Sam is the king of hell, and his subjects fear him,
naturally. They avoid his clear-eyed stare, and cower as he voices his demands
from his throne; they tremble when he enters the room.
However, there’s one another creature they fear more.
His brother, his lifeguard, his consort, his lover.
Dean, the Knight of Hell, who never leaves the king’s
Black-eyed Dean is the most ruthless, merciless
creature to have ever walked through the gates of hell, and if he detects even
the slightest indication that someone’s loyalty towards Sam wavers even in the
faintest way, he eliminates them.
Whenever Sam speaks to his subjects, Dean’s eyes
narrows as he watches the crowd intently. He watches them all; whose gaze is
the least revering? Who ceases to applaud the king first?
He takes them back to the most gruesome place; the heart of hell – Sam is rumored to
have affectionally named the dungeon “the Concert hall”, because the screams
Dean produces in that place constantly echoes like a never-ending, ghastly
symphony in there.
Sam’s fingers are loosely curled around Dean’s throat,
pushing him up against the wall of the dungeon. Torches crackles around them,
and Dean’s green eyes looks like gems in the yellow light. Dean smells of exhilaration
and violence, and Sam smiles softly.
“Are you enjoying yourself, brother?”
Dean’s teeth gleams when he smiles, his fingers
gripping Sam’s wrist. “They make such pretty noises,” he gasps, as Sam kisses
his neck, gently grazing his teeth across Dean’s jugular.
“Not as pretty as the noises you can do,” Sam
whispers, his hot breath fanning all over Dean’s neck. “Finish him off,” he
orders, thigh pressing against Dean’s hardening cock. “Need to fuck you, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean nods, pulls out his blade, and beheads
the demon chained to the wall; who’s long ago passed out from the torture.
Dean chest heaves. “He was caught mocking your choice
Sam stares down at the severed head, a small smile
tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fellow of infinite jest,” he mumbles,
reaching out to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair.
Summary: Sometimes a normal life is a good one to lead; its nice…its easy… But sometimes, normal isn’t the way that things were meant to be. And when you’re chosen as a possible candidate for one of the kingdom’s 7 princes, life isn’t as nice and easy as you always presumed it to be…especially when you catch the eye of more than one of them…
A/N: Shit starts to go down… (also, sorry for the late upload, shits going down everywhere today it seems.)
He’d had you practicing the dances for that evening for a good
two hours before you ask him if you could finish, your feet feeling worn black
and blue as you take a seat. Although, it wasn’t like you hadn’t had breaks throughout him helping you learn
the dance, especially after your moment earlier, that had meant each time you’d
paused to ask him a question he’d look at you in the same overly affectionate
way he had before the two of you had broken apart from your kiss, and your
words would become stuck in your throat before you’d begin practicing again.
‘I suppose I should let
you begin to get ready.’ He muses as he makes his way back over to you, a
knowing smile on his face that had been present for the entirety of your dance
lesson, and which at that moment was smothered in the slightest hint of lust.
‘Will you meet me at the party?’ you ask, looking up at him
from your seat as he comes to a stop in front of you, and watching him as he
picks your hand up from your lap to steady it intently with a smile.
‘Is that what you want?’ he asks quietly, glancing up at you
and holding your gaze as he waits for your answer that ends up coming out
‘Then of course I will….although you didn’t really have a
choice anyway. I intend to spend all evening with you.’ He says smirking as he
pulls you to your feet, and you end up pulled tightly into his body as his arms
circle your waist, his tempting grin filling up your vision.
‘Why do I feel like you’re more dangerous than you make out
to be?’ you ask playfully, catching the flash of knowing darkness that
flickers across his expression before he smiles at you, bringing his lips as
close as he can get them to yours without touching, and smiling before he
‘The good singers of old time’ had a way We don’t with rhyme. All the words we have, we’ll Tell you, in all the ways we know how to. ‘The good singers’ this time do from Bédier Borrow. A turn here and there, we’ve stolen From Shakespeare—and cribbed from chum-Chaucer a Verse or a bar. No word here’s original; Nor phrase aesthete. We never learned how to Score lines with metric feet; so with selfsame Couplets, our tale is replete. Far from perfect— Our rhymes are all near. You’ll hear we all too often cheat. Don’t think the’fforts of singers half-hearted. Had we been versed in verse, schooled in sonnet— We’d seem rehearsed. The nose, we’d be on it. We prefer our art brut—from mainstream, we’ve parted.
