#Big John Brittle

[pedroam-bang]

Django Unchained (2012)

#2012 #film #movie #western #Django Unchained #Quentin Tarantino #M.C. Gainey #Big John Brittle #Jamie Foxx #Django #Cooper Huckabee #Lil Raj Brittle #Sharon Pierre-Louis #Little Jody #Doc Duhame #Ellis Brittle #The Brittle Brothers #The Schaeffers #Christoph Waltz #Dr. King Schultz #Don Johnson #Spencer Bennett #Big Daddy #Leonardo DiCaprio #Calvin Candie #Samuel L. Jackson #Stephen #Gatlinburg #Thomas Gainsborough #The Blue Boy

[fayes-fics]

Moments: Chapters 1-4

Moments Masterpost

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Pairings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, OFC (John Darby) x fem!reader

Summary: Slow-burn fic. Follow on to No Good Advice. Best to read that first, however In case you haven’t/don’t - reader has an arranged marriage to childhood friend John Darby, but has a passionate pre-marital relationship with Benedict Bridgerton which results in the conception of a child on her wedding day. Reader is now married to John Darby and he believes himself the father of the child. This fic is what happens next for all of these characters.

Word count: 4.8k (for these 4 chapters)

Warnings: angst, illness, original character death, pining. Warnings/ratings will go up in future chapters.

Authors Note: this is my first attempt at multi-chapter. Please be kind lol <3 I expect there to be at least another 4 chapters, likely more. Thank you to @makaylan for all of your wonderful advice and beta work on these chapters.

Chapter 1: Moments from a family life

John Darby is many things, but most important to you is that he is a great parent to your son James. He is a companionable husband as well. He is probably your best and certainly oldest friend in the world. There could be worse ways to spend your life. There are moments of contentment that bring you solace, and what more could you reasonably ask for?

---

The thunder wakes you up. You spring out of bed to check on baby James, on instinct, not even noticing John's side of the bed is empty,

You round the corner into the nursery but stop short. In the low candlelight is John, holding little James in his arms, swaying gently and pointing at something out the window. You can hear him talking quietly but not the words he is saying.

You lean against the doorframe, your hand closing over your chest instinctively, watching your two boys. He looks up, sees you and smiles, beckoning you over with a tilt of his head.

“James, look who is here? It's your mummy.”

“How is he?” you whisper as the rain starts beating against the window in earnest.

“He is such a good boy. Arent you James? Yes, you are.” John busses a kiss onto his forehead, and James smiles up at him. 

“I couldn't sleep, so I wanted to see him,” John explains, pulling funny faces that make James smile.

“Does the storm bother him?” you ask, curious; it's the first one you recall since he was born.

“Not at all. I think I woke him, to be honest. He’s such a good boy” John runs his hand affectionately over James' forehead and then kisses it again. “Nothing like me. I was so scared during storms as a baby and a child I used to wail. How about you?”

“Surely you remember?” You reply. He frowns, so you continue. “That time I was at your house aged 5? There was a big thunderstorm? I peed myself and had to borrow a maid's child’s dress just to go home. I was always petrified of storms until I was an adult.”

John barks a quiet laugh in response, “I remember now. You could barely walk in the thing; it drowned you. But it was the closest thing we had to your size.”

You grin at the memory too. So much shared time together. 

“So where on earth does this bravery come from, my beautiful boy?” John asks rhetorically, looking down at James. “Both of your parents were so scared, but look at you, calm as anything.”

Your smile takes on a brittle edge as you hope he doesn’t piece together too many things that don’t quite add up about James.

---

“What's this, papa?” four-year-old James comes wandering up from the side of the country path you are all walking, someplace amid the vast Darby estate on a warm spring afternoon.

He hands John a rusted metal object that is almost triangular.

“Where did you find this, James?” John asks, turning the item over in his hands, brushing off some loose soil.

“Over there by the field”, he points. “I was looking for rocks for my collection,” he adds proudly.

“Well, this is much better than a silly rock,” unseen by his father, James' little face skews into a pout at John’s passing comment. “I do believe this is a very ancient item, my son”, John continues, giving him a proud pat on the shoulder. “I would need to check with a few friends to get more detail, but I think this is an arrowhead from a spear, used hundreds of years ago.”

“Oh really, papa?” James seems awed, squinting in the sun as he looks up at his father.

“The plough must have turned it over with the soil last week,” John says thoughtfully, as much to himself as James, continuing to examine the item.

“Well done, darling,” you praise, kneeling to kiss James on the cheek.

“Can I keep it, mama?” he asks, making hands to take it back from John.

“Let’s see what your father thinks,” you answer democratically, giving John a pointed look; you can tell he wants to take it and show it to his museum friends. But you want James to have it. He did find it, and there's likely not much monetary value, certainly not to a man of the means John has. John catches your eye and sees everything in your expression, his shoulders slumping as he knows he lost the argument before it begins.

“You can, but make sure you take good care of it,” John replies indulgently, ruffling James’ chestnut hair and handing him the arrowhead. “Now, how about a lift home?”

James grins as John picks him up and places him on his shoulders, the three of you making your way back towards your house as the sun starts to bleed into the horizon - John regaling you both with stories of historical battles on the land you now walk. You smile indulgently at your boys, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun on your face.

---

“JAMES DARBY!” you hear the roar before John rounds the corner into the drawing-room from his small office next door. “What is the meaning of this?” he exclaims, holding some official-looking papers aloft, with childlike drawings scribbled over them in pencil.

“I... I drew you some pictures, papa,” James replies timidly, his lip trembling. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to make you happy, papa; you looked sad,” he says solemnly. “Drawings make me happy,” James adds under his breath which only you can hear as he sits at your feet.

You see all the irritation drain from John’s face as James’ blue eyes well with tears. John closes his eyes in frustration, then opens them and moves a few paces to kneel, embracing and soothing his son.

“James, I know you meant well with this,” he says after a pause, gesturing at the pages in his hand. “But this is important paperwork related to the family business; one day, you will need this paperwork to run this estate as Viscount. If you want to draw, please use the sketchpads we gave you,” he ends with a weary sigh, kissing James on the head affectionately.

“But I ran out, papa,” James answers, hugging him back.

“You used up all the sketchpads already?” John seems incredulous as he stands back up.

“He really loves to draw, dear,” you point out to John. “Also, it's in pencil; I'm sure we can erase it,”  you add to mollify your husband.

“I know that,” he replies, his tone a little short, “I just have absolutely no idea where this incessant urge comes from,” he grumbles before breaking into a bout of coughing.

“Are you alright?” you are concerned; it's the second round of coughing you have heard from him in the last hour.

“I'm fine,” his reply dismissive. “Just a cough; I was in the same office as an old man last week who was coughing; I'm sure it's nothing.” 

“Please see the doctor about it,” you request politely as you watch James go back to playing with his toys, “Your mother has just gotten over a bout of her latest ailments; I don't want her to catch something else. Especially not now the autumnal chill is in the air.”

John glances sideways at you, grudgingly acknowledging what you say is correct but not particularly wanting to heed the advice.

“Speaking of, I’m going to spend the evening at the main house with them. Do you care to join?” he inquires, almost as an afterthought.

“I'm fine here with James,” you answer truthfully. 

He nods and returns to his office. You are content to let them have Darby family time; chances are he and his father will want to talk family business, and his mother will retire early as she usually does. You would be left alone in the drawing-room there; it's much preferable to be so here, where at least you have your books. Besides, you are happiest in your house at the edge of the estate. It seems a little intimidating to think that one day you will have to move up to the grandeur of the big house when John becomes Viscount. You always pictured life in a more modest dwelling, a country house perhaps surrounded by rose bushes and some woods beyond. Not sure where that image comes from, you shake your head and return to your book.

Only a couple of days later, when you find a handkerchief spotted with blood on his desk, do you genuinely start to worry about John’s persistent cough.

Chapter 2: Moments from a tragedy 

They say tragedy comes in threes, and it indeed visits you and your son as such in a very small window of time—one very sad autumn. While the family you married into often seemed plagued with health issues of various kinds, this is still a massive shock.

John’s cough gets progressively worse over the next few weeks, and, once his parents are struck the same way, he is moved up to the big house to be monitored by the trusted Dr Smith. However, despite the doctor's valiant efforts, they all become gravely ill in frighteningly rapid succession. 

James Darby is only four and a half years old when he loses three-quarters of the only family he knows and loves - his grandfather, the viscount, his grandmother, the viscountess and his father, John - all to the dreaded consumption. He is just glad you, his beloved mama, are spared. It also means he becomes Viscount Darby before starting school, even though his father never even got to use the title.

Being a widow at 25 is not something you had ever envisaged; neither is inheriting a country estate and various assets. Well, they are inherited by your son, but for all intents and purposes, they will be your custodial concern for at least the next fourteen years. 

Mostly you grieve for your son - his whole world turned upside down so young. Your personal grief is muted and subdued. The loss of John’s friendship hurts you more than losing him as a life partner or lover. When someone you have known since childhood dies, it always feels like something is missing. 

Your husband John was an only son, and, it turns out, his son is the same. You never managed to conceive another child. 

In truth, you never even conceived one together. The more James grows up, the more that fact is staring you right back in the face. Not that John or anyone else ever suspected. But dear god, you know a Bridgerton if ever you saw one. And James is unmistakably a Bridgerton with his chestnut hair and blue eyes. He barely has any of your physical traits or features, but you don't mind. Somehow it is your greatest comfort to watch a miniature copy of the man you truly love growing up. But also your greatest source of guilt. By rights, neither of you should have any claim over the Darby estate. Yet here is your future secured and no living relatives to challenge it. 

One message of condolence of the many you receive jogs your heart the most. It’s in beautiful handwriting and accompanies an arrangement of all your favourite flowers. I am so sorry for your untimely loss. You are, always were, and always will be in my thoughts. It’s not signed, but it doesn't need to be; you know who it’s from. 

---

“Mama, is papa in heaven?” James asks you over dinner a few weeks after the funeral.

“Yes, darling. Papa, grandma and grandpa are all in heaven. But they still love you very much,” your heart aches as you watch his little mind processing the idea.

“I won't get to see them again, will I?” His voice is quiet, and he looks so sad. You pull him into your lap and drag his plate next to yours so you can eat while cuddling.

“One day, darling, a long way into the future, you will see him again,” you assure, “and he will give you the biggest hug because he misses you every day. Until then, just remember papa loves you very much and is watching down on all the good things you do. And the naughty things, so don't be too naughty,” you whisper and blow a raspberry onto his neck to lift his spirits as much as you can. 

“Stop it,” he giggles, pushing you away and spearing some food onto his fork. 

You smile, content to see his appetite back after a few weeks of barely eating.

“Mama, I don’t think I will go to the same heaven as papa and grandma and grandpa,” he says after a pause to chew and swallow.

“Of course, you will, darling,” you confirm quickly.

“I mean, I don't think I will go to the same bit of heaven,” he says, his mien thoughtful. ”I will be somewhere else, but maybe I can visit them?”

“Whatever do you mean, James?” Sometimes, you forget this child is only four years old with the intriguing and imaginative things he comes up with.

“I don't know; I just don't think they will be there,” he says with a shrug. “You will be, mama, of course. And my sisters. Not my brother, though.”

“What sisters? Brother? James, what are you talking about?” you look at him, utterly bewildered.

“I will have sisters and a brother one day,” he insists, “and some of them will be there in heaven when I arrive.” 

You frown at your child and his unshakable belief in something that makes no sense. It’s not like he even has any cousins he could be mistakenly referring to either. He has been through so much in the last few weeks that you don't want to question or refute his arguments, so you just let the subject drop.

