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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yamamoto/gokudera fic; (move) like you stole it

katekyo hitman reborn!
very explicit
wherein gokudera and yamamoto have a lot of sex and also accidentally feelings.

read at [AO3]

Gokudera’s always going to look back on this moment and wonder how he became the hands-on sex therapist to Yamamoto’s inner Catholic schoolboy, but right then he’s too busy coming to care.

quit your life and stay with me

Kuroh/Yashiro, post-series

Yashiro, Neko and Kuroh set up a ramen store.


(He still ached between the shoulders, right where he’d fallen after he was hit. It hurt a little sometimes, at night, and he took long soaks to ease the soreness. And if Kuroh sat by his bath tracing every vertebra like he was counting the months he’d been gone, neither of them talked about it.)

doctor who fic; [no one loves you like i love you]

amy/eleven; amy/rory
post angels take manhattan

“This is why you shouldn’t travel alone,” She said once, hair on fire and her face something hard, sharp, like glass under his palms.

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Right in the Stunner

Common Law; Wes/Travis

For the common meme Hogwarts AU prompt.

Wes and Travis are Potions/Herbology partners who’re always paired up by their professors, and they drive their Headmaster crazy. And then stuff happens.


"Because getting bewitched pods from a Fanged Germanium actually requires focus, Travis,” Wes says, glaring at him. “Something you lack.”

"I’ll show you the things I lack," Travis says unhappily, which made no sense at all, but by then Wes is too busy trying not to have his fingers chewed off to notice.

The Friday Night Boys

Common Law; Wes/Travis

“The client backed out of the merger deal,” she obliges, leaning against the car. “What happened with you? Travis again?”

Wes turns on the hose. Isn’t it always? He thinks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, something like that.”

“-Dude,” Travis says, looking at him oddly, and Wes realizes he doesn’t have a clue what he’s been saying. “Did you just miss your cue for a cheap shot?”

#maybe. #if you think about it #millimeters #or miles. #he’s always been better at estimating #and for you it was simpler #what’s the distance between your body and the left side of the bed? #(sometimes. the odd hours) #when you wake up and remember how he’d learnt you #like a cartographer trying to map an alien land #because #intimacy’s somthing else #something new entirely #here’re the things that stick and #the things that don’t: #the time he took to look up #and breathe out #the inches between his mouth and yours #that fraction before he breathed into you and said #oh.

The Hush Sound

Dean/Castiel, Sam, Bobby | spoilers for almost everything so far.

You should know upfront: this is not a love story.

(oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?)

Here’s a Hard, Hard Thing.


you know the feeling of trying to wade past the membrane between two worlds before the old one has closed behind you? The stray wisps of old memories cloying your clothes like unhappy ghosts, the half-formed vowels framing your mouth rising like balloons. Here’s a chasm you can’t bridge, the reflex you can’t shake: still turning, an old name weighing down your tongue, reaching for the hollows on the other side of the bed.)

Dean has never been very good at forgetting.


Sam doesn’t know how to talk to Dean anymore, no matter how much he wants to. Sometimes it’s like the more he tries to make it past the tightrope Dean reels it in, a little at a time, while Dean unspools into late-night bad television and washes down the bitterness with beer. He doesn’t know why it feels like masochism. 

He can’t lock up the beer because then Dean would just go out to get blind drunk. Dean crawls home from bar brawls when he’s had so much alcohol in his system he can’t tell a caress from a punch, the skin of his knuckles torn and his lip split and bleeding, and he’d laugh and say had it coming didn’t he? Shoulda known shoulda fuckin’ known until the words bled into stupid motherfucker stupid stupid fucking I didn’t want this and now Bobby’s- 

Sam patches him up, when he can, because it’s just too hard trying to stitch back broken things when his hands shake so hard. Months after months and it’s only gotten worse and sometimes Sam thinks what do you do when it feels like there’s nothing left to salvage because he keeps trying but there’s nothing left either and he’s never wanted to see Dean falling apart but he can’t put him back and how do you pick things up when you’re aching so much you can’t bend over anymore?

He thinks of Bobby, the moment the line went flat and he knew without touching his scar that this was real because there was something twisting in him, sharper and keener than old skin broken by glass. He thinks about Castiel’s face once when he reminded him that he could always come back, the way Cas smiled sometimes when he said us, about the way Jess smiled, about dad. They’d both lost so many things.

