Curse Me Good

Three long-standing WIP dusted in 10 days. I don’t know what’s come over me. Oh, wait: yes, I do. I have conference papers I should be writing. Amazing what that’ll do.

Some Cockles, then, that I finally finished on my birthday.

Being a good listener has gotten Misha into trouble before.

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Come Spring

tumblr_l9k4raCh1J1qclbsno1_500My parents live about 4 hours away from me, and to get to them, to the town I grew up in, I tend to take the backroads, that kind wind through a handful of counties that are littered with little towns, places with not much more than a stoplight. Driving back to my house last Thanksgiving, key pieces of what would become this story came to me in chunks: the opening lines, for instance; then passing by a tractor dealership strung up in Christmas lights; then seeing a little cafe tucked in at a railroad crossing.

A long way of saying: sometimes, stories sneak up on you. And then take months and months to make any damn sense.

Objectively, he can see that his brother isn’t beautiful. Not like this, stretched out like some humanoid starfish, his hair in his eyes and his mouth a drawbridge open to sleep. No, Sam looks like a naked frat boy who passed out in his little brother’s bed, legs knotted in Spiderman sheets and feet almost touching the floor. He looks oversized, too big for the everyday world they’ve wound up in; but then, he’s always been too much for Dean.

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Television for Women

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.

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Don’t Make Any Sudden Moves


I sat down to write fluffy Destiel and this angsty Cockles came out instead. I worry about myself sometimes.

Don’t Make Any Sudden Moves

I told myself I hated him. That he was sandpaper on my skin, a blueborne rash behind my eyes that I could never scratch.

That’s why I jumped when he came into a room or met my eye on set or laughed too loud at lunch.

Hate. That’s what it was.

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My Time of Day

So this thing features knotting, J2, and a world where mpreg is possible.

If these terms are unfamiliar, you should probably skip this one.

Part of me wants to apologize, and part of me’s just like: Hey. This happened. Sometimes stories go where they want and don’t ask your permission first.


In this story, Jay loses track of time in a way that’s kind of important. Jensen is highly amused–until it’s clear that they’re not gonna make it back to civilization, to Gen, anytime soon.

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One of those fics that started out as one thing and decided it wanted to be something else entirely.

It takes Dean two weeks and four states to find it, the place where he’ll stage the most important conversation–confession?–of his life.


It took Dean two weeks and four states to find it, the place where he was gonna stage the most important conversation of his life.

More like, a confession. Or an autopsy. Or the long, lonely record of his broken heart.

One that he hoped Cas would be anxious to fix.

There wasn’t a moment of truth, some bolt of divine revelation. It was more like a recognition. One day, he’d heard Cas settle beside him on the front seat, and his first thought had been: hey, it’s Cas. The dude who I love.

And it was.

After that, things got a little weird, for Dean. Because Cas was around a lot, and they were alone a lot, and suddenly it was like a middle school dance inside the Impala, or in their crummy motel rooms, or in the middle of 1977. Dean kept over-reading, kept trying to interpret, intuit every sigh, or raised eyebrow, or proximity alarm.

At some level, he thought Cas had to know what he was doing. That nobody, angel or otherwise, was that freaking clueless about personal space.

He had to know. He did.

But the next moment, Cas would move away like nothing had happened and Dean would kick himself, curse himself for being such a sentimental douche.

Because there was no way Cas knew what kind of effect he had on Dean when he did dumb shit like breathe the same air or give over that half-smile or just listen so fucking hard that Dean could practically see his brainwaves.

But it was never steady, his reading of Cas, and so he found himself drifting closer and closer to yes, to he wants you, to he loves you, than he wanted to.

Continue reading “Litany”

[more] Feels Like The First Time

The sixth chapter of Feels Like The First Time by my friend fanspired and I is up over on the Sam/Dean Slash Archive. In this chapter: mini-golf! unfortunate wagers! and a little light bondage.

In this story, the first time was just a fluke. The second first time? A big misunderstanding. But the third first time? Now wait just a damn minute…