with a frantic nod, line of vision trained on where your bodies were joined. He pulled out just as slow, opening groaning when you spread yourself open for him.

“Fuck, look at how you stretch this tight little pussy open, Jake.”

“You really gotta stop talking,” he pants, seating himself balls deep, your mouth falling open and eyebrows knitting together, “yeah, there it is. Read enough on reddit to know that look.”

Jake reaches up and yanks the pillow out from under your head, folding it in half and lifting your hips enough to shove it under your ass, a large warm hand gliding up to the apex of your thighs. He applies pressure with his fingers against your mound, finding the bone of your pelvis and then the soft spot right above it. His hips venture back again, angling his cock for an upward thrust.

“Shit!” Your eyes screw shut, the head of him punching right into your g-spot. Jake gives you a triumphant smile, hooking his hands under your knees and folding them up into your chest. Next time he would take his time, take you apart and find every little spot that pulled sound from you. Right this second he wanted to split you open and mark you as his, make you crave him late nights on missions and early mornings when you were home; wanted your thoughts consumed with him and what he does to you. Even if he’d never had much practice, he wanted to perfect the art with you.

Jake kept a constant pressure on your soft mound, pushing your spongey spot down into him while he thrust in and out of you, his own face screwing up as his spine threatened to turn to concrete. “C’mon beautiful, I gotta have one more before I let go.” Your legs shook violently around him, his thumb tracing down your slit to find that pulsing bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, Jake faster, fuckfuckfuck,” your nails bit into his forearm where it held him up next to your head, each skin slap meeting of hips punctuated with a soft grunt and sharp ah!. The strumming at your clit picked up, stealing all the air from your lungs as Jake put you right on the edge and then pushed you over. Your legs locked around his waist, keeping him seated as deep as he could go, the pulsing of your cunt milking everything from him as his own strangled moan fell from his lips.

He collapsed on top of you, the warm weight of him welcome against your rapidly cooling skin.

“Not so bad for a first timer,” you pant, hot breaths against his neck that make him shiver.

“Stop breathin’ on me or I’ll have to do it again.” He bit down on your shoulder playfully, a pained groan coming from his chest when he slid himself out of you.

The two of you laid like that for a moment, catching your breath, reveling in the contact of bare skin.

“I’d do this again. Y’know, let you practice, for science or whatever.”

Jake pulls his head out of the crook of your neck, soft smile spreading across his face as he processes what you’re saying to him.

“Yeah, for science,” he agrees, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

[oumaheroes]

EngPort. Sunscreen problems at the beach. Either Arthur forgets to put it on, or he only puts it on part of his body and forgets someplace crucial (like his feet, ears, or he misses parts of his back). His boyfriend tries to help with after-burn and cold packs. Feel free to get creative with unique sunburn patterns.

Fizzy, you sent me so many fantastic ideas! This one hooked me in the heart first though, so have something which could possibly turn into something longer one day.

Word Count: 453

-------

'You don't have to laugh.'

'I'm sorry.'

'No, you're not.'

'No, not really.'

Arthur scowls and turns his face away, a bottle of after sun liberally coating one arm which he quickly rubs in, 'Stop looking at me.'

Gabriel grins and ever so softly brushes the reddened skin of Arthur's shoulders, 'If I can't look, then I can't help.'

'I don't want you to help.'

'Yes, you do, you can't reach all of your back. You're not flexible enough.'

Arthur looks terribly betrayed, 'Wha- not flexible, I most certainly am.'

Gabriel grins into Arthur’s shoulder, the skin noticeably too warm underneath his lips. He has an urge to bite him, 'I'd dare you to try but you'd only end up hurting yourself; your skin's in pain enough as it is.'

Arthur shifts his shoulder, an attempt to nudge him off and away but Gabriel holds him still, 'Don't be like that, I'm only teasing you.'

'Yes well, don't,' Arthur gets up off the bed and walks across to the balcony, bare feet patting against cool tiles, 'It's bad enough knowing that Francis will see me, I don't need you joining in.'

‘It is your own fault, I told you not to fall asleep on the veranda.’

‘Well, I didn’t plan to, did I?’ Arthur leans heavily on the frame of the French windows, head buried into his elbow that he props up high. He is too irritated, too genuinely tense and raw and Gabriel goes to join him in concern.

‘Hey,’ a gentle hand on Arthur’s arm, skin hot and already far too red- damage long since done, ‘Go and take a shower.’

‘I don’t need a shower.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Gabriel kisses the cool shadow of his neck, ‘You need to cool down. Standing here and stressing won’t help.’

Arthur lifts his head and sighs through his nose, staring fixedly at the low and lazy afternoon sun as if it had purposely decided to aggravate him, ‘Tonight is going to be terrible.’

Gabriel can’t lie, ‘You’ll have had better.’

'No matter what I do now, I'll look ridiculous.’

‘The dinner is black tie; that’ll cover most of it.’

‘A bloody trussed up tomato.’

Gabriel snorts, too amused by the mental image to stop himself. Arthur thankfully doesn’t seem to be any more offended but nor does he look pleased. He winces, pressing against the space between his eyes and closing them.

‘I’ll get you some water. You’re probably dehydrated which isn’t helping.’

‘In a minute,’ Arthur leans his weight back into Gabriel’s chest, ‘You need a shower too.’

‘Oh? Do I now.’

‘Yes.’

The smallest hint of a smile at the edges of Arthur’s mouth. Gabriel is determined to widen them, ‘Yeah, I suppose I do.’

[whelvenwings]

Castiel's grace is missing, and Dean's frustrated - instead of looking for it, all Castiel wants to do is grow his flowers. Eventually, the two of them have to talk about it.

Read it below or here on AO3! Tags: Canon Divergent, Gardener!Cas, Cas' Grace

This fic was inspired by this wonderful art by saminzat, and written as part of the @spnreverse-promptchallenge!

It’s not Heaven. It’s not even close. It’s just a garden, where Castiel is growing things.

If it were Heaven, Castiel thinks, then Dean would be looking a lot happier, those wrinkles around his eyes all eased away. If it were Heaven, there would have been a break in the clouds overhead when Dean arrived.

If it were Heaven, the peach rose would be in bloom, not straggling all green and leggy and ungainly through the picket fence that Castiel had put up to help it grow.

Castiel puts down the secateurs he’s been using to prune the forsythia, and takes off his gardening gloves. He walks over to Dean, acutely aware of the fact that he’s wearing enough sunscreen to make his skin shine, the worn-thin, oversized blue t-shirt he found at a Goodwill that says Thyme to Garden, and a very large sunhat to protect the back of his neck.

Sunburn, he reminds himself, is more uncomfortable than the growing look of mixed amusement and judgement in Dean’s eyes. Even on a cloudy day, his skin will burn if he’s outside for a long time. Something he learned the hard way after becoming human.

“I thought you were researching a case,” Castiel says to Dean as he approaches.

“Done. Thought I’d come say hi.” Dean raises an eyebrow and a half-smile at him in greeting. “So, hi.”

Castiel stops a few feet from him and tips his hat a little further back on his head, so that Dean can clearly see his face.

“Hello,” he says. Dean takes in the hat, the t-shirt, the full gardening ensemble, with one sweeping gaze.

“Looking good,” Dean says.

Castiel looks down at himself, and then solemnly back to Dean.

“Thank you,” he says, with just enough irony in his tone to get Dean to smile. Or it would have been, usually, but today Dean’s expression is sinking back into hard lines. The greyish, muted light seems to lie heavy on him, putting a coldness in his eyes.

Castiel searches his face. Just as he’s about to say something more, Dean breaks their stare, glancing around at the plants nearest him as a light breeze ruffles at them.

“They’ve grown since last time you showed me,” Dean says. He’s holding himself strangely, his fists clenched. Castiel tilts his head to one side, and then looks around with Dean at the garden.

He feels the familiar spark of happiness as he surveys his handiwork. Once, the place had been a sad little patch of chalky, lump-filled earth. Now the flowers drip off their stems like dewdrops, and the soil smells rich, and the leaves tremble their creaky little paths to follow the sun each day. Even the blossomless peach rose has strong roots.

Castiel glances back to Dean, and feels the warmth in his chest sputter out. Dean’s eyeing the plantlife with an expression that doesn’t seem impressed.

“It’s been a while since last time,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. Well, you know.” Dean looks distracted, frowning down at a squat little succulent plant. There’s something bothering him, obviously, and Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean wants to be asked about it or have it be left alone.

“You’re always welcome,” Castiel tries quietly. Dean seems to catch himself, shifting his expression to something more neutral as he turns back to Castiel.

“Yeah,” he says, not as though he particularly believes it, and – in a way that almost manages to seem genuine – not as though he particularly cares.

“You can stay,” Castiel says. “If you want. There’s plenty to do. If you’re not busy.”

Dean puts his hands into his pockets and looks around the garden again, this time with his eyes a little less sharp.

“Nah,” he says. “Nah, I don’t wanna spoil the fun.”

Spoil the fun? Castiel gives Dean a look that he hopes is eloquent, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“I dunno, man,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not really me, is it.”

He looks tired, Castiel thinks.

“Didn’t think it was you, either,” Dean adds after a half-beat. He reaches up unselfconsciously, and then seems to realise what he’s doing at the last moment, and awkwardly flicks the brim of Castiel’s hat with the back of one finger before taking a step away. “Didn’t think you’d ever go in for… you know. Whatever this is.”

Castiel can easily read that expression on Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, in other times, other places. The mixture of bravado and hurt and confusion had made sense when lives had been at stake and grand lies had been unfolding, but this – here, today, in among his roses and sunflowers, Castiel hadn’t expected it. Dean looks betrayed.

And Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He reaches up to his hat, just brushing the brim with the tips of his fingers in the same place Dean touched it.

“I need the hat,” he says. “To keep the sun off my neck.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks up at the sky, which is still an overcast grey.

“Even through clouds,” Castiel offers.

“Uh huh. Okay.”

Castiel squints at him.

“You seem angry,” he says. No more dancing around it. Predictably, Dean makes a face, as though the suggestion were ridiculous.

“Nah.”

“Dean.” Castiel fixes him with a look, and Dean shrugs.

“Whatever, man.”

“If something is wrong…” Castiel says.

“Listen, if coming out here and growing your little flowers and everything helps, then that’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

There’s a but coming, and Castiel knows enough to wait for it. Dean looks aimlessly around at the burgeoning plants. His eyes trace the tangle of a buddleia, until he glances back to Castiel, who raises an eyebrow.

Dean’s front drops, the stiffness going out of his shoulders, his hands unclenching.

“But your grace, man,” he says. Castiel looks down at the ground. He should have expected this, he knew. But somehow hearing the words still takes him by surprise.

“What about it,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t really want an answer, but knows it’s going to get one.

Dean’s hands come up, palms facing out, asking a question without words at first.

“Seriously,” he manages after a moment. “What about it? It’s your grace, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

“It’s gone,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“It’s been months.”

“I…” Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

“You told me it was just gone,” Dean says, ducking his chin slightly to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Like it was no big deal. And now all you do is spend time up here, planting flowers. Not even trying to look for it. I don’t get it, man. And whenever I try to bring it up, you just say –”

“It’s taken care of,” Castiel says, at the same time as Dean mouths the words along with him, his expression exasperated with a spiderweb of hurt threaded through.

“It’s your grace.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I know it is. But it’s taken care of, Dean. I don’t want…”

He cuts himself off before he says too much, pressing his lips together.

Dean shakes his head. Castiel can see him battling with himself, trying to decide whether he wants to push harder. Castiel keeps his face neutral, hoping Dean will drop it.

“Don’t want what?” Dean says, though, and Castiel feels his heart sink. “You’re human, now. And you’re stuck that way until you get your grace back, but you won’t even…” Dean seems to run out of words. Castiel tries to think of something to say to divert the conversation, take them down a different track.

“I’m doing better at shaving,” he says. “And I’ve learned not to brush my teeth before drinking orange juice.”

Castiel can see the slight smile on Dean’s face, but it’s almost completely buried under the worry and the anger.

“Right,” Dean says.

“Dean…”

“I just don’t get it. The grace… if it’s lost, I can help with that. If it’s destroyed, I can try to help too, or… we’ll figure something out. Or if it’s safe, why won’t you tell me what happened with it?” The strain in Dean’s voice tells Castiel that they’re at the heart of it now, at the reason for the tight shoulders and the clipped answers and the judgemental eyes on his catmint and cosmos. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

Castiel stares at him helplessly. The answers are in the back of his throat, ready to be said, but he can’t open his mouth – can’t get them out. He feels his heart thudding, his human heart. He doesn’t know if he likes that feeling, if he wants it – perhaps not, no more than he wants sunburn, or the taste of orange juice after toothpaste, or blood on his palms when he catches himself on that peach rose’s thorns.

But there’s something he does want. And any chance at – at that – any chance at all, it’s worth the weight of being human. He made a choice and he knows he’d make it, the same one, over and over again.

He thinks it all, but he can’t say it. Dean watches him, angry and confused. Overhead, the clouds lumber their heavy bellies across the sky.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dean says. Castiel looks away, and Dean takes a step closer. “Cas,” he says. “I swear to god.”

Castiel looks up at him, knowing his own tiredness is right there to be seen on his face – and his sadness, his hurt. Dean’s expression shifts, and he comes even closer.

“What did you do, man? Is it that bad?”

It’s easy to see Dean’s mind working, trying to piece everything together. He’s probably thinking demons, and deals, and treachery, all the things that they’ve been through before. Castiel doesn’t know how to explain to him that he’s wrong without telling him the whole truth. And he can’t tell the whole truth.

“Look,” Dean says, “we’ll figure it out. If you just tell me – tell me where it is, or what happened. Did someone do this? And what… what does all of this have to do with it…” He looks around again at the garden. Castiel closes his eyes for a second, lets the familiar feeling of being here fill him as much as he can let it – the warmth in his chest, the spark.

He knows he should try to talk about it, but he can’t. He can’t.

When he opens his eyes, Dean’s waiting, watching him. Castiel opens his mouth – but nothing comes out.

Dean’s face tightens again.

“Okay,” he says. “So it’s like that. Great, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s –”

“No, it’s fine,” Dean says, his tone taut with bitterness, but his face carefully unbothered. “That’s fine. Deal with it by yourself. That’s always gone so well. And meanwhile, me, I’ll just, what? Wait for you to give me the bad news, I guess. That’s great, Cas. Really. You know, you –”

“Stop,” Castiel asks.

And a little of the fight leaves Dean again. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but doesn’t know what. His face is half apology and half anger.

“It just…” he says. And then waves his hand, like it doesn’t matter anyway.

And it’s the simplicity of the hurt in that gesture that has Castiel throwing all his caution to the wind and saying,

“I don’t want it back.”

Dean stops moving. His eyes fix on Castiel.

“What?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s jaw is tight, but he manages to say again,

“I don’t want it back. My grace. I know where it is. But I don’t want it back.”

All of Dean’s carefully placed anger is gone, suddenly, in his shock. There’s no performance, no strategy, in the way that he steps closer and looks utterly bewildered.

“You don’t?” he says.

“No. I…” Castiel hesitates, and then says, “I took it out myself.”

“You what?”

Castiel lifts one shoulder, a little diffidently. It had been necessary, so he’d done it. As simple as that.

