#lamp-bright rind
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This isn't a prompt or a request, but hear me out Dags. What if you remixed Lamp Bright Rind but made it wrestlefic? Who would you cast, what would you change, what would you keep? Consider it a thought experiment
don't do this to me, don't you dare do this to me. shit. fuck. balls
like. for those not coming from the st fandom, i once enjoyed the show and fandom and wrote a massive harringrove fic where billy was a disgraced chef trying to reinvent himself, and steve was a corporate lawyer trying to get out from under his family's shadow and do as much good as he could. they live across from each other, they can see into each others kitchen windows, steve cant cook and shows up unannounced to get cooking lessons, and it's cute as shit from there. there's misunderstandings, there's mistaken identities, there's healing from trauma and growing up and not realizing that their entire friend group is a circle. im proud of it
now like. fuck. shit. thought experiment my ass. this is gonna consume me. fuck you man
my first instinct, bryan the chef. not disgraced, not exactly, but tired. thinks he has nothing left to make, but is determined to start a new restaurant and do something different. yuta as his neighbor, starving, stressed college student who would eat more vegetables if he knew how to cook them. renee is his restaurant partner, and her husband mox is his best friend who is there to give him shit and pep talks and shitty peptalks. bryan doesn't like jons friend eddie, who tags along when they go out, but eddie sometimes make him get out of his wallowing. and sometimes bryan has to get eddie out of his own wallowing about his on again-off again relationship with claudio, bryans foh manager. bryan already feels weird falling in love with the college student he's teaching how to cook, but then he finds out yuta is like renee and moxs adopted son he'd never met before, because he's always so busy with school
but i have an instinct i like more, actually. remix my remix.
renee the chef. shes always had a great gig on food shows and writing cookbooks, she's beloved. but she's never had her own restaurant before, and she's shit scared about how it's gonna go. her business partner, bryan, knows she's gonna kill it, but also he's an asshole, sometimes, and doesn't know how to give a proper inspirational talk. but he is good at interfacing with their investor while she goes crazy trying to finalize the menu. hell, she doesn't even know who their investor is. they hire yuta in the kitchen, and he's young and adorable and eager and even if he doesn't have the training that they do, she likes him more than anyone else who applied. his mortal enemy, daniel, got hired to the wait staff tho, and no one can tell if they're gonna fuck or fight at any given time. claudio just has good foh manager/host energy, he's personable, what else can i say. eddie is the bartender slash woodworker slash handyman who solves their problem of needing a bartender, needing someone to fix the place they chose, and needing a custom bar installed. also he's funny and he pisses bryan off and makes claudio blush. then there's mox, the burly, rough and tumble famous ufc fighter and window neighbor in the apartment building next to renees. he can't cook for shit, renee has a running tally of the number of times she's seen him throw the windows open to let out smoke. and one night, bored and tired of trying to work on the menu, she takes pity on him and carts a box of ingredients to the building next door, hunts down his apartment and offers to teach him how to cook. then there's the matter of who their investor is, and who the mysterious man all her friends are trying to set her up with is, and the inconvenient fact that she thinks mox is kinda cute and is starting to fall for him
i think that's the one i would write. less trauma this time around, more softness.
also, consider: gruff famous chef ruby, bumbling neighbor ang. up and coming chef hook, weird cabaret neighbor dan(housen). world renowned chef regal quietly trying to start a diner, boring vegan neighbor bryan who only makes salad and it makes regal sad. revolutionary vegan chef sami, and his overworked vet neighbor kevin. chef swerve and poofy haired cowboy hangman next door that he hates, he promises. actually i like that one a lot, too. chef orange, king of simple ingredients and big flavors, and his goofy streamer neighbor chuck. chef willow, trying to make a name for herself, and her weird neighbor kris who thinks she's an alien but we're not quite sure about that or not.
so many combinations... shit. balls. fuck.
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a letter to hecate
the hellhounds are back, phlegethon in their eyes, snarling and viciously clawing their way out of my chest. the room is filled with the ghosts of the lives i had to let go to live this one, a gothic horror where the haunted is doing the haunting. the future, looming and shapeless, circles high overhead like a vulture. the city at this hour resembles a grand tomb, eerie with the silvery glow of the moon. skin and bones in deep quiescence, some buried six feet deep in thoughts about the unforgiving road ahead. the old wound festers on, the walls close in, i pace around to feel in control.
crossroads aren't particularly fond of young adults with feeble lamps, tripping over their own feet with mouths full of apologies for being themselves. so much for burning too bright as a child, refusing to be pigeonholed, now i am a forgotten mirrorball in the back of the storage room, occasionally reflecting the light that came for something else. i am the worm at the rind of the apple my mother thinks i am. i am the idea you bite and spit out. i am a far-flung dream lost in a concrete jungle infested with bloodthirsty sharks. i am the child who needed more time but was denied. i can see it's over now, dark-eyed goddess, but it's going to be a long, long night. all i ask is a glimmer of your torch, that of which that found the stolen spring, to make it despite myself.
