#the gross dry feelings is so distracting! I need to wash my hands ever five minutes!

[st4rguy]

i so badly wish that working with ceramics wasn’t my personal sensory hell beacuse you can get so creative with it.. why was i cursed this wayyyy. i wanna make mugs!! And weird little figurines!!! And plates!!!

[tachiaku]

a helping hand seems only fair

ulquihime || 3k || explicit

roommate to eventual lovers au. written for UlquiHime Week as hosted by @ulquihimeweek it took me three days to crack and write nsfw content

day three: sin. orihime walks in on ulquiorra and offers to lend him a hand or two. trans ulquiorra and nb orihime.

The problem with being a trans man on sex apps are the sheer amount of gross and dehumanizing questions Ulquiorra is asked before anyone bothers to learn his name.

He shuts down the last one in frustration and pitches his phone onto the nightstand, dragging a hand down his face as he levels with himself on this one. When it comes right down to it, he’s going to have to take care of himself tonight with his hand and probably for the foreseeable future unless he finds a partner who doesn’t try to treat him like a sideshow attraction instead of a human being with his own wants and needs.

He can’t very well pull one of those out of his hat so he settles for sliding a hand under his boxers, fingers pressing the seam up and away from his bare skin. Part of him always feels just a little hesitant to touch himself, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule about enjoying physical pleasure focused on this part of his body, like it makes him less of a man to get himself off like this. It’s not like he has many other options, though, and he doesn’t hate himself like the world wants him to. So he closes his eyes and tries to think of something to distract himself, trying to dredge up some kind of fantasy to go along with his questing fingers.

This fails after about five minutes so he drags his phone back over onto the bed, extending the pop socket on the back of it so he can prop the phone up at roughly eye level. Watching porn on his phone might be a fast way to catch a virus, but he isn’t so far gone that he wants to drag his laptop out and set it up and deal with all of it. He can only be bothered to shove his boxers down his thighs enough to spread them comfortably, fingers sifting through the coarse black curls of his pubic hair as he skims through a few websites he’s used in the past.

Teasing himself is not something he indulges in often. Ulquiorra knows what he wants, and he usually goes after it with a single-minded determination that leaves people awed. Tonight, though, he has the time. Orihime left earlier in the evening to stay with a friend and rubbing out a fast orgasm is hardly going to keep him satisfied in the long-run, so he takes his time, letting the little curl of excitement in his belly grow as he finally settles on a video that appeals to him.

That one of the participants in the video is a slim-framed man with long dark hair means nothing as far as he is concerned, setting the phone where he can see it comfortably.

His fingers ghost lower over his labia, not yet damp enough for there to be any noticeable wetness to glide over. He debates retrieving the lube out of the drawer next to him and decides against it, running the flat of his tongue over his fingers instead before pressing them back into place. It’s more muscle memory than anything else, stroking up and down his slit just to tease himself, the calluses on his fingers rasping over his most sensitive skin.

When he finally presses his fingers in deeper, spreading his slit open so he can ghost over his entrance, there’s moisture there. He smoothes it up over his clit, face warming as he slides the hood back enough to tease the nerves beneath. There’s a sharp ache when he touches his clitoris directly like this, the pleasure too intense to be pleasurable right away.

A soft noise leaves his lips and he bends his knees, pulling them closer to his chest as he slides the hood back and forth. Fingering himself doesn’t earn him much in terms of pleasure, not on his back like this. He can get in deep enough to touch his g-spot but he likes to be fuller than his fingers can allow and the only toy he has for that purpose is in the closet.

Needless to say, he’s not going to get up and go get it. He’s comfortable just the way he is.

The wetness flows more easily now, more plentiful and he smoothes it over his skin, teasing the edge of his entrance, slipping just one finger inside so he can drag the moisture up over his clit. There are wet little noises when he touches himself like this and he flushes, squirms against the bedspread as he listens to his body reacting to his touch. The soft moans from the pretty man in the video goads him on, fingers moving faster and more purposefully.

When the direct touch is too much he spreads his fingers, rubs instead his skin on either side of his clit, the little muscles on the insides of his thighs jumping at the touch. He’s closer every minute it seems, his head falling back. The noises from the video are all he can process right now, that and the slow heat curling in his gut, threatening to spill over his body at any minute.