We’re no virtuosos when it comes to our quills. Forgive us—we’re slatterns who squib with no skills. Slang is our speech. We play fast and loose with diction. Our syntax: so predict’ble as to cause affliction. If you favor Tom Stoppard, or’ve English Degree, Beware. Our verse is often blank; our melody, free. For wont of knowledge, and/or the will to try— Our rhymes might sound lazy. You won’t hear us deny We’ve made a tepid-porridge out of dramatis personae. All faults poetic, we hereby disclaim By way of prologue; in the argument’s the aim. We’re self-taught play’rs, not geeks parsing pros’dy— We’re freaks who make theatre, rude-mechs roughing-rhapsody. But with sincerity-of- heart appliquéd on our sleeve, And the tale told forthwith, we hope we’ll our aim achieve— And soon from our prologue we will grant you reprieve.
‘The good singers of old time’ told tales for lovers; We feel the time’s nigh to tell stories for others— You’re this prologue’s welcomed addressee If you yearn to spurn systems of control and break free: Subjects in states of listless abjection; If you dominate in bed or by indirect election; If your tastes are vanilla; if you’re gray (an asexual); Pigs who like it raw; prigs who keep it conceptual; Listen close, all ye who know from oppression— Though we work in dialectic, don’t mistake our lesson. We’ll spin you a tale of a hero’s subjection; But hark ye to our credo: know not genuflection. By our play’s end, we hope you’ll agree And applaud. (The title’s odd: Kings such as He.)
So listen to a tale told by troubadour Which sounds as if it’s old from days-of- yore, Of promiscuous obedience transmitted mimetically; We all still submit to modern-day monarchy. The bondsman, the broker, the monarch, the prince The sovereign, the ruler, all these names evince The same notion: an external entity Which regulates the soul, so it never can be free Why make an oratory out of “history” Take it for what it is, not what it wants To be—two words: “his” and “story.” It’s time We unstuck them. But just whose “his” is this, affixed parasitically? That’s the mystery—but also: go f*** him.
We beg for your prayer, and hope all who’re near, Whoever you are—whatever you fear— Those broken-hearted, and those still in love— Those in mourning for their dear departed, above— Those who are waiting: let our song be your lodestar From which wishes are granted; let our odes take you far. May all who hear what we sing here, tender— From the Angel of Justice to the Apostate-Pretender: Let our song bring you now some hope of splendor. And please if you like us, refer us, for the services which we render. We have traveled widely, telling all while close-confiding To tune of ill-tuned lute for naught but what good-will bought Pruned of fruit, earned from reciting (no scenery; no lighting). Let us now together go and address wrongs by rewriting.
We sing a song for all those not yet woken Of how power’s born—and then, how it’s broken; The which, if you will listen, we’ll now sing: Once upon a time, there was a hero in search of a King.
Look, I did what I was told to do. Slayed the dragon, stabbed it in the eyes, watched it burn itself to ash & bone. There were no applauding villages, no grateful kings, no humble gods. I came home with a dead thing wrapped around my waist & all you asked was whether I was planning on keeping it. Hands on your hips, the cat curling himself around your ankle. Said, we don’t need more responsibility. We don’t need another body to carry. I did what I was told to do. I don’t remember why the dragon had to die. I don’t remember if there was a princess or if she was saved or if she even had a name.
I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.
I find you in the field beyond the sea, twisting flowers out of their stems. You smoked with the others, sand crusting the J, the paper wet with spit. Everything began to sink in and out of your horizon, then the ocean came too close, your mother reaching for your feet, & so you left. Walked straight up the grassy hill, scratchrose thorns kissing your heel. We biked all day, the wind scraping our cheeks. I was tired, you weren’t. In a few days, we’ll go back to New York & in a few months, we’ll graduate high school. We won’t talk outside of Facebook birthday posts & that long message I’ll send you when your foster dad dies. It happens in his sleep, in those timeless hours. One moment here, the next gone. Sinking in and out of the horizon. Right now, you’re stoned & you’re ripping out weeds. I give you my tuna fish sandwich & you tell me it has too much mayo. You toss me the bruised peach in your bag. Achilles, you never told me what drowning was like. You never told me it was the closest you had to a home.