#growing up#hecate#writerscreed#prose poetry#spilled ink#poeticstories#writblr#writeblrcafe#bitsofstarglow#musings#original writing#inkstay#excerpt from a book i'll never write
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for the ask game! 🤩✨
Hello!!
🤩 A fic that made you SLAM that “subscribe” button
I have two because it's me lmfao
If you are not reading The Common Hours by @wanderingcas you are simply missing out, it is INCREDIBLE
Also, for my jegulus girlies (gn) I am OBSESSED with SUGAR HIGH by IvyCore
✨ A fic you wish you could read again for the first time
Once again I have a few bc I have been reading fic for.....over a decade (I am withering to dust), varying pairings for all of these!
For Stranger Things: lamp-bright rind and the most remarkable thing
HP: ATYD (of course) and Manacled (heed those warnings but it is SO good)
SPN: an exercise in worthless (a classic)
Marvel: Not Easily Conquered and The Last Love Song of Anthony E. Stark (my beloved, has been one of my faves since 2012)
Star Trek: Lost Boys' Ink by slashsailing (literally one of my favorites of all time)
Thank you for asking <3
Let me give you fic recs!!
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Rupert and the Analyst
The house does not exist, and so the missing children are not really missing.
Only, this year, the house woke up early. And that means the house's Keeper has been rudely awakened.
He's cruel and heartless. His eyes flash open — the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. It's been a year in hibernation, and he's starved.
As the Keeper leaves the house, silent eyes watch him. Pumpkins. Bright orange, they crowd the porch and line the stone steps that tumble down into the lawn. Their thick orange rinds are carved with jagged grins and blade-like eyes. A subtle fire burns within them. The pumpkins, too, are waking up. They look after the Keeper as his shadowy form goes lumbering up the walkway and disappears out the front gate.
Its cold before dawn. A neon light burns cherry-red in the misty gloom. Even at this hour, hungry patrons crowd the diner's front doors. They eye the hostess closely, hoping the woman will call their names, willing her to summon them inside.
A shadow slinks along the diner's brick facade as a howling wind blows in. The gust lashes at the ears of the little grey people in the crowd, who clutch at their beanies and pull at their scarves. Heavy footsteps move quickly through their midst. The crowd parts. The people move aside, making way without knowing why. Ahead of them, the diner doors open and close with a violent clatter that startles them. They jump. They glance suspiciously at one another, then trade sheepish smiles.
It was surely the gust that rattled the doors.
Inside, it's warm. It's crowded. Piggy's Diner does not take reservations, especially not during the morning rush. But a lone table in the back stands empty, awaiting the Keeper.
He sits down and places his order: T-bone, rare; two eggs sunny-side-up, extra runny.
His stomach whines as he waits. The hunger gnaws at his belly like a wolf pup searching for a teat. Its got teeth, this hunger. Rupert begins to wonder — about the house waking up, about how dangerous it is to be among this many people. He begins to wonder if he will make it to nightfall.
And there's more than hunger in his stomach. There's a sinking feeling. Dread. The house wakes up at dusk, or it's supposed to. Why, then, did it wake up so early? He doesn't know. What he does know is what it means.
The arrival of the Analyst.
Judge and Jury, the Hand of Fate itself, standing between the Keeper and the desperate Wilderness. The Analyst is the only thing that can chill a Keeper's bones.
The meal arrives and is devoured in short order. When the Keeper is through, the table is a greasy mess, covered in brown flecks of gristle and beef, crimson specks of blood. He lifts the plate and tilts it back, dropping the runny eggs down his gullet, relishing the wet, oily feeling and dreaming of the fatty treats and plump goodies to come.
Later, when the waitress and busboy discover the appalling mess at Table 13, they grumble to one another. Both of them search their memories, but neither of them, no matter how hard they try, remembers who was sitting here.
The Keeper is sitting alone in the House, gritting his teeth with hunger, when the knock at the door finally comes.
On the porch, he finds the Analyst, short and solidly-built. The man — if he can be called that — is casually inspecting the eaves and jotting something down in a notepad. There's an unusual aroma about him, which The Keeper faintly detects, but which his nerves do not let him focus on.
