#she knows he’s a goddamn fag

[groblinboy]

Hey actually new doctor who is insane and I’m going crazy about it

[unclewaynemunson]

'Back off, man, I can do it alone.'

'No you can't.'

Granted, Max couldn't see shit anymore, but she could definitely feel how Eddie was looking at her – how he was winning their staring contest simply because her withering glare didn't exist anymore.

'Look, I don't want you in there with me, period,' she said, trying to sound more in control than she was feeling. She felt her cheeks burn and she hated it.

'Why not?'

She sighed, wishing she could still roll her eyes. 'Jesus, Eddie, do I really need to spell this out for you? It's one thing that my mom has to help me with literally everything, but there's no way I'm gonna let you.'

'Max.' She hated how Eddie's voice had gone soft all of a sudden. 'What are you afraid of?'

She merely scoffed in response; she still felt her cheeks burn. She didn't want to be here, didn't want to have this conversation, didn't want to think about how fucking vulnerable she felt. All she wanted was to go to the goddamn bathroom, was even that too much to ask?

'It's no different for me than for your mom, you know,' Eddie said. Max wished she could see his face, because something in his voice was different than usual but she didn't know what exactly it was.

'You know that's not true,' she said, her jaw clenched.

'No, it is.' She could hear how he took a deep breath. 'I'm gay. So, um... I can promise you it won't be weird.'

'Oh.' She didn't quite know what to do, taken aback by the vulnerability of those words. He didn't need to share this; he only did it to make her feel comfortable. He just handed her this big secret, trusting that she'd react in the right way, that she'd help him keep it, that she wouldn't want to hurt him. It was almost too much responsibility; she didn't really know what to say. She wasn't good with comforting or kind or reassuring words like Lucas.

'Does anyone else know?' she asked.

'My uh... My uncle.'

The scent of smoke made its way into Max's nose and she grimaced, but didn't tell him off; if any moment was a good one to have a cigarette, this one would probably be it, she supposed.

She still wondered what Lucas would say in this moment, but kept coming up empty.

'Okay, you can help me in the bathroom,' she finally decided, shifting back into a more practical mindset.

'Soooo...' Eddie dragged out the word. 'Are you - are we - okay?'

'Yeah, of course.' She should probably thank him for trusting her and tell him that he was her friend and she would always love him no matter who he loved or some sentimental bullshit like that, but she felt too awkward about it so she went for silence instead.

While Eddie helped her into the shower and washed her – at least as far as possible with all her casts – her mind kept running. It wasn't as awkward as she had expected it to be, to have Eddie undress her and touch her skin and even help her on the toilet. He was surprisingly gentle and kept checking in to make sure she was feeling okay, and he even made some lame jokes to try and keep things light. It made her think that this could be what it's like to have an older brother. It made her think of Billy.

'Billy would've hated you,' she finally broke the silence when she was dressed in fresh pajamas and lying with her head against the sink, Eddie's hands massaging shampoo in her hair.

She felt his hands freeze against her scalp.

'He always used to call people fags and pervs and... you know. And he'd beat people up for it. Sometimes I wondered...' She paused, hesitating. 'If he was, like, compensating for something.'

'Compensating?'

'Yeah, you know... If you go around calling enough people queers, no one will expect you to be one, right?'

Eddie hummed. 'I didn't know your brother very well,' he told her. 'Some people say that the queers have this instinct, like a sixth sense, to recognize each other, but I think that's bullshit. Or well, not entirely, sometimes you do get like a vibe from someone – but in the end, you can't just know someone's truth like that. And some people will bury that truth deep, deep down. And we can hardly blame them for that. It can be easier to pretend, you know – it's definitely safer. This world wasn't made for being different in that way. For being different in a lot of ways, actually. Whatever his demons were, whatever war was going on inside of him, I think Billy knew that very well.' He turned on the tap and started rinsing her hair.

'I'm sorry you can't get your answers,' he added when he turned the water back off again.

She sighed in response and let Eddie help her in an upright sitting position. She could feel how he started brushing her hair, carefully, as if she'd break into pieces from just the tiniest touch.

She realized that Eddie was right: there was no way to know what wars exactly took place in Billy's mind. The only thing she did know is that he had been a terrible brother to her - but that, despite that, she still wished it would've been different.

Billy wasn't here anymore; he was buried in the ground and his body was slowly falling apart, eaten by worms. But Eddie was here.

Eddie had constantly been at her side when they were both in the hospital, and now that she had come home, he still was. He checked in on her every afternoon; he cooked for her and her mom; he told her stories to entertain her and tried his best to make her smile whenever she was feeling frustrated by the limits of her body. He listened to her when she wanted to talk, and he kept her company when she didn't. He looked out for her and even trusted her with his secrets. He was more of a brother to her than Billy had ever been. He was right here - and she had all the time in the world to ask him all the questions she never got to ask Billy.

'Have you ever kissed a guy?'

She heard Eddie chuckle softly. 'I have.'

'Have you ever had a boyfriend?'

'Have not.'

'Why not?'

And he answered everything she asked him, all while softly stroking her brush through her hair. And when her mom came home, they drank tea together on the couch, and it strangely felt like they were a proper family.

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#330

“Ok faggot, your story checks out.  My daughter says you are cool.  I just don’t like waking up at 1 AM to find an arbitrary faggot in my living room watching drag queens on my TV while taking several hits from my bong.  Come with me….

“…Shut up.  We are going to my bedroom.  When I fuck, I prefer to be in my own bedroom….  Drop it.  Amanda told me she thinks you are a faggot.  She also told me that her boyfriend’s plane has been delayed an hour and a half.

“So I have three things.  I have a faggot in my home, I have the time, and I have a hard-on.  Of course, I’m going to fuck you. 

“Now this can go two ways.  You can try to run, but we both know, I am faster and stronger, and you won’t make it out the front door before I have you on the floor, tearing off those fag clothes, and make you take my hog with virtually no lube.  Or you can get on your knees, after stripping off your own clothes.  Good.

“Yeah, you are going to do.  I don’t care if you are a faggot or if you consider yourself as fag or straight or bi or gender fluid or whatever the fuck the current thing is.  I don’t care if you have a boyfriend.  Hell, I don’t even care if you are fucking my whore daughter.  Right now you are a faggot waiting to be cunted.

“You ever had a man cunt you?  That’s when man fucks you like he would a cunt he paid for.  The boys in your fraternity don’t count; they don’t know how to fuck, let alone how to cunt a fag.

“Up on the bed.  No. No. No.  Face down, ass up.  I don’t want to look at your mug.  In fact bury it in this pillow.  Extend your arms above your head.  Like that and hold them in place….  And with that, the first handcuff is on….  What?  You ain’t going anywhere.  A proper cunting takes a lot of time, sweat, and grease.  These handcuffs will ensure that your arms are stretched out away from your body.  Not only are you not going anywhere, you ain’t even moving around.