(Most nights Dean’s a vague smear in his vision, and sometimes Sam’s far gone enough to let himself pretend that maybe he’s still in hell because it’s all wrong, all wrong.)

The worst is when he puts away the bandages and Dean gives the kind of laughter that’s too close to tears for any sort of comfort and it’s infectious and bitter and Sam maybe hates him a little bit for it.

"Are you goin’ to leave now, Sammy?" He slurs, face slick. "Leaving too? Isn’t that what- what everybody-"

Sam locks himself in his room and prays for patience, prays for the things they’ve lost to come back. He never stays long enough to hear Dean say please.


Then and Now blurs.

If the last few months have taught Dean anything – and there’s no guarantee that they have (every inch of him gorged on bleakness down to the fiber of his bones, drinking alone in the impala, trying to dissect everything he did and didn’t and should have and shouldn’t have said as though they’ll give him a reason for the way they fell apart) – it’s that he needs to pick and choose his battles. Because maybe he’s getting a little sick of trying to fight it out with himself, all the time, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been doing that already long before this.

Dean wants to lie as prettily as he did leaning over countertops with every single one of his teeth gleaming under the hazy neon, his mouth a cupid’s bow promising all the things he could do naked and nothing about what he was like under his skin. Now when he thinks about lies he thinks about blueblue stand behind me the one time I ask and careworn electric flatlines and it pretty much fuckin’ figured that Cas would rebuild him and then take him apart by leaving them even though Cas couldn’t have known, wouldn’t have known (but he must have, he must have)

Dean finds a 1976 Chevrolet- same build as another one from so long ago, huge hands getting grease on his fumbling fingers as Bobby says the wrench now- paint peeling and scratched, colored red like the things you can’t scrub out easy from under fingernails.

He takes it to a field somewhere out of town and sets it on fire.


Sometimes Dean wakes up with Cas’ name on his lips like shrapnel and he

remembers the way Cas framed three words against his ribs, once, in bed, and Dean pretended he didn’t hear them, but later traced out the brands of them with wet fingers when he was gone, tried to carry the taste of them in his mouth long after Castiel’s smell faded from the overcoat.

Cas knew him too well, really, probably enough to have known Dean would never be able to scourge him out from under his skin, that he’d spend the days after that taking everything apart until he’s left with but a handful of memories he haven’t yet destroyed. Probably it’s a good thing that he can’t see the things he’s remade come to ruination.

(Dean wears them, now, around his neck, his own widow’s hood next to an orphaned mantle- you know how it goes.)

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Stub of the wings would have been cool but I thought that scars fits better in this case :’—I

They don’t talk about it: not the wrongs, not the rights, not the hows or the whys or what they gave up. When Castiel comes back human, after, stripped down powerless and wholly raw, they take him in, because there weren’t other options.

They don’t talk about it, or they don’t know how to, not quite. The first few days Cas spends being human goes by in a blur of fever and fatigue, and that means Dean gets to put off talking to him. Sam handles most of the conversations they have, because Dean isn’t ready for it yet, even if Castiel’s wearing his shirt and sleeping in his bed. 

It was stupid to think he could have put it off forever, but Dean’s always been a great practitioner of denial. He has a week of blissfully awkward silence, and then after that he can’t do it anymore: he can’t lie there on the couch staring at the watermarked ceiling without going to Cas and hold in the caged syllables behind his teeth, he can’t hold in the urge crawling under his skin, the sharp twist in his gut when he thinks about the scars, the nightmares, and Dean has to get up before his courage gives him completely.

It’s past one and Sammy’s asleep in the next room. Dean opens the door and steps in, trying to be quiet, and when he makes out the curve of Castiel’s body curled against the sheets he’s reminded again of how different this is, how different it is now, because if Castiel was still an angel he would never have been this open, unsuspecting. The word vulnerable burns on his tongue, salt-laced and bitter.

Castiel shifts, restless, turning on his side. Something in the arch of his neck makes Dean realize he knows he’s there, and then he realizes it. He realizes that Cas’ still giving him a way out, even now, even after, and Dean can’t bear it.