"Nicely maintained," the Analyst murmurs, scribbling quickly. When he's done, he punctuates the paper with the violent stab of his pen, then looks over the Keeper's shoulder.
"That is the collection, isn't it?"
The Analyst breezes inside, moving past the Keeper without a word of greeting.
The vintage display cabinet is one of the only real pieces of furniture the Keeper owns, aside from the sofa, the comfortable chair, and a little end table for his lamp. He doesn't even own a bed. He doesn't need one.
"Very nice," the Analyst murmurs, nodding.
The cabinet is dark blue. Long, arched windows on the double doors offer a view of the gruesome items contained inside. The top shelves boast an assortment of jars. In each, a different body part – a finger, an ear, an eyeball — floats in a reddish liquid. Small hooks have been installed in the bottom of one of the lower shelves, and from these hooks dangle bones of various sizes. A collarbone, a jawbone, one small tibia, two fibulas. Everything is neatly-cleaned. Nothing is broken. There is even a small hand with all of the carpals and metacarpals, all held together, every joint connected, by a thin twine of steel.
"It's a shame," the Analyst sighs. He steps back and, for the first time, looks at the Keeper, smiling broadly. "It's good to see you, Rupert," he says, and makes his way to the comfortable chair.
My chair.
Trailing warily behind the Analyst, the Keeper takes a seat on the larger adjacent sofa. He has to sit at an uncomfortable angle in order to look at the Analyst, who for a minute or two says nothing at all, merely flips through his notebook. Sitting this close to the Analyst, the Keeper identifies the familiar scent emanating from his enemy. His mouth begins to salivate.
"Are you a son of a bitch, Rupert?"
The Keeper winces, but says nothing.
"Judging by how well-maintained this place looks, I would have to guess no, you're not. That fine cabinet over there," he gestures with his pen, "indicates a noble spirit. It indicates fine taste. And yet—"
The Analyst stares coldly at the Rupert. Whatever humor that broad face had held before was gone now.
"—you seem intent on being thrown out with the other dogs."
The analyst draws out that last word, showing his teeth. Suddenly, he reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a bit of dried beef. Rupert's jaw goes slack, then tight. A lump jumps into his throat. The Analyst doesn't take a bite of the beef, nor offers it to Rupert. He simply turns it over, inspecting it carelessly. His mind is clearly elsewhere.
"The House is a privilege, Rupert," he finally says. "In return, we ask for nothing from you but loyalty. And that demands certain tributes. Nobody doubts that you have done well that regard, of course."
The beef is inches from his face. Rupert's nostrils begin to sniff involuntarily at it. Sharply exhaling, he wipes his nose, pretending to cough. Drool begins to froth at the corners of his mouth.
"However, more important than tributes is the well-being of the House itself. I'm not telling you anything new, I'm sure."
Rupert swallows. He shakes his head, agreeing. His hands are trembling. Rupert balls them into fists.
"A restless house is a unhappy house. And an unhappy house wakes up from time to time. I'm sure you didn't enjoy being rudely pulled from your slumber this morning? And this early in the day?"
Too early to properly feed.
"But how much worse do you think it is for us? The Homeowners."
A long whine travels through Rupert's bowels. It's practically a howl in the quiet living room. The Analyst leans forward in his chair. He looks at the stick of dried beef in his hand, then at Rupert.
"What's wrong, Rupert? Hungry?"
Thick threads of drool are hanging heavily from Rupert's wide lips. When the Analyst tosses the stick of beef at him, Rupert cannot help himself. He jumps forward and snaps it out of the air.
Ah!
The flavor is delectable, more savory than Rupert could have dreamed. His teeth chew it to pieces, spreading a buttery warmth spreading over his tongue and into his gums.
Exquisite! Is this what the Homeowners eat year-round?
For a moment, Rupert's hunger is driven back. He whines just like a beaten dog, grateful for its master's mercy. Through misty eyes, Rupert finds the Analyst staring at him.
"This house is a privilege." He practically spits the words at him. "When I throw a dog a bone, I expect he does his duty."
The hunger slowly returns. Rupert can feel it begin to pull at his intestines, and he doubles over slightly. He can't even bring himself to stand as the Analyst rises from his comfortable chair and marches towards the front door, which he opens before pausing at the threshold.
"Keep the House fed," he says, glaring at Rupert. "Keep it content. Or you'll be seeing me again."
The door closes. Rupert is panting. Hunger is rearing its head again. His stomach feels terribly empty. He knows the Analyst's threat is sincere. He's made some error, some dire mistake. He needs to fix it.
But first, he needs to feed.