“Cas,” Dean says, and then seems to be at a loss. Castiel doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say, so far as he can see.

He’s made his choice. And if he ever regrets it, if he ever wishes things could be different, all he has to do is look at Dean and it pales to nothing.

“Cas… why?” Dean manages eventually, and Castiel breathes out.

He looks at Dean.

Dean stares right back at him, not understanding.

“Did someone make you?” Dean demands. “We can go and look for them, we can –”

“No,” Castiel says. “No. I chose to do it.”

“But Cas…”

“It’s –” Castiel presses his lips together again, trying not to let the expression look pained, even though there’s a flash of hurt through his chest at the thought of trying to say any of it aloud. Saying it would push the two of them, Dean and Castiel, towards a tipping point. A no-takebacks, no room for misunderstanding point. Sharp as a thorn.

And it’s the last thing Castiel wants.

Until they talk about it, anything seems possible. It almost feels real enough. But if they talk, it’ll all be over. Dean will tell him to take back his grace, and Castiel will have to leave. It’ll be over.

“You took it out. What would you do that for,” Dean says. When Castiel doesn’t reply, he reaches out and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says, the word harsh enough to compensate for the touch.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says.

“Cas.”

“Really, it’s…” Castiel stops. The denial dies in his mouth. He swallows, his eyes on Dean, before he looked down. “I just want to be able to stay with you.”

The last two words are too much – all of it is too much – but they’re out his mouth before he can stop them. Castiel breathes out and waits to feel Dean’s hand loosen its grip, drop away in shock at the unwanted intensity. It’s too much. Castiel knows it’s too much.

But Dean’s hand is still on his shoulder.

“You want to be able to stay?” Dean says.

“Yes.” Castiel says it bluntly, to try to shave off the emotion, make it easier to talk about. Dean’s hand still doesn’t move. Castiel can feel each place Dean’s fingers are digging in slightly through the thin material of his t-shirt. His heart is pounding and he wants to be able to turn it off, quiet it down, hear Dean’s heart instead in the way he could when he had his grace. He wants it with a sudden acuteness, a pang of loss.

“But – you can,” Dean says. “Why would you think you needed to do this?”

Castiel can’t look back up at him.

“Cas,” Dean says.

There’s a band of pain squeezing tightly around Castiel’s chest. He can’t quite seem to get his breath, suddenly.

“I just thought I’d fit better this way,” he says.

“Fit better?” Now Dean moves his hand, pulls back, though he doesn’t go far. “What do you mean?”

“You’re human,” Castiel says. He looks up, meets Dean’s eyes. “Now I am too. I thought, maybe…”

He trails off. He can’t say more. He can’t talk about what he hopes for, what he wants. He can’t.

Dean’s hand is back on his shoulder and the touch is different, now, less insistent. Softer. Castiel can see the gentleness in Dean’s eyes, shy and uncertain, allowed to show just for a few moments.

“We don’t have to be the same,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer.

“We’ve never been the same,” Dean says. “But we’re still good. Right?”

There are no words in Castiel’s mind, or none that make sense – or none that he can say aloud. He wishes he could give Dean the way that he feels, just drop it into Dean’s mind, show him without having to explain it. The feeling is yes, good, of course we’re good, but there’s more – there’s different things, things I want to be to you, ways I want to be with you. And not telling you feels more and more like lying with every passing day but I don’t know how to tell you without you being suddenly aware that I’ve been wanting you in a different way to how you want me for a very long time, and will you hate me for that? Will you think I’m a liar? Will you send me away? Could I bear that? Could I bear it? If you hated me, how could I bear it?

“I just,” Castiel says, “I just want to be able to stay.” It’s the only part of it that will come out of his mouth.

“You can,” Dean says. “You don’t need… damnit, Cas, you didn’t have to take your own grace out just to be able to stay.”

Castiel nods mutely. Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s shoulder.

“So you can put it back, right?” he says. “The grace. You can go get it and put it back?”

“I could.” It comes out more direct and harsh than Castiel intended, and Dean’s grip tightens.

“So…?” he says.

Castiel can’t meet his eyes. He looks to the side, around the garden that he’s created. The flowers that have unfurled for him, trusting, unfussy about what deep love and secrets he’s hiding. The leaves and shoots that grow steadily under the care of his hands, no matter who else those hands wish they could hold.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and gives another squeeze, and then lets go. “Your grace is you, man. All these months, it’s not like you’ve had a good time being human, is it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Worth it?” Dean echoes.

“If it means we’re the same,” Castiel says. And his reasoning isn’t even clear to Castiel himself, now. It just feels as though if they’re both human, if they both are the same thing, there’s a chance they could both feel the same way, too – it makes no sense, and yet Castiel can’t imagine letting go of the thought.

“We don’t need to be the same,” Dean says, repeating himself with a look that’s crossed between confusion and concern.

“But I…”

Castiel stops talking, cuts himself off. Dean’s eyes search his face.

“You want to be?” Dean says, cautious, hazarding a guess. And when Castiel’s expression tells Dean he’s right, his face goes even more soft with surprise. “Why?”

There isn’t anything that Castiel can say in answer. No explanations he can give that will make sense outside his own mind. All he finds himself doing is looking at Dean – looking at him more openly than he has done in a long time, half tight-lipped and wanting the conversation to end, half hoping that Dean will finally piece it all together. He allows himself to stare, frankly and directly, pushing away the guilt and shame that push at him and tell him to look down, step away, move back, leave. He stares like he once used to all the time, letting down the walls.

There’s Dean, he thinks. There he is. Sometimes the feelings in Castiel grow so big and overwhelming that he forgets the shape of the man at the heart of them. The way Dean cares. The way Dean looks at him right back, matches him – when it comes down to it, never pretends it doesn’t matter to him when it does.

Dean’s mouth opens to form words, but he seems to stop himself. Castiel watches Dean swallow, and feels the familiar swoop and ache in his chest as all his crushing sky-sized love focuses into the smallness of the place on Dean’s throat that he wants to touch.

Dean goes to say something, and then stops.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s lips, and then back up again.

Is it wrong, how much he wants to kiss Dean? The feeling is pressing, immediate, alive. It’s in Castiel’s blood, in his bones. If Dean doesn’t want him too, in the same way, does that make the feeling wrong? Or would it just be acting on it, making Dean aware of it, that would be wrong? But the feeling is a background hum in everything Castiel does. He acts on it even when Dean isn’t with him. He acts on it all the time.

Every passing moment changes the gaze between them. Dean’s waiting for him to talk, not filling in the space with any words this time, but his face keeps sinking further into something that looks dangerously like realisation.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. If how he feels, or what he’s doing, is wrong, then he should look away. He should go away, leave Dean alone, find somewhere else to be. But he couldn’t, he can’t, not until he knows for sure that Dean doesn’t feel even slightly the same way – and he can’t ask, because as soon as he knows Dean doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll have to leave. The thoughts chase their tails in Castiel’s head and he stares and he stares at Dean and he hurts so much that he wants to hit his own chest just for the distraction of a simpler pain.

“You don’t know what?”

“I just don’t know, Dean.”

Dean is watching him carefully, his mouth slightly open, as though trying to figure out how to phrase something he wants to say. There’s a slight tinge of colour to his cheeks, too, Castiel notices.

“Uh,” Dean says. His mouth shapes a ‘w’ like the start of a question, and then closes again, and he frowns – but he doesn’t look away.

He almost knows, Castiel thinks. He’s almost understood. And as soon as Dean understands, it’s over. Unless he feels the same way, which he doesn’t. He can’t. We’re not the same. No matter how hard I try and how much I change, we’re not ever the same.

He needs to cauterise this conversation like a wound, stop all this from happening, but he can’t find the words. Dean’s still watching him. Castiel’s heart is thunder in his head, drowning out his thoughts.

“You look like the whole world’s falling apart,” Dean says eventually. “Not an exaggeration. ‘Cause I’ve seen your face when the world was actually falling apart.” Dean points vaguely with one finger towards Castiel’s face. “And it looked like that.”

Castiel nods mutely, and Dean sighs and glances sharply away, and then back again.

“Come on, Cas, jesus. Something’s up, so whatever it is, just tell me.” He looks at Castiel for a long time, and then he says it again. In a different voice, quieter, with a little rise at the end as though of hope or something equally as stupid for Castiel to consider. “Tell me.”

It’s said in a way that makes Castiel want to believe he’s asking for all the things Castiel wants to give.

Dean’s eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s asking.

And Castiel’s human heart is pounding at that tone in his voice, that look on his face, because it feels as though – tentatively – they could be talking about the same thing. The longer Castiel watches Dean’s face, the more he sees it. There are the little flickers of denial, uncertainty, in the way Dean’s eyes narrow for a half-moment. And then there again is the rise of hope in the depth of Dean’s gaze, the openness.

It’s so small and barely-there that Castiel can’t trust it. He can’t know how this ends. It’s a rope thrown into down into his well, though, and with no idea what waits for him at the top, he still puts his hand on it and wonders if he’s strong enough to begin to climb.

“I, um.” He starts to speak, and his voice is low and rough. When he pauses almost immediately, Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, licks his lips. Castiel searches for the words. “I tried staking that peach rose. But it didn’t do any good.”

Dean looks confused. He doesn’t even bother to look down at the rose, just keeps his eyes on Castiel.

“What…” he says.

“It just grew that way,” Castiel says. He can feel a lump in his throat. “Naturally. It wanted to grow that way.”

“Okay,” Dean says, as though slightly concerned for Castiel’s sanity.

“I think sometimes it’s just like that,” Castiel says. He meets Dean’s eyes. “You can try planting them in the place you want them. Cut them back. Put a stake through them.” He resists the sudden, unexpected urge to reach up and touch the place on his chest where, years ago, Dean buried a knife in his heart. He swallows. “But sometimes there are things you can’t control. And even if it’s not… not healthy, or pretty, or the way it’s supposed to go… that’s how they’ll grow. Just towards the place they want to be.”

Dean’s listening intently, but his eyes are clouded with confusion. He looks like he wants to say something, and then stops himself. Castiel can’t blame him for not understanding, when half the point is that he’s talking without getting to the point. He doesn’t want to get to that sharp-split point when his life takes one of two courses, when Dean says one of two things.

“Dean, I…” Castiel says, and his hand reaches out. Unconsciously, awkwardly, the straggling limb of a plant that has never grown the way it should have done. And Castiel goes to catch himself, to stop letting his fingers trail through the air reaching for a place they can’t go – but then Dean takes his hand.

Dean takes his hand, and holds onto it. Not sweetly, not softly. Hard. Like they’re at the top of a cliff and Dean’s afraid of losing his grip and having to watch Castiel fall alone.

Castiel can barely breathe. Against the odds his hand is being held by Dean. Against the way that his words desert him, against the thousands of reasons that the two of them shouldn’t have ever even met, let alone be standing here together in a garden. Against all of it, Castiel’s hand is squeezed tight in Dean’s.

There’s a part of Castiel that’s trying to pinch itself, that’s shaking its head in denial, but Dean’s grip is warm and real.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Do you…”

The question has no ending, but it’s Dean, so the answer is yes. Castiel nods.

Dean’s expression seems, with just the smallest of looks in his eyes, to break apart. He holds onto Castiel’s hand and says nothing, doesn’t move.

“And…” Castiel says, but his throat goes dry. He can do this. He has to do this. If he doesn’t now, he never will. He tries again. “And… you?”

Dean looks momentarily bewildered.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says.

Castiel feels himself go light, so suddenly his stomach flips.

Yeah, Cas, he hears in his head. Yeah, Cas.

On another day, when Castiel hadn’t just told Dean how he feels through a series of oblique angles – when Castiel’s hand wasn’t still being held in the rough warmth of Dean’s – Castiel might have been indignant at that tone in Dean’s voice. As though it had been obvious, when yes, half the time Dean was staring at him like he actually mattered, was ready to die for him – but the rest of the time Dean couldn’t look at him, was ready to die for anything.

Their hands swing a little between them. Just their arm muscles getting a little tired, and their hands moving together. Such a very little thing to happen, Castiel thinks. So very small. After all this time it’s just one hand in another, and it means absolutely crushingly everything, in the way that he’d known it would.

It’s happening, he thinks. It’s happening. We’re the same. We’re the same.

A little clutch of fear that he might change, one day. Wake up and be something else, unexpectedly. Grow again, in a direction Dean doesn’t –

Castiel breathes. It’s alright. He’s torn out his grace for this. He can be the person Dean needs. He can change himself again. Over and over, if needs be.

He holds Dean’s hand. Tight. He can always change again. He can make them the same again. Whatever it takes. For this, for the feeling of Dean's hand in his, it would be worth it, anything would be worth it. But –

Dean’s grip goes slack in his own.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. He holds tighter. “Nothing.”

Dean’s hand drops Castiel’s. The loosening of his grip is a slow-motion whip crack across Castiel’s chest.

“No?” Dean says, looking at Castiel, asking with the single word whether Castiel doesn’t want anything that just happened. He puts his hands up just a little way, maybe a surrender, maybe just a gesture to show he isn’t touching.

“Wait,” Castiel says, his hand still in place, still reaching. It shows, then, he thinks to himself. That sickle-curve sharpness in his chest, the fear in him that he won’t always be able to fit himself to what Dean wants, it must show. Dean can see it. Castiel lifts his chin, tries to look as though he’s feeling incredibly happy, instead of just incredibly much. “Dean, why are you –”

“Cas…” Dean’s eyes are searching his face, looking for the place where something is wrong. Castiel wants to cut in, insist that nothing is wrong. Take Dean’s hand again, reach for more – he could reach for more, he thinks, and his heart twists, and his head feels light. He could reach for more. Dean might let him. Dean was holding his hand for a moment, there, by choice, as though it really meant something. Castiel’s mouth is dry.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel tries. But his stomach is sinking, even as he’s aching with the terrifying joy of the sudden opening of all the doors he’d always thought were closed for him.

Dean can see that he’s scared. Dean is going to figure it all out. And then those doors will close again.

“I mean…” Dean says. He blinks, shakes his head just slightly. Seems to remember where exactly he is, glancing around at Castiel’s garden. It’s all slipping out of Castiel’s grasp. They’re going to pretend as though the last two minutes never happened, Castiel can feel it.

It’s unbearable. It’s unbearable. The idea of having had it for barely a few seconds, and then losing it. Castiel reaches for words, for anything – something that will show Dean how much it all means to him, how far he’ll go to make it work.

“We’re both human,” he says, almost blurts. “I took out my grace. So we can be… so I can stay.”

Took out, he thinks to himself. What a clinical way to talk about the tearing, the self-destruction, the loss.

Dean just looks at him, mouth slightly open.

This is supposed to be the part where Dean argues, Castiel realises only when it doesn’t come. This is the part where Dean asks me what the hell I was thinking. Tells me to put the grace damn well back where it came from, and to stop making terrible decisions. And then I argue back, and tell him I’ll do what I want to do with my own grace, and I made this choice for him, and I’d do it again.

But Dean isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring. And Castiel stares, too. He can’t argue back when Dean hasn’t started the fight. He can’t push back if Dean never pushed forward. So they stand in silence. The clouds overhead roll on, oblivious to the hearts frantically pounding so far beneath them.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he says it differently to how he’s supposed to – quietly, carefully, handling the name like it’s made of something delicate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Castiel says.

