nush. infjindividualist. space, stardust, magic & real forever love. 

“i feel like when you walk you just have glitter coming off your hair and little woodland animals scurrying behind you” - shabz

"stop writing fic and just write the bestseller that is your life imo" - petra

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SPN Fic: [Lighthousekeeping]

Dean/Castiel, Sam/Lucifer

Dean, Sam, and King’s Cross, where Harry met Dumbledore. Or, Dean and Sam take a divine roadtrip into limbo and find the things they’ve lost.

Set to this song.

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The first few times he’d woken up to Tony touching him, Steve had been so startled he’d nearly kicked him off the bed by pure reflex. 

"What?" Steve said, tugging the blankets back into his lap, trying to ignore the way the back of his neck was burning. "You- Tony, stop laughing-“

"Oh, Steve." Tony grinned at him, even as he was nursing a bruise against his thigh, and Steve could see the engineer in him trying to figure out how to change that so that he’d get a better response with more nudity involved the next time around. "I’ll break you out of it, one day."

Steve had bitten down on his tongue then, thinking he’d never get around his war-trained instincts, that he’d never stop jerking awake listening first for sounds of grenade shrapnel blooming against the walls. But somehow Tony came along, bustling in seamlessly- or at least, with as much casual grace as he could dredge up- and they ground down the hard ridges that didn’t fit, until somehow they both found this in-between space where Tony didn’t reach for the drink before talking anymore and Steve could feel honestly calm for the first time in a long time.

This time Steve wakes up to Tony tracing little circles along his sides down to the line of his hips. It’s the feeling of Tony’s hands on his skin that gets him first, easy and slow. Steve smiles, because this time he hadn’t looked first at the doorway to figure out how to make a quick break, and that’s a victory in itself.

Tony kisses along his ribs and there’s no heat in it, not today. Steve likes the way he handles the lingering aches from the battle the day before, slow and maybe a little gentler than he would like to admit to being capable of.

"Tony," Steve says softly, reaching for the sides of the other man’s face. Tony noses a little at his fingers and Steve feels him smile against the whorls of his thumb.

"You didn’t even open your eyes this time," Tony says, his fingers trailing against the delicate skin of Steve’s wrist. There’s something like pride there in his voice, something like ownership, something else entirely. "I broke you out of it after all."

Steve does look at him then, and he thinks, you did, you did, but he doesn’t say that. He just leans in closer so that he can kiss Tony on the mouth.

Tony kisses him, tender and languid and long, and his eyes are bright when he pulls back. “Still, we have to repeat it a couple more times,” he says, grinning as he slowly divests Steve of his pajama pants, “Just to be sure, you know.”

"Oh," Steve says, realizing only just then that Tony only has his boxers on. "Right."

"Maybe with a lot of nakedness," Tony continues, smiling in a way that promises a great deal of good things as he fits his mouth against the curve of Steve’s hipbone. "Just to be sure."

"Okay," Steve says, smiling helplessly, thinking, yes, this is yours, this is safe, this will stay. He licks into Tony’s mouth then and slots their fingers together. “Just to be sure.”

Frustration manifests itself in different forms. Some take it to the mind, some to the whiskey, others to the knife; most nights Dean finds himself jolting awake from where he sleeps with his arms outstretched like he’s cradling ghosts of what might have been, reaching blindly for the hollows on the bed where nobody lies.

Sometimes he thinks he might have made Castiel up in his head, because all that’s ever left to show he exists is their memories of him and the handprint seared into his skin, harsher than the biting pricks of regret. He doesn’t even have letters from Castiel, or the memory of a real kiss, anything. He has one trenchcoat and there’s nothing else concrete, nothing else that stays after Castiel’s smell fades.

Sometimes he wants to take a lighter to the stupid fucking coat, because it’s just a fucking coat, because the way this hurts doesn’t hurt like anything he’s ever felt before. Because he’s tired of waking up with his fingers curled into the fabric like a plea, like nothing he’s said, like all the things he should have told Castiel, anything to have changed something. Dean doesn’t want to do this anymore, doesn’t want to keep waking up with his arms curved around nothing, in that one painful moment when he’s not sure if Castiel’s back or if he’s dreaming again.

Dean’s always just been dreaming. Maybe he’s going crazy, maybe. If Sam notices that Dean’s been sleeping less and less- that Dean sleeps like he’s cradling someone who isn’t there- he doesn’t say anything. 

Sam finally cracks when he finds Dean sitting on the couch at two in the morning, drinking gin straight out of the bottle, and Dean doesn’t fight him when he takes the drink away, because he’s done with fighting, they’re both done with fighting.

"He wouldn’t have wanted this," Sam says, and Dean can’t bear to look at him. It’s like he’s always known these words were coming but always wanted to hear them anyway, and now he finds that they’re empty, it’s all empty, doesn’t mean anything anyway. Didn’t mean anything anyway.

"I know," Dean says, suddenly- frighteningly- dangerously close to tears, and then, "Sammy-"

He blinks hard and suddenly what he’s holding is the trenchcoat. Sam leans over to slide an arm around his shoulders, and Dean thinks back on all the times when all he had was his little brother and how now it feels like it’s all he has left again. Sam just stares at the neck of the bottle where he’d placed it by the coffee table, no judgement, doesn’t say anything about the way the coat was crumpled right by the foot of the sofa like Dean had hurled it there to ease the aching.