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It's that time again! My dear friend @nagdabbit wrote another very good fic, and then my hand slipped. If you like dumb gays getting drunk and bonding, you should check out to carry within us an orchard, because it's lovely and funny. It's a prequel to lamp-bright rind, and if you haven't read that either, you should fix that immediately!
#stranger things fic#nagdabbit#lamp bright rind#stranger things moodboard#billy hargrove and robin buckley
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I made a moodboard for my friend Dagney (@nagdabbit) for her absokutely marvelous fic
lamp bright rind.
#lbr#harringrove#billy hargrove#steve harrington#stranger things#harringrove fanart#lamp bright rind#gideon's moodboards
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[Tim Drake character study from my fic Lazarus Mad Dad]
Once there was a little boy in a loveless, lonely life, destined to be the bearer of an heir and nothing more. That little boy was told his worth was made of what he could do, provide, give but never be. That little boy believed he’d forever be the perfect daughter and never the man making a change that he believed he could be.
The little boy saw a man hidden in the shadows. A righteous man who believed in change just like the little boy did.
Then the little boy saw the boy made of kindness and love, who gave him his first hug, soar through the sky. He saw that beacon of light made of bright smiles and found the beauty that was genuine kindness and goodness.
The little boy took to the streets with his camera and his lithe limbs and captured moments in time to forever immortalize. Not only did he find hidden moments of his heroes but he also found an escape from the plastic life he was damned to live.
The little boy saw another boy. Small but determined, built with rougher edges than the boy who soared. A boy who found the magic in life. The little boy found a new hero, a bright eyed boy who saw a broken world and wanted to make it a better place.
When the bright eyed boy was beaten and broken until all his magic was ripped away, the little boy watched as the righteous man who believed in change began to change. Once blended with shadow, illuminated by his magical beacons of light, now falls deeper into a darker abyss.
The little boy believed in change. He believed in beacons of light and bright eyed magic and he tried to be the light that the shadowy, righteous man needed.
The little boy made change as best he could. He tried to change the righteous man too, tried to bring him back to the light.
Along the way, the little boy found a love. A sunshine boy who had a heart so big and bright that it was blinding. Sunshine boy loved the little boy and the little boy loved the sunshine boy. But the sunshine boy’s light was extinguished, a forever starless night over the little boy’s heart.
The shadowy righteous man disappeared and only the little boy believed he could come back. The beacon boy, too dim, too dark, could not see the light of hope that the little boy had.
There was little boy, littler than the little boy. He was sour like a lemon, bitter like its rind. Littler lemon boy took the little boy’s place. Beacon boy took all his light and he gave it to littler lemon boy and left no more to the little boy.
Things went good. Things went wrong. But in the end, the little boy grew up.
There was a Before where that little boy was but a flickering lamp, growing dimmer and dimmer with each passing day. The beacon boy grew bitter and the bright eyed boy who believed in magic had nothing left to believe in.
The little boy left and he changed. A boy who believed in change began to change just like the shadowy righteous man had. He was beaten and broken just like the bright eyed boy.
But once a flickering dim lamp arose a volcano boy, spitting magma and sparks over dark charred rock. Volatile and unpredictable and bubbling with rage.
Volcano boy spit his lava like Vesuvius over Pompeii, destroying everything his boiling magma touched. Volcano boy burst and erupted until there was nothing left.
And then he met the two little girls. Girls brighter than beacon boy. Girls with brighter eyes than the boy who believed in magic. Girls who made volcano boy’s magma cool to igneous rock.
The magma was still deep in volcano boy’s cool exterior. It bubbled beneath the surface, sometimes breaking through the cracks. But the girls, the stars to fill his starless sky in his heart, helped him cool.
But one day, against all odds, volcano boy was reunited with his sunshine boy, and the igneous rock covering his magma rage cooled deeper and deeper.
Volcano boy and sunshine boy and the starlight girls found their light. Sometimes that light would dim and sometimes it would shine so bright that they couldn’t see. Sometimes that light was stolen and hidden in a box with a lock and key that volcano boy couldn’t reach. But sunshine boy would bright his light and unlock the box with his love, love, love.
The shadowy righteous man returned along with the beacon boy and bright eyed boy and littler lemon boy.
And somehow, they found their light again.
Somehow, they all changed for the best.
Somehow, they found their happy ending.
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🍒Cherry Recs Some… FIC! (Part 2) 🍒
For @gothyringwald’s brilliant Harringrove Feedback Fest
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ORGANISING!)
#1 Boss by @flippyspoon
(It has ERICA! Being amazing and sorting things out for Billy like the boss she is! Oh it’s funny and sweet and there’s BABYSITTER’S CLUB references! Utterly brilliant!)