“But you… you did that…”

Castiel watches him mutely.

“Why?” Dean asks.

So many answers. To be like you. To be near you. To show you I can change for you. Castiel opens his mouth and tries not to say too much.

“For – this,” Castiel says, managing to stop himself saying, for you.

“This?”

“This,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s gaze.

Dean holds his gaze.

“But it – ah. Jesus, Cas, this is hard to talk about.”

Castiel nods. He doesn’t want to let it go – feels sick at the idea of Dean just dropping the subject, and heading back inside, leaving the garden and forgetting all about what they’d said to each other. Chalking it up as somewhere he’d never go again. Too much baggage, too heavy, not worth it.

Dean puffs out his cheeks, though, and breathes out sharply, and says,

“It’s just that, hell, man, you never had to take the grace out to have… you know… anything you wanted out of me.” Dean looks uncertain as he says the last part, as though a little disbelieving that Castiel could want anything from him in particular. “You know that. Right?”

His voice is so different. So gentle in a way that Castiel only barely recognises from the most private of moments they’ve shared. Castiel is suddenly so intensely aware that they’re the only two in the garden, alone with each other. No one else to see them or hear them or judge what they say to each other. It’s a thought that gives him courage.

“I’ve changed for you since the beginning,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it, his eyes troubled. Castiel watches him, thinking. “Or –” he starts, as a new thought occurs to him. “Or, changed because of you, at least.”

Dean still looks confused, as though he doesn’t really see the difference. To Castiel, though, it feels clear as day. He changed because he met Dean – without that meeting, he would still be the angel he’d always been. But when he thought about it, the person he changed for was himself. Because it had felt right. Because it felt, period, and that was what he’d wanted.

It loops round and round perfectly in Castiel’s mind. Meeting Dean, the push Castiel needed to start running. And knowing Dean, now, the pull Castiel needs to keep changing, stay with him, stay together.

“I just thought,” Castiel says, when Dean stays silent, “if I could be human like you, then maybe you’d… maybe we could be the same. And stay that way.”

“And you want that,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Because…”

“Because,” Castiel says, a little taken aback, “I want… this.”

“But why’d we have to be the same for that? I mean – this?” Dean frowns, as though almost losing track of what he’s trying to say. They’re trying to talk all around it without using any words that are too big.

“Why…” Castiel trails off as he considers the question.

Dean shrugs, in a way that battles to look uncaring and ends up looking heartfelt.

“But… we need to be the same,” Castiel says. He wants them to be close like two leaves on a tree. Closer, two petals on a flower. No, closer still, not even two things. Just one, one plant, growing strong. He wants them that close, that inseparable, after so long being forced apart by fate and circumstance. No would-be gods or divine powers could set them apart if they were one thing. The same.

“But we aren’t the same, Cas,” Dean says, so quietly that Castiel only just hears it over the little burst of breeze that briefly ruffles over them.

Castiel feels his chest clench.

“I’m trying…” he says.

“No, I mean – I mean we can’t be,” Dean says. “I mean, we aren’t, ‘cause we’re… you know… two different people. There it is, you know? Different people. We can’t be exactly the same.”

“But…” Castiel starts, and the word comes out sounding almost angry, so he checks himself and looks down. “But,” he starts again, “if I can just…”

“C’mon,” Dean says, the smallest of smiles softening one side of his mouth. “You wouldn’t really want two of me running around the place, would you?”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Castiel answers, his voice serious, but with a lightness in his eyes to acknowledge Dean’s brush with humour.

“Come to think of it, though,” Dean says, “I’d get a lot more work done on the car if there were two of me. And we could harmonise on Zepp tracks. Maybe you are onto something.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, though he can feel his heart lifting just seeing Dean reaching out for him, trying to make him smile.

“I wouldn’t let you share my toothbrush, though, no way.” Dean looks around the garden. “And this would have to go. Hate to break it to you, but no way are you digging around in the dirt for hours if you’re me. Not unless there’s something to salt and burn at the end of it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, and the words sound little and obstinate, but his hands relax. Dean is looking at him like he gets it – like he sees that curling fear inside Castiel, the one that can’t let them be two different and separate things that just happen by the grace of luck to be next to each other. Because luck runs out, and they both know it. The only way to be sure of staying together, the fear says, is to be so much the same as to be one thing.

But it’s impossible. Castiel can’t be Dean. And Dean’s right, too, because Castiel doesn’t really want to be. He doesn’t want to give up gardening. He doesn’t want to work on Dean’s car. He doesn’t want to share a toothbrush.

He wants to spend time growing things. He wants his own hands in the dirt. He wants – he wants Dean, in the way that he has done since meeting Dean. And he wants to keep wanting.

Even if he didn’t want it, it’s what is. They’re two plants next to each other. Hoping not to be uprooted, hoping for sun, hoping for kind hands that stake them upright and water them even when they won’t flower. Always at the mercy of whatever storms might come, however hard Castiel tries to tangle himself together with Dean, camouflage with him, become just the same.

There are plants that do that, Castiel remembers. Plants that tangle and blend with other plants. They’re weeds. They choke out the first plant, cut off all its light and food until it dies. Two things can’t become one thing without loss. And Castiel doesn’t want to lose Dean – and, he realises quite suddenly, he also doesn’t want to lose himself. There’s so much he wants to do.

Things he might be able to do.

He looks at Dean, who’s watching him piece it all together, giving him time in silence, or maybe just struggling to find more words. But either way, Dean is still here. Dean is in front of him. A moment ago, they were hand in hand.

They could be again.

“You good?” Dean asks, seeming to sense Castiel come to a conclusion.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean visibly relaxes, shoulders easing under his coat. Castiel wants to put his hands on those shoulders. He wants to reach out. He wants to touch. He wants, wants, wants, and it feels like still growing, it feels like still changing, it feels like being alive. Like being himself.

He wants to hear Dean’s heartbeat. He wants his grace back. With a sudden absolute certainty, Castiel feels how much he wants his grace back.

He meets Dean’s eyes, and says simply,

“It’s here.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, catching Castiel’s mood without his meaning.

“It’s here?”

“My grace,” Castiel says. “You were asking where it was. It’s here.”

“Here?” Dean looks confused.

Castiel can feel his mood unfurling, the parts of himself that he’s pushed away and hidden – the parts that have known all along he wants his grace back – finally allowed to breathe, finally being given what they need. He turns his attention to his garden, bending down next to the peach rose that has been so wilfully refusing to blossom.

“I didn’t expect anything to grow when I buried it here,” Castiel says to Dean, over his shoulder. “But then the first flowers came, and so I bought more, and then I put in the fence, and – it helped, being able to come here.” He puts out his hand towards the peach rose, speaking meditatively, almost not quite to Dean at all.

His fingertips brush the tightly closed buds, the sharpness of the thorns. Castiel lets that want for his grace rise up in him, unafraid of the feeling now that he knows it can be acted on. He closes his eyes, and feels for his grace.

It’s right there, waiting for him.

Brilliant and electric. Fast, so fast, and all colours, colours so bright they hiss and spit as they rocket up the stem of the peach rose and through Castiel’s fingers, filling his body with a fierce familiar hum. Castiel breathes in and smells every flower in the garden at once and the breeze and the tang of sap and the rich wetness of the soil and there, behind him, Dean. He breathes out ozone, heady.

He can feel the hat on his head, the way it rests on each hair. He can feel Dean’s closeness, the way the atoms of air jumble between them.

He can feel the sunshine on his face when it finally breaks through the clouds overhead.

The world is turning beneath his feet as it should. The plants around him are creaking as they grow. Dean is breathing a little quicker than usual, and Dean’s heartbeat – there it is. That sound Castiel has missed since the day he tore out his grace. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. Castiel closes his eyes more tightly and focuses in on it, loses himself briefly in its rhythm.

“Cas?” Dean says. His voice has all the layers Castiel can hear as an angel. Richer, deeper. He can hear the roughness that comes from the light scarring in Dean’s throat after years of hunting, calling out warnings and yelling in shock. He can hear the exact pitch at which Dean ends the single word, the note that means it’s a question and it’s shy and it’s hopeful and Dean is trying to hide all of it.

The sun is bright when Castiel opens his eyes. There on the peach rose, at the tip of the stem through which he drew out his grace from the earth, is a full-blossom flower. Blushing petals unfurled, just waiting to be looked at, to be touched. Castiel reaches up a finger, and presses it to the velvet centre.

He stands up, and turns to Dean, who’s looking at him with something in his eyes that’s just the same. Newly unfurled, wanting touch.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s face relaxes.

“Here all along, huh.” Dean says. “Damn it, Cas. And there was me, worrying where to find it for no goddamn reason.” The words are irritable but Dean’s tone is a betrayal of them, because it’s so gentle, so serious. Serious enough that Castiel doesn’t feel silly when he takes a step forward, closer to Dean.

He meets Dean’s eyes silently, asking a question.

“You still…?” Dean says.

Still what exactly, Castiel wonders. Still want this? Still want you? Still look at you and think about how anything else I’ve tried to care about felt like trying to follow a script written for a part I was never meant to play, but with you caring grows up without me even trying like a wild rose in good earth?

The answer to all of it is yes. It’s Dean, after all. The answer is yes.

Castiel doesn’t use words to say it. Dean barely used them to ask the question, it was all in his eyes and the way he’s still holding his arms slightly out to the sides as though hoping to have a reason to put them around someone, and so Castiel gives him a reason.

The closeness – Castiel has always thought it might be jarring, if it ever happened, to be in Dean’s space like this. Something he’s wanted for so long and imagined so many times that the reality would be strange. But it’s not strange, it’s – it’s just a little slow, and hushed. It’s so quiet in the garden as they come together. Hand touching hand. Then arms reaching up. Castiel’s eyes tracing the lines of Dean’s face, finally having time to do it in as much time as he chooses, because Dean’s going a pleased shade of red under his gaze.

“I, uh,” Dean says, his voice a little hoarse. Castiel tilts his head at a slight angle. “I, uh. I don’t know how to do this. When it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I – I don’t know if you want me to…” Dean’s eyes drop to Castiel’s lips. Through angel’s eyes, Castiel can see the slight tremor in him, the way he leans in just a little and then pulls back, the way his muscles are tightening in uncertainty.

“Yes,” says Castiel simply. He reaches up, and tilts his hat back.

“But you… it’s…” Dean looks at him helplessly.

And Castiel thinks perhaps he understands. This thing between them, the way that Castiel feels, it’s – it’s alive, it’s wider and deeper than the sky. It’s everything. And they’re supposed to, what, kiss about it? As though it were the end of a fairy tale? The end of a second date?

But then, they’ve done all the rest of it before. They’ve done blood and big choices. They’ve done hands grasping for each other against every rule, against all the smart money. And now there’s just this.

There’s just Castiel leaning forwards, and seeing relief and happiness break through on Dean’s face like sunshine for a second, before they kiss.

Castiel feels his wings unfurl.

It’s still not Heaven. It’s not even close. But – Castiel pulls back, and sees the expression on Dean’s face, the way his eyes are wide and unbelieving and so, so happy. But it’s a place, where Castiel is growing things.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 10: The Beach

"Don't even think about it, Potter," Draco warned, taking half a dozen steps back and holding out his hands to ward off his menace of a husband. (Yes, husband. They'd gotten married the day before and Draco was still basically in a state of shock.)

Harry pouted at him, "But-"

"No," he repeated. "You are soaked and you're covered in sand."

Harry pushed his wet curls back off his face and gave him that grin, the one that turned Draco's will into complete mush. "Come on," he cajoled. "Come have a swim with me."

Draco ignored him and opened his bag, pulling out a beach chair, then a massive umbrella, followed by a novel, and then a travel mug margarita. "I told you when you begged to go to the beach for our honeymoon," he said as he set up his chair and stuck the umbrella into the sand, "Malfoys burn in the sun. Not all of us can have gorgeous bronze complexions like gods," he grumbled.

Harry stepped toward him and Draco held out his hand, making a little force field wandlessly.

"You are not allowed to touch me when you're all wet," he repeated with a shake of his head.

"One kiss," Harry wheedled. "I'll keep my hands behind my back," he said, demonstrating the action, "and the only part of my body to touch yours will be my lips."

Draco rolled his eyes but his whole body warmed pleasantly at the thought of Harry's lips on his like he'd just taken a shot of fire whiskey. "Fine," he replied with a put upon sigh that Harry saw right through. He leaned over and pressed his lips to Harry's.

(More below the cut)

After a second, Draco gave in and cupped Harry's face, pressing their bodies together from chest to thigh. He couldn't help himself.

He pulled back minutely, "Hold me, you brat," he said, before leaning in to kiss Harry again.

Harry huffed a laugh against his lips before wrapping Draco tight in his arms and holding him close. And Draco loved this, loved being held in Harry's (his husband's!) arms, loved feeling weightless and free, knowing that he had made his life his own.

"Godric, I love you," Harry sighed against the tender spot just to the left of Draco's mouth, the bristles of his beard rasping against Draco's sensitive skin.

"I love you, too," Draco replied. "Even if you did just get me all wet and sandy."

Harry laughed, his breath warm against Draco's cheek; he left a kiss on Draco's temple before pulling back. He took a step away and waved a hand at Draco's body and the warmth of Harry's magic washed over him, drying him and blowing the sand away. "Are you sure I can't tempt you with a swim?" he asked, nodding his head toward the ocean.

"Positive. I prefer not shedding my skin like a snake after it's been burned to a crisp."

Harry huffed, "There are charms for that, you know."

"They don't work," Draco replied, slipping his sunglasses down over his eyes before settling into his chair. "I'm fine," he said, shooing Harry away. "You go play in the ocean and I'll read Pansy's latest," he said, holding up the paperback he'd brought along.

Harry bent over him and brushed his lips over Draco's, "I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Yes," he murmured, leaning up to peck Harry's lips one more time. "Go."

Harry started away, turning his head to call over his shoulder, "Admit it. You just like to watch my arse as I walk away."

He huffed a laugh but it didn't stop him from watching Harry walk toward the ocean.

-----------

They'd spent the afternoon by the ocean, Harry playing in the water and returning to Draco to steal his drink and get him covered in salty ocean water and sand. After the beach they'd gone to dinner, then wandered around the little town, popping into shops and stopping for coffee, then ice cream, before heading back to the little villa they were staying at.

Draco collapsed on the sofa, feeling full and happy.

Harry flopped down on top of him, pressing him into the soft white cushions.

"Oof," he grumbled but he wrapped his arms around Harry and held him tight so he didn't move.

Harry nuzzled into Draco's neck, "You smell like the ocean."

"Do I?" Draco asked, amused, stroking his fingers through Harry's curls.

Harry nodded and his body relaxed further, and Draco gladly accepted the pleasant weight of him.

After a few minutes of quiet cuddles and soft kisses, Harry stood up and tugged Draco up after him. "Come on," he said.

"Come where?" he said, trying to pull him back to the sofa. Or perhaps the hot tub.

The other man huffed at him and then just scooped him up. Draco shrieked, "Put me down! This is not dignified."

"Nope," Harry replied, carrying him out to the balcony, then down the steps. "You have no more excuses," he informed him. "You are getting in the ocean with me."