“Ulquiorra!” The voice startles him and he yelps, slamming his legs together and knocking his phone off of his chest when his bedroom door flies open. “I decided to come home— Oh!”

Of course you did, he thinks, yanking the bottom of his shirt down as low as it’ll go. “Can you please give me a moment to get dressed, Orihime?”

“I’m sorry!” They slam the bedroom door shut and Ulquiorra realizes he never heard the door open. If he hadn’t shut it all the way, he can’t blame them for just walking right in.

Sighing, he picks up his phone and shuts off the video, setting the phone on the charger next to his bed and pulling his boxers back up around his thighs. He’s hopelessly wound up now, his clit throbbing with a need to be touched but he ignores it for now, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He should wash his hands but he can’t get to the bathroom before he sees Orihime so he settles for wiping them dry on a few tissues from the box next to his bed.

Settled, he opens the bedroom door, peering around the hallway when he realizes it’s empty. “Orihime? I’m… Decent now. If you wanted to talk to me.”

Their bedroom door opens and they peek their head out, face flushed and eyes refusing to meet his own. “Sorry, Ulqui. Your door wasn’t shut and you said if it wasn’t, I could walk right in.”

“It’s fine. I did say that, so you aren’t in the wrong.” He’s mortified. Why the fuck would he not think to shut and lock the door for good measure, whether they were coming home tonight or not? “I thought you were going to stay with Tatsuki tonight.”

“I was, but the weather is supposed to be really bad in the morning and I didn’t want to get stranded away from the apartment. I’m.” Orihime wets their lips and finally looks at him, and Ulquiorra feels a little shiver run down his spine. “I’m so sorry. I should have knocked. I really didn’t mean to walk in on you like that. And I’m sorry that I, um, interrupted.”

“It’s fine.” Ulquiorra doesn’t think he’s going to be able to touch himself for the rest of the night after getting caught like that. Maybe a cold shower will help him cool down.

At the very least, he needs to clean up. He’s a mess between his thighs, can feel the fabric of his boxers sticking to the wetness there. God, what if he left a wet spot on the bed?

Orihime clears their throat a little and he finds himself blinking, refocusing on them. And realizing they’re still looking at him very strangely. “Do you… Did you want help?”

“Excuse me?” He couldn’t have heard them correctly. There just is no way that he did.

“Ah, well, my old roommate was really bad at finding even halfway decent guys and she sometimes, you know, we’d.” Orihime stops speaking and their face burns bright crimson and Ulquiorra absolutely did hear them correctly. “Just casual sex, you know? Sharing orgasms. It can get frustrating when you haven’t gotten off in a long time, y’know?”

He does know. Which is why he was trying to remedy the situation. “If you’re only offering because you interrupted and wanted to remedy the situation, there’s no need. I can always finish on my own time. I was only coming to check on you.”

The last thing he needs is someone giving him a pity orgasm right now.

“I’m not! I just, we’re roommates and you looked like you were really enjoying yourself when I messed it up. So.” Orihime spreads their hands and offers him a bright smile. “We’re friends, right? Friends help each other out. Let me get you the rest of the way off.”

They’re serious. Ulquiorra weighs the pros and cons of having sex with someone he lives with, especially considering he’ll have to get up in the morning and face them over breakfast before he heads to work. It can’t be much worse than the other people he’s shared a bed with, men who looked at him like he was less, like he was inferior, like he wasn’t really worthy of their affection and attention. If they couldn’t last long enough to get him off from the inside, he usually had to take care of himself anyway. Rarely did anyone ever want to touch him.

Orihime is offering, and he knows that they see him as he is, nothing more and nothing less. Even if things are made slightly more awkward around the apartment, the two of them can get over it, and he might as well share a bed with someone who respects him as a person.

He might regret it later, but for now, Ulquiorra finds himself nodding. “All right. I… How do you want to do it? I was just using my hand, but if there’s something you’d prefer—”

“What do you like in bed?” Orihime asks, opening their door wider, taking him by the arm and pulling him inside. It shocks him a little, but he goes freely and without much more thought.

Orihime sets him on the edge of their bed before sitting down next to him, and it doesn’t feel as strange as Ulquiorra thought it might. That they want to do this in their room, he’ll think about at a later date. For now, they asked him a question, and they quite obviously want an answer.

“Anything, usually. Just as long as you don’t refer to my genitals as any vulgar words, I’m fine with pretty much anything.” The first time some guy had asked him about his pussy he’d gotten up and walked out of the apartment and never looked back. He doesn’t regret it.