A Clean Run by @mourntheantagonist
(Autocross rally car driving Billy. I LOVE that Billy has this whole other life that’s JUST his, and how he wants to introduce Steve to it. The perfect blend of fun, romance and (of course) a little hit of angst along the way!)
Baby, can you see through the tears? by @pretty-bratty
(Delicious BDSM fun, with a brilliantly bratty Steve and a Billy who knows when to give firmness and when he needs softness.
Billy Hargrove’s Exploration of Beauty (series) by @mourntheantagonist
(Billy learning that he can be pretty and WANT to be pretty and Steve being so so good at helping him with it all. An utterly stunning series. I LOVE the chapters where we see Billy through other people’s eyes too, and see his found family growing, person by person🥰)
Billy Hargrove Needs A Nap by lilpeas
(Stunning. Touch starved Billy getting the sleep and the care and the love he needs. I can never look at cherry tomatoes without grinning now!)
Bruises on Both my Knees (For You) by @bentnotbroken1fanfiction
(Utterly delicious BDSM fic with SO MUCH heart)
Cherry by @lazybakerart
(There aren’t enough words of praise for how much I adore this fic. The feelings it gives me, STILL gives me after multiple rereads. Love it. So much.)
Goodnight, Moon by @flippyspoon
(Billy and Steve solving their sleeping issues by sleeping with each other is a top tier trope AND it’s written by Flip- WHAT’S NOT TO LIKE? It’s cute and fluffy and soft and absolutely delightful.)
How Near You Stand To Me by @boudoirwriter
(Oh this is dark and delicious and the ANGST and the pain of both Billy and Steve is glorious. Heed the tags, because it does go to some dark places, but I am salivating with every update (one came out while I was at work and I holed up in the bathroom for half of my lunch break because I couldn’t wait to read it!))
lamp-bright rind by @nagdabbit
(Chef!Billy teaching Steve how to cook! Another one of those which has lodged into my heart (and I do think of it whenever I sharpen my knives!). Billy has the perfect amount of edge and attitude (but he’s so soft for Steve!) while Steve just can’t see how good and capable he actually is. Love it so much!)
night of the fuzzballs by @gothyringwald
(Gremlins-y critter horror that is SO DAMN delightful! I can see and hear this one so vividly, it feels EXACTLY like a Stranger Things Halloween Special episode!)
The Last Time In Hawkins by @callieb
(A gorgeously protective, brave Billy and the future he deserves. Beautiful writing.)
these arms of mine by @gothyringwald
(Billy and Steve and their own, very them prom night. So utterly perfectly romantic and OH I get tingles every time I reread it!)
Shaped Like Home by @kingsandsaints
(CHUBBY Steve! And such perfect dialogue and cooking lessons (I STILL think of ‘dusty boys’ whenever I use ground herbs!) and the hurt and angst that hits JUST right before we get some gorgeous comfort too. LOVE IT.)
Shelter (See Me Through) by @gypsymishka
(Hopper taking Billy in is trope I go WILD for, and it’s done SO WELL here. Billy’s pain and everything he’s suffered breaks my heart, but there is a strong undercurrent of love from Steve and Hop, and a real hope that things will get better for him soon.)
Switch Your Partner Round and Round by @platypanthewriter
(Body switching fun with some laugh out loud moments (And also some ‘my heart is breaking for both these boys’ moments too!) Pan writes with such a brilliantly engaging style and has so many wonderful ideas that I could rec SO MUCH of their stuff, so start with this and then check out the rest!)
Take Me Home Tonight by @prettyboyporter
(TEACHER FIC!! Yes!! Steve and Billy meeting again as teachers and getting to have the fun, cute friendship and relationship that they deserve, but still with that hint of high school rivalry! SUCH wonderful writing (because of COURSE! It’s Tee!) and oh some HOT HOT HOT moments too!)
The Sun is Up, The Sky is Blue by @prettyboyporter
(Come for the Harringrove, stay for the Murlexei? This one put a big, happy smile on my face! I love Murray and his straight (no pun intended) talking, and Alexei being an adorable bundle of sunshine learning all about American traditions AND them helping Billy to realise everything he can have.)
#harringrove#harringrove feedback fest#cherryrecs#cherryreads#oh there are still so many to go!!#i hope all the links work#lemme know if not!
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Harringrove Feedback Fest
not me participating in something when I haven’t been active in months 😅
fic recs from AO3 authors that inspire me! these fics are all incredible and i’ve re-read each one listed multiple times!!