Draco kicked his legs, instinctively wanting to fight with him, "There's still sand and water."

"Neither of which will cause sunburn or peeling," Harry replied as he set him on his feet. Harry reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it up over his head and knocking his glasses off.

"That's just plain manipulative," Draco replied as Harry's torso was revealed. Harry knew that Draco stood no chance of resisting him when he stood there all muscles and gorgeous skin just waiting to be caressed by Draco's hands.

His laugh rang out, warm and pleased, "You should get undressed too," he informed him as his hands started to undo the button and zip on his trousers. "You're going in the ocean whether you're out of that handsome outfit or not."

"Handsome, hmm?" he asked as he pulled his own shirt over his head.

"Yes," Harry replied easily. "You are the most gorgeous person I've ever met. Regardless of what you're wearing."

Draco shook his head at him and leaned in to peck a kiss to his lips.

Harry pulled back before they could get more invested in the kiss, "Come on," he said again, stepping back then making eye contact with Draco as he hooked his thumbs in his pants and pushed them off. "Don't keep me waiting," he added with a wink before turning and walking away without a backward glance, knowing full well Draco would follow.

He stripped out of his clothes embarrassingly quickly, stumbling a bit in the sand as his foot got stuck in his pants. Once he'd gotten them kicked off and righted himself, he looked up to see that Harry was standing in water up to his hips, staring out at the vastness of the ocean.

Draco had always thought of Harry as more like the sun; warm and consuming, his light illuminating everything around him, making new life bloom. But perhaps he was like the moon, too, Draco thought. Quiet, steady, pulling Draco in the same way the moon moved the waves.

Either way he was beautiful.

He made his way out to the other man and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, pressing his front to Harry's back and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

Harry leaned back against him and covered Draco's arms with his own, "Took you long enough," he murmured.

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked, kissing the tender spot on Harry's neck where his shoulder and neck met.

Harry turned in his arms, "That I love you," he said softly, stroking his warm, wet hands down Draco's neck and over his chest. "That life is beautiful and full of meaning when you have someone to share it with. I was thinking that you have filled up my life with joy, and laughter, and love in ways that I never knew I needed. That I knew what it was to love but not what it was to be loved, not like this anyway," he added, brushing his hands over Draco's ribs. "I was thinking that I was glad to be alive."

Draco didn't know what to say, never knew what to say when Harry said words like those to him. He'd never imagined that anyone could feel those things for him and if anyone did, it certainly shouldn't have been Harry.

"I was also thinking," Harry said, before Draco could come up with a reply, "That it's ridiculous that you agreed to come to the beach for our honeymoon, when you obviously hate it so much."

"But I love you," he said easily. "And I love seeing you here. You're so," he trailed off, searching for the right word, "free here. And I genuinely do not mind sitting under an umbrella and drinking all day while you get gorgeously tan. The bathing trunks you have don't hurt anything either," he teased.

Harry kissed him lightly, "You want to know the truth?"

"Yes," he breathed, brushing his nose along Harry's and closing his eyes as he rested their foreheads together.

"Anywhere I am with you, I am free," he said. "You've set me free from bars that I never knew were holding me, Draco Malfoy."

"That's Draco Potter, to you," he whispered. "And you've set me free, too."

Day 9: Nose Kisses | Day 11: Pinky Promise

[old-hyper-super-clover]

For the requests‚ what about a family trip to the beach with Purgatory Hall + the royals and MC? Like Simeon and Barbatos setting up a picnic table meanwhile MC and Luke play around in the sand searching for shiny or strange things to building a sand castle (everything also keeping Solomon and Diavolo far from the preparations for the picnic)‚ playing with water guns or swimming. And after eating maybe playing a match of volleyball sand, admiring the sunset till it's nigth time and before going back‚ playing with fireworks, do a little stargazing or something--

Feel free to ignore this and thanks in advance anyway~

FINALLY I've come to write something for this lovely request. It's packed with so many fun ideas that I kinda went overboard with it xD this means the story is so big I'll have to split it into two posts!

To Bisshitu: I wanted to thank you for your continuous support! I see you in my notifs a lot and I really appreciate it!! (ALSO I AM SO SORRY YOU'VE WAITED SO LONG I HOPE YOU WILL STILL ENJOY THIS CHAOS)

Literally just 13 idiots on a beach trip~

Part 1

MC was leaning against one of the walls in the giant entrance halls of the House of Lamentation. Standing next to them, Solomon handed MC an opened bag of spicy newt chips. "Want some?" He asked and MC gladly took a few while constantly watching the commotion that was going on in the rest of the hallway.

Who would've guessed that going on a vacation with the seven rulers of hell would involve the most panicked, loud and chaotic packing of bags to have ever existed?

Well, let's be real, MC did expect it, but maybe not to the degree that they were in amusement about now.

The oldest brother had called the others for a "luggage check" as he had been sceptical of his brothers' talents in packing reasonable items in an, likewise reasonable, amount of suitcases and bags.

And of course, the first one to show up had to present his luggage in the form of... nothing.

Yes, Beelzebub came up to Lucifer, only the remains of a sandwich in his hand (which didn't last longer than three more seconds), confused when Lucifer mustered him with an angered glance.

"Where's your luggage?" Lucifer asked, to which Beel only gave a shrug.

"We're going to the beach, right? Which means I'll only need my swimming trunks, and I wear those underneath my pants."

Now the confusion has wandered over to rest on Lucifer's face. "But... Won't you need clothes to change into, or at least pyjamas for the night?"

"Hm..." Beel scratched the back of his head while thinking about Lucifer's words. "Nah, I don't need those. I'm planning to stay at the beach all the time, so..." Then suddenly, he gasped as he remembered something. "Wait, I do have something else prepared to bring along!"

Beel reached into his pocket, and when he pulled out a hand-written list that unrolled itself, plonking onto the carpet and rolling all the way to Lucifer's feet, the avatar of Pride knew exactly what said list was going to be.

"There are a few food stands that I'd like to try out..." Beel announced, eyeing the paper. "First of all, there's one selling shaved ice, which I want to compare to the ice-cream from this other stand, but who's also selling parfaits of which I kind of want to try all twenty-five flavours... Also then there's of course-"

"Beel" Lucifer interrupted the avatar of Gluttony in a strict tone. "Go pack a proper bag."

"But-"

"Now."

Letting out a sigh, Lucifer watched as Beel left.

But little did he know, this had only been the beginning of the chaos...

Moments later, Lucifer has found himself explaining to Satan why taking 70 different books with him would be ridiculously much. Also Mammon had taken this opportunity to "lend" some of his brothers possessions, arguing that he "needed those for the beach". This had worked until his swift fingers touched Levi's limited edition Ruri-chan sunscreen.

So, as Lucifer was spam-calling Belphie to wake him up and finally have him start packing, a sudden argument could be heard from upstairs:

"... How dare you steal my precious Hana Ruri 'magical sun ray protective lotion for all blooming heroes of justice'?! This very sunscreen is an homage to the legendary beach episode where Azuki-tan got a sunburn and couldn't help Ruri-chan in the intense battle against the evil kelp-army that was threatening to overgrow the local reef-"

"OKAY OKAY, HERE'S YOUR STUPID CREAM NOW LEAVE ME ALONE"

"S-STUPID CREAM?!?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW PRECIOUS THIS ITEM IS TO A FAN LIKE-"

That was all Lucifer could understand as an awfully annoyed scream Mammon let out was drowning Levi's gibberish. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Lucifer knew this vacation was going to be one intense experience...

An hour later, the group found itself where this little story had started off. The Purgatory Hall crew had already arrived long ago, enjoying the chaos together with MC -- who, btw, had been the only one to pass Lucifer's vibe luggage check right away.

Slowly it felt like most of the brothers were ready to go, only Asmodeus was left in the judgemental glare of the avatar of Pride.

But Lucifer noticed they already were way behind the time they were supposed to meet Diavolo at his castle. So, to Asmo's luck, he let off of trying to see what's inside the pretty boy's suitcase and announced the group's departure.

In enthusiasm shared by almost everyone, they let out a big cheer:

"Off to the beach we go!"

Some of the demons had whined about wanting to visit the human world beach. But as those idiot boys literally couldn't be trusted to act responsibly (which is okay, we love them regardless), Diavolo offered to stay at the beach resort he created in the Devildom.

Looking over the endless ocean, surrounded by the equally large beach and glistening in an artificial sun's light, MC was wondering just how powerful the demon prince must be to have created all this. But they were left only little time to be in awe over the location, as their friends demanded their attention shortly after having arrived.

Without going into much detail -- the day was packed with lots and lots of fun. MC was running around the beach, playing and goofing around with their friends, only to take a collective rest and then go do something silly again. Only a few other demons were to be found at the resort, but those were some acquaintances of Diavolo's family, and the group seemed to have scared them off of the beach after, like, an hour or so. Hence, the whole beach served as their playground for whatever activity they wanted to do, until in the afternoon, most of them were about to collapse from exhaustion and hunger.

"That's right, we didn't really have a proper meal since coming here" Asmo noticed as several tummy grumbles undermined his statement.

"We DID bring a picnic basket..." Satan mumbled. "But some genius had to let Beel carry it."

The culprit gave an immediate pout. "I had to hurry, 'kay?!" Mammon huffed. "MC was already at the beach and I--" he stopped. "... U-uh... I mean..."

Gaining a round of sighs and shaking heads, his brothers however decided to let Mammon's... mammon-ness slide for once. Mostly because, approaching from the distance, Barbatos and Solomon were getting closer, their hands full with bags that seemed to be stuffed with food.

"Y-yoU BroUGhT S-nAcKs?!" Beelzebub was already on his feet running towards them but Barbatos' stare was actually enough to make him stop.

"Not before the dishes are prepared, Beelzebub" Barbatos explained calmly, but with this very weird hidden tone in his voice that gave everyone chills despite the scorching summer heat.

"We figured everyone must be starving by now, so Barbatos suggested we'd make a little picnic party with everyone" Solomon cheered, presenting the bags in his hands.

"That sounds lovely" Simeon could be heard among the general noise of approval. "Let me help you prepare everything, Barbatos."

The demon butler beamed him a smile, thanking the angel for his help.

Then, Solomon spoke up again, and every bit of joy vanished from all their faces: "Thank you, Simeon! With the three of us working together the food will be ready in no time!"

--------------

Barbatos was putting all kinds of spices into a bowl to create a delicious sauce. Right next to him, Simeon prepared mouth-watering sandwiches.

And behind their back, there was this chopping sound. Chop reaching their chop ears in an chop never- chop ending thread, over and chop over again...

Swallowing his tension, Simeon was fighting a frown. "He's only cutting the fruits..." He whispered. "You shouldn't be able to mess up a fruit salad..."

"I know" Barbatos mumbled back. "However I cannot fight this unease that urges me to check if he's really-" He was interrupted by a very unsettling "oops" coming from that certain sorcerer at the cutting board.

In honestly quicker than the blink of an eye Simeon and Barbatos were at Solomon's side, frantically scanning the table for whatever Solomon must've messed up. When all they found were slices of fruit that, well, might have been chopped a bit wonky, they gave Solomon a confused stare.

"I cut off too much of this poor Hellberry's pull" Solomon explained. "Oh well, I'll just cut around the stem and add it to the fruit salad like this."

Both Barbatos and Simeon couldn't help but stare for a moment longer, their brains not really comprehending NOT finding an abomination in Solomon's cooking.

"Can I help you two with anything?" The sorcerer then asked.

"U-uhm, no..." Simeon mumbled. "It's all fine, we just..."

"We wanted to see if there's anything we can help you with" Barbatos jumped in to continue.

"Thanks, but I'm fine. Actually I'm almost finished, so maybe I can help one of you afterw-"

"Nononononono...!" Simeon almost whined. "I-its fine! We're actually almost finished ourselves, so..."

Solomon looked back, raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't look like it to me..."

Suddenly, another voice joined the group.

"I agree! You two are likely just being humble again" Diavolo had walked up to their working station a moment ago, but neither of them seemed to have noticed in their stress. The prince continued: "That's why I decided to lend you a hand as well. This is a vacation for all of us, so I should not burden my loyal butler with all the work."

"That's a commendable attitude for royalty like yourself" Solomon cheered. "Well then, I think Simeon and Barbatos could use a hand."

Diavolo was already squeezing his quite broad body into the tiny cooking space, this certain over-excited sparkle in his eyes as he mustered the food.

Barbatos and Simeon on the other hand were exchanging glances, so immensely stressed that their thoughts were almost audible:

'Barbatos I don't think I can handle any more of this stress' Simeon stared.

'We shouldn't have let Solomon help in the first place, our kindness was foolish' Barbatos stared back.

'What do we do now Barbatos this is the only food we have left, they cannot ruin it'

Thankfully, the perfect butler was not planning to let their "help" threaten the food for any longer. "Young master, I highly appreciate that you thought of my well-being. Which is why I indeed have a request for you and Solomon."

Simeon almost barged in on a frightened impulse, but Barbatos continued before anyone could raise their voice. "There is dessert stored in our hotel's main storage. Would you be so kind and bring enough for our whole group?"

A little surprised, Diavolo agreed. He waited for Solomon to finish cutting the fruits, then they went off to the hotel.

Finally able to catch a breath, Simeon shot Barbatos a last glance. "That was easier than expected. Why didn't we let Solomon bring the desserts earlier?"

Back to mixing spices, Barbatos didn't look up at the question. "What desserts?" He simply asked.

"... Uhm..." Simeon was quite startled. "Are there... Are there no desserts in the storage room...?"

"Oh, I sure hope there are" Barbatos said. "Otherwise I will have some explaining to do..."

-------------

(To be continued...)

Find my summer event Masterlist and Rules for the requests here <3

[norcumii]

for the ask meme: Rex/Obi or pairing/characters of choice - Werewolf/vampire AU / Sick/injured / Stranded Due to Inclement Weather / Huddling for warmth

For this trope mashup meme.

This was CLEARLY influenced by seananmcguire's Newsflesh series, which was the last zombie related media I interacted with, and I regret NOTHING.

(Meanwhile, much worldbuilding was done by Dogmatix, who I was foolish enough to let near the plunnies again ^_^)

*****

The problem with zombies, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but muse, was that they stopped thinking. Oh, there was some low-level intelligence left in there, but it was mostly focused on consuming the living. Not tactics, for the most part, not unless the bastards were very fresh or in large enough groups, but that also meant that when some brilliant asshole declared “oh, the zombies wouldn’t/couldn’t ever do that,” no one consulted the zombies.

Thus, an early morning patrol in an area that “never saw more than one or two zombies” turned into a clusterfuck retreat. Though ‘patrol’ was rather a gross overstatement for just the two of them taking an idle walk because some days, Rex was too jittery for sleep and too damn self-sacrificing to admit that he missed early morning runs.

There was always enough fog coming in from the river that they should have been fine.

There also shouldn’t have been an entire pack of at least a dozen, dozen and a half zombies in the area. Where the fuckers had even come from was an unpleasant mystery.

“Rex?” Obi-Wan murmured into the man’s ear. “Are you with me?” he asked as if he couldn’t make out the glacially slow beat of his heart.