The little nod he receives for his words has him studying their face all over again, their grey eyes intent as they turn to face him. “So it would be okay if I used my mouth on you?”

“Yes.” The fact Orihime jumps right to this has him wondering, but he doesn’t say it out loud as he studies their face, their expression, and wonders. “Oral sex is fine. Vaginal penetration of any kind is fine. As long as you’re respectful of my identity and my genitals.”

It would be wrong to assume his words have any such effect on them but he thinks their face goes just a little redder at his words. “Okay. Then I want to use my mouth.”

“Do you just want me to lie down on your bed?” The thought seems impossibly obscene to him, the idea that they want to do this on their own bed instead of in his room, but Orihime only nods, and Ulquiorra isn’t in the mood to argue. He’s horny, and Orihime is offering so freely.

He needs to send Loly some kind of thank you basket for recommending this arrangement.

Ulquiorra leaves his shirt on and pulls his boxers off, tossing them on the floor as he lays back on the bed with its cute soft bedspread and plush pillows, willing his tensed body to relax as he wants to see Orihime’s reaction to this. Their eyes widen as if they can’t quite process, and then they drop down the length of his body, honing in between his thighs where he knows he’s swollen and wet. He doesn’t have to be able to see at this angle, can imagine the slick glistening on his slit, dampening his pubic hair around the flesh there.

“Oh.” Orihime exhales with a breathy noise and then swings their legs up onto the bed, coming to lay between his thighs with an excited little smile on their face that he doesn’t recognize. “Just lay back and enjoy it, Ulqui-kun. I’m going to make sure you get off this time around.”

That thought, at least, is mildly exciting. He’ll think about the finer details later.

Like anyone with nerve endings, Ulquiorra enjoys oral sex. He likes giving and receiving in equal measure and back in college, he’d had a few good partners who really spoiled him for how good it could be. It’s been post-university that he’s struggled to find people willing to give him what he thinks he deserves given how much he puts into the act itself, so it feels almost selfish to lie here while Orihime runs their hands up the insides of his thighs, the delicate touch making him shiver as he parts his thighs wider for them. Inspired, he stretches a hand down, rubbing his fingers over his own folds before spreading them wide, giving Orihime a better view.

“Ulquiorra…” Orihime swallows hard and leans in, and Ulquiorra should be expecting it but the shock of their tongue against him startles a soft moan up out of his throat.

It’s been too long and he’s too wound up but Orihime takes their time, hands braced on the insides of his thighs to hold him spread wide open. Their tongue laps up against his fingers where he’s holding his labia spread wide open, his breath sticking in his throat as his eyes flutter shut. It’s almost greedy, the way Orihime licks along the very edge of his folds, like they’re trying to taste how wet he is all the way to the core of his body.

Their fingers slide up through his labia to brush his out of the way, keeping his folds parted while they trace over his clit with the tip of their tongue. He’s pitifully hard now, used to the sensation enough that Orihime can hold the hood back and lick directly over his clit and the sharp high sensation that aches through his core only feels good instead of too much too fast too soon. The hand still on his thigh slides up, fingers tracing over his entrance where he’s so slick and hot, where his vaginal muscles keep clenching tight around nothing. Desperate to be filled.

But he said it was fine so Orihime presses a finger inside of him, testing how tight he is before apparently deciding two is fine. It burns a little despite how wet he is but it’s the good kind of pain, a stretch that satisfies him, stretches him wide. Their fingers curl up like they know exactly where to look, the pads rubbing over his g-spot until his thighs tense and tremble from the pressure. It’s intense and Orihime must know because they let up, thrusting their fingers inside of him, a small rhythm, a push-pull against his tightly squeezing muscles.

“Just like that.” His voice comes out hoarse and raspy and not like him at all, and his hands want to grip something so he finds himself gathering his fingers behind his knees, pulling them up against his chest. “Orihime, I… F-fuck. It feels so good.”

“I’m glad.” Orihime presses another finger in with the first two and Ulquiorra’s eyes almost cross at the pressure and the tightness. “It feels like you’re really close, too. Is it because you were already close or because I’m doing a good job?”

Ulquiorra's head feels fuzzy and full of cotton; given Orihime an honest answer is difficult. “Both,” he manages, and Orihime giggles and puts their mouth back between his legs.