"He wouldn’t," Sam says quietly, and Dean curls his hands into tight fists and thinks, hopelessly, helplessly, I know.


“You look so beautiful in the morning”

The first few months after what Tony called “the big sleep”, Steve lay in bed for a long time every morning, telling himself that it wasn’t the ’40s anymore. He’d stare at the ceiling and think it’s gone, gone gone.

The first few months were the hardest. Steve felt the loss most keenly then, when he fumbled with every mundane object, and the gaze of the citizens and his teammates seared like the harsh slap of judgement on a disconcerted man trying to ground himself. He was so angry then, so, so angry, and he knew the futility of it, but it didn’t make the anger go away.

-And then time passed until the name Peggy was no longer a spell for her face, until he began to have to search to remember Bucky’s laugh. Until he could look at Tony when he strode into a room and not bite his tongue down on Howard.

(Steve used to feel guilty for beginning to forget, sick with misery and the bitterness of things that were long gone. He thought the others didn’t know, until Bruce caught him once with his fingers curled into an old locket he’d thought he’d lost, that he couldn’t quite place.

Bruce said, healing is not forgetting.

-And suddenly, Steve remembered.)

Mornings now, a long time later, Steve still lies in bed in after he’s woken up, but it’s not the ceiling holding his interest anymore. He studies the planes of Tony’s body as he sleeps- because Steve’s always going to be the early riser- and the days that they’re not in the same bed he still finds himself waking at half past seven, reaching for the hollows in the blankets where nobody lies. Habit is a hard thing to shake.

He wakes today and Tony is sprawled, messy against the pillows. Steve watches the rise and fall of his breaths, the air shifting under his ribs, and he thinks that he’s found something to ground himself after all, that he is joyful, that they are joyful, that this could be something made to last.

He doesn’t usually let Tony see that he’s been watching, but today he does. Tony wakes up in stages, confused first, and he blinks back the last clinging tugs of sleep when Steve curls close enough for their knees to touch.

-Tony’s beautiful. Tony’s the one who found him first. Steve still remembers the first time Tony said I’ve got you without any sting in it, his voice firm and solid, filtered out from under his helmet. The first time Steve looked at him and hadn’t thought of Howard, how jarring it was later realizing that. And then the first time that Tony slid his fingers into Steve’s like a love letter slipped under a door. 

"Good morning," Steve tells him, and yes, he’s got Tony’s smile memorized. Steve watches it spread across his face the way he remembers it does and thinks that they are whole and sane and this is good, this is good. 

Tony grins and leans in close to slot his mouth by Steve’s temple. “It really is,” Tony says, voice still hoarse and quiet with sleep, and then leans over to kiss Steve full on the mouth.



What a nerd!

It’s still new, the way Cas’ blueblue eyes look right before they step out on the pitch. It’s the first match of the year, and Hufflepuff has already beaten Gryffindor for House Points by about a hundred and twenty, so Dean has to run it hard this time. Everything’s new, everything’s new still, like the way Castiel doesn’t blink when Dean gets close enough to really see the way his eyelashes look against the softness of his cheeks.

Dean takes Castiel’s hands in his and starts checking his gloves over while they walk, just so he has an excuse to move closer. “Don’t think this means I’m going easy on you,” Dean says, and Castiel huffs a little. He hears Jo calling him from somewhere up ahead and he fumbles over the straps.

"Dean," Castiel says, soft. He’s looking at Dean’s face instead of the crowd and Dean’s replaying how they got here, how he doesn’t want to let go of Castiel. Cas who has to be on the other side of the pitch with the rival team, Cas who’s going to be looking for the Snitch while Dean muscles with Bludgers, Cas who tutors him even when he’s tired out and falls asleep in Dean’s bed looking like he belongs there. "Dean, we have to go."

He curls his fingers against Castiel’s cheeks. Cas’ ears are pink and the flush creeps slowly up his throat, and he’s so beautiful. Dean presses a kiss to his fingers, right over the healing scars from yesterday’s Herbology class with the Fanged Germanium. “If Gryffindor wins this one, you owe me- kisses,” Dean says, the word tasting fresh and sweet on his tongue. He looks away and grabs his Impala 2050. “Kisses.”

Castiel’s already on his broom when Dean looks up, helmet already on. “One for every ten points,” Cas says, and Dean loves the way his eyes focus on the match: fierce, alive, delicious. His fingers catch on the edge of Dean’s face as he kicks off, and the tail end of Castiel’s smile is dizzying, like the first hit of a love potion, like being flung off the back of a broom for the first time. “Today- you play for me.

Dean’s left gaping when Castiel flies off to the rest of his team, and he’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that Gabriel is looking murderous while Jo’s hollering about idiot boyfriends and PDA as she shoves his bat at him. He can just imagine Sammy’s face, but even all of that can’t tamper down his spreading grin.

"All set?"

There’s a swooping sensation as Dean flies up to level and thinks, one kiss for every ten points.

He gives a thumbs up. 

The referee whistles like a thunderclap and the crowd screams.

Avengers RPF: [Sunday, Wake Up]

Pairing: Robert Downey Jr / Chris Evans RPF

Summary: When Robert wakes up Chris is still beautiful.

A/N: A sort of “morning after” fic set during the Avengers filming, pre-movie. Some Tony/Steve hints. Cookies if you realized the title is from Marina and the Diamonds.

Disclaimer: Owns nothing, wishes she owned everything. 


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