“Take a look at my cock.  It’s hungry.  This is the cock that is going to make you change how you view your cunt.  I know you are a real fag.  No straight would offer no resistance to the threat of being savagely cunted by a beer can thick dick.  You knew my size when I first came out of my room; you kept on checking out my boxers as I walked.

“These very boxers.  Open your fucking mouth.  That should keep you quiet while I do what needs to be done.  Keep your ass up and bite that fucking pillow. 

“Here it comes.  Oh fuck you are tight.  Scream faggot scream, just keep those boxers in your goddamned mouth.  Faggot, we are in it for the long haul.  I got a jar full of lube, a dick that can cum multiple times, and all night.

“Yeah, I have no idea if my daughter intended to leave you here with me while she picks up her boyfriend at the airport.  But knowing how conniving she is, it wouldn’t surprise me.  She didn’t even blink when I told her to stay out all night.  She knew that I was going to fuck you in an all-nighter.

“Fuck yeah.  Cry, cry, cry….  I love it when you moan.  Get it out of your system, we got hours to go.”

[cock-holliday]

What’s wild about “only x queer/trans people experience y” is how much people assume that someone gets read the same by everyone and that their presentation either stays the same or goes from one extreme to the next and THEN stays there.

I got called dyke and fag before I knew I was queer. I’ve been called both since. I’ve been called tranny. Ive been called shemale. I’ve been called he-she. I’ve been assumed to be transmasc and assumed to be transfemme. I’ve had well-meaning folks and bigots alike ask me “which way are you trans?” When I’ve used gendered pronouns I’ve had people say they will only use he/him and say they will only use she/her.

I’ve run into conflict in both mens and womens bathrooms. Sometimes when I’d be out I’d avoid bathrooms completely. Sometimes I’d ask friends which way I read to pick which bathroom might be safer. Sometimes I’ve had to take a gamble and pick one.

I’ve been stealth one way or the other at jobs where they can fire you for being trans. I’ve been stealth one way or the other at jobs with gendered locker rooms where I know my coworkers are bigoted. I’ve had to present as whatever gender is easiest at multiple times in my life.

I’m near or the only of my trans friends to have never been jumped or the victim of an explicit hatecrime, and I carried weapons on my person for years to keep it that way. I’ve been fetishized, demonized, treated like a medical anomaly, and harassed by employers, doctors, and professors.

“Only x have to deal with—“ I can guarantee you that is not the case. People will get hostile if they think you’re a butch lesbian or a trans man or a trans woman or if you are so unidentifiable the person loses their goddamn mind because whether they pin a specific identity to you or a catchall of “freak”, you are going to face fairly consistent overlap whether you are the intended demographic or not.

[spoiledleaff]

Please stop stealing other people's ideas and putting them off as your own? You're not original we get it. The Domestic Dew? Your Era III polys? Literally anything to do with genderqueer ghouls? You're not such hot shit girlie. You don't even know how to write transness its so sad. Probably just some poor confused dyke trying to get the popularity points with the community huh. You're fucking pathetic get it together fag.

first off, please choke on some soap. i’m a transmasc non-binary and i have been comfortable with this identity for a good few years now. i go by they/he pronouns. please don’t misgender me. thank you.

second of all, what? never once have i claimed to be the end all/be all of the domestic dewdrop hc. i just have a lot of thoughts about it and i enjoy writing about it. i’m probably not the first to put that to words, and i definitely won’t be the last. same with the era iii and genderfucked ghouls. i’m passionate about these things, and therefor i enjoy writing about them. i’m not the end all/be all for this kind of content; it’s just what i enjoy focusing on.

additionally, i’m sorry that my perception of genderqueer relationships and experiences doesn’t vibe with you. they’re partially built off of my own experiences, and i hope you understand that everyone’s experiences are different. luckily for you, this fandom is certainly not lacking in genderfucked and generally queer content. i really don’t think of myself as hot shit with my content, sooo… >:p

lastly, please stop. touch some grass. and please don’t use such offensive language against someone you don’t know; i’m not comfortable with that and i find it extremely rude.

also, you wouldn’t know a butch if she/they has the misfortune of fucking you in the ass. hard to feel good from a strap with the sheer size of the goddamn stick you have shoved up there. might wanna get that checked out. could be a problem, anon.

[kitkatcadillac]

i have such a hard time knowing where i stand with my gender labels and stuff.

im not a woman. i dont get attracted to women. im woman adjacent sometimes i guess. im not a man either, and im definitely not attracted to men. i like people more similar to me. so id argue even though im nonbinary arguably across the whole board, im like... homosexual. right???

at the same time i fuck around with myself in my brain all the time. id squeeze someones skull into a fine dust if they ever called me a lesbian, but i joke around at myself im a dyke on the inside all the time. except im this skinny little freak that wears mens clothes but has a fair face and long hair that hasnt seen a pair of scissors in years. i fixed the washing machine and sanded the rust off my brakes and rotors with my own hands and recoated them. i wear high heels like a runway model. i laugh that im a girltwink but not a girl or a twink. ill kill you if you call me a girl. twink is tolerable but you get like one. i wear baggy clothes and working jeans, and tuck my shirt in to see my body strikes just like my brothers did when he was younger and a twig, a lot like my dads did when he was younger and a twig, but my face is like a carbon copy of my moms and i feel weird about it. she never got to find out i wasnt just a fruit, i was the whole goddamn tree. but whose rejection, acceptance or guidance matters when you dont have any goddamn parents as an adult and youre the only queer in the family!!!!

not even out tho so everyone thinks im a lesbian. and its whatever. its easier to just let that sit that way. im not like, Queers For Dummies(tm) tutorial fag for everyone in my family, where i have to go through bit by bit and explain what everything means and why they should shut their stupid mouths and suck on some soap instead of wondering why Gays Have To Be Everywhere Now or something.

hhdjfkg frustrating. frustrating. liminal queer space in an already confusing queer space and between in and out where my small joys are putting on my silly little label hats and then eventually going oh, god, but thats crumbs of an existential crisis, isnt it??? insane

i have a hard time... figuring out my labels and stuff. i do. i do

[rubin-therubix-loverofblorbos]

Hhhhh. Protective dad Jules Pidieu. He would tear you limb from limb if you put a finger on his daughter and she doesn't want you to. And you wouldn't even see it coming 'cause he's so goddamn sweet. That man knows how to swing and you can't tell me otherwise. You call his baby a dyke at their pride parades and he'll make out with the nearest man that consents and dare you to call him a fag. Most people get intimidated by his height because I feel like he's this lanky guy that towers over people, but for this reason people think he's weak since he doesn't have a very good Height-Width ratio; he looks scrawny. That fucking beanpole could knock your silly ass so far back you'd have to go to Children's. Mess with his kid and you'll be in your daddy's balls. Then, after forcing you to, he apologizes, gives you a ten-minute lecture about being a decent person, and a cherry flavored hard candy.

