I want friends you guys.
HELLO HELLO WE LOVE YOU TOO
Do you believe in love at first sight?
DOES IT COUNT IF YOU’RE SUPER EXCITED BUT HAVEN’T OFFICIALLY SEEN IT YET!?
So, there is seriously a lack of FCK H8 stuff geared toward the trans community. So I decided to make a couple.
I chose orange because it’s about as neutral a color as you can get. And I put the asterisk in the corner because it’s the symbol used when stating that trans* is an umbrella term, meaning that just because this says girls and guys it is not leaving out those who are both or neither. But if you would like to see these say something else more specific to those who are genderqueer or non-gender, just give me some suggestions.
Edit: I know that trans* people weren’t born their opposite gender mentally, but they were physically and that is what this message is addressing.
I want to add this quote from Will Smith to this whole hair discussion:
“We let Willow cut her hair. When you have a little girl, it’s like how can you teach her that you’re in control of her body? If I teach her that I’m in charge of whether or not she can touch her hair, she’s going to replace me with some other man when she goes out in the world. She can’t cut my hair but that’s her hair. She has got to have command of her body. So when she goes out into the world, she’s going out with a command that it is hers. She is used to making those decisions herself. We try to keep giving them those decisions until they can hold the full weight of their lives.”
Well played, Will Smith.
BUT ERHMERLEH I LOVE YOU TWO
Fandom: Supernatural / Doctor Who (crossover)
Word Count: 1383
Notes: An older fic of mine that I originally posted elsewhere, I was prompted to write for the pairing TARDIS/Impala. Need I say more? It was later converted into an audiofic, which can be found here.
She’s lived a good life, she thinks. True, not always a happy one - there have been many bumps and scrapes along the way, enough to last thirty of her estimated lifetimes, and there was that one time she was left for dead at the roadside – but she likes to think that the life she has now is worth all the wounds.
She remembers everything, of course. She remembers her birth, gradually rolling along the assembly line and sitting on a podium in a showroom somewhere in Wisconsin. She remembers the card saying 3 – 9 – 9 – 9 propped up on her hood day in day out, and she doesn’t understand what it means, only that it’s important. It means something, something that makes every car exhaust around her spurt and stutter.
Many drivers sit in her and many more run their eyes across her frame and wish they could, but as much as she relishes the attention, the inertia settles quickly. She yearns to be out on the road, to be wanted and loved by one driver and one driver alone.
And then there is Sal. A silly little man by all accounts, and life with him is so boring, but she loves him nonetheless, in that wishy-washy way she has to love every driver. With Sal it is the same old roads, cutting through the same old puddles and bumping up the same old curbs, her back-end weighed down with books and bags of old clothes.
Inevitably though, she knows that Sal isn’t hers, so she isn’t surprised when one day he just never reverses her off his drive again and a truck pulls up to tow her away. She ends up lounging around on a grassy verge with a bunch of other old cars. Scrap metal, really, old bangers who’d lived their lifetime and spend their days complaining about their oil levels and boasting about their mileage. She tries her best to ignore them as one by one they’re led away to the local wrecker’s yard.
It all changes when she’s slowly burning in the summer sunshine and a man in a leather jacket strides up to her and settles on her hood like he’s owned her for years. She’s about to protest but then his hand steals its way across her baking metal and all she can do is purr in contentment. She can still remember his weight on her that first time, firm but comforting, and not a violation at all.
He knocks on her hood and says, “trust me, this thing is gonna be badass when it’s forty,” and she believes him, she really does, and silently vows then and there that she’ll wait for him, for as long as it takes. Even when she’s forty.
She’s guilty at first, letting John ride around in her, but she comes to love him and his sons just as much as her mystery driver – even when they savagely carve their names into her body, and force their toys into her nooks and crannies. They leave old scars in her, but she can’t hate them for it. The memories of cradling them in the back seat, their heads knocking against the window on road trips, carry her miles more than she ever expected to go.
It’s when the older boy turns seventeen and slides easily into her front seat for the first time that she knows. She knows. She knows in the way he slides the key into the ignition and turns it reverently, at the slight intake of breath as she roars to life around him – roars. She tears off down the road as his foot comes down too hard, touches the floor, and for the first time she doesn’t care when she stalls because it’shim.
She learns his name quickly. D-e-e-e-e-a-a-a-n. Dean. Everyone’s always interrupting him with that non-word when his palms slip along the curve of her wheel, or when he’s laid under her and telling her things she can’t begin to understand, easing her open with a gentle, knowing touch.