Their tongue slides around the edge of his entrance and back up over his clit, lapping over it before they purse their lips to suck, pressing all three fingers up up up until Ulquiorra’s spine bows off of the mattress and he groans, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs, hugging his legs tighter to his chest as they spasm. Orihime doesn’t stop, mouths over his labia and his clit, pressing up and into his g-spot until he’s whimpering pitifully, tied up in pleasure and not sure how to get them to stop. When he realizes they aren’t going to, his eyes roll back in his head.

Orihime lays an arm across his waist to hold him in place, pulling their fingers free to replace it with their tongue, slick fingers rubbing fast and hard over his clit while they lick inside of him, pressing their tongue as deep as they can get it. It’s too much and Ulquiorra comes again while his body is still recovering from the first orgasm, crying out, bucking up against their mouth. It’s only when his arms fall limply to the bed that Orihime finally pushes up on their arms.

“Are you okay?” they ask, tucking a few strands of soft hair back behind their ear. “That wasn’t too much for you, was it? I thought two would be better than just one.”

“I’m exhausted, ” Ulquiorra tells them honestly, and they grin down at him, obviously proud of themself. “Thank you, Orihime. That was what I needed.”

“Of course. And hey! You can get me next time.” They lean over and kiss him on the cheek, and Ulquiorra can see the shimmer of wetness on their chin when they do.

It would only be fair to repay them in kind.

[galaxystiel]

Visions (AO3) (2791 words)

Summary: Five times Dean saw his future in a vision, and one time he didn't need to.

1.

The first time it happens, they’ve just pulled into a gas station outside on to the way to Sioux Falls.

They’d just finished up a hunt. It wasn’t Dean’s first, or his second, but it hadn’t been many more than that. Sam had been left with Bobby, too young to tag along. He’d have slowed them down, distracted both of them.

John cuts the engine, tells Dean he did good and he’ll get him some candy. Dean, still a little shaken from the claws that had been much too close for his liking, just nods. He’s staring out of the window, trying to collect his thoughts. Another car pulls up beside them and Dean watches the guy get out, looking around nervously as he walks into the gas station.

John is fumbling with his wallet, and Dean sees him pull out a wad of cash, and then the most intense pain he’s ever felt wracks through his head. He doesn’t make a sound, just clutches at it with his hands, and his vision shifts.

He can see the guy working in the gas station, hands trembling as he empties the register for the stranger pointing the gun at him. There’s a pretty girl, young and wearing a white sundress crying in the corner. There’s a distant sound of bullets and bodies hit the floor, blood spilling everywhere. John is lying slumped over the register, a bar of Hershey’s slipping from his grasp, eyes wide open.

Dean starts, sweating and panting, his stomach churning. The sudden urge to vomit overwhelms him, but he forces it down. He’s not sure what just happened, but he knows what he saw, can see it clear as day. His hand flies out, catching John’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Dad, don’t go,” he pleads, tugging to stop John from getting out of the car. “Wait, please. You can’t go in there yet.”

John stops, confusion turning to concern when he sees the paleness in Dean’s face, the beads of sweat on his forehead. “Dean? You sick, son?”

Dean shakes his head, refusing to relinquish his grasp on his dad’s arm. “He’s got a gun, that man… he’s gonna shoot everyone inside.”

John stills, eyes narrowing. He turns towards the gas station fractionally, but before he can speak, the sound of gunshots ring out, and the screams follow. Without a second thought, John shuts the door and drives away promptly.

“Dad, no, we have to help them!” Dean shouts. He saved his dad’s life, he knows that, but that doesn’t mean he wants to condemn the innocent people in the gas station. John can help, he can save them.

“There’s nothing we can do, Dean,” John says. “They’re as good as dead already.”

Dean can picture all of the bodies, the young girl in the white dress that’s slowly staining red and feels tears well up in his eyes. He blinks them back furiously.

“I thought we were supposed to help people. That’s why you fight the monsters. You just let all those people die. What makes you any better than what you hunt?”

John loses his temper. “That’s enough, Dean. You’re not old enough to understand. We can’t save everyone. Sometimes you have to pick your battles. What if I’d gone in there and gotten shot too? Where would you go then?”

Uncle Bobby’s, Dean thinks to himself. He’d go and stay with uncle Bobby, the way Sam does when he’s too young to go on a hunt. Uncle Bobby would have saved those people, Dean knows that without a doubt.