Rex groaned, head lolling to nestle further in the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck. He mumbled something that was probably a curse, which left Obi-Wan in the unenviable position of having to close his eyes and take his own steadying breath. Yes, on the one hand he did have an unfairly attractive boyfriend draped across his lap, straddling his hips and feeling like he was several seconds away from some serious necking.

On the other, they were also treed a good thirty feet above a pack of damned zombies, which had already tried seriously munching on Rex, and ‘necking’ could have serious consequences when one of them was an actual vampire.

Speaking of. Obi-Wan shifted in the cautious little jig in an attempt to nudge Rex more to the left. If he could just free up his arm enough, then he could move around while not tossing them off the tree stand or dislodging the thick emergency poncho that was the only thing keeping Rex from turning into a charred crisp. It was not sized for two, but there hadn’t been time to be more careful and drape it over just Rex instead of just plonking it down over the two of them.

“If you refuse to leave base again without your entire damned armor because of this, I’m going to be very put out,” Obi-Wan informed him, getting another incoherent unhappy noise. The armor was good at keeping the soldiers bite free – not that they needed to worry about the zombification business, but it still hurt them and fed the damn undead. It was also effective at keeping the soldiers touch starved and isolated in ways Obi-Wan had difficulty standing.

Another careful shift, and he could just barely dig out one of the small, squishy packs he kept in his jacket for emergencies.

Since his luck was shit, as soon as he pulled it free, the bastard caught on a loose thread, and with his claws he didn’t dare grab too hard for it, and down it tumbled. One of the zombies lunged, snapping at it, and blood exploded all across the remains of the bastard’s face.

Not being too intelligent, the rest of the pack turned on it immediately. Obi-Wan tried to tune out the disgusting carnage, being much more careful on his second attempt. He didn’t have many packets to spare. This one, he managed to juggle up in front of Rex’s face, jostling it a little. “Here. Drink,” he ordered, hoping that would be sufficient. He hated trying to insert the little sippy straws – Anakin had loved juice pouches back as a child, and they’d had similar fiendish straws. Anakin had learned how to insert the little bastards without a problem, but he always asked Obi-Wan to do it for him – because Obi-Wan had never quite managed to master the process, and Anakin was a damned brat.

Bad enough when it was juice.

One way or another, Rex was conscious enough to shift and bite down on the plastic packet. It was always a wonder to watch the soldiers’ regenerative powers at work. As the level of mostly artificial plasma lowered, color drained back into Rex’s face, the nasty burns along truly unfair cheekbones fading as muscle and skin reknit. He could smell the distressing blood-and-raw-meat stench fading, and only then did he start to relax.

When things had started to go to hell around the globe, the powers that be had huddled together around their failing infrastructure and went looking for fantastical solutions to unnatural problems. Obi-Wan could only imagine the levels of exhaustion and terror that had led someone to the conclusion that vampires might be immune to the infections that spread the zombie virus. The sheer potential of that going horribly wrong was at least one movie franchise long, if not several, yet somehow they’d dedicated enough science to make artificial vampires. Oh, technically it wasn’t vampirism, but ‘drank blood, super fast and strong, sunburn to death within minutes, resting vitals dropping down far enough to pass as dead’ was close enough for everyone but petty bureaucrats and pedantic assholes.

Even at the time, Obi-Wan had cynically noted how that meant both a short leash, and a strong vested interest in keeping as many people from going zombie as possible. He’d also noted the infuriating demographics of those who were selected for and survived the process of becoming vampires.

He tried not to think on that much nowadays, because the heightened blood pressure and carnage bothered Rex.

The packet slurped dry in a way that always raised Obi-Wan’s hackles, then Rex blinked up at him a few times in confusion. “You’re fuzzy,” Rex accused.

“That’s called a beard, dear,” Obi-Wan drawled in his most obnoxious tone, pretending he didn’t also have fur sprouting most places, nor the partial muzzle of a transformation enough to give him speed and jumping ability enough to get to one of the safe perches they’d set up weeks ago.

The Powers That Be might have created vampires, but they had also somehow missed the small but stubborn population of entirely naturally occurring werewolves (and affiliated were-creatures) around the world. Some, like Obi-Wan and his pack, were doing their damndest to both keep a low profile and help the poor bastards trying to protect the last of humanity.

Some, like Obi-Wan, might have become unwisely open to certain non-lycanthropes due to unfortunate feelings – not that Obi-Wan was ever about to complain about that.

Either his sarcastic tone or the guttural noises of thwarted zombies sank in, because Rex stiffened and glared down. “Fuck!” he hissed, thighs clenching in a way that Obi-Wan both very much did and very much did not appreciate. His eyes damn well crossed at the wiggle that followed – he could only guess that Rex was going for a weapon that he didn’t have.

“Stop that!” he snarled, letting the wolf out a little more. He needed the muscle and mass to keep Rex in place, longer paws digging into the tree trunk for a slightly more secure hold that was notgroping his idiot boyfriend.

His idiot boyfriend leveled a flat, unimpressed look at him. “Really?” Rex grumped. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “Right now?”

“So sorry, but some of us don’t need to ingest extra blood to get it up, and under less fraught circumstances this might be my idea of a good time.” He tried for a drawl, but it was much more strained than he meant. Oh well, it wasn’t like Rex didn’t know he could be ridiculous. And it really wasn’t intentional.

“Less fraught meaning less zombies?”

“And less daylight.” Obi-Wan didn’t mean for his tone to turn sharp, either, but it did even as he very carefully wrapped his arms tighter around Rex. He made certain not to disturb the poncho, but he, at least, wanted the reassurance. He still wasn’t over the terror of having to go mostly wolf to grab Rex from the pack he was trying to slow down, nor the horror of slinging him over a shoulder to go pelting through the trees. Madcap desperation to find a tree stand before a foggy dawn was not his idea of fun. “Your life is worth a hell of a lot more than an inconvenient hard on.”

Rex huffed a laugh, leaning in to rest his cheek against Obi-Wan’s. “Stop being charming.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to happen approximately never. So sorry.”

For a moment, it was just them – two idiots cuddled together, healthy and alive on a genuinely beautiful, bright Spring morning.

Then a terrible gurgling noise broke the moment, and Rex glanced down at the pack still mingling around the tree, groaning their displeasure at not remembering how to climb. “Was that a zombie?” he asked, as if he damn well didn’t know the truth.

“Shapeshifting burns calories,” Obi-Wan reminded him primly. “As does marathon sprints lugging around idiots like potato sacks.”

“That explains the bruises on my stomach,” he muttered, shifting about to rummage in one of Obi-Wan’s pockets. “Jerky?”

“Please.” All in all, now that matters were calmer, Obi-Wan almost hoped that a rescue would take its sweet time. This was almost nice – all things considered.

~end

[drabbles-mc]

Burnt (Part 2)

Tig Trager & Daughter!OFC (Tawnie Trager)

Inspired by Day 29 of the July Prompts: sunburn

Sequel to This Fic

Warnings: language

Word Count: 1k

A/N: My first real Tig fic! I know that part one wasn’t necessarily focused on Tig, but I feel like everything I’ve written for Tawnie as a character has sort of revolved around Kozik (and don’t get me wrong I love them as a pair) but I figured she was due for a little father-daughter fic! We get a little guest appearance from Kozik but he’s not he main focus lol. Hope y’all enjoy! xo

SOA Taglist: @garbinge​ @masterlistforimagines​ @adela-topaz-caelon​ @mijop​ @chibsytelford​ @xladymacbethx​ @i-just-read-stuff​ @kkim120​ @everyhowlmarksthedead​ @toni9​ @unicornucopia-fuckers​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @punkgoddess-98​ @paintballkid711​ @black-repunzel99​ @lexondeck​ @jitterbugs927​ @mrsstevenbuchananstark​ (If you want to be added to the taglist just let me know!)

Tig was moving extra slow when he woke up in the morning. Despite multiple warnings from his daughter, and the fact that she had forcefully applied some to his chest, it wasn’t enough to save him from getting charred after an entire day at the beach. He tried his hardest to move his arms and shoulders as little as possible as he got his coffee for the morning. He’d practically doused his entire torso in aloe in an attempt to soothe the burns, but it didn’t do nearly enough.

He was cursing under his breath as he made his way over to the living room. His entire back was burnt and stiff, and as he sat down all he wanted to do was peel the burn off entirely. He had no idea how he was supposed to get dressed and go do things for the club later—he hadn’t even tried to put on a shirt yet.

While he was trying to strategize, he heard another motorcycle getting closer, and eventually pull into his driveway. If it wouldn’t have hurt so much to get up, he would’ve gone and tried to look to see who it was. The answer to his question came bursting through the door a few seconds after the engine of the bike cut out.

Tawnie came striding into the house, Kozik not too far behind. It was evident on his face that he really wanted nothing to do with being inside Tig’s house, but Tawnie didn’t really leave him much of a choice. He trailed cautiously behind her, shutting the front door softly before toeing off his boots.

“Holy shit,” she skipped right over the hello’s when she saw the state her father was in, “You look like a fucking lobster.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, T,” he grumbled, not even attempting to get up.

She rolled her eyes as she walked closer to get a better look at the state of his shoulders and back, “Jesus Christ, Dad,” she fought the urge to reach out and touch it, knowing it was going to hurt like hell if she did.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he shook his head.

Rolling her eyes, she repeated back his words from the previous day in a mocking tone, “I’m not putting that on. I don’t need it. I’ll be fine. Sound familiar?” she arched one eyebrow.

“Tawnie, I don’t need this right now.”

She laughed, “You’re so grumpy when you have to face the consequences of your actions.”

Ignoring her statement, he nodded towards Kozik, “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Man, you gotta be hurting if it took you more than five solid seconds to talk shit about me being in your house,” Kozik shook his head.

She cut into their conversation, not wanting to feed into the feud between the two of them, “I didn’t feel like driving so he brought me over here.”

“I don’t trust him driving you,” Tig shook his head.

She laughed, “What, are you gonna do it? You can’t even turn your head all the way,” she looked at the redness that was on his chest as well, “You got aloe and shit here?”

He tried to wave her off, wincing as he moved, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“What, don’t want me taking care of your third-degree burns in front of Kozik?” she placed her hands on her hips, “Tough shit. Should’ve thought of that before you ignored my advice yesterday.”

“Tawnie, please—”

She cut him off, “I don’t wanna hear it,” she paused for a moment, “You supposed to be going to the clubhouse today?”

He didn’t want to answer, but he knew that even if he didn’t say something, Kozik would. With a sigh, he nodded, “Yea.”

“Alright. Well. You can’t move so I’m definitely not letting you ride over there,” she turned back to her boyfriend, “I’m just gonna take his car and drive him over. You can head that way now if you want.”

He raised his eyebrows, not ever having seen someone so easily make decisions on Tig’s behalf, “You sure?”

“Yes,” her immediate response drowned out the sound of Tig saying, “No,” at the same exact moment. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head as she ignored her father’s protests, “Yea I’m gonna drive him. If it’s alright with you, could you follow us back here later and then I’ll just ride with you back to your place?”

He nodded, “Yea sure. Whatever you need.”

She smiled at him, “You’re a peach. Thank you so much,” she walked over and kissed him on the lips, “Ride safe.”

Tig groaned, “Don’t do that shit in my house.”

Tawnie looked back at him, a defiant look on her face, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Kozik laughed as he turned and walked out of the house. It wasn’t too often that he saw the two of them going back and forth—he usually tried to avoid being around Tig when he was with Tawnie, but he had to admit that it was entertaining. He could certainly tell where she picked up a lot of her stubbornness and attitude from. She’d perfected the art over time, too, because she was always giving Tig a run for his money now.

The two of them didn’t talk too much as she went and got a few things from the medicine cabinet to help tend to the burns on his shoulders and back. He winced and cringed as she took care of him, but he had finally gotten past the point of arguing with her about it. His fists were clenched as she spread aloe onto his shoulders, and she was trying not to be amused by it.

“Alright,” she rinsed her hands off in the sink, “Give that a couple minutes to do its thing then try to put a shirt on. Then we can head to the clubhouse.”

“You don’t gotta do all this shit, T,” Tig shook his head, already feeling the tiniest bit of relief from everything she’d done for him.

“’Course I do,” she smiled, “I love you.”

He chuckled as he stood up, walking over and kissing the side of her head, “I love you too.”

[believeitseeitdoit]

A Defiled Uniform

Steve x reader x Bucky , Steve Rogers x reader , Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: the boys find a particular garment in your stuff, and set out to fulfill an old fantasy in the bedroom

Rating: 18+, don’t touch this if you are under age please, and sweet Jesus wrap it up folks,

Warnings: CW brief discussion of religion and old style school punishments, SMUT, 3 some, if it isn’t your style, don’t read (I’ll be less offended if you ignore it than if you read it and get cranky), blowjobs, spanking, man on man kissing, dirty talk, language, teacher kink … let me clarify the reader is 100% of age and consenting to the scene!!!

The boys are helping you pack up your apartment so you can move to the compound up North with them. Natasha is helping you wrap dishes in the kitchen while Steve and Bucky tuck your clothes into suitcases from your closet. Classic rock plays throughout, windows open letting fresh air flow, and you can hear Sam bickering with the spiderling about what order to pack your furniture into the moving truck. Nat hands you another champagne flute from the top rack when you hear Bucky call your name.

“Y/N! When did you get all these shirts?! You literally wear 3! And since when do you wear so many shoes???” He yells from the closet, tossing your stuff at Steve, who patiently chuckles and sets them down in his organized fashion.

“It’s called variety, Buck, you’re not a woman on undercover missions. I need options!” You chirp back at him and set the wrapped plate into the box.

Bucky continues to mutter over your items and sighs happily when he can finally see the other side wall of the closet. Only 2 hangers left to go, he thinks gratefully. He grads an aged, faded green hoodie with your university logo and puts it to his nose so he can soak up your scent on it. Your choice fabric softener and hints of your favorite perfume, Black Opium, waft through and he thinks fondly of how much he loves those scents. Tossing the top to his best man, Bucky grabs at the last hanger. Huh, never seen this skirt before, he thinks while holding it up to the light.

“Hey Stevie, have you ever seen her wear this? Looks awful small for mission gear.” Bucky aims the skirt at Steve, giving it a gentle shake for dramatic effect.

“No, Buck, can’t say I have. You know what it reminds me of though? Those uniforms they used to wear at the all girls school across the road from the park back in Brooklyn.” Steve looks from the clothing to his boyfriend suggestively.

“Oh yeah! Those nuns sure kept the girls in line, remember the stories Dot and Molly would tell us about the rulers and paddles? Shit today that’s corporal punishment!” Bucky pulls the skirt off the hanger and folds it, placing the garment in your overnight bag rather than the suitcase.

“You gonna do something with that?” Steve nods to the new addition to your bag.

“Just gonna ask a question later is all Stevie.” Bucky winks at his partner and smiles.

Later that evening, the apartment is signed away and no longer your monster to manage, and the three of you are celebrating the next step in your relationship and life with your men. Lounging on the couch between them, your back against Steve and your legs curled up on top of Bucky’s, sipping a whiskey coke. Steve reaches to your chin and tips it up to place a chaste kiss on your lips, while Bucky rubs up and down your calves softly. You return his peck by sliding your tongue across his teeth, asking for permission to deepen the kiss. As he obliges, he lets his hands drift around your waist to rub your breasts and knead at the full flesh.