They age together – him growing older, her just growing old. She doesn’t notice it until one day Dean gets into the car and her hinges shriek in protest. It’s grating and embarrassing, but he just pats her dash and says, “Don’t worry Baby, I got some grease in the back.”
Once, and only once, he takes a tire-iron to her, and her metal heart breaks for him even as he beats a hole clean through her trunk. She counts every clang of metal on metal, seventeen, and holds him up when he collapses onto her. He fixes her up a day later, hammering her body back into place. He leads her onto the road and she tells him in the sound of her wheels sliding over gravel that she forgives him.
Now she’s weighed down with all kinds of odds and ends, things she knows that normal drivers shouldn’t have. Things that spark and crack in the night, that blow out tyres and shatter wind shields. Dean shows her things that other cars couldn’t even dream, sitting in showrooms and running the daily commute.
She thinks she’s seen everything, done everything, with Dean. That is, until the sound of unfamiliar whirring, of metal scraping against metal, sends her brakes screeching. In front of them, in the road, a… carwinks into existence. It’s unlike any car she’s ever seen, vertical rather than horizontal, with no wind-shield or indicators, but it is unmistakeably a car.
Suddenly the doors are thrown open with a whine and its driver steps out, as much an oddity as the car itself. He doesn’t move like Dean does, and when they both meet in the middle its a confused exchange she can barely keep track of. She hears “doctor” but it doesn’t mean anything.
She turns her attention to the familiar hum of engines, but they’re nothing she’s ever heard before. There is no burning smell of asphalt or dirt roads, just something… different, lingering on the air around this strange little box. It’s been places, she knows, the same places she’s been but not.
They stand facing each other awkwardly, her sleek black finish clashing with escort-blue, and her quick, aged eyes cast over its form. She sees the wear and tear clinging to its surface, the same nicks and scars that she’s taken over the years. She sees the tell-tale signs of a boy becoming a man, the same life that she had with Dean, and for the first time in a long while, she speaks to someone other than her driver.
“Hey,” she says, “I’m Baby.”
There’s a long pause, long enough for her to wonder if it can even understand what she’s saying. It certainly seems foreign; she’s never heard of a ‘Public Call’ model before. She knows Mustangs and Firebirds, Fords and Pontiacs. ‘Police Box’ is completely unheard of. But then, it speaks.
“Sexy,” it replies, the non-word drawn out carefully as if it’s not sure it should be saying anything at all. Then: “Oh, is that my voice? Sorry, it’s just, I’ve never spoken to anyone, you know. I’m more of the listening sort you see, and well, I don’t think many people like the look of me, being so different, I mean I don’t exactly have wheels and that puts everyone off, and…”
She sits back and thinks, letting the sound of gentle whirring stir her imagination. It’s an unusual name, but she remembers all the times Dean has said it in her back seat, working on the suspension of slimmer models with different parts to him, so maybe it’s more common than she thinks. She casts her eye over to Dean and sees him laughing in a way he hasn’t for years.
“S-e-e-e-c-c-k-k-k-s-y-y-y-y,” she tries the word and finds she likes the way it rumbles across her grille. “Well, Sexy, I think we’re gonna have a good time.”
The pitch of Sexy’s strange, foreign engines change to a wicked hum, and she feels a frisson of something she can’t explain run down her frame at the sound.
“Oh yes,” Sexy agrees, “A very, very good time.”
So, another 1000 words again! This came from looking at how Dean took care of Cas in 5x03, fixing his tie and jacket…such beautiful memories from that ep, awyeah *hearteyes* Also, this fanart which is amazeballs, and which has made me want to write about the moment where Cas sasses Dean with his royal title into all of the fics, it’s like 5x03’s ‘Our fearless leader’-
Castiel’s hands are well-shaped and elegant, and are currently the bane of Dean’s existence. Dean stands utterly still as Castiel works around him, hooking the cuirass to the back piece and smoothing those beautiful hands across Dean’s torso, tugging to make sure that the fastenings are secure and making Dean’s breath catch with each pass of Castiel’s hands.
He won’t meet Castiel’s gaze, afraid that he’ll betray these sudden strange feelings that he has been having and he exhales shakily when the knight abruptly kneels before him to test the fastenings of Dean’s poleyns to leg greaves. He stares down at the top of Castiel’s head and is struck by the sudden desire to touch the knight-angel’s head in a show of benediction, of affection, of faith.
If it wasn’t so stupid, Dean would imagine that he might be touching aurelous, the physical manifestation of Castiel’s Grace.
