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dedicated to iva, belatedly for her birthday <3
Considering that for most of their acquaintance Dean had known Cas in only one outfit, and only because it kinda came with the whole vessel package, he had a strange amount of preconceived notions about what kind of clothes Cas would actually wear were he ever to put thought into dressing himself.
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- #omg this is such a shameful excuse for a fic but bre told
- #e you loved suspenders and i couldnt resist
- #otp: the greatest love story ever told
- #i do heartily recommend eveyrone go check out that inspo link at the very least
- #because damn
- #also yes this is absolutely named after a jt song oops
4x18 reaction fic
I know everybody is writing the klaine phonecall that should have happened, but I thought what would Blaine’s dad think about this. so this came out. i’m sorry if Blaine’s dad’s name ends up being something different, but I had to write this. This is in Blaine’s dad’s POV so i hope you all don’t mind *u*
and a big thank you to my angel Rachel for encouraging me to write this.
William Anderson was never the type of man to sit down and watch the news, always preferring to read them in the paper. He liked it way. He didn’t like to be kept on the edge of his seat wondering what was going to happen next. Call him unusual, but he liked it better that way. Except this isn’t everyday. This isn’t a day where William Anderson can sit back and read a book while he waits for the paper, because his son is one of those people in danger today.
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Fic: Catch My Fall
Word Count: 10.4K
Warnings: light drug use, brief mentions of bullying, light comeplay, bottom!chris, barebacking
A/N: this is the longest thing i’ve ever written and i’m pretty sure now i need a nap. i wrote this for the ccauw this week and i probably got a little carried away, but whatever. title is from foxy shazam’s killin’ it.
Summary: Chris is a sophomore, Darren is a senior, and this is the best year of their lives.
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The Herondales- CP2 Spoilers
William, he said, his voice echoing through her mind but her mind wept for the voice she would never hear again. Tessa, he is beautiful. A strong shadowhunter he will be like his Father. Brave like his Mother.
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It’s Kansas, or it isn’t; there are no wheat-lined horizons or open-wide blue skies in this corner of the world, and that’s what makes Dean worry, because he knows Kansas in a way he’ll never know another place, and his heart says this isn’t Kansas, not even a little bit.
He’s tough, says Sam, he’s like a weed, you couldn’t get rid of him even if you tried, and Dean tries to think of Cas like that instead, as something that’s getting better, not worse, no matter how many nights Dean steals into his bed and tries to pull him apart.
Dean can’t quite think of what Cas does as gardening, even though technically it meets all the requirements: Cas goes outside, rain or shine, and that’s part of it, and he buries his hands in the dirt, and that’s another, but that’s where the similarities to gardening end.
There’s a spot just outside the bunker, and that’s where Cas goes, but it can’t be called a garden because there’s been no real attempt to guide nature here. it’s just a patch of Kansas’s most notorious evils: sowthistles, carpetweed, cockleburrs; pigweed and purslane; bitterweed, snakeroot, Devil’s beggar ticks.
There’s a patch of ragweed, and that’s what keeps Dean away most days, even though he’ll watch from the doorstep every afternoon, waiting for Cas to come in for the night.
Weeds is a relative term, Cas says to him, once. Humans, he says, you humans place such importance on labels. There’s no difference between a weed and a flower, really.
Dean tells him he wishes Cas would do something other than sit around talking about weeds. He tells Cas that Kansas soil isn’t bad for growing vegetables, and doesn’t Cas think tomatoes would be a damn sight more useful than crabgrass?
Weeds are simply plants no one has found a use for yet, Cas tells him, and Dean sits beside him and stares up into the slowly-splitting river birch that’s growing far too close to the bunker for his peace of mind and thinks this isn’t Kansas.
Mid-July, and the weeds begin to look more appealing: black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, rocket and yarrow.
Sam wanders outside once and starts pulling up dandelions, marveling at the strength of their taproots, and Dean thinks this isn’t Kansas. Kansas is sunflowers and cornfields, the weather-beaten boards of the farmhouse where his mother vanished in the night, and this place is abandoned cement and steel, electricity provided by the river on the other side of the bunker’s concrete stacks, the quiet spaces underneath the willows, among the rushes and the clover and the bird’s foot violets.
This isn’t Kansas; Dean knows that Kansas is where things grow, and then they die; Cas is less and less every day, and he knows that it’s roses one day and the next day it’s over and this can’t be Kansas because one day soon all this will come to an end.
November, and whether they’re weeds or wildflowers the fact is they’re gone, withered and brown shapeless things after three weeks of frost, and while Cas stares up at the stars without recognition, he falls asleep in Dean’s arms and every night Dean thinks this isn’t Kansas, but his license plates and Sam disagree.
It’s not Kansas, he keeps thinking, but then one night Cas crawls into his bed and folds himself into Dean’s arms, gives back every one of those heart-felt kisses Dean’s always thought he’d taken no more notice of than the feel of dust blowing against his face and maybe, Dean thinks, Cas warming him inside and out, maybe this isn’t Kansas, but maybe it’s close enough to count.
He tries to explain it like this: he is not, nor has he ever been a star, but he wears stars in his eyes and when he weeps, the dust of comets trail down his cheeks instead of tears.
This is what it is to be an angel, he explains to Dean, long afterward: paint sweeping across the canvas, spread thin by the tip of a brush, moved by the Painter according to His design; moving inside the horsehair bristles as he moves inside a vessel.