Chapter 3: Moments from a ballroom

After the grief fades over the following months, the overwhelming feeling you are left with is loneliness. It's just you and little James on a vast estate. Yes, there are all the wonderful staff, but no one who is not in your employ to keep you company.

So you decide, not long after James’ fifth birthday, to leave your cottage on the Darby Estate - you still have never moved up to the manor house - and decamp to Darby House in London to partake in the year’s summer social season. Maybe you will see some old friends and their children, be able to catch up and feel the warmth of family and friendship again. 

Rather foolishly, it doesn't occur to you who else you might run into.

---

A few weeks later, you arrive in London after a gruelling six-hour carriage ride with just enough time to bathe, change and head out again to the inaugural event of the season, the Danbury Ball. James fell asleep during the journey, and his nanny happily carried him to bed, where he slept all night soundly. You envy him just a little bit.

You should have arrived the day before, you belatedly realise, noting your exhaustion as you pull on your gloves and appraise your reflection. It will just have to do.

As your carriage pulls up into the melee of others outside Danbury House, you have the sudden urge to run back home. It dawns on you this will be the first event you have attended as a widow. You start to fret about everything - who might you know attending? What do you even call yourself - are you a Dowager Viscountess when you never even got to be Viscountess? 

Your footman swings open the carriage door, and you realise it's too late. Taking a deep breath, you descend and follow the crowd into the main hallway. The scent of flowers, the melodic musical notes, the sight of hundreds of candles - it's all so very grand. 

“Dowager Viscountess Darby!” Lady Danbury exclaims, answering your quandary about your title with the ease of a seasoned hostess. “How delightful to see you back in London after all these years! We were all so aggrieved to hear of your husband's and in-laws' tragic loss last year. Our deepest sympathies.” 

“Thank you, Lady Danbury” genuinely grateful for such a warm welcome. “It's rather unsettling to be back in the hubbub of London, after the peace of the countryside, but seeing you and so many familiar faces is wonderful.”

“Please, enjoy your evening, and don't forget there is plenty of champagne to go around”, she ends with a conspiratorial wink before effortlessly flitting her attention to the following people entering the party.

You slowly circle the room, picking up a proffered glass of champagne. You spend a good hour catching up with faces you have not seen in years. Each, in turn, is friendly and offers sympathies. At some point, the endless merry-go-round of greetings becomes a blur of similar interactions, and you crave something a little different.  

For a change of pace, you drift to the edge of the dancefloor to watch the young ladies at the debutante ball, all aflutter with excitement and hope of a marriage match. You never got to experience the heady excitement of a season as an eligible Miss, having been matched from so young. You don't even remember a time both of your families did not refer to John as your ‘future husband’. It seems a cruel irony that he was your ‘future husband’ for almost four times as many years as your actual husband. While he was not the love of your life, he was a constant, and his presence is something you miss every day. He was, in many respects, your closest and most trusted childhood friend. It was a shame that you never felt the great love for him you believed you should have owed him. The heart can be a fickle beast.

Speaking of the heart, yours was in for a hell of a jolt. Descending a distant staircase, you suddenly see the man who stole yours six years prior and who, in all reality, still holds it and probably always will. Daily you watch the living, breathing extension of that heart grow more and more like the spitting image of his father - the man you now watch. He hasn't seen you yet, and in many ways, you hope he doesn’t. But oh god, does he look breathtaking. Dressed up as he is in black and white for the formal ball. Looking as handsome as ever. You know you are not the only one who has caught sight of him. He has been a bachelor for far too long and is prime prey for the predator mamas of the Ton, which appears to number most if not all of them.

Then it happens. Like all those years ago, the moth to a flame, he somehow inexorably finds you. His eyes land on you, and you feel akin to a butterfly trapped under glass, helpless and pinned to the spot. You watch as an entire catalogue of reactions crosses his face, likely a mirror image of your own. After a few moments of intense eye contact, he leans toward the person standing next to him, a young woman you don't recognise and says something to her. Still, his eyes don't leave yours. You can tell from her appearance that she's not a Bridgerton, and suddenly you get that oily unrestful feeling in your stomach. That can only mean one thing, surely? Has Benedict Bridgerton done the unthinkable and found himself an eligible woman? 

It's ridiculous that your overwhelming emotion is jealousy. You were quite literally married to another man for the last few years. And yet. And yet. That's precisely what it is. Somehow in your mind, Benedict should always always be yours, even if you are not his. A patently absurd notion of ownership. 

Before you can entertain any more ridiculous ideas, you decide it's best not to find out anything else tonight. You are mentally and physically exhausted; seeing him just tipped your scales, and there is no other logical course of action to take.

You turn around and flee, not looking back as you enter your carriage and steal off back to Darby House.

Chapter 4: Moments from a drawing room

Mid-morning the following day, after a restless night of haunted dreams, your butler informs you of a visitor.

“There’s a Mr Bridgerton here to see you, my lady.”

Oh, good grief. You wouldn’t mind the ground swallowing you up right about now, but sadly no such convenient fate awaits you.

“Send him in,” you sigh, smoothing down your dress, knowing you will have to explain what happened last night.

“Lady Darby,” he bows politely, entering the room. He, unfortunately for you, looks stunning in the signature Bridgerton blues today. Your body still reacts as it did years ago, as it did last night. He's so much closer than he was yesterday. Within a few feet, too close. Danger, danger is all your mind is screaming. 

“God's sake Benedict, just call me y/n,” you bemoan, already frustrated with yourself.

He frowns, slightly perplexed by your outburst “y/n” he amends slowly. “I just wanted to check you are well after you left the Danbury Ball in such a hurry last night; we didn't even get the chance to greet each other.”

“I am fine”, you reassure, gesturing for him to sit opposite you, which he does. “I’d forgotten what a whirlwind those events can be. I've been used to the quiet country life for too long, I suppose. I haven't been to London for years, and I just found it all a bit too much after the journey down yesterday.” you shrug, knowing you are babbling nervously.

“Yes, that's understandable. So there was no other reason?” he inquires pointedly.

“No, why would there be?” Your reply is a little sharp as you distractedly play with a loose thread on your dress.

“No reason,” he schools his expression with a bite of his lip and downcast eyes. Oh, the cocky bastard. You definitely won't give him the damn satisfaction of admitting that, yes, seeing him was part of the ‘all a bit too much’ you alluded to. 

“Hubris doesn't suit you, Mr Bridgerton”, you admonish, slightly playful, despite yourself.

He shoots you his signature crooked smile of old, and quite suddenly, all the air has apparently left the room. The warning sign in your mind flashes brighter as your eye contact lingers. Good god, you itch to touch him. 

But there are also so many questions. Who was that woman he was with at the ball? Are they a couple? If so, why is he here with you today, flirting as no time has passed?

The noise of a door opening loudly down the hallway breaks the spell between you.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I just wanted to drop by and check on you briefly, say hello properly after all these years - hello, by the way. I'm on my way to a family lunch; well, actually, I'm already late for it. So I won't bother you any further,” he states, going to stand up again so soon, to your relief and consternation.

You hear a rush of tiny footsteps approaching outside the room and realise there is nothing you can do to stop what is about to happen next.

“Mama, mama, look at what I made!” James comes running into the drawing-room holding aloft a piece of paper, brightly daubed with red, green and blue paint. The paint is still wet and is all over his hands and wrists.

Benedict freezes as James runs by, rooted to the spot. It’s the moment you’ve been dreading and anticipating for more than five years.

James smears paint on his forehead absentmindedly as he pushes a lock of hair away and leans into your knees to show you proudly what he has painted.

“That is a kite, and that is a flower,” he says, getting yet more paint on his fingers as his pointing presses into the paper.

“It’s lovely, darling,” you kiss his cheek indulgently, “but we have company,” attempting to shush his enthusiasm.

James whirls around and looks up at Benedict. Blue eyes meeting blue eyes. Your world shifts. Benedict knows. In an instant. The way any man knows his offspring. The way he looks at you. At his son. At you again. It’s all in slow motion and so fast at the same time.

“This is Mr Bridgerton,” you say to the back of your son's head, your voice unsteady, not wanting to meet Benedict’s gaze again. “Say hello.”

James steps forward and squares his little shoulders.

“Hello, Mr Bridgerton. I’m James Darby, and I like to paint.” He smiles winningly and holds out his picture proudly—quite the introduction.

Benedict crouches to his knee, staring at the boy, his face a kaleidoscope of emotions. 

“Hello, James. You can call me Benedict. I also like to paint,” his voice almost cracks on the last word. “That’s a wonderful picture, James,” he adds softly. 

“Are you here to paint as well?” James asks with the uncomplicated logic and curiosity of a child. 

“Your mummy is an old friend of mine, and we were just catching up”, Benedict answers truthfully, looking over James’ shoulder at you, “it appears we have a lot to discuss.” 

You try to ignore his pointed remark.

He focuses back on your son, his son. “But I’d be happy to paint with you any other time, James.” 

Your heart flutters at the thought.

James nods and runs out of the room. “Goodbye, Mr Bridgerton! I'm going to paint some cows!” his carefree voice peals from the hallway.

There is silence as Benedict slowly gets back to his feet. You stand up as well; it seems only fitting for the moment.

“Is he?” his voice seems shell-shocked; it's only just sinking in.

“Yes” is all you can say.

“How long have you known?” he sounds winded.

“I think I've always known”, you respond truthfully.

“The… the wedding day?” he questions.

“Could only be”, your responding shrug.

“Are there others? Does James have siblings?” he clarifies when you frown.

“No. We were never blessed” you hang your head.

“I don't think that's because of any fault on your part”, he responds. “James seems very fine, healthy.” That point had never really occurred to you before. James was indeed an uncomplicated pregnancy, always a healthy child. But then, he was never indeed a Darby.

There is a long silence. 

“Why did you not tell me?” Benedict hisses.

“I… what good would it have done?” you whisper back, distressed.

“I could have… I don't know,” he gestures vaguely.

“Benedict, James had a wonderful childhood until this tragedy. No one had any suspicions. He was loved by a family; he had a life of comfort and safety. He wanted and continues to want for nothing. He is now a Viscount, for god's sake. He has the same rank as your brother Anthony.” 

Your point makes him bristle slightly, which you regret.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he says after a long moment.

“Thank you, it's been an adjustment,” you reply carefully. “James has taken it all in his stride, considering.” 

“Because he has a wonderful mother,” Benedict expresses fiercely.

It makes you look up at his face. Oh god, you ache for him. He is still so so beautiful, just like his son.

“Believe me, more than anything, I want him to know the truth,” you begin, having to look away, “but you know he never can. It would jeopardise everything he has.”

“I know that; I would never want that.” He pauses and closes his eyes for a few moments. “But I would like to get to know him? Spend some time with him? If that's okay?” He hedges, almost nervous.

You exhale a breath you didn't know you had been holding. 

“Nothing would make me happier,” you respond a little jaggedly, a tear forming in your eye.

“I don't want to, but I really must go. I'm now so very late for that family lunch,” he says, pained.

“No, no, of course, please do.” You wipe the corner of your eye subtly as you can. “Thank you for dropping by to check on me. And I'm sorry again about last night. It's been a good few years since I was part of the London scene, and it was all slightly overwhelming.”

“I understand, and please, please pass on my goodbyes to James”, his voice hopeful.

“I will” 

He moves half a step forward as if to embrace you, and you inhale sharply, wanting nothing more. At the last minute, he seems to change his mind and pulls back, giving you a brief, polite bow and turning on his heels.

You collapse onto the fainting couch, just now realising what an apt name that is.