Dean stares ahead in stony silence, realisation slowly dawning. John doesn’t care about helping people. All he cares about is getting revenge for Mary.

It’s a long time before the silence breaks, and it’s John who breaks it.

“Dean? How did you know that guy had a gun?”

For a moment, Dean considers telling his dad the truth, about the vision he had. That he could see and hear everything that happened in the gas station, watched almost half a dozen people bleed out. His dad included, while he waited in the car helplessly. He thinks about how his dad had left them there to die.

He’d never understand. They hunted things John didn’t understand.

Dean looks right at John and lies. “He was hugging his right side, trying to hide it. He looked pretty shifty.”

Satisfied with the explanation, John nods curtly and focuses on his driving.

Dean sits back in his seat and closes his eyes, wondering what the hell was happening to him.

2.

The visions continue, albeit few and far between. He can’t control when or why they appear. Dean decides to just accept them as the gift they are.

The pain is still unbearable, feels like his head is splitting open and his brain his being stabbed by a thousand needles. But the visions, whatever they are, have been nothing but helpful so he doesn’t mind too much. The pain only last a few moments if he doesn’t fight it, a residual headache the only side effect of whatever it is that allows him to see a possible future. Sometimes, the visions have appeared at an inconvenient time, in the middle of a wendigo hunt, or during a test. It took a while for Dean to find out that he could repress them, to block out the vision, although the pain gets worse before it fades away.

The visions aren’t always of life or death situations. Sometimes, they show Dean finding something he lost, a grade he’ll get on a test in school, playing ball with uncle Bobby. Sometimes, they’re not all that useful. Dean remembers each one vividly, doesn’t dare keep a written log of them anywhere in case John finds it.

He stirs the spaghetti making sure the sauce evenly coats the pasta. John is away, hunting something that he considered too dangerous for them, so Dean was left making dinner for Sam. Recently, Sam has become surly at mealtimes, twisting his face at whatever Dean makes for him. Tonight, Dean hopes that a traditional mac and cheese will tempt him.

When the vision comes, it strikes out of nowhere.

Blinded by the headache, Dean’s arms flail and he knocks the pan from the stove, spilling what was supposed to be their dinner all over the floor. Grasping the counter, he closes his eyes and focuses on his own face, talking to a strange woman.

“My Dad was always working, so I came up with about 101 ways to make macaroni and cheese.”

“Serious?”

“Oh, yeah. Now add ketchup sauce for spice, hmm? Uh, tuna, hot dogs, fluff marshmallow mix.”

“Ugh, that sounds disgusting!”

“Yeah, well, my brother thought it was exotic.”

Dean blinks, to find Sam shaking his arm, concern in his gaze. He looks down as the pain fades away, looking at the spaghetti, growing cold on the floor.

“Fuck. It’s cool, Sammy, I got it.” He waves off Sam’s concern and begins to clear up the mess, throwing away the remains of dinner and washing out the pan. “What do you say to mac and cheese tonight?”

Sam wrinkles his nose, but it’s a lot better than his usual sulking. “It’s kinda boring, Dean.”

Dean grins. “Nah. See, I know 101 different ways to make mac and cheese so it tastes completely different each time.”

Disbelievingly, Sam folds his arms. “101 different ways? No way.”

Pulling down the macaroni, Dean hides his inner triumph. “Wait and see. Numero uno, ketchup for spice.”

3.

Robin is a nice girl. Dean likes her a lot.

As first kisses go, Dean could have done a lot worse. He plans to take her to the dance, but can’t quite put his finger on the something that makes this seem off.

Maybe it’s because Sammy and Dad didn’t come for him yet. He knows they will sooner or later.

It’s almost a relief when they do turn up. He can’t explain the visions to Sonny, even know they’ve happened once or twice in his presence. Sooner or later, questions are going to be asked and he’s not going to be able to answer them.

He locks himself in the bathroom to dry his eyes, sitting on the toilet and burying his face in his hands. It’s mostly relief, he knows that. That he hadn’t been left behind, that he wasn’t dispensable to John. That Sam missed him. But it’s also regret. Because he had a life here that he had always wanted, but to keep it he would have to leave Sam.

That isn’t an option. He has no guarantee that Sonny will keep him around if he ever finds out about Dean’s visions, either.

