yeah so I wrote a puckurt drabble. it was supposed to end in make outs but it didn’t. season two era. my headcanon for this is that they made out in secret all summer and now they’re back in school and things are not going smoothly. title is a reference to Puck calling cashmere ‘cashmin’. 400 or so words. silly shit. don’t take it seriously, kay? kay.
Kurt should hate him. He should absolutely, genuinely, one hundred percent hate him. And in that moment? He kind of does.
“You let them throw me in a dumpster,” he hisses. If looks could kill, Noah Puckerman would now be nothing but a pile of ash, disintegrated by the look of unbridled anger Kurt is directing at him.
Instead he’s just standing there. At least he has the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, dude. But c’mon, you know how it is - I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get spaghetti sauce out of cashmere?”
“I’m not even sure what cashmere is.”
“Wool, dumb ass. Very soft, very expensive wool and I don’t even know why I’m explaining this to you because it’s not like you get it, it’s not like you care.”
Yeah. Kurt’s officially pissed. His arms are crossed and his face is twisted and pinched into an expression of rage that would be comical in a face normally so downright angelic, if it was directed at someone else. But it’s not. It’s directed at Puck, who has a healthy sense of self preservation and shifts uncomfortably on his feet because dude. Hummel looks fucking murderous.
Puck holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I care,” he insists, and at Kurt’s sceptical look he steps forward into the other boy’s personal space. He makes a move as if to put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, but thinks better of it and awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck instead. “I do. Okay? Cashmin is important shit. It matters to you. I get it.”
Kurt thinks this should make him even more mad, but it doesn’t. He finds his shoulders sagging as he huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. “Cashmere. Not cashmin. Cashmere.”
“Whatever.” Puck juts his chin up, grinning like he’s sure he’s won. “So m’I forgiven?”
“No.” Kurt’s voice is cold, as is the look he levels at Puck… but after the grin drops he relents enough to uncross his arms and motion for Puck to follow him back into the school - which he does, like an over eager puppy. A drooly, over-sized, mohawked puppy. “But I’ve graciously decided to grant you further opportunity to make it up to me.”
Summary: Blaine has been out with Kurt and his friends a few times. He loves it; he loves spending time with his boyfriend. There’s just one thing… he’s pretty damn sure Kurt’s friends don’t like him. And he’s pretty sure Kurt doesn’t believe him.
My Notes: Poor Blainers. And Puck, you are hilarious.
for dapperscript because i love her and she gave me all of these feels. also on ao3
It doesn’t happen in an instant. There’s no magic moment, no sudden music or fireworks or epiphanies. As a matter of fact, it happens so slowly and gradually that it takes Derek a long time to even notice.
It happens because Stiles is persistent.
He chips away at the walls Derek has put up around himself like armor. He pushes and pushes until indifference gives way to irritation, irritation to begrudging respect, respect to trust, trust to tentative friendship, and friendship to this warm, steady, comforting thing that’s been buzzing quietly through his veins for the past few weeks.
He’s not really sure what to do with it, to be honest. Derek doesn’t have a good track record when it comes to romance. He barely has a record at all. Just Kate, and a small handful of forgettable, regrettable one night encounters.
He doesn’t get close to people, because he’s learned the hard way that that’s how you get hurt. It’s how others get hurt. He can’t risk that.
Stiles gets close anyway.
He’s like that, Derek’s learned. He doesn’t sit idly by and let what he wants slip through his fingers because someone or something else tells him he shouldn’t have it. Stiles fights for things, for what he cares about, for what he wants.
Derek is what he wants, he says. And he knows Derek wants him, too. He doesn’t need werewolf super powers to figure it out, he’s good with people. Sometimes he just knows. So Derek can say whatever he wants, can deny it all day long, but Stiles knows.
He says he’s not going to back off just because Derek doesn’t think he deserves this. Stiles will think it for the both of them.
Derek says but I’ll break you.
Stiles insists he’s tougher than he looks.
Derek says what if I’m the one to break?
Stiles promises to put him back together.
Stiles says it’s simple. That it’ll be okay. That Derek can let himself have this.
He pulls Derek in for a kiss, and for the first time Derek thinks he’s found a fight he’s happy to lose.
seriously, Derek, man? You are going to teach Stiles the simultaneous meanings of the words 'patience' and 'cock block' until he turns eighteen and you run out of moral reasons not to hit that like it personally offended you.
They don’t have many moments like this, for which Dean, at least, is thankful. Too much peace and quiet gives him the heebie jeebies. It sets him on edge, leaves him waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it always, always does.
But after the week they’ve had, he feels that they more than deserve this. He’s content, for the moment, to let himself be content.
He’s sprawled out on his stomach, sheet draped across his lower half and head nestled comfortably on one of the pillows. (And Cas must have worked some angel mojo on this shit, because there is no way a hotel pillow is that damn comfortable.) He feels pleasantly drowsy, limbs heavy with it and the weight of the world, for once, temporarily lifted off his shoulders.
Castiel is next to him, leaning over him, tracing idle pathways across Dean’s bare skin. His dark hair is flopping over into his eyes and there’s still a slight flush to his skin - evidence of their recent activities. Dean knows it’s sappy and he wouldn’t admit it out loud for anything, but damn it, it’s the truth. Cas looks downright beautiful like this.
It takes him a minute (or two, or ten - he’s fuzzy around the edges, mind trying to tug him towards sleep, and his sense of time is off), but eventually he realizes there’s a pattern to the way Castiel is tracing his fingertips over Dean’s back. “Whassat?” he mumbles, words slurred as he twists his head in an attempt to get a look.
Cas is quiet for a moment as he finishes the pattern, a soft smile gracing his face. “It’s Enochian,” he then murmurs, bending to press his lips to Dean’s bare skin. “It means ‘beloved’.”
Dean can’t help the besotted grin that tugs at his lips in return.