The following day at breakfast, your butler informs you of the delivery of a child-sized easel and paint palette. He hands you the accompanying envelope. Inside, the note in that beautiful, familiar handwriting reads: 

To James, from one artist to another, paint fearlessly, Benedict.

That utterly wonderful, utterly frustrating man.

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton angst #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton

[moonfox281]

Hey! I really love your Fumes of Our Love series and have read all of them multiple times. I was wondering if you’d consider continuing it with requests. 🫶🏽

I'm super busy with a lot of things both personal and for Jaydick right now. But here's a little nsfw doodle for you!

Dick didn’t like being on air. 

Strange, right? Odd words from the flying boy. People always said he was the one with wings. Well, that was if he was the one doing the flying and not a giant machine with hundreds of wheeling engines and caging cockpit. Flying beyond cloud level, low atmosphere, high pressure. You can’t exactly go further up, not enough to touch the stars that you know well are there, awaiting; yet, you can’t exactly go low enough to see the ground, to feel safe, unchallenged. Middling, it is.

He found it lonely, getting stuck in the air with nothing but the infinite blue. You just get high enough to want to go higher, to realize how small every being is to the sky, the universe. 

It was kind of lonely, if not the presence of John cuddling Beast’s oversized body on the couch snoring thunder with open mouth; Jefferson tentatively dancing one foot on the floor while looking out the jet window with cautious eyes; and the heavy, warm body slumping by his side breathing soundlessly.

Jason had dozed off since the first ten minutes they got into the plane. He got home later and later these days, missing dinners, always back at the front door with a tight knot between his brows. His works piled up every once in a while, work loaded up, people changed. The life of an infamous crime lord is a never ending rollercoaster, sometimes, even the thrills can tire you.

The only times that he seemed to ease himself was when he wasn’t conscious. Jason’s trust in others was as frail as an old man’s grey hair, it broke and brittled easily. It was a fitting character for him, in all terms, so fitting that he wore like his favorite jacket, belligerent to share. 

Even in his sleep, the hold on Dick’s wrist was iron. He weighed his whole down as a pillar, grounding Dick to his seat. What feared him, honestly? Dick jumping out of the cabin while they were 500 hundreds feet above sea level? 

Possessive he had always been, Jason to the things that he was interested in. 

“He’s losen weight.” said Dick as he tucked a fallen lock out of Jason’s clean pull back with his free hand. “He really needs this. A vacation.”

Jefferson stared back at him with heavy shoulders. He was always a keen talker, but even more so when around Jason. 

“Lose the knot, would’ya? Your boss won’t hear a thing. He sleeps deep once get a hold of me.”

“On the contrary, sir. His ears are light when it comes to you.” 

Dick chuckled. “Relax, I may or may not have aided his rest with the accompany of mushrooms.”

Jefferson’s eyes sized up, “You poisoned him?”

“Sedation. Psilocybin, it was what was in the tea this morning, too much of it and you’ll take the first bed in the ER. But for him, it’ll be just a few hours off.”

“I didn’t know shrinks approve drugs.”

“On the contrary, we do, under our subscription and supervision, of course.”

“The irony, sneaking drug to him.”

Like selling the devil his own goods.

“Everybody needs a good sleep sometimes.”

Jefferson snorted, “You’re always so full of tricks, Blue.”

“That’s one of my charms, Jeffie.”

Approximately two hours later, the island came into shape and size under the peeking through the thickness of clouds. Their great big mansion stood lonely by the edge of the mountain, back to the dead volcano, face to the ocean, the beach as their pridely front yard. Pearl white sand spreading along the edge of 43 acres of private paradise land, tropical trees and an inactive volcano. The island itself was ripped from another crime lord, adding one filthy lump of money that Jason had pulled no strings back in spending, designing and building, knowing it would be his little family escape zone twice every year, on their wedding anniversary, and in John's summer break. No duty, no study, no risking their life and most especially, no annoying family members.

The jet slowly loosened itself down the runway at scheduled time when the sun hovered above the peak of the mountain. The staffs lined out to greet them, the local people Jason hired to keep the mansion well and maintained during the year when they were away. Two cooks, a gardener, a live-in doctor, twelve housekeepers, and a butler to keep the wheels turning in the right direction. Trevor, his trusty right-hand man selected them himself so usually Jason let these sort of micromanagement slip off his hands. Too much profile check, history run, paper work, paper work, paper work. Jason got a whole crime dynasty running in his hand, he couldn’t have time for that. 

He hardly even had time for his family recently.

Jason jolted awake when Dick pinched his nose, scandalous and shaken at his own self and not of the jet lowering down the runway.   

“How long have I been out?”

“Our entire trip kind of long.” John snickered. He buckled Beast’s leash and help Jefferson take down their luggage.

“Fuck.” Jason then turned to Dick, “You!” 

“You’re quick to exclaim.”

“Dickface, I’ll kill you.”

He mounted Dick before he could even manage a squeal. The jet jumped when they hit the runway, enough of a bump for Jason’s knee to scrap over places that it wasn’t supposed to be. 

“On second thought, I’ll kill you on our white sheet, summer bed. Slowly, leisurely,”

Jason blew into his ear when he caught the little hitch in Dick’s throat. 

“That sounds absolutely horrid to me.”

“The island is big. Nobody can hear you in the waves.”

“Dreadful!”

Dick laughed turned louder when Jason blowed down the skin of his neck. 

Jason knew how bring out the part that Dick didn’t know existed in himself, yearning to be love, craving for touches. And Dick? Guess his nature brought out that side of Jason, the gentle, loving one he concealed so deep under layers of metal armor and mental scars.

“Greeting lovely customers and welcome to the Marlyland Island. Temperature is currently 87 Fahrenheit, 60% in humidity, the wind is strong, the sun is high, perfect for a good wave or parrasuiting. On the right side of the jet, you can see the Paragon Mansion standing tall and mighty facing the white coast and blue ocean, a perfect resident for a fortunate couple with a young teenage boy in rebellious period, perfectly safe and and pet friendly. On the left side of the window, you can see the infamous coral reef which will be the main event for this afternoon activity. All of your luggage will kindly be transported and carefully handled by our lovely escort Jefferson Stones. With that being said, as the captain of the flight, I wish you a joyful vacation, and thank you for flying with the Red Hood Airlines.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and took down their bags one by one. Beast circled around his feet waiting for his own bag stuffed of balls, throw discs and squishy toys to be put down. 

The butler was the first to greet them when the steps lowered down. Jason liked her, so did Dick. No kid. No husband. Her family sold her for a good price when their local business fell down on a small island 20 nautical miles away from their private property. She owed Jason her life. Oh, Jason liked when people owed him. 

“Welcome back, sir.” She bowed to Dick and Jason but gave John a sweet kiss on the cheek. “My my, how tall you’ve become, young master.”  

John’s eyes squinted into lines when the woman patted his shoulders. He rubbed his short shaved hair when realizing how much taller he had become. Once such a scrawny little kid when Jason first picked out of the alley, Jason was almost forteen by then, malnutried, dirty and so small. 

Now? Kid sprouted like weeds. A rich diet, balanced sleep schedule, stability in muscle training and whole body workout, plus a premium healthcare at Gotham’s top hospitals. Four years in with them and Dick woke up one day, dumbfounded and wordless to find the boy had reached his eye level. 

“I’ve heard from Master Jason how awful the weather was in the city. We’re more than honored to have you visit.”

It was her graceful way to say Jason had called and talked about what happened.

And what had happened? Gotham was entering the turning season, stepping from cool to cold before everything turned freezing. The city rained five days out of seven, unpredictably. It was dry yet humid, windy and foggy at the same time. Not exactly the perfect weather for toddlers, the old and the illed. 

Jason remained invincible, but Dick? His body wasn’t as it was in prime days anymore.  

“Would you like some tea in your room, lemon and gingergrass?”

“That would be great, thank you.”

While John and Beast were running loose along the wide seashore, the rest of them headed straight to the main house, and couldn't wait to get off their feet.  

The mansion was massive. No matter how much time they had spent here, Dick never got used to it. 30,000 square feet of white pillars, honey tiles, black terracotta roofs, coral stones walls with open showers, baths, a pool and multiple gardens. Three stories of six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, one meeting room, two dining halls inside and outdoor, a kitchen with beach view and connecting straight to the shore and their private dock for daily fresh catch and fresh water supply. Not to mention staff rooms and working areas. 

Jason had high standards. He always had.       

The moment they stepped into their chamber, the sea view welcomed them. Seagulls flew from afar as the waves hit the soft milky sand. The ocean hit them in the face in all senses. Salt seasoned the air, tingled their skin. The wind liner curtains into big, blowy flows. Light swallowed their room, warmed the stone tiles down their feet. 

By the legs of their Caesar size bed of white sheet and Persian pillows, Jason looked around with one good turn and smiled widely. 

“It hasn’t changed one bit.”

“Gloria is a good housekeeper. You should consider raising her wage.”

Jason pulled out the first drawer of their bedside table, smirked to himself and closed it back. “I definitely will.”

The heat of the tropical land seeped through even the cold cuts of honey stone tiles, warmed their feet, dampened the two layers of clothes on Dick’s back. He dressed for the killer weather of Gotham and didn’t have time to undress for the island. The sea smelt, a distinguishing auroma of salt, fish, water and sun.  

The present of this place was as sharp as the double blade Jason used to freshen up his morning. 

Dick felt him on his back, his heat and his sweat, along the smell of clean and sun-dried clothes. Jason pressed himself closer to him, until Dick was sandwhich between him and the door, until all they could feel was each other. 

“Jason?”

He grunt back, nuzzled close into Dick’s neck while wandering his hands. He pushed them both further to the door, further, closer, until Dick could feel Jason’s hard-on pressed hot against his lower back. 

“Jason⎼”

“No, call me like that. Like you always do.”

Dick chuckled and whispered, “Littlewing.”

The moan he earnt back could color a stripper’s skin.

“You’re so hot. Gosh, you’re so goddamn hot. Can I?”

Dick laughed and elbowed Jason in the guts, just enough to hear him laugh back. “You already have me up the door.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

And he stopped. Jason’s hands that were all around Dick’s body moved, tightened, until they had him squeezed tight in his chest. He held him dearly, despressly, as if they had no tomorrow.

“Can I have you, my love?”

“I like it when you plead.”

“Just for you, Dickie. Just for you.”

“I love you too, Littlewing.”

Jason made quick work with his belt and pants. He bit on Dick’s nape, twirled him a 180 and pushed him flat against the door then apologized for it. He quickly unbuckled Dick’s belt and stripped his jeans down, guided his hand up to around his neck because he knew specifically that Dick’s body was built to be shaped and bent. And oh, how he loved it when Dick pulled on the short end of his hair and scratched his neck a little. 

Humans are part of only 3-5% of mammals that pair bond. Sex forms the pair bond, one pair for a lifetime. Even when they have way past the point of reproduction as the population hit somewhat above seven billions, the concept of bond remains something sacred. 

And animals, they were. Animals in the way they lusted, they craved. In the way Jason grasped on Dick’s neck and shoved into him hard enough to land them against the door with a loud bang.

He was rough, as was everything of his nature. Yet he always embraced Dick carefully, tenderly, in his own way. 

He crawled on Dick’s skin, twisted his nipples, fondled his stomach. He loved to feel himself through Dick and made him moan for it. 

And he went hard. Hard enough Dick thought he could feel it in his guts, his lungs. There was something sadistic about his joy in making Dick yelp, watching Dick get twisted and turned and all messed up. But at the same time, the way he whined and cooed into Dick’s neck like a wounded animal faltered all the strength and courage of an iron man. 