[goingsteddiewithsubmasbrainrot]

A little Steddie thing vaguely based on Kane's Rain Down on Me because of a random number game on discord

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he started “jogging” around town. Hah. Jogging. More like he’s running. Running from his confusion. Running from his mausoleum of a house. Running from his fears and nightmares. Running from his dreams and desires. Running from his own damn hypocrisy.

He’s been running down street after street after street, each building and lamppost and sign blurring together in an unending loop of civilization. He hasn’t been able to run through the forest like he used to do ever since finding out that monsters are real, and not just the ones wearing human faces.

He knows he’s made progress. Where once he spat the same poison as his father and Tommy goddamn Hagan, where he used to target those who were different, call them fags and queers and dykes like it was a crime, regardless of whether or not they actually were, he knows he’s better than that now. Knows he accepts his best friend fully and wholeheartedly and loves her deeply regardless or in spite of or maybe because she’s a lesbian. Knows he’d willingly and unashamedly and unapologetically break his knuckles on the face of anyone that’d make a target of little Byers the way he himself once did bigger Byers.

Point is, point fucking is, he’s a goddamn hypocrite. Any time he hissed or said or spat or shouted or otherwise called people slurs for being different? He should’ve been facing a mirror and hissed or said or spat or shouted or otherwise called those slurs to his own damn face. Sure, he loved Nancy. Except in hindsight, was he really in love with Nancy? And sure, he loves sex, loved making all those girls before and after and Nancy herself feel good. But none of them, not Jessica Rogers who gave him his first kiss in eight grade, not his first blowie from Belinda Walters in junior year, not Caroline Hawke, not Suzanna Johnson, not Nancy Wheeler, not even Phoebe goddamn Cates have ever made him feel like this. Not like his palms were sweaty and itchy and dry, not like his tongue belonged to someone else, not like his heart was fluttering and pounding and moving up and down in an elevator between his throat and his gut, not like just the thought of them made him short on breath, not like just seeing them smile could make him high.

And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. Why couldn’t he just… give in? Surrender to the itch to do anything to see that dimpled smile? Give anything and everything for those dark, expressive, gorgeous eyes to truly see him? All his life he’s rolled from one type of misery to the next, avoiding his own truth. Misery that could be so easily taken from him. All those days of misery that someone could so easily take from him. If only he just… gave it all away. So why? Why, why, why, why can’t he?

Each encounter he feels the question burn on his tongue, constrict in his throat, yet it never comes close to flying free, and it all just builds up and up and up. Each time he lays eyes on his… his crush, each time he hears that precious name, each time those beautiful curls cross his mind, each word of praise the shitheads practically sing about their other older friend. It builds and builds and builds until he wants to demand the other to tell him...

Rain starts pouring as Steve Harrington stops running in the middle of one of Hawkins many streets to rest his hands on his knees and heave for air as he finally, finally, finally admits to himself that all he wants most is for Eddie Munson to look him in the eye and tell him how he feels, what he needs.

[sindirimba]

🔥

you know, it's a good thing i don't have a lot of people following me

so like 75% of the things people tut about with regards to booker and how fandom pays too much attention to him can actually and more truthfully be applied to nicky. how people pay too much attention to him and ignore the main characters~, people talk too much about him and his motivations, fandom privileging a white male character again, etc etc. girl what. booker is the least popular of the main group, by farrrrr, it’s actually hilarious seeing people acting like he’s not? like i wish booker stuff was as easy to find as people complain about

but nicky? holy mother of god. like everyone’s in love with goddamn nicky. he’s the kindest, also he’s a sassy bitch, also he was and is the model of every artist who’s ever existed, also he can do nile’s hair better than she can, also no one else has ever cooked food as good as nicky. i go in the main tag, it’s post after post about this italian man. you know, booker fans are like, aww that’s our pathetic white man <3 meanwhile fandom’s like, did you know nicky invented sex :) also here’s how italians aren’t (gunshot)

people will be like, nuh uh nicky has faults! and then the faults are like, what you say in interviews. he cares TOO much. it’s not booker who’s getting too much attention, it’s goddamn nicky. joe’s just there to be his boyfriend and hype him up and fuck him, the women are there to be his (extremely long moment where i try to figure out if ‘fag hag’ is still okay to say) female support network, booker is there for him to abuse and insult, the whole world bends to accommodate nicky. why.you.always.lying!!

[night-dark-woods]

2, 7, 21, 24? :]

oooh thank uuu okay im gonna do destiny b/c thats the main one we have in common w/ a large enough fandom for these to be relevant so:

2. a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

okay so this is an unpopular opinion i think however imo sjur&mara are stone butch/femme & mara exclusively receives!!! i wont die on that hill but i AM correct.

also this is on the d/s side which is separate obvs but i also think they would be into, and imo mara is absolutely not a dom, goddamn that girl has the weight of the entire fucking human race on her scrawny little caffeine-fueled shoulders, i doubt she'd actually want to be in charge during sex too (at least w/ sjur), though im sure she'd pretend she was lol. brat extraordinaire.

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

asher... im sorry but i simply don't care about that man. only interesting to me as he is in canon which is a horribly bitchy twink who has a great wlw/mlm solidarity bond w/ eris. that post about how every dyke has a fag they are fated to be besties with? that's them. to me. everybody seems to want him to be a sad elf prince or whatever tho.

i thought abt answering cayde or crow but tbh that nathan fillion character archetype activates my fight-or-flight and the Nice-Guy-ification of crow in canon has made me hate him lol.

21. part of canon you think is overhyped

is it cheating to say cayde. im happy we'll see him again but ONLY for ikora's sake that girl deserves closure finally.

also the witness... i simply dont care. this is also bc i am a seth dickinson fan first and destiny fan second but. i Do Not Trust what they are doing with the Light & Dark saga without SD and when the Gardener and Winnower were mentioned in the seasonal cutscene i wanted to fucking bite someone.

24. topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

god u already know what im going to say but god forbid women do anything. *takes mara away from everyone and puts her back on a shelf only SD can reach* i know its not unique to d2 like this happens with any morally gray female character but the stuff about mara is truly some of the most stupid.

and the worst part is it makes it way into shit like destinypedia!!! look at this fucking line from the uldren page it makes me want to kill someone:

"Despite this, Crow is more perceptive than he appears as he was able to see that Mara Sov was attempting to manipulate him just like she would when he was Uldren. As his memory wipe freed him from Mara's psychological conditioning, he sees her for what she really is and thwarts her attempts to regain control of him, and the tunneling device Mara planned to use to groom Crow further becomes infinitely more useful as one of the Young Wolf's many weapons."

tell me you havent read a single fucking lore book without telling me that jesus fucking christ. biting and killing biting and killing biting and killing. oh yeah "wanting to prove yourself to your older* sibling" is the same thing as being groomed. shut the FUCK up.