Dean imagines he must have made contact with that intangible thing because he feels a warm prickling across his skin. The feeling only intensifies when Cas rises to his feet with silken grace, eyes clear and bright, a pink flush across the tops of his cheeks. Dean looks away, skittish, until Castiel’s hands come up to bracket his face.
It’s intimate, is what it is, Dean thinks crazily as he stares into Castiel’s crazy-blue eyes. But Castiel’s face is serene, is calm, as he looks at Dean, into Dean. And when Castiel smiles it is like the sun rising which Dean thinks is an absurd simile because it’s just a tiny little quirk, the smallest of curves to Cas’ lips. Yet it is beginning to mean the world to Dean and today that smile is both soft and challenging, for today is the day of the tournament and Castiel wants Dean to win.
‘You have brought me to this moment,’ Dean says finally, voice gruff with emotion.
Castiel’s gives an imperious tilt of his head and everything about him is suddenly so dear that Dean forgets to breathe.
‘Does that make me your hero, your highness?’ the knight murmurs, lowering his eyes demurely. Dean knows it’s meant as a playful gesture, hearkening back to so many moments in the past when they were at each others throats and Castiel would pull out that royal title, fling it at Dean’s feet scornfully. But looking at the gentle fan of Castiel’s sooty-black lashes and the way Castiel has his big hands framing Dean’s face still- still!- Dean has to remind himself that it would be a very bad idea to give into temptation. Very Bad Idea, Dean tells himself sternly and pictures John’s face to emphasise the point.
It doesn’t stop him from wanting, though, the ache bone-deep.
‘It makes you my best friend,’ Dean confesses and damn but his voice shakes when he gets that out, the naked honesty for all to hear.
Castiel’s eyes widen, and from this close Dean sees just how stunning it is to stare into all of that sudden and brilliant flare of blue.
Dean doesn’t know what to do with his arms encased as they are in the heavy metalpieces of his armor- a sudden reminder that he has a tournament to win- but he wants to put them around Castiel’s body and hug him. In a totally manful way, of course.
Castiel’s hands fall away from his face but Dean is not left feeling bereft because Castiel is picking up his hand instead, and Dean stares down at where they’re basically holding hands. In a totally manful way, of course, because Dean notices that his fingernails are dirty, and the back of Castiel’s hands are stained with some kind of red-brown dust- so basically it’s all very masculine, this moment that they are having.
Castiel had leant back a little when he’d let go of Dean’s face but now he leans in again with a conspiratorial look on his face. ‘I hadn’t wanted to tell you this as I know exactly how insufferable you can be but-,‘ and here the knight-angel pauses and assumes a look of great pomp on his face, - sometimes, very occasionally, and quite by accident, I have found myself thinking that you are my beloved prince, and that you have my heart as you surely do have the hearts of the people of the kingdom.’
Dean stares at him and tries not to be blown away by the fact that Castiel just confessed his love to him.
‘Don’t let it go to your head- it was all quite by accident. In fact, I feel that you have bludgeoned me into feeling this way for you- all those knocks on the training field, they must’ve addled my head,’ Castiel enunciates with a straight face, but his blue eyes are so-clear and shining and Dean feels faint because he has to go win a tournament and definitely not get himself killed in the process. Because if Castiel is saying what Dean thinks he’s saying then Dean needs to be alive after the tournament so he can come back to Castiel, and, and, and, yea, Dean needs to stop that train of thought right there because Very Bad Idea.
Castiel fucks it all up, though, fucks with all of Dean’s saintly restraint when he strokes his thumb across the inside of Dean’s wrist and Dean’s mouth drops open because he’s a Son of Sybaris, and that was good touch right there, whisper-soft and teasing.
Dean closes his mouth and then licks across his dry lips. Castiel turns away from him and crosses to the clothesframe that holds Dean’s ceremonial robes. Dean picks up his sword and straps it to his thigh. And when Castiel reaches over to swing Dean’s robes around him, Dean catches him about the waist and kisses that proud mouth because he wants to and there is nothing Very Bad about it because it feels too good.
Castiel leans back from the all-too-brief contact to smile at Dean, ‘Consider that my token for the joust. Although, I am no lady maiden, prince. I am as you are.’
‘You are all that I’ve ever wanted and never knew until this moment,’ Dean mumbles shyly.
Castiel’s eyes close and open, the look so wondering on his face that Dean has to turn away or be overcome.
My little brother got into outer space and stuff so my step-mom bought him a place mat with all the planets on it. When I first saw it, I was upset, because it was newer and so Pluto wasn’t labeled. I was about to say something when I noticed something…
Pluto is there.
The artist remembered Pluto.
The artist drew Pluto crying.