“God, I love you. I love you so fucking much.” Jason panted, but it wasn’t like Dick had the mind to hear. He was way out. Thinking about it, sex with Jason was always pretty much a marathon. Dick was an athelete, he gave as good as he went, but strength and stamina weren’t things he could run up with someone with the Lazarus Pit in their veins.

Also, to his defense, Jason grew up to be very well adorned.  Too well adorned. Dick’s body was built for a lot of things but it certainly wasn’t built for this. 

Jason’s hips faltered at the last minute and then finally, they stilled. Dick stuck flat to the door, eyes rolled up, chest heaving. His expensive shirt had definitely lost some buttons, and pretty sure that the stickiness against the mahogany wood was his saliva and… something else.

“You’re still hard.” Dick grunted, hypersensive. 

“Have you tried being in yourself? People don’t go down that easily, babe.”

“You’re just young.”

“It’ll stay up for you even in the grave, honey. Fuck viagra.”

“Even when my butt is wrinkled and withered?”

“Can you not say that right now so I can not imagine about it?”

They laughed, stayed connected, frozen on their feet until their knees gave out and they both slid down on the floor in a bundle. Climbing down from euphoria, Jason landed kisses down the length of his neck. Dick licked the tips of his husband’s fingers, kissing his knuckles. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dick nodded, winced when Jason pulled out. "Need head?"

Jason choked, laughed, and kissed him some more. "You'll be the death of me."

They were tongues down each other's throat when a knock came on the door that was right by Dick's ear. Dick almost bit himself and Jason. 

"Sir, if you both are free now, we would like to have you down for supper. The young master is already hafl-way through his plate."

She knew. Yeah, she gotta knew exactly what they had done against this door. Most likely even heard it. 

“We’ll be down in a minute.” said Jason with his hand down under Dick’s shirt again.

They tickled each other, laughed, almost fell on the floor laughing, and symphonized the dance of their skins with the blue waves of the Bahamas ocean. 

#jaydick #mob boss au #mob wife au #my writting #moonie writes

[dangermousie]

Farscape rewatch 2x06 -Picture If You Will

Is it paranoia if it’s justified? John is getting more and more wary of outsiders and wants to protect what he views as his people - the Moyans (and I love that they are all family to him now) but seeing how bad so many entities they encounter are, his irrationality is not as irrational as it may seem.

What strikes me about this ep on rewatch is how insignificant Maldis is in the scheme of things, how despite his power, he is ‘unscary’ in comparison with other monsters in the Farscape world. So much of the show (for me) is really about how Crichton is gradually broken in every way possible: physically, mentally, emotionally. Ground to dirt and yet being able to go on again and to find peace and even restore some of his innocence by the end of The Peacekeeper Wars. This is also very true not just about the entire show but about S2 in itself which is all about driving its protagonist (literally) to insanity. So ultimately Maldis is small fry, compared to what Crichton goes through because of Scorpius, compared to what his love for Aeryn puts him through. Maldis has no subtlety. Maldis is a psychotic five year old pulling wings off flies. His threats are crude. He can kill but he cannot truly torment on a soul-destroying level because he is incapable of understanding anything not soulless. Yes, he gets a reaction out of Crichton by threatening Earth, out of D’Argo by threatening Jothee etc etc but it’s a very blunt sort of instrument he is wielding. Because his power is so great he’s never had to be creative. Crichton at the end of ‘Die Me Dichotomy’ or ‘Liars Guns and Money Part 3’ or ‘Different Destinations’ or ‘Constellation of Doubt’ or [insert name of ep here] is on a whole different level of anguish than what Maldis (who is ultimately only interested in dinner with a spot of revenge) can ever give him. I also find it interesting that Aeryn is not one of the people trapped by the painting. True, she is needed elsewhere for story reasons but I wonder how it would have affected John if Aeryn was also trapped there. He’d probably be a LOT more on edge. This ep also reinforces the fact that Chiana, for all her experience of hard knocks, is quite young. Young enough to get excited over silly trinkets, young enough to be really scared. You know what I love so much? The big brother-little sister relationship John has with Chiana is showcased again (and D’Argo’s caring). When she is freaking out, afraid of being burned because the painting shows it as the future, she is hysterical, demanding to be locked in the freezer. Aeryn (understandably) thinks it’s stupid, but I love the John’s reaction. He doesn’t care if it is. The little sis is freaking out and needs to be made better, however irrational what she wants is. It’s this innate caring in John that I love so much (and the caring that I think draws the other Moyans to him). It gets more and more curtailed as the time goes on, but no matter how few people it becomes limited to (basically just the crew), it’s always there. And of course, in the saga of John and Aeryn, there is that gorgeous, brittle pained scene where Aeryn jokes-not-jokes that she’d love Chiana off the ship and John asks her if she wants everyone off the ship, naming shipmate after shipmate, ending with asking about himself and she does not answer. That interaction is funny and not really lashing out on either of their parts, but there is an edge even there, hiding under the humor and it’s also underlaid by his own suppressed worry that she views him the same way, as useless trouble. It’s the hangover from the bitterness of the events of ‘Crackers Don’t Matter.’ 

And the scene after Chiana’s supposed death where he tries to comfort her (Aeryn feels guilt and also as possibly the most rational among Moyans, she always finds the mystical stuff hard to deal with; which is fascinating in light that it’s mystical stuff that brings her back to life eventually, the most rational person owing her existence to such irrational act - irrational not just in emotion and sacrifice but mechanics of it. OK end of digression.) But she lashes out in her guilt and he hits back, because none of them are perfect and can snap.

I know it’s not a fave ep for a lot of people (and I agree there are plot holes and the show acknowledges them in the end scene with Rygel and Chiana), but it’s fun to me.

PS A small but telling detail. When Pilot conveys the message from Zhaan to shoot Kyvan, Aeryn does it with no hesitation because John told her earlier to do whatever Zhaan said and it’s a seemingly throwaway moment but is says so much - of how good a team Moyans are now; they work like a machine when needed, of how Aeryn’s ingrained lack of hesitation in necessary violence and following orders is used for good (because now it’s not orders by psychopaths but instructions from people she trusts), the trust this shows in John - he told her she should do whatever Zhaan said and she did, and just...I love little scenes that reveal a lot.

#Farscape

[byneddiedingo]

Carey Mulligan and Bradley Cooper in Maestro (Bradley Cooper, 2023)

Cast: Bradley Cooper, Carey Mulligan, Matt Bomer, Gideon Glick, Maya Hawke, Sarah Silverman, Vincenzo Amato, Michael Urie, Greg Hildreth, Brian Klugman, Nick Blaemire, Mallory Portnoy, Yasen Peyakov, Zachary Booth, Miriam Shor, Alexa Swinton. Screenplay: Bradley Cooper, Josh Singer. Cinematography: Matthew Libatique. Production design: Kevin Thompson. Film editing: Michelle Tesoro. Music: Leonard Bernstein. 

The Aussies call it "tall poppy syndrome." It's that tendency to try to undermine or underestimate the achievement of anyone who excels. And I think we saw it directed at Bradley Cooper when the first big wave of negative publicity came out from a critic from the Hollywood Reporter who saw the trailer for Maestro and called the prosthetic nose Cooper wore to play Leonard Bernstein "ethnic cosplay." The word "Jewface," analogous to blackface and "yellowface," labels for white performers pretending to be Black or Asian, was tossed about, as if Cooper were somehow guilty of antisemitism, or even depriving a Jewish actor of the role. Defenders came to the fray, including Bernstein's family, who indicated their approval of Cooper's choice, and others who pointed out that Cooper wasn't playing a negative stereotype, or even a character like Shylock or Fagin, but an authentic musical genius. But the damage was done, and the controversy continues to be a kind of scrim through which we watch and assess the film. I think much of it stems from the fact that Cooper is one of the most exceptional talents of our time, recognized for excellence as an actor, director, and screenwriter  -- a tall poppy indeed. He has a total of nine Academy Award nominations in all three of those fields plus producing -- for Todd Phillips's Joker (2019) and Guillermo del Toro's Nightmare Alley (2022). He won a BAFTA for the music of A Star Is Born (2018), for which he wrote and sang several songs, and for which he also won two Grammys. He was nominated for a Tony in 2015 for his performance on Broadway in The Elephant Man. (One of the critics of the prosthetic nose observed that he wore no disfiguring makeup for the role of John Merrick, suggesting that if he's that good an actor, he should have played the role of Bernstein without the help of makeup.) All of this is preface to saying that Maestro is an exceptional film that only adds luster to an already distinguished career. It has been labeled a biopic, which is inadequate. Biographical films are usually distanced from their subjects, dramatizations of events in a career. Maestro is more intimate than that, a portrait of a man and a marriage. Cooper goes beyond mimicry of Bernstein in a serious effort to suggest the social and sexual and artistic tensions seething within the man. If I have to voice a criticism it's that he doesn't quite bring it off -- it's a little too much for any actor or screenwriter to achieve. But Cooper shows us the depths even if he doesn't plumb them. He wisely lets us have our own thoughts about something even Bernstein probably couldn't define about his sexuality: whether he was gay or bisexual, or whether that question is stupid and irrelevant. Carey Mulligan's performance as his wife, Felicia, brittle and burning, is a perfect match for Cooper's. If they don't have the chemistry that Cooper had with Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook (2012) or Lady Gaga in A Star Is Born, that's partly the point: The marriage of Lenny and Felicia was one of unresolved tension. Hence the epigraph for the film: "A work of art does not answer questions, if provokes them; and its essential meaning is in the tension between the contradictory answers." I have the feeling that Maestro will be remembered and studied for years to come.

#Maestro #Bradley Cooper #Carey Mulligan

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Damage Control - 2x02 Everybody Loves A Clown

When Bobby’s phone rings - his private cell, not one of the bogus agency phones lined up in his kitchen - and he recognizes Sam Winchester’s caller ID, he instinctively knows the shit must’ve hit the fan. He saw it coming: the totaled Impala and Dean in a coma; the ingredients from John’s list that Sam picked up last night; the spell Bobby knows they’re used for - this can’t be good. 

And it isn’t. Sam’s voice sounds strange on the phone - small, brittle - when he tells him that John’s dead. Not only dead, but burned already, the circumstances of his demise not clear to Bobby since Sam stops talking mid-sentence and all he hears is the choked-up breathing of someone trying not to cry. Then, after a pause, a broken question: “Can we stay at your place for a couple of days?”

Of course they can. 

When they arrive, the boys look as wrecked as the Impala that Bobby had towed into his salvage yard only two days ago. Although the injuries on Sam’s face are healing, he looks worse than before, puffy and red-eyed. He’s got one steadying hand around Dean’s bicep and, Christ, the kid looks like a ghost - pale and stony, purple bruises under his eyes, a row of stitches zig-zagging down his forehead.

Bobby’s seen them hurt or sick before. John had dropped them off now and then when they were little, with stomach bugs or strep throats that interfered too long with his hunting, and later, when their own hunting injuries needed more than a motel room and an ace bandage.

But he’s never seen them like this.

“Come in, you two boneheads.” 

He waves them inside, taking a heavy duffel bag and backpack from Sam so he can steer his brother into the study and sit him down on the worn-out couch. Bobby’s itching to learn what happened, but if he knows one thing about the Winchesters it’s that prying will only make them clam up - Dean in particular. What they need, what these boys always needed to open up was a safe space, time and patience. 

“I made up your old room for you,” Bobby says, pointing upstairs with his thumb. “Beds may be a little small for you now, but more comfortable than the couch and the floor. And you-” he looks at Dean “-need to lie down and heal.”

“Nah. I just need a beer.”