*i know they are twins. they are not treated like it.

[nervouswaltz]

morning if you think george’s sexuality hinges on an uncomfortable dono 3 years ago where he went “im straight i guess” i need you to use your critical fucking thinking skills for like two goddamn minutes. we know george grew up in the world of csgo which historically has been one of the most rancid conservative spaces where anyone Other is immediately singled out and relentlessly harassed. it still fucking happens NOW for fucks sake go watch a female streamer play val and see what she deals with. go watch a punz val stream and see how casually homophobic and racist language gets tossed around. now make it like. a hundred times worse. like you gotta be fucking kidding me of course george isn’t gonna say he’s anything but straight right as he’s starting his streaming career he doesn’t know his fanbase yet but he does know that if it’s the crowd he grew up playing csgo with he will be labeled with fag smack dab on his forehead and no one will ever give him peace. obviously thats not his fanbase and we know that now but like. fucking CONTEXT people

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#329

“I know your name is Landon and that’s it.  Well, Landon, before we make that beer run and get back to the party, I need to stop by my warehouse.  Trust me no one will miss us for this extra time.  I got to ask, who are you and how did you end up at my girlfriend’s party?...

“Oh she’s your step aunt.  Wait a minute, you’re Reggie’s son?...  Sorry, stepson.  How old are you?...  Nineteen.  So is that why you are not drinking, hunh?...  Yeah, Reggie would go ballistic if you did….  Based on your reaction to him and your insistence of using ‘stepson’ over ‘son’ and even the goofier sounding ‘step aunt,’ I take it you want to distance yourself from Reggie, by letting everyone know that you are not related to him…. 

“Don’t worry kid.  I fucking can’t stand him.  What a pompous asshole, tries to control everything.  I can almost guarantee that he doesn’t like you either.  His going on and on about politics was driving me crazy.  I had to get out.  This beer run seemed like a good idea, even though there’s still tons of beer.

“This my warehouse.  It’s funny the two making the run are the two that are sober.  Yeah, I haven’t had a drink in over eleven years.  I was not a good guy.  I used to beat the shit out of faggots and bitches when I fucked them.  I had to stop.  Now I only beat the fags when they ask for it…. 

“Yeah.  I fuck fags.  Why do you think I brought you along on a beer run that didn’t need to be made?  I’ve been watching you at the party.  Every time I adjusted my junk in my sweatpants your eyes were riveted.  Kid, you can wind up in some rather nasty situations by doing that to the wrong man.

“So, if you want my dick in your cunt follow me in.  But kid, know this, I’m just like your stepdad, I’m a controlling asshole when it comes to feeding fags to my dick.  I’m gonna give you one minute to make up your…  Well!  I couldn’t even finish my sentence and you were racing to the door….

“It’s Sunday, and we are the only ones in here.  Get the fuck naked.  I want to see the fagmeat I get to play with.

“Holy shit.  That’s one small pecker.  It’s a good thing that we both will be ignoring it.  Turn around and show me your cunt.  Oh you’ve been fucked.  Who’s been cornholing you?  Figured you would go down to the river to cruise.  I used to go there to fuck those fags all those years ago.

“You know what the difference between then and now?  I would fuck them dry.  You, if you don’t want it dry then get your mouth to work to put some spit all over it.  Yeah.  Work that fag mouth.

“You are loving this.  A little bit more.  This is not about giving me head as it is putting spit on my dick….  Ok that’s enough.  Bend over that desk.  Spread your legs, and arch your back.  Yeah you know how this needs to be done.  Whore.  You fucking whore.

“Ready?  If not, don’t care.  Oh shit!  Your cunt was made for fucking.  Oh man, I don’t have to do much to get you to accommodate me.  Fuck.  Faggot.  I want this cunt.  Oh man.  You fucking dirty whore.  You give this cunt to man after man walking around those woods by the river.  That’s going to stop.  I’m taking this cunt as mine.  I own this cunt.  I own your mouth.  I fucking own you.  What do you have to say about that faggot?

“Did you just say, ‘Yes Sir?’  Oh fag, that’s all I needed to hear.  I’m gonna nut in you and mark you as my property.  Fuck bitch fag.  Here it cums.  Here it fucking cums you goddamned whore.  Ahh, ahh, ahhhhhhh.  Fuuuuck.

“Damn faggot.  Whew.  Fag.  Your cunt…

“What the fuck are you doing?  No one told you to stand up.  Keep bent over.  I have to take a piss.  There’s no better place to do that than a freshly fucked cunt.

“Fuck yeah.  Just hold still.  I want this load of piss in you when we go back to the party.  I want you to be mindful of the man that controls you as you walk around.

“Yeah, I own you.  What I said as I was plowing you is true.  I own this cunt.  No more cruising the river, at least not without my permission.  No more cruising apps.  No more porn.  And no more touching yourself.  At least not without my permission.  You got that?

“I said I no longer beat the shit out of fags anymore, well unless they ask, but I don’t consider smacking you across the face to be beating you.  So get used to it.

“I’m going to pull out now.  Clamp down.  Oh fuck.  Keep clenching.  I’ll be right back…. 

“…I have this butt plug from my desk.  It’s going in.  Relax.  Let it slip in.  That should help you keep my piss in until the party is over.  Yeah, I have a special drawer of toys.  There’s only three guys that work in here, and each of us bring cunts to fuck.  We don’t care about who the other fucks.  Hell, they both are married.  So we know no one is going to say anything.  There’s a pull out couch in the break area.

“Speaking of which.  Your mom and step-dad cornered me earlier asking me to take you on here for a real job.  They didn’t even point you out to me.

“You want that?  Believe me, I will be fucking you every day.  The other guys won’t say a word.  Neither will I, and neither will you.

“You want to work for me?...  Don’t answer with a yes or no.  If it’s a yes, then get behind me and lick my crack.  That’s also part of your daily responsibilities.  We have a rim seat in the back as well.

“Thought so.  Lick it.  Stick your tongue in deep.  Oh man.  Faggot, I may go for another round.

“One thing is for certain, they’re not going to get their beer any time soon.”

[gatheringbones]

["HOW SEX WORKERS TAUGHT ME HOW TO HUSTLE

Summer, 1995, Friday, and Species were blowing up at the box office. Groove Theory's "Tell Me" and Notorious B.I. G.'s "One More Chance (Remix)" were in heavy rotation on my Sony Walkman. I had just graduated from high school in Philadelphia, and despite having struggled with what felt like unreachable standards of black masculinity since childhood, my challenges with my sexual orientation nearly vanished when I felt the lips of another guy for the first time. There was no great debate in my soul. The natural emotion I felt from a man was something I never felt with a woman. Also, I found people who loved me and provided a space for conversation and freedom. I wasn't alone.