@gothyringwald thank you for putting this together! its such a cute idea!
knit more tightly together by lymrics (E) @lymricks
part one of the blues in chicago series. i think one of the first harringrove fics I read. love the steve/billy dynamic and so emotional and high tension that im pretty sure it made me cry at some point? even though it’s not a sad fic! idk it just really pulled some emotion up. literally the fic that got me into the fandom and wanting to write for it! the whole series is amazing!
Steve takes a second to feel relieved it's not Dustin getting all sorts of arrested in places he shouldn’t be, then he goes back to staring.
It's Billy, who looks as good now as he did the last time Steve saw him: three years ago. He looks just as complicated, too. He’s got bruises on his face, a split lip.
star-crossed bullshit (black holes feast) by ?? (E)
this work got orphaned, but i’m so glad the author didn’t delete because it’s one of my all time faves! strong dom/sub undertones and messy relationship with an incredible use of the unreliable narrator! plus it has mechanic!billy
Billy makes a mixtape for when he fucks boys, except it’s on Spotify, and he’s only fucking Steve, and all the songs are oddly, and suspiciously, romantic.
liquor (on your lips, makes you dangerous) by eternalgoldfish (E) @eternalgoldfish
i love a college!au with some gross hot Billy and this one is so good. equal parts cute, funny, and sweet with a side of kinky that I hadn’t read before
“Careful, sweetie, don’t break a nail,” Billy said, leaning over Steve’s shoulder, lazy cat’s-grin gleaming up to his eyes.
“I’m not going to break a fucking nail.” Steve hissed and elbowed him, like he hadn’t been thinking the same thing as he struggled to wedge one of his shiny red nails into his wallet’s tight leather pockets.
Or, Steve makes a bet he can't win and Billy doesn't realize his mistake.
i’m saucing on you by Boardingschooled (E)
speaking of college!au’s this one has fratboy!Billy being gross hot in all the best ways. also sweaty concert grinding, boys being absolutley smitten, and waffle house breakfast dates? it’s like college slaps you in the face and makes you listen to AMINE and it’s great
Steve wants a ticket to the biggest party on campus; Billy's got one with Steve's name on it.
Tale as Old as Time by hoppnhorn (M) @hoppnhorn
i’m an absolute sucker for beauty and the beast au’s and hoppnhorn is such a fantastic writer that i had to include this one
Prince William, imprisoned in the form of a beast, can be freed only by true love. What may be his only opportunity arrives when he meets Steven, a man who bewitches him from the very moment he steps foot in his enchanted castle.
Honeyed Wine by Antarc (T) @rascheln
am i biased because this fic has literally all of the thing i like because it was written for me? perhaps. but for real, this fic is SO sweet and well-written! it has baker!billy and a twist at the end that i did not see coming at all. every time i read it i just have a huge smile on my face
While he recovers from an injury at Robin's farm and helps run her market stall, Steve unexpectedly reunites with his old high school rival. Billy, once a tough asshole who got into weekly fights, is now a proud owner of the best bakery in town and mans the stall right next to Steve's- with the best croissants Steve has ever eaten.
samarra by gothyringwald (T) @gothyringwald
i think this was the first fic in a long time that i’ve read that took a more gen/mystery/sci-fi approach, with the romance taking a backseat for most of it, and honestly this fic made me remember how much i like reading. the story and universe building is excellent. very trippy and gives off a lot of twin peaks dream walking surrealist vibes.
When the kids bring Billy back from the dead, it doesn’t go quite as expected: he’s alive but his soul has been left behind. And Steve is the only person who can bring it back.
Salt in the Wound by SheWritesDirty (E) @shewritesdirty
if ‘fuck your enemies’ was a genre, this would be THE fic. rough, gritty, and violent. I could wax poetic about how much I love the writing style and imagery and how different it feels in comparison to other fic. steve and billy are toxic and messy and so bad that its good
The way he ate slow, like his jaw hurt. Like it was tender, like whatever had put that bruise on his face had left more of an impact than just… flesh and bone. And now that he was seeing it... Steve knew that he hadn’t done that to Billy.
That someone else had, after that night and over the weekend... someone else had gotten their hands on Billy and put karma into his skin.
And he still hadn’t looked at Steve.
Here I Go Again by HeckinaHandbasket (E) (WIP) @heck-in-a-handbasket
oh god oblivious!Steve is top tier in this A/B/O fic. combine with a lifeguard!billy that’s trying (and failing) in his rough, fumbling way to make it obvious that he’s courting him and you get this adorable mess. it’s so sweet and funny and the rest of the gang are actual little kids that run around and create havoc. i’m always excited when it updates!