In your lustful haze, you hear Bucky speak up. “So where in hell did a good Catholic student learn how to kiss like that? I’m pretty sure they didn’t teach you how to moan like that in school princess.” His eyes are dark with desire and he rests his hands on your knees, locking them in place. You turn your eyes away from one man to the other, bewildered and slightly warm.

“What do you mean Bucky?” You ask with genuine uncertainty. Regardless of the commentary, your arousal grows with the ministrations from both your lovers.

“Well see doll, we did a little research today while you were unpacking. Shield likes to keep full files, and boy was it satisfying to learn that our sweet girl was an innocent little catholic school student. Went to church twice a week and everything.”

Steve whispers in your ear while rubbing a nipple between his fingers.

“And what better detail to find than your old uniform hanging in the closet. Blue is really our favorite color princess.” Bucky adds while snaking his vibranium hand up the inside of your thigh. He ghosts a finger across the seam of your panties, and gives them a quick snapping tug.

You turn to hide your head in the couch cushions, an attempt to cover the blush spreading across your cheeks. They weren’t supposed to find it! How could you slip up with that , as a SHIELD agent??! That fantasy was to remain deeply hidden.

“Don’t hide princess, we want to see that face when Steve tells you what happens next.” Bucky continues working your mound with his metal arm while he previews the future of the evening.

“Now sweet girl, you are going to go upstairs and open your overnight bag. You are to strip out of these clothes, put on the items in there, NOTHING else. Understand me?” Steve’s voice drops an octave as his mind shifts toward his dominant state.

“When you’re ready, I want you to sit at the desk, ready for the bell to ring.” Bucky adds his request as you nodded toward the blonde.

You swing your legs off the couch, palms sweaty with the anticipation of fulfilling the fantasy of defilling such a symbol of purity and innocence. As you turn away from your boyfriends and head to complete your task, each man takes a palm to your ass and smiles. You yelp, and scurry to the bedroom to find your drag bag placed at the foot of the bed. With shaking hands you peel the zipper apart to pull out your wardrobe. A white button down blouse, white ankle socks, the soon to be defamed plaid skirt, and the most ridiculously padded fire engine red bra you’d ever seen. With a chuckle, you peel off one layer of clothes and begin re dressing with the second. Not knowing how much time you have until the “class” begins, you hastily throw your hair into a ponytail and slap a little lip stain on before sliding into the large desk chair and crossing your ankles.

Moments later, you hear heavy boots scuff the floor and the stairs creak under the weight of two super soldiers. Your thoughts drift to dirty places and you imagine seeing bucky’s vibranium hand slide under the skirt while Steve massages your flushed and heavy tits through the top half of your given uniform. A shrill school bell pierces your thoughts and a heavy thud from the door forces your eyes up.

“Now who do we have here? Looks like Miss Y/L/N was sent in for a dress code violation. Mr. Rogers, would you please identify the specifics on why you have sent this young lady to my office?” Bucky looks you up and down as if he were stalking his prey.

Steve looks over his reading glasses and gives you a once over. “Well Mr. Barnes, this young lady clearly has no respect for the rules. I guarantee that skirt is far too short, bet you can see her backside if she stands up.” He begins to circle you as well, and pulls at your blouse. “This shirt is practically transparent, I’d say that’s a bra redder than a sunburn on the Fourth of July.” He grabs a strap and allows it to snap sharply back against your shoulder.

Bucky reaches out to you, asking for your hand. “Now young lady, I am a pretty lenient man, but disrespecting the code of conduct is an inexcusable offense. Mr.Rogers didn’t even mention that lipstick you have on. I happen to know for a fact your lips are not that shade of plum.” He swipes a thumb across your lips to smear the stain. “I think we should allow him to assist in your punishment since he had to leave his duties to discuss this with us.”

“I haven’t used a ruler on this one yet, will that suffice Mr.. Barnes ? She looks a bit delicate for much else.” Steve comes up behind you and begins to caress your thighs, not yet going past the skirt.

“I think a palm should get the point across rather eloquently, perhaps 10?.” Bucky keeps hold of your hand and reaches for your other to pull you close to him.

Steve releases your legs and allows Bucky to take you away. With his vibranium hand, Bucky pulls you to the opposite side of the desk, and leans you across it bringing your chest flush against the mahogany. As he releases your hands he whispers in your ear. “Now princess, I want you to count them and just maybe this will be your punishment for not telling us about your dreams sooner.”

Your thighs clench as a wave of wetness rushes through you, and your breath comes in pants as you hear the pair of them come to face each other over you. Bucky grabs your hands again, and brings them together in front of you so he can hold you down, while Steve runs a hand up your legs and slots one of his between your knees.

“I knew this tight ass couldn’t hide under that skirt, such a bad girl princess,” Steve says as he pushes the skirt over the globes and gives each one a squeeze. “Damn Bucky, can you tell how turned on she is? Dripping all over the place, ready to cum still all dressed up.” He continues kneading your backside while ignoring your moans and wiggling frame.

“Wait til you’ve finished her punishment, bet she’ll be ripe and sweet like a peach for us to taste Stevie.” Bucky growls as he pushes you back down onto the table.

Distracted by Bucky’s words and touch, you nearly miss the sound of air moving as Steve’s palm cuts through it toward your ass. You Yelp again, and whimper at the prospect of not sitting for a week. Bucky taps on your shoulder, reminding you of your duty. “What did I ask you to do princess? Are you going to be a good girl and count for us?”

“Yes, One Sergeant.” You groan out the count.

Another smack comes down to the same spot, right above the crest of your cheek. You gasp into the desk and suck in a breath from the sting. “Two Sergeant.”

Steve continues doling out your punishment to your backside, by the time he hits nine tears are welling in your eyes from the sting and pleasure building in you. Your legs are shaking with effort from standing and your voice is wrecked from garbled use.

“Ten, Sergeant. Thank you Sir.” You whisper after Steve finishes his smacks and begins to rub the marks in soothing circles.

“Good job princess, you did that so well, now it’s time for your reward.” Bucky releases your arms and Steve pulls you up from the desk, the pair of them sandwiching you between them as you all move toward the bed. Your blouse is pulled over your head between frantic kisses with Steve, while Bucky strips his clothes. As they switch positions, you go to unzip the skirt and wrap your legs around Bucky, but he catches your hand and yanks it behind your back.

“Who said you were allowed to take that off? Class is in session, and you must be ready to learn.” His eyes glow with desire as he leans in to kiss you.

Once Steve has rid himself of his clothes, he returns to the bed and comes to lay behind you as Bucky sits you up. “Today’s lesson princess, is the art of how to keep sucking while you cum.” Steve is stroking his member while watching your eyes roll shut with want as he explains the plan to you. Bucky houses you forward into Steve’s chest and pulls your backside to him.

“Damn Stevie, those handprints won’t be gone for a week. She’ll have to find a softer surface to sit on.” He admires his boyfriend’s handiwork while getting his girl set. With your head down and ass up, Bucky slides his flesh hand between your thighs and begins to run two fingers along the outside of your slit. Using your arousal to coat his fingers, Bucky pushes two inside you and begins to work them slowly. He picks up speed as you begin moaning and looks up at his partners nodding to Steve to fill you from the other end.

As Bucky’s fingers move against your walls with vigor, you moan and writhe seeking out more friction on your clit. Steve takes the opportunity to place his hard cock against your open lips, and waits for you to begin sucking. No motivation needed, you lean into his groin and take him in one swallow. Moving your head back and forth, you swirl your tongue against the shaft, and as Bucky adds a third finger to your pussy, you let a moan vibrate through your body, sending a secondary shiver through Steve as well. You relax your jaw and allow Steve to begin fucking into your mouth as his own release builds, the sounds of skin slapping and your muffled moans driving him wild with want. Bucky withdraws his fingers and reaches under you to lift you higher onto your knees. With this motion, Steve lifts into a kneel of his own and makes eye contact with his boyfriend. You pay them no mind as greedily sucking down your boyfriend's dick takes precedence and the prospect of getting fucked by the other makes you giddy with anticipation.

Bucky grabs a fistful of your skirt and slams your ass into his hips, setting your pussy ablaze with the slide of his thick curved cock against your walls. You groan against Steve’s painfully hard member, and before you can take him all he grabs your ponytail and pulls you off. Bucky’s brutally fast and deep pace has you close to the crest and Steve wants you to remember the rule of the scene.

“What did we say about today princess, you need to be able to keep sucking my cock while Bucky makes you come. Don’t stop, go it?” He wraps his hand in the ponytail and as you nod he allows you to take him in your mouth again.

Bucky’s thrusts are getting frantic as he chases everyone's peaks, and he reaches his vibranium hand to your clit while grabbing Steve with his opposite hand to pull him in for a hard kiss. Both men are panting as they pound into you from both sides, a hand touching each body as your body grows tight with the desire to orgasm. Bucky pinches your pearl and he tells you to come, giving a final hard thrust as he feels your walls clench around him. Like a rubber band, you snap into oblivion, no longer aware of what occurs beyond the throbbing in your pussy and the perfect fullness that surrounds you. You feel the waves of pleasure crash through you, and still both men continue their chase. Hypersensitive and fuzzy, you relax your jaw again and take Steve all the way to the hilt, and you bob your head quickly, sealing your lips around his large base trying to finish him off. Bucky’s thrusts have gone shallow as your walls have him locked like a vice, but you feel him begin to shatter as well. With a final thrust from both men, they spill into you with heavy grunts.

Bucky pulls out of you and Steve lifts you off his softened member, laying you onto the pillows.

“Did we properly defile the uniform, princess?” Steve kisses your forehead as Bucky pulls the garment off you with a smile.

“Yes Sergeant. Thank you Sir.” You nod sleepily, thank each man, and curl into their frames as Bucky climbs under the sheets. “If I had had either of you for teachers, it would have been a shameful garment way sooner,” you chuckle as they share a kiss above you.

[nnightskiess]

‧₊° 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‧₊° 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐲/𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Toni grabbed another handful of pebbles from the beach and played with them in her hands before throwing one out into the ocean every few steps. The sun was on full blast and started to hurt her forehead and thus she was on her way to the little cave that would shield her from the sun — the one she’d found on another stroll. She hadn’t run off this time, Dot had actually told everyone to wait until the sun was less vicious before continuing their work. Toni hadn’t felt like joining the others and apparently neither had Y/N, who had disappeared the moment Dot told them to take a break. 

God knows what Y/N was up to now that she had some free time. What would anyone even do on an abandoned island? No matter how hard Toni had tried, Y/N was a hard one to read. She wasn’t as open as the others and kept to herself most of the time, but never disrespected anyone, or treated anyone badly, for that matter. She helped out whenever needed and seemed particularly interested in staying close to Toni, no matter the situation. She hadn’t shied away or looked at her differently when Toni had had one of her anger outbursts and that, in combination with her silent glances and soft smiles, had somehow reeled Toni in. The next opportunity that would arise, Toni would for sure try and start a real conversation with the girl. So far, they had only exchanged ‘thank you’s and ‘can you help me with this’s. 

Toni threw the last pebble as far away as she could, watching until the ripple had disappeared. If only their problems on the island, and in the real world, would fade away just as smoothly. She sighed and threw her head back, trying to tame the curly baby hairs on her head and simultaneously hold a hand to her blistering forehead. This heat was no joke. 

She wrinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to look at where the sun stood right now. Probably three more hours before it would take away some of its heat. 

Toni reached the small beach and sat down on one of the rocks after splashing some seawater in her face and neck. She took off her damp shoes and socks and buried her feet in the sand. Now that she was finally alone, her thoughts caught up with her and she suddenly realised how Marty had slowly started to slip away. Their friendship had never faltered before, so why would a stupid island suddenly be able to break them apart? If she didn’t have Marty, she would have no one. Sure, the others were nice, but if it weren’t for the need to work together to survive, she would be able to do without them. If she had Marty by her side, she’d be fine with whatever challenge the world would throw at her. Then there was Y/N, who seemed to be someone Toni needed around at all times, too. But if it hadn’t been for Y/N sticking around, would Toni have ever found that out? Probably, yes. Because even though Y/N was quiet most of the times, Toni always caught her eyes slipping and landing on the girl. She always looked at Y/N first when she made a joke, a suggestion or when she did something wrong— ready to see the judgement or disappointment, only for it to never show on Y/N’s face. It brought her a certain form of calmness she needed. Y/N’s smile would not only tell Toni that whatever had happened with the situation at hand would work itself out, but it would also soothe the many burns and scars Toni had gathered over the years.

Toni sat down on the damp sand and started to make random shapes in the sand with her hands, feeling more relaxed as she let her mind go blank. Moments like these were a necessity for her, moments where she could just walk away for a while and be by herself to not get riled up by anything or anyone else. But her mind couldn’t completely shut down this time, as it thought of Y/N. Toni was thinking of what to ask her. She’d been so quiet all this time, how was she supposed to know what topic to bring up? Y/N had never mentioned a favourite band or what she liked to do in her free time. Though Toni would never admit it out loud, this made her terrified to talk to the girl. What if she asked exactly that what would upset Y/N? Something that would spark up a bad memory, especially now that they all needed some more positivity and hope? She couldn’t mess up her first shot of a real conversation with the girl, she was too careful to scare away the only other person who seemed unfazed by her anger issues.

She let out a deep sigh, put on her shoes again after dusting off the sand and decided to walk a bit further— she needed a change of scenery to get it out of her head. However, Toni didn’t get far when her breath hitched at seeing the sight in front of her. She saw Y/N, at least she thought it was Y/N, seeing as she was wearing the same clothes, floating in the ocean a few meters off the coast, face down. Toni’s heart sank to her stomach and she was sure her sunburned face was as white as a ghost right now. 

“Y/N!” 

She sprinted into the ocean as fast as she could, though her shoes sunk into the sand with every step. The girl still face down, floating around. Toni swam the last part and closed their distance, immediately grabbing the girl’s upper body to try and turn her around— to let her breathe. She had expected Y/N to stay unconscious, having to carry her out the water, but the girl gasped loudly and moved her arms and legs around frantically, frightened by the surprise. Toni’s eyes widened as she let go immediately, unsure of what the hell was happening. 

Y/N removed the pink goggles on her face and looked at Toni with the same wide eyes,

“Toni?!”

“Are you okay?!”

The two had now drifted more to shore, where they could stand just on their tippy toes.

“What’s wrong?”

Toni furrowed her eyebrows, “What’s wrong? I thought you had fucking died!” Her voice cracked as she raised it.

“O-Oh...” Y/N looked down for a split second, enough to make Toni panic she had scared her off, too. “I was just trying to stay still to look at the fish...”

Toni’s frown disappeared and she smiled softly at the girl, realising there was nothing to be worried about, “You scared the living hell out of me, fuck you.” She let out a breathy chuckle. 

Y/N presented her with an apologetic smile and offered Toni her hand to help her out of the water. 

“Sorry... Thanks for trying to save me...”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m glad you had fun, though.” She tilted her head to get a better look at the girl.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully, “Well, up until you scared me, I did. I thought you were some sea creature or something.”

“Yeah, for good reason.” Toni smiled, “I could’ve been. Please be careful next time, yeah?” 

“Okay.”