My friends and I were fixtures on Thirteenth Street. Before the City of Brotherly Love was gentrified, the strip was known as "Freak Street," especially after midnight, when most of the white gays headed home and the black and Latin LGBT kids held court. We were street urchins who terrified the white gay community and black heterosexuals. We didn't believe in same-sex marriage; we were anti-marriage. We proudly called ourselves dykes, trannies, fags, queens, butches, and drags— all unacceptable language by today's standards. The intersection of class, race, and sexuality was evident in our unique slang, tribal house music, and crafty survival skills.

Like clockwork, I strolled up Thirteenth Street every night, trekking to the club, which didn't open until one a.m. and didn't get hot for another two hours. There was usually a group of sex workers on the corner of Sansom and Thirteenth, the majority of whom were black and Latin trans women. Initially, I was terrified by these women. I had no experience with them; they had been torn down by a mid 1990's economy, never allowed in the workforce, and education was inaccessible to them due to rampant discrimination. Because of my internalized prejudices, their exterior shook my soul.

For weeks, I hurried past their gaze as I dashed up Thirteenth Street. These were the same women I would see in the club later that night, but in my stupid mind, I feared being associated with them. They could feel my disdain for them.

However, one particular woman was deeply insulted that I wouldn't speak to her when we crossed paths. "Hey, faggot!" she screamed after we locked eyes and I turned away. Attempting to channel a "Freak Like Me"-era Adina Howard in red leather hot pants, a black corset, and a short hairdo, she spat, "I see your ass down here every weekend, bitch— you ain't gonna speak?"

"I don't know you!" I shot back, startling myself.

"Mothafucka, I know you and you ain't that cute!" she sassed as I sped up. "Didn't your mama teach you to speak to people when you see them? I'm a damn human being!"

"These young faggots..." I heard another woman mumble in a tone that was more disappointed than angry.

The next night, Adina spotted me from a distance walking up the other side of Thirteenth Street. I couldn't believe she could see me from that far away. "There he go!" she hollered. I moved quickly, but she stomped across the street, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings jingling in unison. Adina stood before me, blocking my escape. I was scared for my life.

"You are gonna see me," she demanded in a surprisingly calm voice.

It was at that point something in my teenage brain clicked. I had not truly seen her before that moment. It occurred to me that I had often walked by her like she was garbage on the corner, the same way angry heterosexuals leered at my friends and me if they accidentally wandered down Thirteenth Street after midnight. Although I was never a sex worker, Adina and I were both part of the black and Latin LGBT community, living on the fringes of society.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, eyes down as I squeezed my hands together in terror.

"You are sorry! You're sorry and you're tired!" Adina shouted. "Now, next time you walk down the goddamn street, you make sure you show some respect and speak to us. Got it?" I nodded my head. "Go on now to that club."

From that moment on I made it a point to see Adina.

Every night I walked down the street, I gave a hello to Adina and her friends. Eventually I walked down their side of the street and stopped to talk. She illuminated so much for a young, impressionable teenager, and in her own way, she taught me life skills. She could clock someone's story with one glance: "He's gonna wanna get fucked," "He's gonna be cheap," or "He's gonna be a rough client." More often than not, she was right.

"How are you able to figure someone out so quickly?" I asked her.

She smiled. "All you have to do is ask one question," she explained. "As long as you nod your head and look like you fucking care, they'll tell you their life story." As frightful as she originally appeared to me, Adina owned that superpower and could flip the switch, making anyone she chose feel instantly comfortable."]

clay cane, live through this: surviving the intersections of sexuality, god, and race

[magniloquent-raven]

(pt1 here)

billy grew up afraid of finding his soulmate.

when he was eight his father caught him trying to wash nail polish off with soap and a hand towel.

he’d heard girls at school saying it was what you did when your soulmate was a boy. you were supposed to paint yourself up all pretty and find the person who matched. and it was easy enough to sneak into the vanity and steal a bottle of his mother’s nail polish. but once the paint dried he realized it would be impossible to hide from his father, and he panicked.

his mother showed him the bottle of nail polish remover after neil left. dabbed some on a cotton ball to rub at the thick layer of paint. she was silent, kneeling on the floor in front of him cradling his sprained wrist while he sat on the edge of the tub and cried.

they both had questions, but neither of them got answers.

it took billy months to work up the courage to try again.

he wasn’t sure why he was bothering, at first. he knew he couldn’t look for his soulmate the traditional way. and he was constantly terrified that his father would find the supplies he’d started hoarding. it seemed like more risk than reward, and yet. he couldn’t stop himself.

every time he was allowed to wander off in a store alone he’d slip something into his pocket. a tube of lip gloss. a compact full of shiny powders. he wasn’t even sure what some of it was, he just liked the colours. liked the pictures they hung alongside the displays. he wanted to look like that. beautiful.

and in his heart of hearts, he wanted the boy who was out there waiting for him to know he existed. whether they’d be able to find each other or not.

he’s more careful with this than he was with the nail polish. his father works saturday nights, and his mother always visits their neighbour while he’s at work. despite having the house to himself he locks his bedroom door.

the first thing he tries is the watermelon lip gloss. it’s sticky, and the wand doesn’t fit in his hand comfortably, but once he’s smeared it on he feels...good. he likes the way it catches the light. likes the way it smells. he looks at himself in the mirror and likes seeing something different.

the high doesn’t last long, it inevitably gives way to paranoia, anxiety that has him glancing at the locked door every thirty seconds, heart pounding, wondering if just maybe his father will get home from work early, and he jumps at every sound, hearing boots thudding on the porch and car doors slamming and anything that could be neil coming through the door.

cleaning himself up is hard. panic makes his hands shake, his eyes well up. he drops everything on the floor when he tries to tuck the bag away. and he has to spend twenty minutes with his back to his bedroom door getting his breathing under control when he’s finished.

but he does it again the following saturday. and the one after that.

for five months he does this. locks himself away with his stolen treasures and lets himself live a little. it gets easier as time goes on. and his mind wanders sometimes. to a future where he gets to share this with someone. the boy out there who’s supposed to love him one day.

it’s a small bubble of a dream. one he doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on. not when there’s neil’s voice in his head, telling him that no one could love a fucking freak, ‘cause fags don’t get real soulmates anyways.

he wants and he wishes, but the more he thinks about it the more he doubts. he’s never gotten a mark from his soulmate, and even if he did some day, what if his father’s right, and his “soulmate” doesn’t want him or makes him miserable or...worse.

so he does his makeup for himself.

until, like all good things in his life, his father ruins it.

he never found out what set neil off initially, something going wrong at work maybe, or the martial strife of the week getting to him. whatever it was that started it, neil eventually decided billy should bear the brunt of the fallout.

so he went through his things. said billy’d been acting cagey lately, and he was going to find out why.

and then found the makeup bag stuffed into an old sweater in his closet.

it was ugly. the things neil said that day would play on repeat in billy’s head for years afterwards. the scars his belt left on billy’s back were nothing in comparison.

