The world is a damned mess and it seems all I can do at present is to write fic like mad. If you’re curious, or in need of smutty fluff, you can find them here. There’s some Destiel, McKirk, and Coldwave, should you be so inclined.
Inspired by my excellent colleague Karra, I’m going to try blogging about my next research project/conference paper while it’s in progress. It’ll help me think through things, I think. And bonus, doing so gives me an excuse not to be haunted by my dissertation for a few minutes, which is always a relief.
So! My next project is about fan production, seduction, and Misha Collins.
Hardship, y’all. I tell you.
Here’s what I’m working towards presenting at the national PCA/ACA conference in April (and yes, what follows is the conference abstract. Hence its alternately ham-handed and semi-awkward phrasing):
My friend cymbalism and I had a hankering for some Dean/Castiel shower smut, so we wrote some. Like, 12K+ words worth. What can I say? We had way too much fun. Hope you get a kick out of it, too.
Title: Do What Feels Good
Authors: catchclaw & cymbalism
Summary: Castiel learns to love alone time in the shower. And then he learns to share.
Warnings: Prolonged showers may cause skin to prune. Also, human!Cas, autoerotica, tattoo worship, and uber-indulgent fangirl fantasy. And PWP like whoa.
Word Count: ~12.5k
Notes: Inspired by [x]. Egged on by [x]. And [x] didn’t hurt, either.
FicMix: Story soundtrack / our smut-writing playlist extraordinaire.
A bit of unabashedly schmoopy Destiel, because it’s Valentine’s Day.
Dean doesn’t sleep through the night,
even now, so many months since he awoke under the ground
and clawed his way back to the living.
Continue reading “Like Now”
I’ve updated my fic rec list again, at last! Because nothing says America’s birthday like gay incest porn. I’ve added Destiel and Wincest this time around; fics new to the list are tagged: **
There’s a dearth of new RPS on said list, et c’est triste. If you’ve read any such lately you liked, I’d welcome your recommendations.
A Destiel college AU drabble that I posted back in March on my tumblr; one I liked well enough, in retrospect, to archive over here.
I’ll overthink it, like I always do. Hell, I think I already have if I’m writing this shit down. All the ways this is gonna go wrong.
I’ll plan really careful what to say and when, and then something random will happen–you’ll snort popcorn up your nose, or I’ll hit a pedestrian, or the bar will be too crowded after the movie and we’ll have to go someplace else. Except it’ll be Friday and every bar will be slammed with undergrads and you’ll get quiet and I’ll get pissed and we won’t go anywhere, fine, and you won’t even let me drive you home. You’ll insist on walking, ok, only like four blocks, but still, it’ll be enough to convince me that you’re out trolling for a soriority chick, like the last girl you were with in that LDR that you’ve brought up more than once just so I know that you’re not looking for a serious thing but that you’re free to fuck whoever you want, no strings but plenty of baggage. And then I’ll drive home with the radio off and scowl and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll interrogate me outta the goodness of his heart and his sympathy will make me want to punch a wall, which of course I can’t because then you’d see the scars on Monday in class and say:
Oh. Dean. Are you ok?
I’ve been sick for the last few days and, for me, something about being sick screams bad TV movies and tea. So one night in a Vicks Vapor Rub huff, I wrote this, some post-season eight Destiel bunker fluff.
His first month in the bunker, Cas won’t stop watching Lifetime. Television for women, the promos proclaim, but Cas doesn’t seem to care.
At first, they think it’s because he’s lost the remote. but then he starts name-checking Meredith Baxter Birney at the dinner table. Lynda Carter and Jaclyn Smith. Heather Locklear and Tori Spelling and that’s a little weird, sure. Earns him an eyebrow over the green beans but hey, you know, whatever.
Hurray! I’ve finally updated my SPN Fic Rec List (thank you, spring break!). I’ve added some Wincest, Destiel, Cockles, Wincestiel, and a new category: Dean Winchester/Jared Padalecki.
Heh! Read ’em first, judge me later.
Yeah, that too!
So my friend DarkCaustic and I started writing together well on a month ago, and next thing you know, we had 15,000 words of romantic smut to show for it.
In this story, you’ve got DarkCaustic on Sam, me on Cas, and oh, how we wish that were so.
So. If Dean’s going to leave Sam for an angel of the Lord—which he didn’t even believe in two years ago—he should at least have the decency to tell Sam to his face. And the high-end flirting routine Dean and Cas are staging in front of him right now? So does not count.
for my friend makingfists, via booze: a little new year’s destiel fluff.
they’re supposed to go out, to sam’s, but cas has a cold.
won’t admit it, of course. just pads around all day looking miserable and pulling tissues from his sleeves like a freaking old man. curls up on the couch in dean’s ratty sweater and watches home shopping network on mute.
but he’s fine.
“i’m fine,” he whines every time dean touches his forehead. “dean. leave me alone. i’m fine.”
dean rolls his eyes and feeds cas popsicles—“i don’t like the grape ones, dean”—and tries not to wince every time he coughs.
cas finally passes out around 10 with the cat in his lap and dean sneaks out to the kitchen to call sam, to cancel. “yeah,” dean says, soft. “i’m sorry, dude. but drink some champagne for me, yeah? ok. i’ll tell him. thanks. and hey, good luck popping sarah’s cork tonight, sport.” he hangs up while sam’s still swearing and smirks his way back to the couch.
they stay there all evening: dean’s fingers on cas’ neck, slow; the cat shooting dean looks from cas’ lap like: “can’t you see i’m working here, human?”; cas snoring hoarse and drooling on a pillow.
and maybe dean sleeps a little there, too.
he wakes up just after one disoriented and dry-mouthed to see cas’ face in his, his weight sweet heavy full in dean’s lap and those blue blue eyes that dean would know in any darkness staring right down to his soul.
“um,” cas scratches. “dean. happy new year.”
and dean grins and leans up for his kiss because that’s what’s supposed to happen now, right? but cas just leans back and pushes a glass of—what? orange juice? into his hand.
clinks his cup into dean’s and says: “salud.”
they drink and dean laughs and catches cas’ face with his free hand.
“baby,” he breathes. “cas. happy new year.”
cas’ kisses taste like nyquil and tea and they’re sweeter than any champagne.