I spill warm milk out the window and all the creatures whine at the doors. Look, I’m bad at playing hero – my cape’s on backwards & I always get lost in the forest. I know you’ve got your doubts. Listen, baby, things are gonna be okay. I never loved you like that anyway. In this story, I make you a girl, and in that story, you make me a boy. See? We can both be happy. I’ve watched you cradle loss like a newborn, the ground outside full of things we love. I’ve got my ghosts and they wear my old clothes so well. My favorite one slips between us when we sleep, holds both our hands, quiets the clotting in my chest, cools the sticky rocks in your throat.
And repeats, repeats in my ear: don’t you know, little fool, you never can win?
Much later, the water comes & we don’t do anything to stop it. You know how I die – don’t watch, okay? You know how ugly I am when I cry. I’ll miss you, sugar doll. I’ll miss you, bumblebee. I’ll miss you, Achilles. I’ll wait for you in that coffee shop in Meknes. I’ll wait for you in the Philly airport. Baby boy, I’ll drizzle you with chocolate sauce & eat you right up. I’ll see you in this life or the next or the next or the next.
He looked up suddenly and saw Antoinette. She
was in a gallery close to the altar, and he saw that she was leaning
forward and that she was quietly weeping.
He paused and she smiled at him through her tears, while many
witnessed their exchange of glances, sensing their emotion and their
affection in those long looks they gave each other. Some wept, and all
applauded, crying: “Long live the King and his Queen!”
It was a moving moment, a departure from tradition; and never, it
was said, were there a King and a Queen so devoted to one another as
this King and Queen.
As soon as he was able he joined Antoinette. She held out her hands to him and lifted her face to his.
“We will always be together,” said Louis.
She nodded mutely, for she, who was much more easily moved than he was, had at this time nothing to say.
Burger King introduced a new Whopper for San Francisco Pride 2014, with message inside the wrapper states “We are all the same inside”.
Personally, I am impressed by such move by a big chain like Burger King and I believe it does matter a lot. I applaud Burger King for this and I gotta admit too, I have never expected a burger would make me cry. :)
I’m honestly laughing at the pro-Brexit touters and the shit they are coming out with. “This is our Independence Day”, “Britain is Great again!!!1”. What the fuck are these people celebrating. Well done, you’ve blocked the free movement of not only those who come to the uk to work in the jobs you’re too stuck up your own arse to do, not only those who are your doctors, nurses, lawyers, but you have also blocked the movement of YOUR OWN PEOPLE.
Why are you celebrating when within minutes of the first Leave vote coming in, the pound dropped. When the day we leave the EU, the pound drops to its lowest in 30 years??
Why are you applauding when King Back-Peddler, Dickhead Nigel Fucktarge openly admitted that one of their key policies for leaving the EU was a LIE??
Why are you happy that the cost of living is going to rise? Why do you feel so good about the possibility of thousands of families not being able to afford food? About the cost of already high petrol soaring?
Why why WHY was the choice of the future of this country ultimately decided by those who will likely not live long enough to even witness the long term repercussions of this, but those who’s futures were on the line, 16/17 year old who DID NOT want to leave, have been cast aside.
HOW can anyone be happy now that the future of our human/workers/etc rights rests SOLELY in the hands of a Conservative government. How can you celebrate that David Cameron is leaving, only for him to be replaced by a xenophobic, racist counterpart.
We live in a country of selfish people. We live in a country that does not care about its young people, that is so scared of migration they will willingly crash the economy to get what they want. A country where xenophobia and racism is being normalised every day.
But I bet all you fuckers will care when you’re on your shitty holiday to Maga and your 200 pack of Lambert and Butler isn’t 5 quid anymore.
You’ll be the first to complain when you can’t afford your weekly shopping bill.
When this country goes back into a recession we barely scraped our way out of.
But it’s okay coz u got dem immigrants out, right?