the next saturday came and went. billy spent the evening curled up under a blanket not bothering to wipe away the tears dripping down his face.

by morning he’s resolved to forget the whole thing. to put it behind him. because it was stupid, and risky and childish and maybe his father was right. he’s almost convinced himself. and then he notices ink on his arm, as he reaches up to rub his eyes. messy scrawl, i bet you looked pretty crookedly written up his forearm.

he didn’t think he was able to cry any more, but he manages it.

for the first time his soulmate isn’t just a concept, or a what-if, he’s...a person. he’s a real person out there somewhere. someone who doesn’t even know billy and still wanted to reach out, to offer comfort. it’s more than he’s gotten from anyone else. even his mother. who he knows loves him, and she does her best to protect him, but when she found out about his makeup stash she just looked sad, and she’s said nothing to him about it.

but his soulmate…

can never, ever meet neil.

the thought hits him right in the chest.

whoever he is, he cares, he’s good. and neil breaks good things.

billy falls asleep that night tracing the empty space where his soulmate’s message used to be, wrapped up in worries and dreams, and terrified for someone he’s never met.

the doodles that come and go over the years are terrifying and exhilarating and billy manages to hide every single one from his father. they only ever show up during the day, and they don’t linger. something billy is both grateful for and resentful of.

sometimes he’ll watch other boys’ hands in class. check them for drawings. he thinks he’s being careful, but a girl in his chem class, becca, catches him. she says it’s only because she knew what to look for. they share a cigarette under the bleachers and she tells him about a girl who likes green eyeshadow and writes homework reminders on her wrists using stars instead of bullet points.

it takes billy six months and a couple shots of tequila to tell her about watermelon lip gloss and bet you’re pretty and they both cry when he starts to wonder if his soulmate will be disappointed that he isn’t a girl.

on a rainy april afternoon she asks him to go to a gay bar with her. he tells his father he’s going on a date. she tells her’s that she had to reschedule a tutoring session and it’ll run pretty late.

they wait til it’s dark and get ready in a dingy gas station bathroom. when she’s smearing on her eyeliner she catches sight of his face in the cloudy mirror. he wasn’t going to ask her for anything. he wouldn’t have brought it up. the twinge in his heart and a hollow feeling of longing aren’t anything new, he can deal.

he feels and empty kind of rage every time old, well-meaning relatives give max girly lip gloss kits and eyeshadow pallets and shit normal preteen girls who care about finding their soulmates actually appreciate. she always rolls her eyes and throws them away. susan will fish them out of the trash sometimes, and leave them under the bathroom sink, like if max just sees them there she’ll suddenly give a shit and start using them. like them being there does anything but taunt billy with what he can’t have.

neil watches him like a fucking hawk every time that shit comes into the house. and max doesn’t fucking care. doesn’t notice.

but becca offers.

and.

he’s not about to say no.

he should’ve said no.

it feels good at first, like it used to, it feels like freedom and he likes what he sees when he looks in the mirror, and he kisses a boy for the first time and it isn’t fireworks but it’s something, and he thinks maybe it’s going to be a good night, but then…

neil is waiting on the curb outside becca’s house. they were heading there first, because her parents wouldn’t notice, she said it would be fine, she has makeup remover he can use, he can clean up and head home and everything was supposed to be okay, except. it wasn’t.

it’s the last time he sees becca. neil tells her parents what was actually going on, and she isn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital.

and then six months of rehab, one rushed wedding and a big ugly sold sign later, neil carts them off to hawkins, indi-fucking-ana. as a “family.”

billy was certain this town would be nothing but a prison. it’d be somewhere he’d never find a place to be himself, neil would make sure of that. there wasn’t a single thing to like about this place and its bullshit small town sensibilities. for all the open space it might as well have been stone walls and steel bars.

except.

except...here was a boy with soft eyes and nimble fingers, who gets a little wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates, and is always moving, fidgeting, fiddling with zippers and touching his elbows and looking at him makes billy itch. to touch, to soothe, to take, and…

things get complicated when aimless blue waves scrawl up billy’s arm. when steve follows him out into the parking lot. calls him pretty to his face. and suddenly billy’s eight years old and realizing this shit is real. terrified of what that could mean. spinning fragile dreams like spider’s silk, hard to shake but easy to destroy.

even entertaining the idea of putting on makeup while he’s still in hawkins is stupid and dangerous, but goddamn if he hasn’t risked more for less.

he’s sure he’ll regret it. like he’s regretted every other desperate bid for freedom. but when faced with steve harrington’s smile, he can’t find it in himself to say no.

(edit: pt3 here)

[whatsmyline-pb]

The Art of Quitting

Part 3 of Inspired, Part 2 of Peaky Summer Bingo.

Tags: Fluff, humor, a bunch implied smut

Zalatwic (Polish): to accomplish something in a way that is either illegal or bends the rules, usually involve a bribe, political clout/connections, or simply personal charm

--

If asked, Alfie would deny that he loves Tommy. Not because he doesn’t (he absolutely, 100% does) and not because he’s some bumbling idiot who thinks himself above such emotions and is afraid to admit them to himself, but because Tommy is some bumbling idiot and Alfie’s not quite ready to risk scaring the little fucker away.

So Alfie holds back. He bites his tongue in uncharacteristic self-control and doesn’t let loose the mounds of adoration he so desperately wishes to bestow upon Tommy. One day he will, when Tommy is good and ready (or more likely okay and nearly ready), but not yet.

Instead, Alfie forces himself to focus on the bad— he needs something to keep him grounded, after all. Tommy has many flaws, so it should be easy. But the problem is those flaws are a strange amalgam of fortitude and hesitancy that should make loving him impossible but instead make not loving him a ridiculous, laughable endeavor, and in the end, Alfie’s left with his head in the clouds.

So it’s the trivial things that Alfie latches onto. Tommy’s smoking has been his main focus for weeks now, and he’s determined that Tommy quit the disgusting habit, even though he’s not once expressed the desire to do so himself.

Alfie takes a Pavlovian approach to it, at first. Every time Tommy lights up a fag Alfie delivers him a swift smack to the head, which has earned him uncountable glares and just as many blows in return. It’s gotten a bit out of control, Alfie has to admit. Tommy will flick his lighter with a wary eye trained on Alfie and Alfie will pretend he’s paying no heed and only when Tommy seems to have relaxed does he move to strike. But then Tommy’s only been feigning relaxation and is in fact ready for his assault and a ridiculous struggle ensues.

More than once this has led to them wrestling like adolescent fools on the streets. They inadvertently knock into an old lady one day who exclaims, cheerfully, “Goodness! Really boys, save the horseplay for the bedroom!” Tommy blushes a deep red and Alfie could kiss the woman. He refrains, instead scooping up the groceries that she’s dropped and escorting her to her car. (“Handsome and a gentleman to boot,” she beams. Alfie does kiss her, a polite peck on the cheek.)