The pain strikes out of nowhere, leaving Dean doubled over as gasps fall from his lips. This might be the most painful one yet, his knuckles turning white as he grasps the sink to keep himself upright. The vision flickers for a moment, as if it’s not set in stone, but then it clears.

A strong hand brushes against his cheek. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“Cas,” he whispers, lips parting as a thumb sweeps across his lower lip. “Cas.”

It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to say. The strongest emotion Dean has ever felt builds up in his chest and then it all comes crashing out.

Dean feels his fingers knot into hair, short but soft, and almost whimpers. “You can’t leave me, Cas. You don’t get to do that again. I need you.”

He opens his eyes and sees a brilliant blue, before everything comes into focus.

“I will never leave you, Dean.”

Dean closes the gap between them and their lips meet in the middle.

With a shout, Dean comes back to himself in the bathroom. He’s pale, can feel all the blood draining from his face. What the hell was that? He wasn’t into guys, why would Dean ever be kissing a dude? Shocked to his very core, Dean just manages to make it off the toilet so he can turn around and vomit. The pain behind his eyes is still lingering, and he presses his cheek to the cool porcelain, ignoring how gross that is.

His legs are shaky when he stands up. Everything he knows about himself seems wrong. How could that be true? How could whatever future that was, result in him feeling so strongly for a man?

Dean thinks back to the gas station, and how he’d saved his dad’s life. Not all futures were set in stone. He could change this, have a future where he got out of hunting and met a nice girl, married and had kids. Whoever this guy was, Dean would never meet him, would never give him the time of day.

Washing his hands and splashing some water on his face, Dean left the bathroom with a grim expression.

Those visions were nothing but trouble. He would never have another one again.

4.

Dean makes it almost fourteen years before he has another vision.

There’s something suspicious about the blonde chick. Ruby, he reminds himself. She claims to want to help him, but there’s something in her gaze when she looks at him. Sympathy. Like she’s endured Hell, and she knows exactly what is waiting for Dean.

When he looks at her, he doesn’t see the slightest shred of hope for his situation.

It’s a rare moment of vulnerability when the familiar pain tightens behind his eyes. It’s been over a decade since Dean last let himself have a vision, but the weight of his decision to sell his soul is heavy tonight.

He closes his eyes.

Fire. Burning. Chains.

The choking scent of sulphur, down his throat, engulfing him.

Screams. Pain.

“Sammy!”

He gasps and rubs his fists into his eyes. Sam is in the bathroom, so Dean takes the time to escape, to step out of the room. There’s a bar on the corner, and after what he’s just seen, he needs more than just a couple of miniatures from the minibar.

The lights flicker, and he stops. Ruby is standing there, staring at him.

He can’t stop the attitude towards her, ever distrustful of her demon status. She gives as good as she gets, but Dean is grateful for it. He doesn’t need to be coddled. Ruby is honest and he’s grateful for that.

“There’s no way of saving me from the pit, is there?”

“No.”

When Ruby leaves, Dean sinks to the floor beside the Impala and buries his head in his hands. He will never regret his choice to save Sam, but in this moment, he allows himself to mourn for the future he will never have.

5.

Dean doesn’t connect the name ‘Castiel’ with the man from his vision.

How could he? All he knows is some inhuman thing was powerful enough to fight through hell and carry him out. The thought of falling for whatever that was doesn’t even cross his mind.

He knows, of course, the first time he sees Castiel walking into the barn. Between the shattering lightbulbs and flashes of lightning, recognition tugs at the back of his mind.

It’s not until he sees the blue eyes up close that he realises and he immediately gets defensive. This guy had shattered Dean’s world when he was sixteen and now thinks he can just waltz in and command Dean’s love? Was that why he’d saved him from Hell?

“Why’d you do it?”

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

Dean stares at him. “Work?”

He stops at the familiar pain and he struggles to fight it. He’s weak, though, from digging himself out of his own grave, and he can’t repress it completely. He sees flickers of his life, of Castiel becoming family, and he falls to his knees.

The pain vanishes as quickly as it appeared, and Dean glances up to see Castiel’s fingers barely an inch from his forehead, concern evident in the lines around his eyes. Dean doesn’t even need to ask. He knows from the sympathy in Castiel’s eyes that he will never be troubled by the visions again.

“Thanks. Cas.”