Bobby almost flinches at the sound of Dean’s voice. Hollow steel. He sounds like something died inside of him. Probably did. He was close with his dad. The kid’s heart must be in pieces.

“Dean!” Sam raises exasperated, too-big hands. “You just came out of a coma. You can’t drink—“

“You’re not my mom, Sammy. Or my dad.” He scoffs darkly. “Fact, both of them are dead now. I can do what I want.”

Sam’s mouth stays open like gobsmacked.

Bobby sighs. Cynicism. Dean’s always had a knack for that, even as a kid, and now it’s spilling out of him like tar. From experience, Bobby knows it won’t cover the hurt. 

“You wanna be an idjit and drink yourself back into the ICU, be my guest.” He waves at the kitchen. “Enough booze in the fridge to kill whatever brain cells you got left in that cracked noggin’ of yours. But I’m not sure your brother’s in the mood for another Winchester funeral right now.”

Dean scowls at him, bruised eyes blazing green, but when he turns his head to look at Sam, his sharp edges soften a bit, seeing the hurt on his little brother’s face. 

“Fine.” Dean slaps his thighs. “I’m gonna go upstairs and rest.” He spits that last word out like it’s poison. “You two can hug it out or whatever.” He heaves himself up off the couch, slapping away Sam’s helpful arm, and stiffly limps toward the stairs. 

As Bobby sees Dean drag himself up the steps, he suppresses the urge to help. Sam had told him about the severity of Dean’s injuries, and Bobby has no idea how he’s even on his feet (although he has an inkling that John meddled with things he shouldn’t have meddled with, the goddamned fool.) The kid should be in a hospital. He certainly shouldn’t be walking up a flight of stairs by himself. 

But Bobby knows that, when Dean’s like this, he can’t be touched. He can’t have anyone in his personal space. Dean deals with weakness and pain the way an injured cat does: He hides away, on his own, until it’s either passed or killed him. Of course, Bobby won’t allow the latter to happen. But he’ll give the kid his space for now and check on him later. 

When he hears the door to the boys’ room fall shut upstairs, he turns around to Sam. 

The younger Winchester is a mess. He’s pacing, fidgety, face scrunched up, looking like he’s about to burst. Now that Dean’s out of sight, the dam seems about to break.

“Sam?” Carefully, Bobby steps closer. “What’s going on, son? What happened?”

Sam stops in his tracks, all 6’5 of him just standing there, a tremor rippling through his lanky body. Then, unexpected, he takes two long strides and his arms sling themselves around Bobby. His stubbly, sweaty face burrows into his shoulder with a wet sob. Bobby sways a little under the assault. 

But this is Sam. Little Sammy who always loved climbing into Bobby’s lap with a book; whose clammy, plump hand had fit so naturally into Bobby’s calloused one; who’d followed him around like a puppy as soon as John had pushed him inside the door and turned around on his heel.

“He’s dead, Bobby”, Sam sobs. “He’s gone and I can’t—“ The rest dissolves into tears.

Bobby wraps his arms around Sam. It must be looking awkward - he’s half a foot shorter and his old, thinning arms can’t even reach around the boy’s broad back. But he puts all the warmth and comfort into the embrace that he has in his bones, and Sam clings to him like someone who’s drowning. 

“I know, son,” Bobby mumbles, fighting back tears of his own now. “I know.” 

It’s true. Bobby knows about grief and the shock of sudden loss. He’s been there. It’s molded him into who he is today. But he was older than Sam and Dean when the death of a loved one cut into him, and these two boys have been through it twice now. For Sam, it may even feel like the first time. He was only a baby when his mother was killed and has no active memory of that time - or of his mom. He cannot remember his life getting turned upside down back then. Dean can, and Bobby shudders at what this is doing to the boy, hardened as he is already, his armor so heavy he can barely carry it anymore. 

For Sam, their father’s death must feel like a stab wound - sudden, sharp and breathtaking. After the initial, surreal shock, the pain finally comes, and it’s found him now, in Bobby’s study, overwhelming and all-encompassing. At least he’s letting it out. At least he’s crying. At least he’s letting himself be held, and that’s what Bobby does, silently and patiently, until Sam is done. Until he unlocks his arms and steps back, wiping his nose on his sleeve, red-eyed and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” he mumbles, voice still thick. “I- I didn’t mean to- … I’m alright.”

“Balls.” 

Bobby reaches into the pocket of his worker vest and pulls out an old-fashioned, folded cotton handkerchief that he gives to Sam. 

“Leave the ‘I’m fine’ BS to your brother. No one’d be alright after what you boys went through. Now sit down before you fall over.”

He herds Sam to his sagging old couch and sits him down. While the kid wipes his eyes and blows his nose, Bobby fetches a bottle of Scotch and fills two glasses. He hands one of them to Sam.

“Drink.”

Obediently, Sam does. Technically, Bobby knows booze isn’t the best for someone recovering from a concussion, but it’s been two days since the accident, and Sam isn’t nearly as injured as his brother. He figures that, by now, it’s medicine.

Sam sips, then nervously starts turning the glass in his hands. Even cried out, he’s still twitchy and unable to sit still. One knee is bobbing in high frequency. His mouth is in constant motion, biting and twisting his lips. 

“Okay,” Bobby says, calmly and invitingly. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

And then it all spills out of Sam like water from a burst pipe. 

xxx

Half an hour later, Sam is shoveling a plate of Bobby’s famous kitchen sink chili into his mouth. No idea when the kid’s eaten the last time. Must’ve been awhile. Hopefully not the PB&J Bobby forced on Sam when they’d towed the Impala to his salvage yard.

Bobby trudges up the stairs to check on Dean and stops in front of the boys’ room, listening. No sounds drift out the door, no snoring, no running tv. No sobs either. There’s no answer when he knocks softly, so he quietly steps inside. 

Dean’s on his side, turned to the wall, comically big in the single bed, his still figure softly illuminated by the old nightlight Sam had always needed and that Bobby never bothered to remove from the room. It’s hard to believe that Dean’s asleep. If he is, it’s only due to the exhaustion his injured soul and body are forcing on him. Usually, with his hunter’s instincts, he would have woken up as soon as somebody entered the room, unannounced. In truth, Bobby had half expected to have a weapon pointed at him. 

Asleep or not, Bobby steps closer and leans over the older Winchester brother. He’s in a t-shirt, sheets slipped down to his waist, and as far as Bobby can tell in the semi-darkness there’s no fresh blood staining the grey cotton fabric. Good. At least his stitches are holding.

Sam had told him that, while Dean’s internal injuries had miraculously vanished, the slashes on his torso and the surgery incisions were still healing, like the stitches Bobby had seen on Dean’s forehead. Knowing Dean, Bobby was pretty sure those wounds were overdue a bandage change, and there was probably an unopened pill bottle somewhere in his bag. Of course, he’d left the hospital against medical advice, and Sam, off his head in the wake of their father’s sudden death, hadn’t been able to keep him from walking out. Somehow, the two idjits had managed to steal John Winchester’s body from the morgue and found a remote spot to burn it. 

“Why didn’t you call me then?” Bobby had asked Sam downstairs. 

Sam, face still wet, wringing his large hands, had shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

But Bobby knew. They were Winchesters, taught by John to keep family matters close to their chest, just like pain. 

Now, seeing Dean’s young, marred profile in the semi-darkness, his chest twists with sorrow. They’ve been through so much in their twenty-something years, and Bobby, in fits and spurts, had to witness them losing their innocence and their trust in a world that seemed to mean them nothing but harm. John had exposed them to the darkness. And Bobby hadn’t been able to shield them from it. 

Sighing, he reaches out and - carefully, stealthily - touches his hand to Dean’s forehead to check for a fever. He’s a little warm, but not alarmingly so. The boy stirs a little, brow furrowing, a small sound escaping his parted lips. To Bobby’s surprise, Dean leans into his touch, eyes closed, before he stills again, dropping back into deep sleep. 

His stupid old heart overflowing, Bobby remains like this for a prolonged moment - his hand cupping Dean’s forehead, the boy’s spiky hair soft against his calloused palm - until his back starts to twinge and he has to straighten back up. Tenderly, he pulls the sheet back up to Dean’s shoulder. 

“I gotcha,” he grumbles softly before leaving the room and quietly closing the door.

The damage Control Series - Masterlist

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

#spn #supernatural #fanfic #fan fiction #2x02 #everybody loves a clown #the damage control series #sam winchester #dean winchester #bobby singer #hurt/comfort #grief #hurt dean winchester #emotionally hurt sam winchester

[jeanjauthor]

Writers, readers, if you've ever wondered how medieval blacksmiths knew exactly when to quench a blade to make it a certain type of hardness...here you go, the secrets exposed & explained scientifically, replete with color chart, heat ranges, and an explanation of which tempering type is useful for which type of metal you want to create.

I can't remember if it was in the BBC series Secrets of the Castle or in the series Tudor Monastic Farm, but at one point the presenters (same clutch of people in both shows, lol) go to a blacksmithing forge to discuss getting a stonecutting chisel re-shaped and re-hardened. (I honestly think it's in Secrets, since they're constantly having to re-make the chisels as they wear down from the quarrying and masonry work, but can't find the exact moment, sorry. It's totally worth watching both series imho, though!)

Anyway, the blacksmith literally shows a golden sheen reaching the tip of the chisel...and quickly quenches it to freeze the molecules of the metal to the right ratio between toughness (versus being brittle, causing it to spall and break) and hardness (versus being too soft to hold the point for a reasonable length of operational time), in order to be a good stone chisel.

This, by the way, is why scrubbing the iron toward the end of it being forged is so important, because these color-changes are iron oxides. So you genuinely want to remove the traces of all previous oxidation before putting it through one more round of heating, cooling, and quenching it at just the right moment.

This is also why clay would be applied to the non-edge parts of a blade, such as a katana, to help thermally insulate it from the brief high heat needed for creating a tempered edge sharp enough to be a literal razor-edge. The main body of the blade needs to be tough to resent bending and cracking, but the edge needs to be hard to hold its edge and not crumple like tinfoil.

Here's a quote from Wikipedia on the process of creating the "hamon" or "wavy line" on a katana blade: " The hamon outlines the transition between the region of harder martensitic steel at the blade's edge and the softer pearlitic steel at the center and back of the sword. This difference in hardness is the objective of the process; the appearance is purely a side effect. "

The "softness" being referenced in the quote refers to the resistance against cracking and breaking, which is the same as the "toughness" I mentioned above. For a medieval blacksmith (of any ironworking region around the world in a technologically comparable era), being able to gauge just the right moment to quench the iron/steel was absolutely vital to the success of their product. This in turn affected their reputation as a smith.

If John the Smith makes metal sheets that are flexible but not brittle (great for armor), but isn't good at making knife blades that are sharp, you go to him for the flexible metal panels to make you plate armor. If Stephen the Smith makes really sharp knives but can't make big panels without it cracking under stress, you go to him for the knife blades and go find someone else for the other stuff.

And if Claudette the Smith (because there were women blacksmiths!!) can do both types, and do them consistently to order, you go to Claudette the Smith, and you send your children to apprentice with Claudette the Smith if she'll take them on, and you hope & pray she imparts the secrets of her skills to her apprentices if she does take them on.

Anyway...that's how a pre-modern blacksmith would know how to temper their iron & steel to achieve specific types of metal for specific types of uses. So writers, if you want to slip a little bit of information & education into your stories about how it all works, hopefully this gives you a good starting point for doing some fun research!