Tommy’s long gone when he returns and Alfie has to ask a passing stranger, “You see which way a smoking man with brilliant blue eyes and a ridiculous haircut went?”

He finds him moments later, around the block, moodily stubbing his cigarette out. “You really need to befriend everyone we meet , Alfie?” he asks, and Alfie grins widely, throwing an arm around him.

—

When this counter-conditioning fails and leads only to the endangerment of the public, Alfie takes a more direct approach. He resigns to simply snagging each newly lit cigarette from Tommy’s lips and flinging them carelessly to the ground. Tommy, without fail, refuses to acknowledge this, fishes another from his pack in feigned indifference and lights it, only to have that one too snatched and thrown away, until the ruse leads to a pack fully spent and Tommy stalking off to the nearest corner shop in a storm of unbridled annoyance.

A sane person would retreat, take his newly purchased pack home and leave Alfie in the dust. But for some, inexplicable reason Tommy always returns, knocking impatiently on Alfie’s door minutes later, replenished and ready for more.

—

When Tommy at last addresses Alfie’s new approach it is night, and they’ve just had a spectacular and rather vigorous shag. Alfie’s just slipped out of him and Tommy is a puddle of bliss, pliant and open and satiated, cock soft and spent against his stomach. So naturally, it’s his next move to reach to his bedside table to extract the stowed pack, and naturally, Alfie plucks the pack quickly away and chucks it firmly against the furthest wall.

Tommy levels him with a look and Alfie shrugs.

“Die on your own time, sweetie,” he says.

It seems just the opportunity Tommy has been waiting for. He heaves himself up with determination and grabs his phone, scrolling through it, before shoving the screen into Alfie’s face.

And there they are, displayed in all their glory, the slew of photos Alfie had texted him just hours ago.

Alright, so yeah, Alfie had been craving a cigar earlier today, and yeah, he’d forced Ollie, burgeoning photographer that he is, to take some choice photos of him. Because Alfie knows how he looks while puffing on a cigar; knows that cigars are decidedly phallic and that Tommy's mind is as dirty as his and that, above all else, it is Alfie's humor that turns Tommy on, no matter how desperately he denies it. So, of course, he’d taken those photos for Tommy, sending them in an obvious attempt to rile him before their date that evening.

It had worked, hadn’t it? He's had Tommy moaning and writhing beneath him for the better part of two hours and they’d missed their dinner reservations entirely.

Now, Tommy displays those photos inches from Alfie’s face and triumphantly proclaims, “Hypocrisy at its greatest.”

But Alfie just laughs, wraps his hand around Tommy’s soft cock, and says, “Was just reminding you what this mouth could do.”

—

This gives Alfie another idea. He begins tallying on his phone just how much Tommy smokes in a day. At the end of the first day, as soon as they've entered his flat, he exclaims, “Seventeen!”

Tommy blinks at him blankly, says, “What?”

“That’s how many cigarettes you’ve smoked today and that’s how many blow jobs you owe me. So on your knees and pay up.”

Tommy does his best to look affronted but in the end, after a long silence, cracks a lopsided smile. “Alfie, you can’t keep it up for three blow jobs, let alone seventeen.”

Alfie is undeterred. He pins Tommy with the most serious of looks and declares, “Challenge accepted.”

He makes it to four.

—

As delightful as it was, this experiment backfires stupendously, because now every time Tommy has a fag resting casually in his lips Alfie’s mind goes quickly south and he squirms with arousal and Tommy sends him knowing, satisfied smirks.

“Alfie,” Tommy says, “is something the matter?”

“Tommy,” Alfie says, “Go fuck yourself.”

And so a new routine emerges, in which Alfie pretends he doesn’t care and Tommy sucks down too many cigarettes and Alfie has to eventually leave the room .

—

One night, when they’re undressing, Alfie realizes he’s forgotten to notice the smoking at all that day. Forgotten to notice because there hasn’t been any, and only when Tommy is laid beneath him bare and naked but for a small square patch on his arm does Alfie still in alarm.

He stares and blinks and catches his breath with a determined calm.

“You… Do that for me?”

Tommy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just sick of your antics.”

In Tommy-speak that’s a resounding yes. Alfie feels a bit lightheaded. He brings him in for a kiss, long and deep, and when they part it just happens, just slips out on its own accord.

“Fuck, but I love you,” he says.

Tommy huffs out an exasperated sigh, mutters, “For fucks sake,” and tries to pull away. But it’s undeniable, that Tommy’s cock had leapt at his words (practically bounced off Alfie’s hip, hadn’t it?) and it spurs Alfie shamelessly on.

“Fucking love every little thing about you, don’t I?” He grins, cupping him suggestively, nosing against his throat. Tommy shoves him away.

“We've been over this, Alfie. Smaller than yours doesn’t equate to little.”

Alfie smiles broadly. It’s just too goddamn endearing how incapable Tommy is of letting a compliment simply stand. He pulls him back in.

“Don’t worry, treacle,” he says, “you’re just perfect, ” and proceeds to prove to him just how true he believes this to be.

[tearsofgrace]

broken walls

please read tags !!!!!!

wc: 1.8k, tags: cw suicide attempt (depicted), cw child abuse (mentioned), cw self harm (depicted), coda for 15.18, angst, hurst, love confessions, destiel

also on archive

Dean always knew he’d go out at the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun. He hadn’t thought he’d get to choose which one. 

He was slumped over on the floor in his room. Sam was probably in the library somewhere, and Jack was with him. There was a full bottle of whiskey lying next to him that he’d taken despite Sam’s protests. 

When it really came down to it, though, he hadn’t been able to drink. It felt like dishonor on Cas’ memory. To numb the pain that Dean deserved to feel totally and completely for the rest of-

Well, for however much longer he lived. 

And he did deserve to feel it. Of course he did. Because he froze. He had stared at Cas, his mind processing his throat dry, words forming in the back of his throat but stopping there. His hands had shook slightly while the rest of him went still. 

Cas had left, yet again. And Dean still didn’t stop him. 

It wasn’t just for that, though, that he deserved the pain. It was for the years of wasted opportunities. Years of mistreatment, of taking the angel for granted, of stolen glances that never quite made it to words.

He was a goddamn coward. 

Cas had been wrong. On most levels, he was still just daddy’s blunt instrument. He was the man that John had groomed, had controlled. He was the man that John had caught, when he wasn’t a man at all. When he was just a boy in high school, trying to figure himself out. When he was with another boy his age, all smiles and laughs that turned into screams of fear and pain. He was the man who had been too afraid of his father to fight back, too desperate for his approval to live his own life, too alone in the world to turn anywhere else. 

He deserved to pay for that. 

He didn’t deserve to live on when Cas was gone. 

Dean let his fingers trail down to the floor where his gun and a large silver knife lay discarded. He’d grabbed them from his dresser with shaking hands before collapsing. And now he sat, the voices of his family in his head. 

