#crxstalcas

[lemon-wedges]

Loveable beige trenchcoat dudes whose names start with a C and have 7 letters

.......yeah......

my squinty old men 😔💖

[bisexualdemondean]

Show us the frogs Dean

No I’m going to Tom Holland them

[saltfromyoureyes]

I’m gonna be offensive as well and say what is English anyway except for a weird mix between Dutch and German? (and later Norse, as well as French and Latin)

BOOM. roasted

[quillquiver]

on rebuilding

zutara, fluff, first kiss, ~6k

It comes to a head on a balcony in Ba Sing Se.

Once a month they pile into the house in the Upper Ring. It started as a way of ensuring they’d see each other—of making sure everyone was safe, and happy, and alive. Adjusting has been difficult; they slept piled atop one another in the common area for most of the first year.

Besides, despite the fact that they’re all technically ambassadors to the Fire Nation, opportunities to just be together are often few and far between—politics leaves little room for field trips and nostalgia, so they’d agreed to make room for that themselves.

Over the past eight years, the house has evolved from a place of refuge to a place of gathering.

Zuko sometimes still needs a break from all the noise—one of the side-effects of not having to worry about getting ambushed is how big they get to be—and unsurprisingly, it’s Katara who notices he’s missing. Aang watches her debate with herself for a minute before heading out after him. He smiles and turns back to Toph, settling in as she extols the virtues of magma bending.  

“Hey Twinkle Toes, you okay?”

“…Yeah,” he says. And he means it. His family is safe and sound and has been for the past eight years, and they’re together. He’s no longer who he was, but he… isn’t upset about that. They built the world they wanted to live in, and now they’re doing just that. He’s happy.

Toph quirks a brow.

“Yeah,” Aang repeats. “I am.”

read on ao3

[soluscheese]

Made some ATLA AU stuffs with some friends. These are more like sketches, me trying to design their clothes, but I’m proud of them. <3

[riversongg]

hi! Just dropping in to say I was lurking in the tags of my destiel reunion fanart and your comment about their body language honesty made my day so thank you <3

Ahhh omg thank you so much for sending this to me!!

This is so good to hear! Honestly seeing your art is one of the few things that has made me happy over the last few days so thank you. I hope that the ending of this show won’t stop you from creating more art because it is truly wonderful and I really look forward to seeing more from you!

In response to what I said - UGH ITS SO GOOD! THE BODY LANGUAGE IS SPOT ON.  I love me some DeanCas art but sometimes it doesn’t quite feel right to me and the reason is because it doesn’t quite feel like them due to the body language. It’s something that is so important and you nailed it. (heh. too soon?) 

I think I have stared at your piece of artwork for close to an hour total now just WISHING that this is what we had been given.

Please keep creating. Please keep being awesome.  

[jununy]

I just discovered your blog and I'm!! so in awe of how loose and playful your art is I absolutely love it

thanks so much!!! glad you like my stuff :D 

[whelvenwings]

Another Mango in the Fruit Bowl

Destiel, 1.6k.

If ye seek the cause of this fic, turn thine eyes to @crxstalcas.

*********

Do not rush to judge someone unless … [their] fruits reveal the truth.

- Israelmore Ayivor

What is the worst thing that you can imagine happening to you? No, worse than that. Worse, still, than that. Whatever you are picturing, it isn’t bad enough.

Picture now your body shifting… compacting. Compressing.

Sweetening.

You struggle, but it’s in vain. Your body isn’t under your control. You’re hollering and screaming and no sound is being made, no one can hear you. They walk past you as though everything were completely normal. They ignore you. To them, you might as well be another brick in the wall.

Another… mango in the fruit bowl.

Picture it now, if you can. Close your eyes. No, open them, you need to read. I’m telling you to reopen them but we both know you never closed them for any prolonged amount of time in the first place, you anarchist, you absolute legend.

Imagine waking up as your own worst enemy.

Imagine waking up yucky.

Imagine waking up… as a gross gross gross groooooooooooooooooooss fruit.

***

“Dean,” said Castiel, “the worst has happened.”

“Oh god,” said Dean, “I know.”

They sat in their beds - and just for a moment, they were silent, as though all that was wrong and terrible could be hushed to nothing if they only did not speak.

Light filtered in through the motel window, soft and willowy light. It brushed tender fingers over the scene, an ethereally careful touch that seemed to make miracles of the dust on top of the chip-screened television, the brown shabbiness of the carpet, the dismal pattern of the wallpaper.

The shiny, shiny skin of two fruits, sitting with their tops poking out of the blankets on two twin beds.

On the left, a mango.

On the right, a banana.

“Dean,” said Castiel once more.

“Yeah.”

“Should we do something about this.”

Dean, who was a banana, thought carefully.

“I hate bananas,” he said.

“Bananas are delicious and I envy the sweet, delicious, angelic body in which you have become enveloped while maintaining the full power of speech and rational thought (besides your hatred for bananas!) for reasons unbeknownst to us,” Castiel said. “While I… O TEMPORA, O MORES… have become IMPRISONED, nay SHACKLED, within a BEFOULMENT… WHAT IS THIS CREEPING DEATH I FEEL COME OVER ME… LO, I AM BROUGHT DOWN, THUS IS THE ANGEL CASTIEL ENDED.”

“Shhh,” Dean said mildly. “Mangoes are like my favourite?”

“They suck,” Castiel said shortly. Much more shortly than usual. He was like one twentieth of his normal size because he was a mango. Yeah, I actually went and looked that up, and that’s about accurate if the mango is a large one (and you know it’s large (; ). And the first result I got when I typed “Mango size guide” was details on the clothing brand Mango’s sizes of jeans. Why won’t Google immediately cater to something more relatable like needing to know what proportion of his usual size a man would be if he changed into a sentient, well-spoken, angry fruit. You want to know the best part? I guessed it would be one twentieth and I was RIGHT. HAVE I BEEN A MANGO MATHS SAVANT THIS ENTIRE TIME.