[a-wild-things-rambles]

hey can i hear your thoughts on john? :)

agghhhhhhhhh. thank you!

where do i start. his story is one i know a hundred variations of, abusive fathers, absent or neglectful mothers, siblings who got out, runing away from home into the big city, finding a [fuked up]family in the punk and alternative communitys, and trying to live.

i should say that i am very biased and unrelabal about him. while i have read hellblazer im due a reread and its always overshadowed by teh real people i knows experiences? idk in my head hes just another person id meet at the pub when i visit my dads old city. a guy you her about through the grapevine doing stupid shit and getting into trouble.

another warning of how not to live a life in a long parade. the fuked up sudo- uncle who's to old to change his ways and stop his bad habits.

which is a long way to say i have a personal stake in his story. im not john but i am gemma, im the second generation, growing up to see all the cracks in the so called freedom the previous generation fled to.

guilt. so much of it. the dead and the living. those you left behind. drowning in guilt, the only solution drowning yourself in apathy. then drowning un guilt all over again in atonement. self harm and self sabotage are his bywords. hurt someone cause thats all you can do then hate yourself for it.

john absolutely plays the 'my life is shittyer' game. and he hates being proven wrong. he has to be one of the worst off. because if there are people who have it worse then hes just a crybaby isnt he? lifes tough, get over it. man up. dont cry, you have it good compared to some people.

he hates it. like a lot of city white punks, he has a complicated relationship when it comes to people who suffer more than him. he will fight for them but he wont be nice about it. he gets petty about it

hes got the basics down: but its the basics, the surface level shit. he probably has more racist and sexist preconceptions than he'd like to admit. hes flawed. whats theory or any of that? he learns politics through music, and its not exactly well balanced. hes a white queer punk in the 80s. hes still better than alot of them.

it sums up to: he aint unlearned the shit. he knows its bad, but he hasnt fully unlearned it. [again. white punk in england in the 80s.]

violence. this man is good at picking fights with a look. eventually people learn to steer clear, but theres always enough wankers who are up for a fight.

his father beat him, and so have many others, so if he wins a fight, it makes him feel 'more like a man' or as he'd say it, tough. remember what i said about knowing shits bad but not unlearning it. yea. if he loses: he gets the punishment he feels he deserves, and the fodder for his self hatred about being weak.

double standards a-plenty. a cycle of ego and beatings and guilt and self sabotage.

hes bitter and hes stubborn and hes nasty.

alcoholic to [not that he'd say], and a smoker. grew out of drugs but messed around with them plenty in the past. now he dont like feeling out of control in that way.

he'll still get wasted though [not an alcoholic mind. probrably only phycologicaly addicted]

old dog who cant learn knew tricks. brittle metal, its bent some, but it cant anymore or it will shatter.

hes better than his father. but hes not good

hes self-aware enough to not want kids, not delusional enough to think hes managed to unlearn the shit his father gave him. better that his bloodline dies with him. better that he doesn't get the chance to fuck up.

end it, or sabotage it before he can be shown to be who he is. fuck up everything good because you might as well have control over when it falls apart. cause it will anyway. you hurt whoever you touch.

your cursed john.

a cursed bloodline. whats another way of saying generational trauma?

he hates his stister for leaving, he hates himself for keeping her there, he hates himself for hating her for leaving.

cause everyone leaves him, dont they?

hates gemma for her curiosity. hates her for her interest in his fuked up life. hates her for not hating him[yet]. hates himself hor hating how much better her home is than his was.

hates is sisters husband. hates that his sister wont leave him[hates that hes glad. if she started kicking out of her life the people bad for her. well hed be fuked]

hate. guilt. hate. self sabotage.

hes a messed up guy :)

#john constantine #well that was a monster #thank you for enableing me!!!

[compartmentalisinghmpf]

Another HS fic rec/review!

Yes, I have in fact read more than one fic in this fandom! Warning: this is long and detailed, really more of a review than a rec, although it is definitely intended as a rec. Still, if you’d rather not know very much in advance, maybe just go and read the fic now? Or read the first eight paragraphs of the review, and then stop.

Actually, you know what, I’ll put the readmore there.

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart, by laurasauras

This is a post-Epilogues fic, it’s slash, and it’s kinky as hell. As such, it’s a bit of a surprise that it ended up one of my favourite fics in this fandom. (I’m almost exclusively a gen reader, and I haven’t even read the Epilogues, nor do I particularly want to.)

The basic setup is this: John’s come back to life on Dirk’s ship, after Dirk narrative-murdered him in the Epilogues. (Not having read the Epilogues, my idea of what happened there is somewhat vague; I hope I’m not too far off in my inference here.) It’s a year into the journey and everybody is bored to death already, or rather not to death, as everyone but Terezi is either a god or a robot or both.

Everybody’s also depressed, especially John.

This fic is many things: Moving. Disturbing. Funny. Romantic. Bleak. Heartbreaking. Weirdly hopeful. It’s probably also hot, but I’m not the best judge of that.

A big part of the appeal of the story lies in the peculiar composition of its emotional atmosphere. It’s the tedium of space travel, mixed with the melancholy of an immortality only just begun, and the incongruously innocent pursuits with which the ship’s passengers, including the self-declared villain of the piece, fill their all too ample time. Everybody’s getting along just slightly better than you’d expect, for a group where one of the four literally killed and/or kidnapped two of the others.

When John isn’t dissociating, mentally and also in the most literal sense, he joins in the odd social life of the ship: helping with joint arts and crafts projects like building an origami city, or live-reenacting the entirety of Shrek after watching the movies an unhealthy number of times.

It’s weirdly domestic; cozy in a Stockholm syndrome kind of way. Also, a reminder of the fact that these are, even if they’re technically all adults now, people who were subjected to a violent case of arrested development at age 13 or 15, respectively.

There is a kinship of sorts between them, perhaps born out of the fact that they have all had their lives shaped and violated by Narrative, and it’s stronger than grudges born of whatever they (mostly: one of them) have done to each other - though it doesn’t necessarily translate to a viable form of closeness. It’s a fascinating dynamic, deftly portrayed, and strangely moving

Rose(bot), and John’s relationship with her, is a particular standout here. Rose is recognisably Rose: prickly and brittle; aloof, ironic, and uncannily perceptive. Her machine body literalises her persona, trapping her in it. And John knows her, is as comforted by her presence as he is disconcerted by her form and its implications; tries and fails to comfort, himself.

The most important relationship of the story, though, is of course John and Dirk, and those two do not get along, initially. And really, should anyone be getting along with Dirk, here? Should John? John, for one, really isn’t sure.

Dirk provokes – constantly, compulsively; John reacts; and John is the air guy, the breath guy. Taking Dirk’s breath away, literally, is his natural defensive instinct.

Dirk, of course, gets off on it.

So it turns into a thing, and the thing blooms into something more, a strange, unwritten pact of mutual release and comfort, and then more, still.

It goes without saying that the kink here isn’t safe. These are two people with awesome (in the traditional, old-fashioned sense) powers, outsourcing their respective suicidal urges to each other. Mostly, perhaps, Dirk outsourcing his to John - but remember, Dirk had already killed John once, before the start of the story.

The John voice here is fantastic; it comes through even in customary Homestuck second person singular.  He’s doofy, flippant; possessed of extraordinary powers of denial. Some part of him seems permanently stuck in pre-teen-hood. There’s a sort of residual innocence to him that is perhaps mostly fecklessness, or perhaps it’s the other way around. His moments of cruelty feel childish, impulsive, lacking deep-seated malice.

Dirk also feels entirely in character: shitty in small, everyday ways too trivial to deserve the epithet “evil” (though with less equivocal evil in his past, and possibly future); wound impossibly tight; mulishly committed to his chosen role; yet also soft and uncertain, and ready for acts of devotion in all the worst ways.

Some of their dynamic here is about ideas of being evil and being a/the hero, because John is still hung up on a child-like idea of heroism (or perhaps it’s more accurately termed protagonism, here), and Dirk has dedicated years to fashioning himself into a villain (or, more precisely, an antagonist). These roles fuel their encounters, to a degree - though perhaps not as much as they think, because there are deeper and different underlying dysfunctions here.

There’s other things worth praising here, too. The writing is pretty damn flawless, and more: It’s one of those fics in which sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph just… punches you in the gut (or maybe in the heart) with how well it encapsulates an emotion, a character, a situation, or even, sometimes, a fundamental truth of life.

But this review is coming up on 900 words and it’s probably about time I stopped. I never know how to end these things, so I guess here I’ll just say: go read the fic!

#laurasauras #@laurasauras #I forgot how to do the thing where you alert someone who doesn't follow your blog to a post

[magniloquent-raven]

Ao3 First Lines

Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3 (Sort by date posted). If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have!

tagged by @mourntheantagonist 💕💕

1. enough of you to dull the pain

If it was anyone else Billy would have said no. Immediately. No question. He's got rules, and staying in familiar territory is a big one. Doesn't matter how good the money or the dick is, he doesn't let johns choose the location. As much for his own safety as Heather's peace of mind. He always tells her where he's going before he leaves the apartment. 

Until tonight.

Until Steve fucking Harrington.

2. come a little closer (i want you to stay a while)

Steve knew this Christmas would be different than what he was used to. 

Being surrounded by sprawling fields of shrubbery, for one. Clear roads and green squares of grass. Steve's never been the biggest fan of snow—it's just a whole mess when it melts in his hair, okay—but winter is odd without it. Mild and dusty, like a dry spring. Makes the twinkling lights and glittering displays of plastic evergreen seem out of place. Aspirational at best. Sad at worst.

But he came to California to be with friends, Dustin invited him along, actually wanted him to be there. That's the difference that really matters. 

3. what was that obscenity

Billy’s never been very good at resisting temptation, especially when it comes to his big stupid crush on Steve. 

He refuses to call it that, but that’s what it is. If it wasn’t he wouldn’t fucking be here, in Steve’s room, creeping on all his shit while Steve makes a beer run.

Not reading his diary or anything like that—mostly because he couldn’t find one—he’s just. Looking. 

4. i'm not brittle (well maybe just a little)

They don't talk about it. 

They shoot the shit about everything else and nothing at all. Music, books, which member of the basketball team is the most annoying—Billy claims insider knowledge makes his opinion superior, but Eddie knows it's Jason, okay, he had to grow up with that little shit and he is notjust mad about him dating Chrissy Cunningham, shut up Billy—and sometimes, rarely, they commiserate about growing up with shitty dads.

But most days he can't get anything that deep out of Billy. They hang out in Eddie's trailer getting high, and more often than not that ends with their jeans in a pile on the floor. 

5. i'm not quite myself these days

When Billy was four years old he got his first lecture about looking presentable. He’d been playing in the garden while his parents were getting ready to leave, and had gotten his nice pants all muddy. 

His mother fussed, a worried crease between her brows while she rinsed the dirt from Billy’s pudgy fingers. They were already running late and her in-laws weren’t the forgiving type. But as much as she hurried to clean him up while Neil was distracted with trying to find his keys (Billy had hidden them the night before, he didn’t wantto see his grandparents), there were still conspicuous streaks all over his clothes and his fingernails sported tiny crescents of packed soil underneath. 

Neil was not pleased. 

6. make this the start of something

“Carol broke up with me again,” Tommy says, words slurred by the alcohol in his system and muffled by his forearm squished against his cheek. He blinks up at Billy from where he’s half-laying on the peeling cover of his algebra text book. They didn’t bother clearing the homework from his desk before dumping three six-packs and a plastic bag stuffed with snack food on top of the mess. 

He’s usually a fun drunk, Billy wouldn’t have brought beer if he’d known it was gonna go like this. 