He is only the medium; never the art, never the tool.
Dean doesn’t understand, so he tries again.
He is a thousand colors mixed together, verdigrislilacturquoisesanguine, and he blurs around the edges, and even as his form takes shape between the colors and the blank void of white, he, like the paint, will crack apart as he dries; the lines that create him streak and curve and dip and sway, brushed to the top of the page, and melting down halfway again before he hardens: impermanence shaped into something solid.
He will dry like this, and he will crack apart, his figure chapped and raw, and even as a form emerges, one layer over another, and then another, he will remember being shapeless.
This is what it is to be human, he says, and Dean looks at him with those watercolor eyes dripping wet and moss-green, India ink running down his face and staining through his skin almost like sadness.
a selfish wish
i want you to imagine me holding your hand.
i want you to picture us on a couch
reading, your feet propped up
on my thighs. i want you to imagine my fingers in your hair,
my smile against your scalp, ghosting across your cheek,
my breath near your ear, saying “i love you” loudly
because it is no secret.
i want you to imagine us
tired, frightened, but together,
arguing over petty things, serious things,
the stuff of life and death that love is made of.
imagine us apologising after, crying after,
curling up after, with my palms
lain across your hips, where i hold you close to my heart
because its pounding only settles
when it can hear the beating of your own.
if i could, i would give you the memory of all these moments
we’ve never had.
i would give you my laughter and my graceless mistakes,
all my follies and worries because i would crave every one of yours
in the same way i crave your grins, the way the skin
around your eyes crinkles, the way you turn
mundane syllables into a song.
if i could, i would build you a home with these bare hands
that wish they could miss your touch.
but dean and cas would be so gross because they just wouldn’t be able to not sit right next to each other and lean closer to the other and always shift towards each other ok. and when they’d kiss they’d always do it until they were out of breath and they wouldn’t even notice their friends rolling their eyes because they’d be kissing again and asdfhkj so gross ;u;
delayed, but not forever stayed
vaguely post-s8 dean/cas fluff
Dean thumbs the worn photograph from its place on the desk. He thinks that idea alone is a strange one, that he has a place to keep this now, that his mother’s face may always look back at him from that same place every time he enters his room.
That notion too will probably be a novelty that never wears off, but the unbelievable thing is, is that it could, in time, if they stayed here long enough. If they stay alive long enough, really, because under any other circumstance Dean can’t envision a scenario anymore in which he’d want to leave. For the first time, in a long time, he’s got too much going for him in one spot, standing still right here.
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anonymous prompted: darren comes all over chris’s erection and then chris uses darren’s come as lube
warnings: comeplay, barebacking, marking, bottom!chris
word count: ~1700
“What are you doing?”
“I’m, uh, fucking you?”
It’s a question, pointed and confused and Chris knows that much, but, “You’ve got that look on your face.” Eyes squinted, brow scrunched, tongue poking out, and in the sweat already beading on Darren’s forehead, he can tell there’s a question in the air, something he’s not asking.
Then the look changes, the lines smooth out, and he’s smiling a bit, hips stilling for just a fraction of a second before Chris is gasping out loud, hands clenching when Darren starts moving again, harder this time, muscles rippling in his arms and his back. The angle is different, and Darren is smug when he asks, “Can we try something?”
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crisscolfer skinny dipping prompt; nc-17
anonymous asked for: a smutty crisscolfer fic based off of what Darren said in that Fox Lounge video when he said he’s been skinny dipping
also based off of this post
Darren’s not a shy person. He’s not exactly concerned with looking like an idiot or weird or whatever adjective people may associate him with, but what he isn’t exactly interested in sharing with the world is the first and last time he ever went skinny dipping in his life. He figures that story isn’t exactly one that’s innocent enough for everyone to laugh off, and couldn’t be even if he left out the part where he and Chris humped each other until they had to get out and wash the come off their chests. So when the question is brought up, he does his best to laugh it off and say some bullshit about being a baby or something, not able to stop himself from saying the ‘yeah’ that was already confirming too much. He’s not too concerned, however, because as long as Chris didn’t have secret cameras or peeping Tom neighbors, he’s pretty sure their secret is safte. But, if he’s being honest, he would gladly shout it off the rooftops because who doesn’t want to rub one out against Chris Colfer? Still, though, the world doesn’t need to know that delicious tidbit of information.
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Say My Name (Crisscolfer fic, NC-17)
Summary: two years into a relationship with Darren, Chris mindlessly says the wrong name in bed. 1750 words,
Author note: i just love my beta, yumi, thank you <3
read on Ao3
“Oh fuck. Yes. God. Yes!”
“You… like that… baby?” Chris’s words came out in an amused tone, even though they were spoken breathy, labored, and interrupted with audible groans. He also didn’t miss the smug grin on Darren’s face as he said them.
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Based on this scene from Crazy Stupid Love. You know the one where Ryan Gosling lifts Emma Stone Dirty Dancing style. Yeah, but with Klaine.
For Emmy :)
Looking back on it now Blaine shouldn’t have made such a brash decision to come to Kurt’s apartment when he’s had one too many drinks. It’s just that Blaine didn’t really mean to sleep with Kurt tonight. He was just mad at his dumb boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend now. All he wanted was to get away from there and maybe that meant go have sex with Kurt back then, but now he’s just standing here in the most exquisitely decorated room in the East Coast gnawing at his bottom lip anxiously.
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