“So...” Toni chuckled softly, readjusting her wet shirt, partly also because she suddenly became too nervous to say something else and decided to let Y/N take the lead, hoping she could get away with messing with her shirt a tad longer. She crossed her fingers the girl would say something that Toni knew a thing or two about.

Y/N gave Toni a sheepish smile when they locked eyes and looked back at the sea for a split second, “You know, I used to go snorkeling with my parents when we went to Egypt once. In the Red Sea, have you heard of it?” 

Toni hesitantly shook her head, cursing at herself for not paying enough attention in class or she might’ve been able to talk along. 

“Should I tell you a story about it?” 

The girl nodded softly as she followed Y/N’s lead and sat down next to her in the sand. 

“Well, I used to be really scared of the sea— in ways I still am, especially in deep waters, but this depth is just fine— so my mom signed me up for a snorkeling tour with a few other tourists.” Y/N snorted and shook her head at the memory, “It was a nightmare.”

Toni listened closely, surprised by the new, more open Y/N that was unfolding right in front of her eyes. She had already said more than the past few days combined.

“I was too scared to go any further when the water reached my waist and I just waddled around through the water a bit, looking ridiculous with my goggles on. Mind you, I was nine... or something...” 

Toni laughed softly at the visualisation she made in her head of a little Y/N pouting in the water.

“When my mom found out I had spent the hour doing nothing while she’d paid a good amount of money for it, I got scolded so badly.” Y/N let out a soft giggle but Toni furrowed her eyebrows. Why would anyone scold a girl who was just scared? Even worse, why would her mom even sign her up if she knew she was afraid— it seemed like pure torture.

“She made me do it again a few years later and I must say, if it hadn’t been for the gorgeous instructor I was trying to impress, I’m sure I wouldn’t have gone any further than my waist either.” Toni smiled when Y/N tried to see her reaction. “And in the end, it wasn’t that bad at all.”

Toni cleared her throat, wanting to listen to her talk longer, “What did it look like? Underwater, I mean. With the... fish?”

“The water was so clear. There were a ton of different fish, tiny ones and larger ones, though I still tried to stay away from those.” She laughed. “Some had plain colours and others were a bright yellow or red. And so many different type of corals.”

Y/N’s voice died down, and she looked at her lap, thinking of the distant memory that seemed so far away now, and not only because of the years that had passed. Toni noticed the change in character immediately and bumped the girl’s shoulder in a playful manner, “Did you find that here too before I tried to save you?”

“No.” Y/N looked at her, “Not even close.” She suddenly seemed to realise how close the two of them were sitting and refused to look into Toni’s eyes, growing very conscious and nervous. “But I just wanted to clear my head and feel like I was in Egypt for a moment, not in this terrible nightmare.”

“Yeah, I get that...” Toni mumbled in response. “I was actually... trying to do the same thing, you know? Take a walk...” 

“Did it work?”

“Not really.”

Y/N hummed in reply and stared out at the horizon, hoping to see a lifeboat sail their way. But the horizon was empty and dull. The sound of the birds, trees and waves replaced their words as both girls sat in each other’s company. Toni looked at Y/N’s side profile for a few seconds, debating what to do or say next. 

“You know, I like that we talked.” She decided on saying. 

“Really?”

Toni nodded sincerely.

“I talked way too much, you barely said anything.”

“Didn’t even notice.” She shrugged, “I liked listening to you.”

“To my pathetic, poetic story about Egyptian fish?” Y/N rose an eyebrow and challenged the girl. Toni smiled slightly but remained honest, “Yeah. It distracted me from all the other shit for a while. So, thanks.”

Y/N smiled shyly, “Anytime.” 

A few seconds passed before Toni opened her mouth again, “You’re always so quiet. Why’s that?” 

Toni’s blunt question took Y/N off guard, though she did her best to quickly form an honest reply.

“I just... I don’t... I never had a great experience with friends. Better to not have them than get left out or hurt, right? Especially when we’re already in this... weird environment.” She decided to not brush things under the carpet.

“I suppose...” Toni shrugged nonchalantly, she decided against asking further. Besides, she was kind of biased, seeing as she often tended to choose to be alone, too. Then again, why did she stick with Toni when she didn’t want to have any friends? The thoughts made her head hurt and thus she started to absentmindedly play with the sand. 

“I’ve been on my own for years, I reckon I’ll survive another few days. Don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to be, you know.” Toni looked up and squinted her eyes when the sun blinded her. Y/N smiled genuinely, realising what she meant. 

“Thanks, Toni.”

They lingered for a moment in a comfortable silence.

“So, um...” Toni started, bringing her hands up to comb through her hair, “Should we head back?”

Y/N accepted Toni’s help to stand up and smiled softy, nodding in return. The two talked and laughed softly as they walked back to camp, both girls happy that they probably had just gotten a new shoulder to lean on.

[edens-breathless-melodies-moved]

words: 3.4k

pairing: kageyama t. x f!chubby!reader

prompt: sweat kink

warnings: cursing, oral (female receiving), fucking in a personal gym, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), sweat licking (he’s a freak lmao)

summary: kageyama knew you looked good while working out. the way your soft arms would suddenly flex and he’d see the muscles you were so good at hiding.

he knew he liked to watch you work out, but he never would have known that the sight of you covered in sweat would stir something so primal in him.

a/n: kageyama likes his women chunky you can’t change my mind. just to clarify, reader is an american who came to japan because iwa convinced her she’d go to the olympics if she followed him. she met iwa in her first year of college and quickly became friends. reader is insinuated to be a rather plush woman, but she’s ✨ s t w o n g ✨

“group bonding exercise?”

you repeated dubiously, blinking owlishly at the blonde in front of you as he just sits there and smiles, nodding his head.

you look to the other men in the olympic gymnasium for help, but they either shrug their shoulders in equal confusion or nodded their heads with atsumu.

when you had walked through the gym doors this morning with iwaizumi, ready to start the days training, you didn’t expect to have atsumu come up to you and propose a “bonding experience”, in his words.

hinata came bounding up to you with that ridiculous speed of his, orange hair bouncing in his excitement. he was practically vibrating with energy, hazel eyes glowing under the fluorescent lighting.

“yeah! we overheard you saying how you wanted to get back in shape and slim down a little, so what better group to help you out than us?”

all the men in the gym froze at his oblivious words, shocked that he really just said that to your face. kageyama froze in the middle of his lunges and choked, eyes wide.

‘this idiot really has no class…’ they all thought simultaneously as they watched the scene unfold with bated breath, waiting for the inevitable moment you ripped his head off and stomped on his body.

if there was one thing they all knew, they knew it was to never mention a woman’s weight. especially to you. you weren’t exactly the thinnest around, but that didn’t make you any less attractive.

in all honesty, you were hot, in all your foreign, sexy glory.

to everyone’s obvious surprise however, instead of killing the ginger, you laughed instead and patted him on his floof, thanking him for reminding you.

the team sweat dropped as hinata bounced around, clearly enjoying the head pat as he started spouting off different types of exercises they wanted you to do, bokuto and atsumu quickly joining in.

they all surely expected you to spike his head off or something, but they were pleasantly surprised and grateful you didn’t. they couldn’t afford to replace him so close to the games.

you see, you were no stranger to physical violence or getting physical in general. you had been recruited to manage the japanese men’s olympic volleyball team by none other than iwaizumi hajime, himself.

it was funny how things worked out because you two had already known each other before the offer was even offered.

you had met previously during college where you both graduated with the same degree. having spent the last four years taking the same classes and becoming best friends, it wasn’t a surprise when iwa asked you to come back with him to japan.

though you were pretty adamant in staying in america, despite knowing japanese, you somehow were convinced by him. before you knew it, you were saying goodbye to your hometown of los angeles and saying hello to tokyo.

because of your past with iwaizumi coupled with the fact that you both had the same degree and title, you two were known as the demon trainers from hell.

where iwa was all obvious brute strength and harsh glares, you were much more reserved but still equally as terrifying with your sickly sweet smiles and icy words if the boys were getting out of line.

but just because you preferred to make them cry with your words instead of your fists, that didn’t mean it wasn’t common to see you either hitting one of them upside the head or spiking a ball at them with deadly accuracy.

when the team first met you, however, they could hardly believe that you were a certified athletic trainer, let alone their manager on top of that. it wasn’t anything against you, you just… didn’t look the part.

standing at a whopping 5’4”, all the men on the team easily dwarfed you in height, and your body wasn’t all hard planes and corded muscles. you were soft and squishy looking, running a little heavy for your height.

you just looked so adorable and soft. your cheeks had this permanent blush across them from your constant sunburn (blame the california sun), and they always puffed out when you pouted.

but that was their first mistake; underestimating you. even kageyama, your boyfriend, had underestimated you, though he denies it now.

it was actually how you two had met, though it was under less than ideal circumstances.

he was bold enough to question whether you were even meant to be on their team your first day meeting them, unintentionally offending you and all your hard work to get where you were.

“it’s nothing against you personally, but you just don’t look like you’re meant for the job.”

kageyama had said without looking at you, and everyone, including the coaches, were stunned by his blunt and brash words. even ushijima was rendered speechless.

kageyama looked around confusedly at everyone’s silence and wide eyes. what? did he say something wrong? he didn’t mean to offend you, he was just telling the truth how he saw it.

it was only when iwaizumi snickered and everyone broke out of their shocked reverie that all eyes shifted from kageyama to you.

chills ran down their spines at the eerily calm smile you gave kageyama, eyes closed tightly as you took a deep breath in. “you really fucked up now, kageyama.” iwaizumi chuckled.

everyone’s hearts stopped when you opened your eyes, and even kageyama shivered when your gaze met his. the way the fire in your eyes seemed to run so hot it could freeze over hell, looked eerily similar to the look hinata gives on the court.

“so i “don’t look the part”, hmm?” you muse, smile growing even wider as you watched the setter fumble over his words, trying to save face.

you let out an over dramatic sigh as you tossed your head back, clicking your tongue once as iwaizumi let out another laugh before walking over to stand by your side. apparently this happened often.

kageyama stopped fumbling over his words as he watched his old senpai cross his arms over his chest. you chuckled as you shucked off your trainer jacket, revealing your plain black t-shirt underneath.

the team never took their eyes off of you as you raised your arms above your head and stretched. gasps rang out across the gym as they saw your flex and the muscles that bulged from underneath your fluffy flesh.

“y’know, kageyama-san,” you drawled, lowering your arms as you began methodically stretching your thick legs, sharp eyes never leaving his. “you’re not the first person to say that to me.”

“she’s right,” iwaizumi mused with a smirk. “i’m pretty sure i was, and i still regret it to this day.”

kageyama gulped nervously and the team could only watch in awe as you finished your stretching before bending over slightly to your left.

you lined up your shoulders with iwaizumi’s hips as you placed a firm grip on his knee and around his shoulders.

with wide eyes and jaws dropped to the floor, the entire team and even the coaches watched you lift iwaizumi with ease and settle him into a comfortable fireman’s carry.

atsumu, bokuto, and hinata audibly screeched and even the usually stoic sakusa and ushijima choked on their spit in shock.

without breaking a sweat, in a sheer display of strength and power, you casually walked towards kageyama, and iwaizumi couldn’t repress his snickers because kageyama looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

how are you so strong?!

your smirk never left your lips as you stopped only a couple of feet away from the shocked olympian, and raised an eyebrow at him mockingly. “what’s wrong, kageyama-san? cat got your tongue?”

you grin grows maliciously as he struggles to answer you, obviously flustered. “do i still look too “soft” or “weak” to be able to handle you guys?”

when kageyama still didn’t answer you, still too flustered and shocked by your impressive display of strength, (cause iwaizumi is not light, that man is straight muscle), you sighed before giving the gym a quick scan before settling on one of the team's liberos.

“yaku-san.” yaku jumped at your polite tone when you called his name, but he quickly recovered with a sincere smile. “yes, (l/n)-san?”

you shot him a sweet smile of your own, and chose to ignore the blush across his cheeks to avoid embarrassing him. “can you give me a number between one and twenty?”

yaku stared at you confusedly along with the rest of the team and iwaizumi fully burst out laughing, shaking on your shoulders. you fought back your own grin as you threatened to drop him.

“um, ten?”

you grinned as you widened your stance, feet placed shoulder length apart as you took in a deep breath, preparing your muscles.

“good, i wanted a decent workout today, anyways.”

and when you began to squat your best friend with perfect posture and ease, kageyama didn’t even register the howling screeches of his teammates as they lost their minds over this mini she-hulk they just got as a manager.

instead, kageyama could only focus on the blood rushing through his ears and to his cheeks as he watched you squat his senpai with a smile on your beautiful face, a singular bead of sweat rolling down your temple.

oh, he was in deep now.

—————————

kageyama knew he should be ashamed of the way he was staring at you, but he couldn’t find it within himself to tear his eyes away.

with a harsh gulp and wide eyes, he watched you as you continued on with your leg presses, eyes closed as you took in even breaths.

you didn’t even seem bothered by the amount of weight you were pushing, but then again, 300 lbs was something normal to you.

finishing your reps, pushed your legs out fully before locking the press, taking a deep swig of your water as you lifted yourself up from your reclined sitting position.

blue eyes followed the trail of your sweat as it glided down the side of your neck before being absorbed into the fabric of your sports bra strap, and he gulped again, pants suddenly feeling tight.

that feeling only intensified when you lifted the edge of your shirt to wipe at your soaked brow, exposing your pudgy and soft tummy. you’ve never looked more delicious to kageyama than now.

when your boyfriend of six months and olympian in training had invited you to his home to work out in his personal gym after you finished atsumu’s little “team bonding experience” you didn’t expect him to just stare at you as you went about your reps and sets.

you chose to ignore the hungry way he gazed at your plush body as you moved over to where the squat stand was, bar already loaded with your preferred weight.

not minding the intense stare from across the room, you bit back a smile when you heard the light gasp come from your boyfriend as you ducked under the bar and settled it comfortably on your shoulders.

you stood up straight and relished in the familiar weight against your flesh. stepping back with a deep breath, making sure your posture was correct, you squatted your first rep.

as you came back up, you weren’t surprised when you noticed your boyfriend had disappeared from his seat by the shoulder press.

what did surprise you was the sudden warm presence behind you, and you bit back a startled gasp when you felt his large hands come to gently rest on your waist.

“as a professional trainer, you should know it’s dangerous to squat without a spotter.” kageyama’s deep voice muttered out. he resisted the urge to dig his fingers into your soft skin as you chuckled.

“you’re right, but i think i can handle myself.” you musea. you held back a gasp when he leaned forward to nudge his nose against your jaw, breath cool against your sweaty skin.

kageyama inhaled the musky yet sweet scent of your sweat against your skin and had to bite his lip to repress his groan. why was he getting so worked up over this?

“squatting 320 isn’t something you just cover on your own.” he growled into your ear, and you finally realized how worked up your boyfriend was from watching you work out.

not that you can blame him, however. watching him do his arm reps and the way his back muscles rippled under his plain white tee whenever he lifted himself for pull ups had your yoga pants feeling a little damp.

sensing things were about to get hot and heavy, you stepped towards the squat stand to put up your bar, kageyama’s hands never leaving your waist.

just as the weight left your shoulders and was properly put away, you let out a gasp when you felt his cool tongue slide sensually up your neck, and you blushed at the deep groan that left his lips.

your own moans soon filled the air as kageyama ground his hard cock against your ass through his joggers, groping your soft sides fully with his hands.

you rested your head against his chest as you let him massage your body roughly with his dexterous digits, mewling and panting at the way he teased and pinched your nipples through the fabric of your sports bra.