7. you'll never be loved (til you've made your own)

Billy spends the month of November trying to ditch the phantom sensation of ceramic shattering under his fingers, jarring impact up his forearm, the briefest brush with soft brown hair. 

8. feel me reel from the touch that i seek

Billy’s 90% sure it’s just another nightmare.

He doesn’t remember going to sleep, but he doesn’t always. Half the time he’s not sure if he’s awake or not; if he’s dreaming or just hallucinating. Not that it matters much which one it is. He’s stopped trying to tell the difference. 

This place has a way of blurring lines like that. He’s never sure if the conversations he eavesdrops on are bleeding through from the other side, or if he’s imagining shit just to feel less alone. 

9. i beg to differ

Ed spent a lot of time thinking about what he might say to Stede if he ever saw him again. Wondering if he should bother demanding an explanation. If it would offer closure or if it would just reopen wounds he’s spent months picking at. Or maybe it would hurt in new and unexpected ways. That would just fucking figure.

His plans, fantasies about giving Stede a piece of his mind and vague notions of coming across cool an unaffected, all go out the window the second he actually lays eyes on him again.

10. tell me i won't be forgotten

William Gilbert Hargrove—named for both his grandfathers—was born eight pounds three ounces on Monday, April 17th, 1967. 

It was, by all accounts, a beautiful day. Clear skies and a mild breeze, smiles all around as the little bundle of joy was passed between embraces. His aunts cooed over his wispy blond curls, his pretty eyelashes, his fat little legs and chubby cheeks. His mother beckoned, exhausted but enthusiastic, whenever someone else held him for too long. His father glowed with silent pride over the birth of a son. 

tagging @disdaidal @oreohamster @paperbodiesamongthestars only if yall feel like it 💕

#i wrote that last one before we knew his actual birthday 😭 #ive thought about going back & editing the fic but im p sure id have to do more fiddling around than just #changing the date in that first line #so i figure whatever its fine as is lmaooo i was p close to his actual bday anyways 😂

[recallthename]

I posted 1,266 times in 2022

That's 358 more posts than 2021!

315 posts created (25%)

951 posts reblogged (75%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@underthecitysky

@mydaroga

@inspiteallthedanger

@scurator

@spuffygifs

I tagged 1,205 of my posts in 2022

Only 5% of my posts had no tags

#the danger of being very enthusiastic - 302 posts

#the person i actually picked as my partner - 113 posts

#they all belong to each other - 107 posts

#kat does the beatles - 82 posts

#laugh rule - 59 posts

#god - 42 posts

#paul mccartney - 41 posts

#she's not that dismissible - 32 posts

#there's no denying he's golden - 30 posts

#i can be alone with you here - 25 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#dear god you're repressed. you’re driven sensitive and passionate. you are harsh corners and brittle bones your sharp teeth and soft gums.

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Meeting Paul was just like two people meeting.  Not falling in love or anything.  Just us.  It went on.  It worked.

John Lennon - The Beatles by Hunter Davies

258 notes - Posted March 21, 2022

#4

Paul's earliest memory, probably from around the age of three or four, is of his mother.  He remembers someone coming to the door and giving her a plaster dog.  'It was out of gratitude for some delivery she had done.  People were always giving her presents like that.' 'I have another memory of hiding from someone, then hitting them over the head with an iron bar.  But I think the plaster dog was the earliest.'

The Beatles, Hunter Davies

um hey paul.  what the fuck.  

280 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

#3

The last time John Lennon set foot on a concert stage, it was Thanksgiving 1974, making a surprise appearance with his friend Elton John at a sold-out Madison Square Garden.  When he and Elton cut "Whatever Gets You Thru" together, Elton proposed a bet - if it hit Number One, John would sing it with him live.  John agreed, never thinking he'd get called on it.  But he was.  The performance sounds shaky - John's all nerves after a few years of hiding from live shows - but he steps up there to mach shau with Elton, doing the hit as well as Elton's remake of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds."  John announces, "We thought we'd do one last number so I can get out of here and be sick.  This is a number of an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul." They do "I Saw Her Standing There," their big finale.  Even in the raw recording Elton released as a B-side, you can hear John get caught up in the crowd's excitement.  It's his night to shine - onstage in New York, for the first time in years and the last time ever.  Why is he doing a Paul song?  Why is he making this moment about him and Paul, when all anybody wants is to cheer and shower John with love?  But in the middle of the crowd, he calls Paul's name.

Dreaming the Beatles by Rob Sheffield

313 notes - Posted July 5, 2022

#2

a running list of things john lennon has compared paul mccartney to:

yoko ono god heroin

321 notes - Posted March 1, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

No matter how anyone reminds me of John, they're not John.

Paul McCartney - Conversations with McCartney by Paul Du Noyer

325 notes - Posted January 13, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#year in review #personal #that longest tag is cracking me up #clearly from some uqiz #also as always loving my og to reblog ratio lol

[quinneleanor]

Needle Song

Wincest. One-shot. Boy King of Hell Sam/Consort Dean

Published: May 15th, 2022

Summary: 

The castle is detestably picturesque with vast, anachronistic arches and high, empty towers. Big and ominous with well-fortified stone walls, the castle stands a strange elfin in the middle of Kansas country.

Sam stands in the wide, arched doorway to his cavernous throne room, his arms folded behind his back, his head held high and steady. His crisp black suit fits him perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight.

All conversations cease. Beetle black eyes shift to the emerging figure. Although Sam is yards away, his presence is staggering. He is a hulking, ravenous wolf amongst nervous, doe-eyed sheep.

Links: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39019614

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14081963/1/Needle-Song

For the story, click keep reading.

---

Author’s Note: 

Boy King of Hell Sam does not submit to anybody. Well, anybody except Dean.

Or the one in which Sam is the ruler of hell and earth but is still a needy bottom.

- For Courtney,

slayer of dragons

and all-around good woman

-----

Dean feels the weight of Sam’s intense yellow eyes on him from across the room. Dean is sitting on his ivory throne next to Sam’s, a platter balanced on his thighs.

He glances up from his platter of juicy ribs, unabashedly sucking grease from his thumb, savoring the smoky, delicious tang. Of the hundreds of demons around, no one spares a glance at Dean. They aren’t allowed to. Anyone who gazes at Dean without Sam’s explicit permission is subject to getting its eyes burned out of its sockets. Dean doesn’t mind. It gives him permission to eat like he used to. That is, wholly without restraint.

The castle is detestably picturesque with vast, anachronistic arches and high, empty towers. Big and ominous with well-fortified stone walls, the castle stands a strange elfin in the middle of Kansas country.

Sam stands in the wide, arched doorway to his cavernous throne room, his arms folded behind his back, his head held high and steady. His crisp black suit fits him perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight.

All conversations cease. Beetle black eyes shift to the emerging figure. Although Sam is yards away, his presence is staggering. He is a hulking, ravenous wolf amongst nervous, doe-eyed sheep.

Sam has an essence about him, Dean realized long ago. It makes demons squirm. Makes them balk at his presence. Dean would be lying if he says he doesn’t get a sharp stab of glee from the bastards’ discomfort.

Sam steps across the threshold and walks towards his throne, his foxlike eyes leisurely surveying his followers, a proud smirk curled onto his lips. His shiny, black dress shoes are eerily silent against the stone floor. Demons part like the red sea, eyes flickering to the floor. On either side of the throne room stand long wooden tables, a sprawling banquet sat on top. Full of delicious meats, hearty stacks of hamburgers, and warm apple pies, the feast gives off a mouthwatering aroma, mixing with the undercurrent of sulfur and sweat.

Although it is a sprawling banquet fit for dozens, it is all for Dean. Demons do not eat, after all.

Dean grabs the mug of beer from the floor beside his bare foot. He takes a hearty gulp, licking froth from his top lip.

His personal servant-more like his keeper, if he’s being honest-quickly kneels beside him, long, bony fingers curling around the throne’s armrest. She looks sixty with crisp, brittle artificially dyed yellow hair.

“Would you like me to take your plate?” The demon asks in a smooth, clear voice. The sound bounces off the walls, loud in the silence.

Like all the demons in the room, this demon does not occupy a living vessel. That was one of Sam’s many stipulations when he became ruler of hell. Sam had saved Dean from the deal that would have, like John, sent him to hell, but Sam had lost his humanity in the process. Or so the story goes.

Sure, Sam had started the apocalypse and sure, demons were top side, but at least humanity wasn’t-for the most part-enslaved and although times were a trifle a bit more difficult past these cold, stone walls, at least the world wasn’t a scorched fire ball spinning through space.

Dean says, “Sure.”

The demon takes the platter off his lap, careful not to touch him. Dean’s pants are made of sensual silk, virgin white. His shirt is billowy and soft to the touch, an equal shade of white. The get up is ridiculous, but it’s all for show.

Dean sits his mug down and the demon backs away into the shadows.

Sam reaches the edge of the cold, stone steps leading to his black, thorned throne, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. Dean suppresses a smile at Sam’s ludicrous faux arrogance and turns his eyes away to gaze down at his lap.

Before he knows it, Sam is standing in front of him, blocking his view from the room. Sam reaches for his face, tilts his head up to look him in the eyes, runs his thumb against Dean’s plump bottom lip. Sam’s eyes are heated, his mouth twisted with barely contained lust. Sam tastes like ash and something wild, like crushed cloves and cinnamon, and Dean suppresses the urge to suck Sam’s thumb into his mouth and suckle the digit.

“Did you miss me?” Sam whispers directly into his mind. The mind-to-mind connection that formed between he and Sam not long after Sam turned dark side used to freak Dean out-it felt like being stared at while taking a shit-but he’s come to appreciate it.

Dean scoffs in his head. “Yeah, I couldn’t handle being an hour without you, baby. Thought I’d roll over and die.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

Sam gives a secretive, warm look before the mask slips back on. Sam removes his thumb and turns to his throne. It’s black and curved, skulls garnishing the top in macabre decoration. Sam sits on the plush, sensual leather. He shimmies into the chair, leisurely sprawling one arm over the armrest, his legs spread wide, his chin perched in his hand. He gives a cruel, bored expression, like a small boy whose animal he’d been torturing has finally exhaled its last rattling breath.

Hundreds of black eyes peer up at their king. The silence is so thick you can cut it with a knife. Dean stares down at his lap, acquiescent.

“I suppose you all are wondering why I’ve gathered you here today.” Sam’s voice is deep, suppressed violence just snaking beneath the surface. “I’m guessing you’ve probably heard the rumors.”

Sam’s eyes scan the crowd. “Someone has touched my consort.”

A mutual gasp erupts through the crowd.

Dean suppresses an eye roll.

Even now, Dean isn’t used to his formal title. Sam barely speaks it, but when he does, it’s with an air of utmost authority. Dean suppresses a look of distain as he fingers the soft material of his thigh. Touched is an understatement. The demon had cornered Dean when he was leaving the eastern tower, had pressed him against the ivy choked window, had practically shoved his slimy, hot tongue down Dean’s throat, grabbing for the draw string of Dean’s pants, wrenching the flimsy material halfway down his bowed legs.

Although Dean would never admit it, he yelled for Sam down their psychic link. Sam was there a second later, wrenching the demon back and flinging him against the wall. Pinned like a moth to a board, the demon laughed, pulling fruitlessly against the invisible bonds keeping him in place. The demon’s wrenched his mouth open to spit vile insults, but Sam squeezed his hand into a fist, silencing his voice before he could utter more than a syllable. Face flushed with rage and teeth bared, Dean was fully prepared to watch his brother tear the bastard asunder with his mind.