Not just a new lifeguard, either. No, Billy was the lifeguard supervisor.
Because of course he was, the prick.
Swing Away by lemonlovely (E)
sports!au sports!au sports!au - specifically a baseball!au that actually serves as a really cool character exploration of billy and his dad and sports. this one is so bittersweet and i love the dynamic between steve and billy as they figure out a rocky start to a friendship and romance
Steve and Billy go to the same Hawkins Baseball Camp that Steve's been going to since he was a kid, and Billy is not particularly thrilled to be there - he fucking hates baseball, alright? And he tells Steve as much.
lamp-bright rind by nagdabbit (G)
chef!Billy teaching his neighbor Steve how to cook au. unbelievably sweet and a writing style that is unique, expressive, and comedic. you really fall in love with the characters, as flawed as they may be, and the descriptions of food. did i mention its an almost 100k slow-burn?
Billy spies on his cute neighbor, his cute neighbor doesn't know how to cook. Luckily, Billy can do something about that.
#harringrove feedback fest#harringrove#i tagged everyone's tumblrs that i could find#but yeah check these out!!
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chappy 14, a summary
yoots: congrats on having sex
eddie: with a barn animal
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this is killing me my god
[ID: This is how I will choose
you: by feeling you
smelling you, by slipping
you into my coat.
Maybe then I’ll climb
the hill, look down
on the town we live in
with sunlight on my face
and a miniature sun
burning a hole in my pocket.
Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice
from it. From you.
When I walk away
I’ll leave behind a trail
of lamp-bright rind. /end ID]
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Some Songs from Dreamland by Glass Animals
... but described in an alarmingly detailed way
...by someone who’s first language isn’t even English
almost typed “first English isn’t even language” oop
the way that this started when someone asked for song recs from Glass Animals & i almost texted them an encyclopedia oop
Tangerine - bright, summery, vibey; like when you fold & squeeze the rind of a 🍊 & in the light you can see lil droplets flying out
Heat Waves - end of summer blues, tinges of melancholy in the melody
Tokyo Drifting - for when you feel a little violent (just a little, nice & easy)
Waterfalls Coming Out Your Mouth - the essence of when you’re feeling a lil detached & out of it & your emotions r a whirl of colors
Space Ghost Coast to Coast - when you’re disappointed in society & commits white collar crime; less messy more controlled simmering anger
Hot Sugar - honey, maple syrup, dark-colored viscous sweetness of some kind, with a good handful of ✨ thrown in, inching down a slide under summer sun at noon
Your Love (Déjà Vu) - hide and seek played next to a gathering of people dancing to music (maybe around a fire)
this one has a specific memory from when I was growing up attached to it if anyone asks I’ll prolly expand on it
Domestic Bliss - oof this one RV driving down an open road at dusk, dark skies outside, inside lit with a dim warm yellow glow, cliff-side highway or through open field/desert with mountains in the distance, Hawaiian shirt & messy hair
Helium - feeling of falling at the bottom of your heart putting you on the edge of your seat (like one of those rides that just go up & drop you & repeat it a couple of times after the first drop while gradually lowering)
Dreamland - going around in circles hand in hand in the middle of a brightly lit colorful dance floor and starting to get dizzy but can’t stop spinning and the colors start blurring together in your vision and then you stop out of the blue.
Melon and the Coconut - going to an old record store on an overcast day it smells of an music room with a good long history behind it. You can see out from the glass display window with painted on, backwards words sunset leaking at the seams & edges of heavy clouds at the far end. You walk along streets tinged orange with street lamps to arrive at a similarly warmly lit table for two. you feel a little sad but more content like when u tuck yourself in on a winter night
It’s All So Incredibly Loud - unnerving; grasping at something
#this is for you#Glass Animals#Dreamland#song recs#album review#album reaction#brain thoughts#tangerine#hot sugar#space ghost coast to coast#tokyo drifting#your love (deja vu)#waterfalls coming out your mouth#domestic bliss#heat waves#helium#it's all so incredibly loud#ear candy#emotions#original#text wall
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Not Here for Me
If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble.
Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.
(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)
ao3
His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”
“That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”
The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.
The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.
If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”
“Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”
They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.
Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.
Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.
“You wanna go to a gay bar?”
Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.
“Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.
“I don’t know,” Sam told him.
“You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”
“Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”
Dean nodded, “Like what?”
“Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“
“I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”
“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”
“Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”
“I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”
“No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”
“To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”
“Trevor?”
“Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”
Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.
One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”
Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.
John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.
But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.