“you have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped in your ear, maneuvering your bodies to lay on the padded gym floor. you let him spread your thighs as you propped your body up on one elbow.

you panted lightly as kageyama looked down on you from above, kneeling between your legs while gazing over your glistening form.

your baby hairs stuck to your sweaty forehead as your skin seemed to glisten under the fluorescent lights above.

blue eyes zeroed in on a stray drop of sweat that glided from your neck and began its descent down the valley of your breasts.

something in him snapped and he lunged forward, causing you to yelp in surprise before moaning as he tongue followed the sweat drops path, groaning against your heated skin at the salty taste.

he needed more.

“the way you look when you’re working out, the way your sweat makes your skin glow,” a whine escaped your lips as he nipped gently at your collar bone.

he lifted his head to meet your eyes and you gasped at the feral look in his blue orbs, pupils blown wide with lust.

“you make me so hungry, (y/n).” before you had a chance to respond to him, the sudden sound of fabric tearing and your inner thighs exposed to cool air made you balk, and you stared at your boyfriend in shock.

“you did not just rip open my yoga pants!” kageyama gave you a blank look before shrugging, leaning his face down to your exposed core, pleased to find that you were already dripping onto the floor.

“i’ll buy you another pair.” a breathy moan replaced your curse for his causal destruction of your clothing as he licked a fat stripe up your cunt, fingers digging harshly into the plumpness of your thighs as he drank in your flavor.

moans spilled from your parted lips uncontrollably as kageyama ate you out, tongue flicking and suckling against your clit as one of his hands released your thigh in favor of sinking two fingers into your hot core.

“fuck!” you choke out in a whisper as you wind your fingers through his silky locks, gripping them tightly as you roll your hips into his face.

kageyama took your grinding on his face in stride, speeding up the movements of his fingers as he searched your walls for that one spot that made you see stars.

“a-ah!” you cried out, thighs clenching around his head as he smirked into your flesh. found it. tears began pricking your eyes as your body was assaulted with pleasure, kageyama’s fingers slamming right into your g-spot.

kageyama knew you were getting close when he felt your walls flutter around his fingers and your soft moans began growing louder as you neared your release.

with a snarl, kageyama pulled his fingers from you roughly and sat up from in between your legs. your whimper at the sudden emptiness was swallowed by him as he slammed his lips to yours hungrily.

you moaned into the kiss, tasting yourself as you felt him fumble with the tie on his joggers before pulling them down along with his boxers to free his cock.

kageyama pulled away from the kiss, greedily taking in your breathless and flushed expression before slowly pushing his length into you, groaning as he forced your walls to accommodate his girth and impressive length.

tears sprung in your eyes and fell down your soft cheeks as you cried at the stretch, mind going delirious from the pleasure as your boyfriend continued to sink into you.

kageyama leaned down to lick up your tears before roughly snapping his hips into you, sinking the rest of the way in as his pelvis settled flush against you.

you choked as he bottomed out, and your hands instinctively went to grip onto his muscular shoulders, nails digging into his flesh hard enough to leave marks.

kageyama groaned at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, and he pulled back before slamming into you, relishing the way your walls seemed to suck him back in.

“tobio!” you cried out, voice breathless and wobbly as he slammed directly into your g-spot. kageyama smirked at your already fucked out expression, and slammed his cock into you again.

nothing but the sound of skin against skin and your wanton moans filled the stuffy gym air as kageyama pounded into you.

“fuck, (y/n),” kageyama groaned, leaning back on his haunches as he pounded into your sopping cunt, holding your legs up by your knees while biting his lip, watching you lose yourself on his cock.

your soft stomach jiggled with each thrust, shirt having ridden up while you squeezed your breasts through your bra, eyes crossing from the pleasure.

“fuck! you feel too f-fucking good!” you moaned, voice stuttering from the intensity kageyama was fucking into you with. kageyama smiled down at you, cheeks flushed from the compliment. “you’re taking me so well, pretty thing.”

he hissed as you clenched around him. apparently you liked that. so he continued.

“you feel so nice and tight around me, pretty girl.” he moaned out, feeling his high begin to approach him as your soft walls fluttered around him. he let one of your legs drop as he brought a hand to your aching clit.

rubbing tight circles into your sensitive nub, he sped up his hips until you were practically sobbing from the pleasure, coming dangerously close to tipping over the edge.

kageyama groaned at the sight of your flushed cheeks shining with tears and sweat, swollen pink lips caught in your teeth as you stared up at him with furrowed brows.

“i-i’m close!” you stuttered out, body beginning to seize while you could practically taste your orgasm. kageyama wasn’t any better, his hips losing rhythm as he opted to just pounding into you with whatever he’s got left.

“go on, pretty girl.” he huffed out, lazy smile curling his lips as he continued rubbing your clit with precise circles. “make a mess on me.”

a scream ripped through your vocal cords as you spasmed on his cock, eyes clenching shut as you clamped around him so tightly kageyama became lightheaded.

with a choked moan of his own he came deep inside you, filling you up to the brim with his cum as he fell forward, stopping himself from falling onto you as he held himself up with his arms.

you both sat there for a while, desperately trying to catch your breaths as you eventually came down from your highs.

opening your eyes, you find that kageyama was already staring at you, eyes softened and face still flushed from his high. you watched as a singular bead of sweat rolled down his nose before dropping onto the corner of your mouth.

without even thinking, your tongue swiped out to lick it up, and you saw your boyfriend’s eyes harden again, and a gasp escaped you as he rutted his hips into yours, cock twitching back to life.

a devious smirk filled his face, and he raised a singular eyebrow at you in challenge.

“you don’t think we’re done, do you? we still have a lot more sets to finish.”

taglist: @lovelypasteldreams @living-for-drama @arixtsukki @month-seasoning @bakarinnie

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Dincobb Week Day 2 - Hurt/Comfort (SFW)

Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!

For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one. The SFW is the first of the three linked stories - the other two are SFW and NSFW for a finale (but the SFWs can stand alone if you prefer not to read the NSFW one).

Hurt/Comfort - Sunburn and Grief

“Oh, partner,” Cobb says with rueful sympathy. “Look at the state of you.”

Din doesn’t know how his face looks, but from the hot, tight feeling of the skin he guesses it’s much like what he can see of his arms, shoulders, chest — burned crimson. Even his eyelids feel burned, and puffy to boot. He’s feeling pretty angry with himself. Just because he’d been enjoying the newfound warmth of the sun on his face was no reason to decide to take his shirt off and feel it all over the top of his body. It was a dumb impulse and the fact it had felt blissfully good, so much so that after he lay down to bask on the patch of sand behind Cobb’s house that he jokingly calls the garden, he fell fast asleep, did not excuse it. This is his natural punishment, he guesses, for getting into a “nothing matters any more so I’ll do whatever I feel like” state of mind, exacerbated by day-drinking. He’s not sure if the splitting headache is because of the sunburn or more of a hangover symptom. Either way, he knows he deserves it — and he doesn’t deserve how gentle Cobb is being with him, guiding him into the cool shade of the house with a hand carefully on his unburned back.

“You don’t have to look after me,” Din says. “I deserve this.”

“You’re under my roof, so yes I do,” says Cobb. “We take hospitality seriously out here. Sit down.” He guides him into a chair by his kitchen table and looks him over again. “You’re already blistering, you poor dummy. Well, first things first, you’re dehydrated.” He brings him a tall glass of water. “Slow sips, now. You gulp it down and you’re liable to throw up. I once found that out the hard way.”

Din doesn’t want to be fussed over but he still has enough of a wish to survive that he takes the glass gratefully. He takes a first sip to wet his mouth and throat, then another that he tries to hold in his mouth for as long as he can before swallowing. Cobb’s left the room; he thinks he can hear him in the bathroom, opening and shutting the cabinets. It’s so hard to think clearly; his head aches and he’s still not really sober. He can’t think what he should be doing. Is this sunstroke? What are you supposed to do for sunstroke again? He doesn’t think he’s ever been sunburned before, maybe it always feels this awful and he just wouldn’t know. Not really a Mandalorian problem. And he’s not really a Mandalorian now, so it’s become his problem. He drinks the rest of the water, probably too fast, but if he throws up he probably deserves that too.

Cobb comes back with a handful of washcloths and a big jar of something pale yellow and waxy-looking. “Let’s get you cooled down,” he says, and goes about efficiently filling a big bowl with water, throwing in some ice from the freezer, soaking the cloths and laying them spread out on Din’s chest and arms. They feel shockingly cold at first and he flinches, but almost immediately they seem to grow warm from the heat of his skin. Cobb’s humming softly as he does it, a constant soothing sound. “Head back,” he says, and lays a wet cloth over Din’s face, then leaves again and comes back with something that he sets on the table beside him. There’s a click and a whirr and a fan is blowing across his body, helping to chill the wet cloths again. Cobb keeps re-dipping and replacing them. Quiet minutes pass. The coolness is so merciful. Din opens his mouth a bit and sucks some water from the cloth over his face. His lips really hurt, but it’s still comforting somehow. He remembers how Grogu was hellbent on sucking soapy water out of the washcloth whenever he gave him a bath, and the memory stabs him under the ribs. Why does he have to remember stuff like that? Stuff that was annoying and a little gross and worried him at the time, but that he’d now give an arm or a leg to have back in his life?

“Okay,” says Cobb, peeling the wet cloth back from his face, “I want you to drink some more water. I put some rehydration salts in this glass, so it may taste a little funny, but you need the electrolytes or whatever.” Din accepts the glass and drinks, obediently; he’s starting to feel very slightly better physically. “And I bet you have the mother of a headache, so take these too.” He gives him a couple of white capsules to swallow.

“Thanks,” Din says, his voice even more subdued than normal. Cobb is watching him with his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. He looks concerned, which makes Din feel guilty, but also irritable because Cobb doesn’t have to concern himself. Yes, Din asked if he could stay here, but he could always have said no, he can always ask him to leave if he becomes a burden. He should leave, it was so selfish to come here just because he was miserable and didn’t want to be around anyone else. He doesn’t know where else to go, though. He can probably go and find Boba. He would give him a job. He should probably have stuck with him anyway, but he felt like he’d imposed on him a lot already. Or followed Bo-Katan and tried to sort out all the Darksaber political nonsense. Not come here just because he wanted to see Cobb. Because he missed him and wished he could have spent longer with him in the first place. And all he’s done since he got here is act like a depressed asshole. And for reasons unknown Cobb is putting up with it. Yes, he’s a good, kind person, and maybe he feels like he still owes Din for his help over and above giving him the armour, but he still shouldn’t put up with it. Maybe he won’t for much longer. Whatever good opinion Din bought back then must be eroding fast. And that thought stabs at him, too.

“Okay,” says Cobb, taking the washcloths off Din’s left arm, closer to him, resting on the wooden arm of the chair. “This is good for sunburn, windburn, you name it. The all-purpose old-fashioned Tatooine skin balm.” He takes the lid off the jar, scoops out a generous amount on his fingertips, and begins smoothing it onto the burned skin on the back of Din’s left hand. It looks waxy, but it’s so soft that it melts into his skin almost immediately. “Mind you, you’re bound to peel, as crispy as you are, but this’ll soothe the pain and help your skin recover.”

Din’s cracked lips tremble, and if he wasn’t dehydrated he’s pretty sure there would be tears in his eyes. Cobb’s hands are so gentle. Being touched on the sunburn hurts, too, but it’s the gentleness that makes him want to cry. Cobb quietly, patiently, continues up Din’s arm to the shoulder, then moves his chair to do the same on the other side. He’s humming all the while, an old Tatooine folk song, Din thinks. Or for all he knows, last summer’s big pop hit, it’s not like he keeps up with these things.

“Sure do have a lot of scars,” Cobb remarks as he reaches the top of Din’s arm. “Looks like some of these wounds were cauterised.”

“I can’t exactly give myself stitches,” mumbles Din.

“Life’s been like that, huh?” Cobb says sympathetically. “Been there. Things are better now.” His voice softens further. “Things do get better, if you give it time and don’t lose heart. Turn your chair towards me, I gotta get your front.”

When he removes one of the washcloths from Din’s chest, Din takes it from him and drapes it over his face again. Being covered is such a relief, even if he has no right to it now. It’s particularly a relief because Cobb’s hand stroking his belly and chest with soothing balm is… embarrassing. His face would be red even if it wasn’t burned. He’s not used to this kind of physical intimacy with… anyone really. The fact that it’s still somewhat painful to be touched and his head still aches is keeping him from enjoying it in any unseemly way, but he wishes he’d laid down to bask on his front. He could just have a burnt back then. Much less… confronting to have your back touched. Cobb’s hand is stroking his neck now; he’s even burned under his chin, which feels ridiculous.

“Okay,” says Cobb, “I need to see your face again.” He takes the washcloth and Din lifts his head again, but keeps his eyes closed. Cobb begins by smoothing a dab of balm over each puffy upper lid. Now he thinks about it, he must look pretty hideous, not just red but swollen. It’s not the sort of thing he’s used to thinking about, or caring about, but it does bother him a little to have Cobb see him look like this. Gentle but firm fingertips spread balm over his forehead, down his nose, across his cheeks, down to his chin. He must have absorbed enough water by now from the two glasses he drank; tears are sneaking from the corners of his eyes and stinging his skin painfully. He feels Cobb’s thumb brushing balm across his chapped lips, the last place on his face, and thinks that will be the end of it, but then he feels hands cupping the sides of his head, thumbs stroking his temples. “Look at me, Din,” Cobb says quietly.

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. He isn’t prepared for what he sees in Cobb’s eyes, the tenderness and affection but also the trouble and fear.

“Don’t hurt yourself like this again,” Cobb says. “Please.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Din says, although his voice comes out weird, choked and husky.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Trust me,” he says with a little grim smile, “if I wanted to hurt myself I know a lot more efficient ways to do it.”

“But —”

“If I wanted to hurt myself I could just go out back and eat my blaster. Quick and easy. Roll down the dune and let the wind cover me up.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” Cobb says urgently. “Don’t be so flip like you don’t matter.”

“I — I don’t matter,” Din says. “I don’t matter any more. I — I’m nothing any more,” and then the dam breaks and he’s crying. It hurts, it hurts to stretch the burned skin of his face, it hurts where the tears cut through the balm, but it hurts worst inside his chest, around his heart.

“Oh, no,” says Cobb, and pulls him forward, pulls Din’s head to his shoulder, hugs him close, and Din feels his hands stroke his back, his unburned back where thank heavens, he can feel some real comfort from the touch. He still can’t stop crying. It’s a raw, ugly sound that tears his throat, a stupid, inarticulate a-hur-hur-hur. “No, darlin’, no,” Cobb’s telling him, “you’re so wrong, you matter so much to me, you are everything to me. You don’t know how happy I was to see you. To see your face! Or how broken up to see you so miserable. I wish I knew what to do for you, what to say.”

Din still can’t stop crying, but if he’s ever able to do so, he’ll want to tell Cobb that he’s doing and saying it now.