The name from his vision slips out before Dean thinks about it, and he clenches his fists tightly. He saw enough in the flickers to know that whatever his future holds, Castiel will be part of it. The capacity of that would be up to Dean.

“You wanna use some of that mojo on Bobby?” He asks, looking down at his body on the floor. “Wake him up? You come in peace, E.T., I get it. But I’ve had a long freaking day, and whatever work ‘God’ has planned for me can wait till tomorrow.”

Castiel does as he’s asked, but leaves immediately afterwards, leaving Dean to deal with a groggy Bobby who demands to know what the hell happened.

Dean just shakes his head. Cas can be a problem for another day.

+1.

A strong hand brushes against his cheek. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“Cas,” he whispers, lips parting as a thumb sweeps across his lower lip. “Cas.”

It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to say. The strongest emotion Dean has ever felt builds up in his chest and then it all comes crashing out.

Dean feels his fingers knot into hair, short but soft, and almost whimpers. “You can’t leave me, Cas. You don’t get to do that again. I need you.”

He opens his eyes and sees a brilliant blue, before everything comes into focus.

“I will never leave you, Dean.”

Dean closes the gap between them and their lips meet in the middle. The kiss only lasts for a few seconds before Dean pulls away, surprised.

“Dean?”

He looks up to find Castiel staring at him, concerned, hand resting on his knee. “I’m fine,” he promises, reaching out to cover Castiel’s hand with his own. “It’s just… I remember this. I saw it happen, when I was a kid. I didn’t know who you were or why you were so important to me. I promised myself I would never let this be real. That my future would never bring me here. I hated you for making me doubt what I knew about myself.”

Castiel smiles at him, sure enough of his place in Dean’s life that the words don’t shake him. “We don’t always know what will make us happy in the future.”

Dean makes sure Castiel meets his eyes when he says, “Sometimes we do.”

He closes the gap between them once more and revels in the knowledge that, while he no longer knows what the future holds, he know that Castiel will always be by his side.

Masterpost

[blakingblake-blog]

EPISODE 2: THE HYBRID TWINS (Cake Mix Gooey Butter Cookies + Apple Crisp Cookie Pizza)

I was so confident in my abilities that I didn’t even bother to read the instructions.

I just bought the ingredients: popped them right into my Tops shopping cart, scanned my Tops Card, went home, all puffy-chested.

Which is actually hilarious considering I was two weeks behind in the Blaking experiment.

Two. Full. Weeks.

If I learned nothing else during my second round of Blaking, it was that cockiness and confidence are two totally different ball games.

And that’s always a *super* fun truth to learn when you have to execute two totally different baking recipes in the same afternoon.

Especially different ball games when you’re two weeks behind on an experiment. (I’m sorry I went to Miami. I’m sorry it snowed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Okay. I feel better.)

Before I started, I realized that I was feeling down about being two weeks behind. I knew I needed to get myself out of that hole by figuring out how to feel awesome. The answer? My new “Feel the Dern” shirt. I hope I made you proud, Laura Dern.

After I put on my cool new shirt, it suddenly dawned on me: I’ve always been of the opinion that, where deadlines are concerned, it’s situational. Life is one big timer, and the more someone adheres to a stopwatch in life, the more stressful it becomes. However, society was set up on a clock, so even the tardiest of people need to try hard to abide by those rules. Okay, cool, I thought. No need to panic. Just get your work done now.

But I felt bad at the grocery store too. Because I realized that today I was working with mixes. However, then I thought, “the mixes aren’t being used conventionally. They’re additives, not central ingredients.” That made me feel better.

So there I was, two weeks behind, in my apartment, with two different sets of ingredients in-hand to bake two different batches of goodies (apple crisp cookie pizza, cake mix gooey butter cookies), and I suddenly realized ¾ of the way through the apple crisp cookie pizza that I had no idea what the sentence “Use pastry blender to cut butter into dry ingredients until it is the size of small peas” means. I Googled “pastry blender” and realized it’s a tool I didn’t even have, and even if I did own one, I’d have no idea how to use it.

But I’ll rewind a bit: the cake mix gooey butter cookies came out pretty damn well. Over the course of baking them, I found myself engaging in my stress; which, ultimately, didn’t serve me because it just made multitasking all the more complicated. Suddenly, it became super easy to maneuver doing a few things at one. I dropped my fear of messy and went in. (Additionally, I had to change into a tank top after about 30 minutes in my Feel the Dern shirt because I was sweating so much.)