“Anyway, enough of that,” Dean said, getting this story back on track.

“I hate being a mango,” said Castiel.

“I hate being a banana,” Dean said. “They’re icky. I should be more worried than I am, though. I’m like surprisingly zen about this whole experience.”

“It’s because bananas are good,” Castiel said.

“No,” said Dean. “Not that.”

“It’s because the high levels of potassium are making you feel K.”

“...” said Dean.

“K is short for OK, as some hip teens use it,” Castiel said. “And it is also the chemical symbol for potassium, which is found in bananas.”

“I hate everything about this,” Dean said, “but I accept that punning is a necessary evil.”

They sat some more, and thought about life.

“Oh,” said Castiel, “I weep for my old vessel.”

“Me too,” Dean said. “I mean, for my own. Not for yours. Obviously.”

“Bit harsh,” Castiel said. “I did just lose that. Show a bit of compassion, you acolyte who worships at the altar of cruel honesty.”

“I’m trying to be tough and not show you that I have feelings about you,” Dean explained helpfully.

“You have FEELINGS about me?” Castiel gasped.

“What - oh - oh DARN - oh NO,” Dean said. “I have blown my cover.”

The sun set. It had been a long day of sitting and talking about being fruit and having feelings. They were very much mid-conversation really but you know how it is when you gotta nap more than you gotta discuss the way you feel. They were both very tired. They slept.

***

“Good morning,” said Castiel. “The worst has still happened.”

“It’s like ongoing,” Dean agreed.

They were both still in their hated fruity bodies.

“You know what it is,” Dean said. “I know why I’m so chill about being a banana even though I hate bananas. It’s because I hate being myself all the time. So like, what’s changed.”

“Dean,” Castiel said. “I didn’t… I’ve never heard you say that before.”

My goddamn laptop just died because I didn’t bother plugging it in, since I thought this would be a short piece of writing and it’s now close to one thousand words. I just had to reboot my laptop and watch the swirling loading screen for three solid minutes, all while knowing that what I was waiting for was the opportunity to finish a fic in which Castiel is a mango and Dean is a banana. Like it’s not hugely ridiculous until you think about all the other things I could possibly be doing. I could be messaging a friend. Walking a dog. Baking some cookies in a pleasantly-coloured apron. Sprucing up my herb garden by planting out some mint. Watching a bit of TV. Napping. And yet here I am, six years after I first binge-watched this one American genre TV show, writing a story in which two of its principle characters are botanical freaking wonders who are about to confess their love to each other in a meaningful way. Oh yeah, I’m going there. Give me STRENGTH.

“It - well,” Dean said. “I’m not - I don’t like, usually talk about it. I think being a banana is kinda making me a little more chatty. But, uh, yeah.”

“Why would you hate yourself?” Castiel said.

“I mean, look at me, man,” Dean said.

There was a pause.

“I mean, OK, not right now,” Dean said. “Picture me as a human man and then look at me. I’m just… a guy. I’m just a dude, I’m just - I’m just some asshole, you know? But I’m the one who has to decide on the fate of the freaking universe every other day. I’ve killed so many things and made so many crappy decisions and screwed up the way things were supposed to go and I had no right. I’ve never had a right. It’s always been way too much on me. Even when it was just Sam who was my responsibility, I screwed that up often enough. I’ve never been good enough at anything I do and somehow it’s always still me who’s gotta do it.”

He fell silent.

Castiel didn’t say anything, letting the words settle. He knew the rawness, the carved-outness Dean would be feeling.

“Dean,” he said eventually, “Dean, you - you don’t get it at all, do you?”

“What?” Dean sounded strangely young in that single word, that little moment. Like a green banana.

“You don’t get it. You’re a person who’s been put into impossible situations throughout the whole of your life, right from the beginning. You think you were old enough to take care of your brother safely? You think you were strong enough to avert the apocalypse a thousand times over with no fallout? You have been thrown into these scenarios over and over and over. You hate yourself for not winning in no-win situations.”

“But - Cas, look -”

“No. Stop telling me to look at you. You look at you. Look at yourself. Look at yourself. What do you have? You have a world that’s still spinning. You have a life, you have a future. You have your brother, a brother who cares about you. You have an angel,” Castiel said, “who has feelings for you.” He breathed out. He’s a mango. I don’t care. HE BREATHED OUT. “You shouldn’t hate yourself,” he said. “Please. Take my eyes. See yourself with them instead. You took every bullshit thing the world ever threw at you and you did everything you could. You’ve kept trying and you’re still trying after all this time. All while being... just some asshole. Don’t you see? You’re astounding, Dean.”

“Cas, I - I don’t know what to - you…” Dean said weakly. “You have - you have feelings for me?”

“Well,” Castiel said, “yes.”

“Like… good feelings?”

“Definitely,” Castiel said.

“Like… the ‘L’ word feelings?”

“Absolutely.”

Dean wanted him to say it. Castiel knew it. He could feel it in his pulp. Dean wanted him to say those words out loud.

“It’s strangely terrifying,” Castiel said, “to think about saying those three words.”

“Cas,” Dean said, “be brave.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Castiel said.

“Come on, Cas - are you a man, or are you a mango?”

“Well - are you a man, or are you a manana?” Castiel shot back.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, in a flash, they were both in their human bodies once more. They sat up on their beds, stretching their arms and wiggling their eyebrows to an excessive degree just because they could.

They looked at each other.

“I love you,” they said, at the same time.

And there was no explanation whatsoever for the fruit thing. And then they kissed.

The End.