“My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”
“You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”
“I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”
“He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”
“Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”
“And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”
Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”
“Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“
Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.
Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.
Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.
He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.
“Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”
“What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”
“Sure.”
“But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”
Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”
“Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”
“Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”
Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”
Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.
Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.
“If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.
He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.
He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”
“What if I don’t want a different fella?”
“Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”
Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”
Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”
“No one does.”
“Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.
What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”
Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.
Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.
As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.
It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.
Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.
Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.
On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?
He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”
What?
“What?”
“Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”
“His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”
Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”
Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”
Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”
“Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”
“’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”
“Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”
“Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”
“He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”
“Why you wanna know?”
“Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”
“You make a habit of this, then?”
“No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”
Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”
“Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.
Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.
A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”
“Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”
“I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.
Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”
“Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”
“Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”
“You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.
“It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”
Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”
Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”
“Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”
Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”
“Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home. “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”
“Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”
“Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.
“You’re a good brother.”
“I try my best.”
“Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”
“That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.
He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.
That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”
Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”
“No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.
“Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”
“I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.
He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.
With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.
You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.
A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”
“But for this?” Dean asked.
“Definitely this.”
Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.
He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.
The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…
Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.
Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.
While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.
That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.
He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.
Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”
“It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”
“I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”
“Are you sure?”
“I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”
Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you certainly aren’t straight.”
Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”
“Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”
It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.
“It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”
He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.
Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.
That isn’t what he wants.
Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.
And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.
Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.
Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.
This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.
This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.
A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”
“Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”
His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”
Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”
Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”
“…Thanks.”
“Good night, Dean.”
“Night, Cas.”
He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.
He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.
No one speaks for half their journey.
They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”
“Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”
Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”
“Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”
“Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”
He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”
Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”
Look out for Sammy.
Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.
“Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”
They might have died.
“Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”
“What?”
“I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”
Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”
“Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.
He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.
Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)
Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.
Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.
He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.
Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.
#spn#supernatural#spn fanfic#dean winchester#castiel#destiel#deancas#destiel fanfic#deancas fanfic#sam winchester#sam winchester is an ally#john winchester#john winchester's a+ parenting#fuck john winchester#tw: internalized homophobia#tw: abusive parent#tw: garden-variety homophobia
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“I’ll choose for myself next time / who I’ll reach out and take / as mine, in the way / I might stand at a fruit stall // having decided / to ignore the apples / the mangoes and the kiwis / but hold my hands above // a pile of oranges / as if to warm my skin / before a fire. / Not only have I chosen // oranges, but I’ll also choose / which orange — I’ll test / a few for firmness / scrape some rind off // with my fingernail / so that a citrus scent / will linger there all day. / I won’t be happy // with the first one I pick / but will try different ones / until I know you. How / will I know you? // You’ll feel warm / between my palms / and I’ll cup you like / a handful of holy water. // A vision will come to me / of your exotic land: the sun / you swelled under / the tree you grew from. // A drift of white blossoms / from the orange tree / will settle in my hair / and I’ll know. // This is how I will choose / you: by feeling you / smelling you, by slipping / you into my coat. // Maybe then I’ll climb / the hill, look down / on the town we live in / with sunlight on my face // and a miniature sun / burning a hole in my pocket. / Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice / from it. From you. // When I walk away / I’ll leave behind a trail / of lamp-bright rind.”
- Roisin Kelly, Oranges.
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My very dear friend, @nagdabbit, is writing a lovely fic called lamp-bright rind over on ao3, and I wanted to make her a little moodboard. If you like pining, food, pining, incredibly soft boys, Stranger Things, and pining, you should give it a read.
(I hope you like it, Daggs!)
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Oranges
I’ll choose for myself next time
who I’ll reach out and take
as mine, in the way
I might stand at a fruit stall
having decided
to ignore the apples
the mangoes and the kiwis
but hold my hands above
a pile of oranges
as if to warm my skin
before a fire.
Not only have I chosen
oranges, but I’ll also choose
which orange — I’ll test
a few for firmness
scrape some rind off
with my fingernail
so that a citrus scent
will linger there all day.
I won’t be happy
with the first one I pick
but will try different ones
until I know you. How
will I know you?
You’ll feel warm
between my palms
and I’ll cup you like
a handful of holy water.
A vision will come to me
of your exotic land: the sun
you swelled under
the tree you grew from.
A drift of white blossoms
from the orange tree
will settle in my hair
and I’ll know.
This is how I will choose
you: by feeling you
smelling you, by slipping
you into my coat.
Maybe then I’ll climb
the hill, look down
on the town we live in
with sunlight on my face
and a miniature sun
burning a hole in my pocket.
Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice
from it. From you.
When I walk away
I’ll leave behind a trail
of lamp-bright rind.
-Roisin Kelly (x)
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