Jack would say something simple but full of meaning. He would look at Dean with that expression that was so eerily similar to Cas and let Dean speak, choosing instead to listen. 

Sam would say that Cas wouldn’t have wanted this. That Cas had sacrificed himself for Dean, and to leave would be to dishonor that. But Sam didn’t know the whole story. He hadn’t seen Cas’ face light up, hadn’t heard those words, hadn’t seen him disappear into blackness, into nothingness. But Sam would still try to talk him down, desperation growing in his voice as he realized he couldn’t. 

Dad would laugh. Would say he was a weak fag who was getting worked up over nothing. Would say that giving up was the most selfish and cowardly thing Dean could do. And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it proved how much of a coward he was. He was past caring. 

Mom would cry. She’d be tough about it, sure. Probably dredge up some wisdom that would have him pausing for a second, but she would cry in the end. Tears would slide down her face as she looked into Dean’s eyes, pleading even when she knew the pleas fell on deaf ears. 

And Cas… well, Dean knew exactly what Cas would say. 

He choked back a sob as he looked down at the handprint on his shoulder. He had resisted the urge to fit his hand into it. To let himself feel a little bit of Cas, to know that he wasn’t totally gone. Because that would all be a lie. Cas was gone. 

You’ve changed me, Dean. 

Dean felt tears prick behind his eyes again, a hot tear tracking its way down his numb face. 

I love you. 

In a suddenly aggressive move, he reached down for the blade and the gun. He held them, weighing his options, weighing the pain. 

“Gun’s cleaner,” he muttered into the empty room. 

He cleared his throat, running his thumb over the cool metal and fixing his eyes on the trigger. But he already knew, he’d already decided. 

“You don’t deserve cleaner.” 

He set the gun carefully next to him, choosing to ignore how badly his hands were shaking. They hadn’t really stopped since Cas had told him. Since Dean had stood there mutely, the words, I love you, too, ringing around in his head with no way out. 

He rolled up his sleeves and looked down at his bare arms. Then he squinted up at the light above his head. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to have the lights on. Not for this. 

With a grunt, he staggered to his feet and flicked the light switch off. His room now plunged into blackness, he slumped back on the ground, leaning against his bed. 

A voice in the back of his mind told him to change his clothes, to go to the bathroom so Sam’s clean up would be easier. But he didn’t listen to it. That voice was just trying to stall. Was trying to stop him from what needed to be done. 

Cas’ tear-filled eyes swam in his vision as he lifted the metal to his skin. His hands were more steady now, but there was still a slight quiver that made the silver seem to dance and bend before his eyes. So he squeezed them shut, taking a deep breath and letting it out. 

The first cut wasn’t deep. It was the kind he did for spells and sigils, the kind that would heal up immediately if it needed to. He let himself relax for the second cut, let himself welcome the pain that he knew would course through his body. 

That one was deeper. It split open the vein, causing blood to spray from his arm, covering his clothes in red. Dean let a small smile curl at the corners of his mouth. The blood didn’t look like his life. It looked like his prison. And it was leaving. So he could be free. 

He switched the blade to his wounded arm and gripped it tightly, wincing as the tendons moaned under the fractured skin. Then he slowly dug the knife in, this time taking his time. He could feel his skin being torn apart, and with each new drop of blood that appeared along the cut, he saw Cas. 

He saw Cas trapped in a circle of holy fire, trying to explain himself. 

He saw Cas drop the angel blade as he stood over Dean, confusion spreading across his face. 

He saw Cas’ face fall when Dean said he couldn’t stay. 

He saw Cas laying on a bed of straw, a broken and desperate confession on his lips. 

He saw Cas dead at his feet. 

He saw the euphoria on Cas’ face as he was engulfed by black, finally set free from all the burdens he had carried. 

And in it all, Dean saw love. He saw love for Cas, from Cas, surrounding both of them so tightly that they wouldn’t have been able to escape it if they tried. He saw love as his other vein was tapped, the pool of blood in his lap and around him growing. 

He let the knife clatter from his hands and leaned his head back against the bed. 

Everything was fading, his vision growing blurry. He felt impossibly cold, even as his cheeks grew hot. His breaths were coming a little faster, too, each one racking his lungs and shaking his body. 

Then everything started to fade, to narrow, to disappear. 

He would be gone. He would get what he deserved. He would be free from this pain, free from the knowledge that Cas had loved him back and they could have had years. They could have been happy. 

Castiel was in his mind again. But this time it wasn’t the tear-filled love confession. It was just a serene Cas. The one he so often saw. The contemplative look that Dean loved. 

He looked into it, into the peace on Cas’ face, and he let himself slip away. 

*

*

*

It went fuzzy for a while. Then he saw bright lights above his head and let his eyes fall open. He was in a hospital bed, tight bandages clinging to his arms. 

He winced at the light and hoisted himself up a little to look around. 

And he met Sam’s eyes head on. 

He cleared his throat and looked away at the TV in the corner. It was playing a rerun of the Friends series finale. It was playing a reunion he could never have. 

“Where’s Jack?” he asked, eyes not moving. 

“At the bunker.” Sam’s voice was tight, dripping with something Dean couldn’t identify. It was anger, on the surface. But underneath there was panic, fear, confusion, love, pity. It was raw, pure, and not something Dean could face at the moment. 

So he just nodded and kept his eyes on the screen. On the happy ending. 

“We’ll get Cas back, you know.” 

Dean snorted and clenched his fists at his side. They pulled uncomfortably at the bandages and he grit his teeth to stop from saying something. 

“How could you-” Sam started, before taking a shaky breath. “What the hell happened, Dean? What aren’t you telling me?” Sam’s words spilled out over each other like they’d been in his mind for a long time. Not like they’d been rehearsed or planned, but like the thoughts had been rolling around for so long that they made it out of his mouth without the proper words attached to them. 

Dean finally let his eyes fall from the screen and he looked into his brother’s worried face. Not into his eyes, not yet. Just into his open expression. Into the love that was so free of judgement but so full of pain. Sam had lost people, too. Sam had lost Eileen. But Sam wasn’t weak. 

“I didn’t say it back,” he said finally, his voice breaking. 

“Say what back?” 

He just shook his head sadly and looked down at his lap. 

“I can’t do it anymore, Sammy.” He laughed softly, bitterly. “I won’t do it anymore.” And when he spoke again, he looked his little brother straight in the eye and gulped. “I won’t do it without him.” 

Sam’s face fell, still riddled with confusion and hurt, but a fraction of understanding starting to dawn. Dean didn’t care, though. None of it mattered. He should have been free. Should have been gone. Still should be. 

“Next time,” Dean grit his teeth to stop himself from saying it, to stop himself from hurting his little brother. But he couldn’t stop it. “Next time you won’t be able to save me.” 

Sam took a breath and leaned forward, but Dean cut him off. 

“Next time I’ll choose the barrel of a gun instead of the edge of a blade.” 

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