This batch of goodies was assembled rather easily; there were only five ingredients with which to deal, so it didn’t feel wretched. The only components of this batch that felt odd? Butter and cream cheese. I’m not used to dealing with either. They’re gross and impossible to handle, and I hate that. However, this time around, they were two of the central ingredients of one recipe in particular, with which I had to deal. It became clear that I was going to have to get over myself and dig in. And I did. And it was awesome. I felt like a kid fucking around in mud for the first time.

I also found myself getting distracted. I’d be in the middle of rolling dough and realize I wanted to listen to music, so I’d wash my hands, get the music, turn it on, and get back to work. Normally, I’d let this kind of thing stress me out: the idea that I’m a distracted person and have a hard time focusing. However, I realized that I needed the music, I needed the distraction to, ultimately, stay focused.

The cake mix gooey butter cookies came out impeccably; though I will say, the bottoms were *slightly* burnt. Not enough to notice, I don’t think, although maybe I’m just kidding myself. Also, to note: because there was an abundance of dough, and because I leftover chocolate chips from the last Blaking episode, I decided it wouldn’t be the worst idea to plop a single chocolate chip into each gooey butter cookie from the second batch. Needless to say, the decision was an extreme hit with my tastebuds. Extreme.

But let’s jump forward again to to that time when I decided to bake an apple crisp cookie pizza.

I wish I’d done my research. It was rough— and extremely complicated. I didn’t even realize the level of complication until it was too late, and I had already mixed, shaped, and baked the “pizza crust,” which was just the main cookie dough spread out evenly over a pan. Then, a separate mixture (the actual apple crisp) topped the pizza, which followed another layer of crumbly-butter-goodness. (That was that whole thing I mentioned about a pastry blender that was supposed to cut butter into the dry ingredients… I didn’t get it.)

It took so long for the thing to cool when I pulled it out of the oven from its second time through that I forgot about it completely. I let it sit for over an hour while I went out and did some chores. When I came back, I realized that I had completely forgotten to purchase milk, which the recipe called for but hadn’t used yet: it was for the frosting. I opened the freezer and realized I had almond milk creamer, so I used that instead. And it was the best improvisational decision I ever made: it elevated the delicacy of the apple crisp cookie pizza to a whole new level.

Over the course of this entire process, I realized that before I even started baking I’d put a solid infrastructure into place so that my preparation had a flow to it. Every mixing bowl was in the right spot, next to the pan, next to the oven. I had the operation down to a science, which allowed me to come and go into the process as I pleased when those moments of distraction arose.

WATCH THIS: https://streamable.com/vg0pa

This is all to say: it turned out alright. It was crumbly, for sure, and I wish it’d been more cookie like, but the taste was on, and I couldn’t have been more pleased guess I’m satisfied enough with my work. My tasters in Alysa Hantgan’s class really set the tone for how I felt: everyone seemed to really enjoy the treats. I know the tasters in the cake mix gooey butter cookie scenario *loved* the treats, according to a text from my husband who took the cookies to work.

Also: I bought myself a new electric mixer because I got tired of mixing with forks. Who says I shouldn’t have nice things?

WHAT WENT WRONG:

no clue what a pastry blender was, nor what it meant to “cut butter into dry ingredients” (resolution: don’t do it)

slightly burned the bottoms of the gooey butter cookies (resolution: turn my oven down slightly)

I forgot to purchase milk which was required for the frosting on the apple crisp cookie pizza (resolution: use almond milk creamer instead)

WHAT I LEARNED:

In baking (and in life)...

Stress doesn’t serve anyone when multitasking needs to happen; don’t deny it. Allow yourself to whisk the eggs and sift the flour at the same time, and breathe through it.

If you need to buy yourself a nice thing, buy yourself a nice thing. That electric mixer will do.

Distractions are merely distractions. Just like the stress, ride them out: you will (eventually) finish this batch of cake mix gooey butter cookies

Infrastructure is everything; strategically map out your assembly line before you start to bake

Prepare. Read ahead. Know what kind of recipe you’re getting yourself into.

It’s okay to get messy; touch the butter. It’s worth it.

(Source: http://gph.is/2peuuRn)

Both batches of goodies went pretty quickly. And Bryan still got the first taste. And loved it.

Ta-ta,

Blake