"Can’t- Can’t sleep?" He says, quietly, in lieu of I did this didn’t I, trying not to jostle him as he perches by the side of the bed. He wants so badly to touch him, to ground himself to the feel of Castiel’s skin, to ground them both to this, but it doesn’t work that way, and if he’s ever had that privilege it’s long gone, now, long gone.

Dean watches the curve of his shoulder, the way he’s got one arm tucked close, fist clenched. The dim lights are enough for him to make out when Cas exhales. “I-” Cas starts, then stops. “My- shoulders. They ache.”

Cas turns enough to look at him, then, but Dean doesn’t catch just the tail end of some hasty glance because Castiel doesn’t look away and Dean can’t, and everything is still raw and aching between them, too full of regrets and apologies and broken things, but he can’t forget that before that they had something beautiful and fresh and right, first.

"Okay," Dean breathes, finding the turn of Castiel’s wrist, "Okay."

He unbuttons Cas’ shirt, slow because his fingers keep fumbling, even when he’s trying to keep them steady, because Cas’s skin is warm where Dean touches his skin and the feel of him steals the breath from under his ribs. Cas watches him, quietly, and when their hands meet at the fourth button Dean has to take a breath, shaky, and he has to tell himself if he’s been strong enough all this time he’s strong enough for this.

He slides the shirt off Castiel’s shoulders, easing him out of it the gentlest he knows how, and he’s grateful for the way Cas doesn’t call him on it. Cas just sits when Dean gets behind him, and then Dean has to try not to press his hands against the scars, not to trace the shape of them and ask if they hurt, because they have to. He doesn’t ask about Purgatory or how it was like there, because he doesn’t know if he has rights to answers anymore.

"This’ll be uncomfortable," he tells Cas, because it’s the closest semblance to an apology he dares.

"Dean," Cas says, instead, and Dean’s almost afraid he’s going to say anything else, so he reaches for Cas’ arm just to make sure he won’t.

Cas exhales when Dean braces his palm against his left shoulder and handles his right, easing it back and stretching out the strained muscle. He turns, slow, trying to work out the kinks, imagining the sour ache of it set deep in his bones, how it had to be for someone who’d never felt it before. Cas inhales in measured breaths, like it hurts, and Dean has to try so hard not to touch him anywhere else, because he’s afraid once he starts he won’t be able to stop.

Cas’ breath comes a little too sharp when Dean raises his wrist just beyond his ear, and then Dean has to say something.

"You have to tell me if it hurts," Dean bites out, sounding like his voice is stuck halfway in his throat, because it’s easier to pretend to be angry than to say the things he wants to, the things he’s spent nights trying to get right but never did (do you think about it because I do I think about it all the time I tried we both tried it wasn’t enough not really but I tried and I fuck it up all the time possibly I’ll always fuck it up and it was fucked up but I wish both of us weren’t) and there’s still the weight of it churning in his gut, that Cas is back and here now and that’s more than he’s had for the past few days, weeks, months, that he’s alive and this is possibility even in the impossibility of it and before he can stop himself he says, “Your trenchcoat’s in the drawer.”

Castiel’s hand slides out of his grasp and he lets it. He doesn’t know what he’s expected, he’s as good as damned himself twice over, and he doesn’t manage to look Cas in the eyes. He’s not strong enough for it, to have him and then let him go twice.

It takes the weight of Castiel’s palms sliding into his to remind him that this is real, not some half-remembered dream here to torment him again. Cas is still so beautiful and the slant of his face aches and Dean loves every inch of him, down to his bones. Once it was easier to shove it all down and bite back the words trapped under his tongue and pretend that he didn’t have this huge ugly vast something in his veins, and then Cas was gone and he realized it wasn’t so easy after all.

His throat burns. “Cas-” Dean says, stops, swallows, his fingers trembling by the side of Castiel’s jaw. He thinks this is one of the bravest things he’s done. “Can we fix this?”

Cas doesn’t say anything about the way his voice cracks. “It’s not broken, Dean,” he says, quietly.

It’s a redux of an old record, scratched back and pieced together, and Dean has to close his eyes this time and think that this is his, this is good and this will stay, that they can remake this and this is something he can hold onto and not lose. This is a second chance, he thinks, this is a second chance and he can’t do it again. Cas closes his eyes like he knows what’s coming before it does, and there’s something that aches in that, too.

Dean leans in to kiss him

and it’s like going home.