But Sam did not. His hair-raising expression of white-hot rage melted into familiar worry. Sam turned to his big brother, ran trembling hands across Dean’s torso, checking for any injuries. Dean yanked his pants back up, tried desperately to get the taste of demon out of his mouth. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat big glops of saliva onto the stone floor.

“I’m fine,” Dean batted Sam’s hands away, more embarrassed than upset.

Sam was silent for a long moment, trying to steady his heaving chest. Ever since they were kids, Sam’s reaction to being overwhelmed was to shut down. Dean guessed old habits died hard.

Dean glided his hands around Sam’s long, wide waist and locked arms around his brother like iron brands, keeping Sam grounded. Sam’s power crackled the air, a wave of heat splashed against them both. The little hairs at Dean’s nape rose. He rubbed Sam’s back in gentle strokes, rested his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, inhaled the musky pine aroma of Sam’s deodorant.

“Hey, man, it’s okay.” Dean said, glancing up. “Calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up. Just smite the son of a bitch and let’s go have lunch. Let’s pretend this never happened, okay?”

Always stubborn, Sam shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was laced with venom. “No, I’m going to make an example out of him. Tonight.”

When Sam set his mind on something, it was nearly impossible for Dean to shake it loose. Dean sighed.

That incident is what led Dean to sit beside Sam in his sprawling, dreary throne room, surrounded by hundreds of demons, waiting for whatever horror Sam had in store for Dean’s demonic perpetrator.

“As you all know, my consort is mine and mine alone. I do not share.” Sam goes on, voice rising with barely contained anger. “And whosoever so much as looks at him impolitely pays the utmost price.” A cruel smile curls on Sam’s lips, promising dark, shuffling things, vowing bloody, rusted knives and severed fingers. If Dean did not know the fallacy behind the gaze, he would be shivering along with the rest of Sam’s demonic groupies.

“Guards, bring him in.” Sam says. Deranged shouts slice through the silence. A sea of eyes turn towards the two brawny demons dragging the prisoner between them. The demon kicks out wildly, thrashes his head back and forth, jerks madly at the hands wrapped around his biceps. The crowd parts, lets them through. The prisoner is wearing a bald Caucasian man with a narrow face. With wiry muscles, he twists uselessly in the guards’ hands, gnashing his teeth, snapping his mouth inches away from their stolid faces. Dean’s mouth goes sour at the sight of the demon, remembering the thing’s disgusting tongue thrusting past his unyielding lips.

Sam rises from his throne, peers down at him with contempt.

“Drop him.” Sam commands over the irrational shouts.

The guards throw him to the ground. Instantly the demon jumps up and Sam snaps his arm forward, aiming his outstretched palm towards it. The shouts cut off with an abruptness that leaves Dean glancing up at the show. The demon stands frozen and wide-eyed, his mouth open in a grotesque maw, bloody saliva dripping from his busted bottom lip. It looks weird as hell, until Dean comprehends Sam has completely immobilized him.

“Won’t you play nice?” Sam purrs. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to tear you limb from limb and put you back together just to do it all over again.”

Sam curls his fingers, and a line starts in the demon’s cheek, clean and bloodless, and leads down to his stomach, cutting through the dirty white button up. Blood rises to the surface and spills, soaks through his shirt, turning him red. Droplets of blood dribble onto the floor, an insistent drip, drip, drip. It’s the only sound beside the mutual inhale and exhale of hundreds of dead, borrowed lungs.

Abruptly Sam lets his arm down. The demon’s legs give out and he sprawls face first onto the floor. He laughs through blood laden lips, a wet, deranged sound, and drags himself to his hands and knees.

Sam slowly descends the steps until he’s looming over the demon.

“Your majesty,” the demon spits sarcastically, a stingy splat of bloody saliva landing a foot away from Sam’s shoe.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Sam cocks his head to the side.

“Yeah,” the demon says, casting a hate filled glare up at Sam. “He’s sure got a tasty mouth. I wonder what that mouth would taste like after it’s been wrapped around my cock.”

Sam dropkicks him in the face. The demon goes sprawling backwards, broken teeth flying like pearls on a broken necklace. His skull makes an audible crack, but he’s a demon, and demons don’t die from measly skull fractures.

Sam leisurely flicks his hand up and the demon is dragged to his feet until he’s floating a foot above the ground.

Sam tisks, shakes his head like he’s a disappointed teacher. “Wrong answer.”

The demon tears uselessly at the invisible bonds keeping him in place, thrashing and bearing his broken, bloody mouth.

“I want to hear you sing.” Sam says.

“What?” He slurs.

“Sing me a song.” Sam insists.

“No.” The demon hisses.

Sam’s palm turns into a fist. The demon throws back his head and wails. Sounds like a tornado tearing the roof off a building. Sounds like the shrill screams of a mother pushing life into this world. Sounds like a needle going through an eye.

Sam loosens his fist and the demon’s knees slam against the ground. Rivets of sweat run down his face. His chest heaves and its eyes roll back in his head, trying to find itself in the barbed wire curling around his insides.

“Sing,” Sam says simply. “Or we can do this all night. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Why bother?” The demon spits. “You’re just gonna kill me anyway.”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe not. You never know. Maybe you can carry a tune. Maybe my consort will find you amusing.” He glances pointedly up at Dean before turning back to the demon. “Maybe I’ll keep you as my little songbird, christening the halls with your sweet, bloody music.”

The demon stares down at the floor in rage before glancing back up at Sam, an array of emotion flickering across his face in rapid succession: hatred, anger, contemplation, resolution.

“Fine. What do you want to hear?”

Sam crosses an arm over his stomach and taps his finger against his chin as though in deliberation.

“What about…‘I’m a Little Teapot.’”

“Fuck you. No.”

“No?” Sam says, feigning surprise. He throws his arm out and sends the demon sprawling on his back, screaming in horror as a thousand imaginary bees sting every part of his body. The pain rapidly melts deeper, and he feels the stings in his corrupted, blackened soul. It’s starting to swell precariously.

“Stop! I’ll do it, okay?! I’ll do it!” He screeches.

The agony stops instantly, like flipping off a switch. The demon lies panting on the floor.

“Get up.”

The demon heaves up, staggers two steps until he finds his feet.

Still glaring daggers at Sam, the demon opens his mouth and begins in a lifeless monotone. “I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout. When I get all steamed up-”

“No,” Sam cuts him off, exasperated. “Where’s the emotion? Where’s the passion? You have to do the dance. What’s the song without the dance?”

The demon stares at Sam like he’s grown two heads. The demons surrounding him hold their collective breaths. The demon glares, mouth twisted in defiance, but he widens his stance.

“I’m a little teapot, short and stout.” The demon bends his knees down and back up, voice grotesquely cheerful, slurred partly from the broken mess of his mouth. “Here is my handle,” he throws his arm out, connects his fist to his waist and brings his other arm up, “here is my spout. When I get all steamed up,” he shakes like a cold, wet animal, “hear me shout, tip me over and pour me out!” He tilts to the side before straightening. “I’m a very special teapot. Yes, it’s true.” He nods his head in mock enthusiasm. “Here’s an example of what I can do. I can turn my handle into a spout,” he switches his arms, “just tip me over and pour me out.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence.

Then Sam starts clapping, grinning like a schoolboy. “Bravo!”

A couple of demons in the crowd slow clap.

“What did you think?” Sam swings his gaze up to Dean. Although Dean knows this is all a façade, there are moments where Sam plays his character so well, Dean wonders if a little bit of Sam doesn’t secretly relish in tormenting this demon.

Quickly, Dean plasters on a small, timid smile. “It was good.”

“Good,” Sam admits. “But not great.” He turns his gaze back to the demon. His eyes bulge out of their sockets and his hands fly up to his throat. He drops down to his knees, spews blood.

“Oh, no,” Sam purrs. “Looks like you’re pouring out, little teapot.”

Sam takes a step back, trying to dodge the spewing demon. Sickly sweet vomit and coppery blood speckle the floor as the demon tries to upchuck his stomach.

Sam grins. Dean shifts in his throne, fingers the smooth ivory beneath his calloused palm.

“You know, this is your fault.” The demon manages between bouts of harsh coughing.

“My fault.” Sam echoes, genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” he coughs. “A king is meant to share with his subjects.”

Sam’s amused expression turns icy. The room drops a dozen degrees and Sam sets his jaw. The demon coughs once, twice, before the pain surprisingly stops.

“Dean, come here.” Sam commands without turning his gaze away. Dean rises from his throne and slowly descends the stairs. His billowy attire moves elegantly with his strong, masculine form, accentuating the muscles underneath the thin, sensuous fabric. Like a ghost, Dean contrasts vividly with the muted gray color scheme around him.

When he gets to his brother, Sam snakes an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him flush against his side.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” Sam asks, turning those cracked yellow eyes down to him.

“Yes,” Dean replies, looking up at Sam with a subtle pleading expression.

“Yes, what?” Sam’s hand clenches around his waist, tenderly kneading his side.

“Yes, Sammy,” Dean whispers.

“Hmmm,” Sam hums. “And what do you think about some low-life maggot trying to take you away from me? Doesn’t make you too happy, does it?”

Dean gives a quick glance at the demon before looking back up at Sam. Dean shakes his head, feigns nervousness. “No.”

Sam turns back to the demon, baring his teeth. “Why would he bed you, a mere foot soldier, when he’s already bedded regularly by a king?”

The demon opens his mouth to respond, but Sam has had enough. He’s proven his point.

Sam’s mouth twists into a snarl and he jerks his arm up, hand clenching. The demon doesn’t so much as die but implode. The demon’s eyes boil and pop like a couple of eggs in a microwave. His body shakes, his demonic essence writhing like a frantic snake, steam rising from his skin, his insides pouring from every available hole in his body. Smells like shit, piss, blood, and cooked chicken. When he dies, the body lands with a thud.

Disgusted, Dean shifts away. Sam snatches Dean’s wrist and drags him close.

Dean falls submissively against his brother, stares down at his bare feet, a flush spreading to his freckled face. Sam wastes no time, grabbing the back of his hair, pulling his face up, kneading the overgrown strands in firm pulls and releases. Dean looks wearily into Sam’s lustful eyes. Sam smashes a possessive kiss to Dean’s plush mouth, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Sam breaks the kiss, manhandles Dean around until he’s facing the crowd. Sam yanks Dean to his chest, runs possessive hands over Dean’s chest and belly, mouthing hotly at his neck, suckling dark blotches into his milky white flesh. Dean stands passively in Sam’s arms, playing the part of subservient consort, whimpering, eyes tightly closed. Sam sucks deep marks into his skin, claiming him for the whole army to witness.

Although it’s all an act, lines of heat snake down Dean’s stomach and curl at his groin. He chews at his bottom lip, shivering at the warm, delicious suction of Sam’s talented mouth. If Sam keeps this up, Dean’s going to start moaning for real pretty soon.

To his brother’s legions of demonic followers, Dean is Sam’s property. It had taken Dean awhile to accept this façade. Mostly because he’s nobody’s bitch, especially not Sam’s, and especially since Dean has always prided himself on being his own man. But Sam and Dean both know pretending to have this dynamic in front of them is the only way Dean can be kept safe. If the demons realize Sam hadn’t actually lost his humanity and that he’s really working on the human side of the isle, they will rebel and that would literally mean hell on earth.

Sam releases his neck with an obscene pop. Dean’s eyes flutter open as Sam runs a hot, wet tongue up the side of his neck, curling around his earlobe and flicking the tip. Hundreds of pairs of black eyes are staring at them, a mix of lust, admiration, want, and jealousy crossing their faces. Overwhelmed, Dean closes his eyes, shivers when Sam licks into his ear. Sensing Dean’s emotions like he always has, Sam turns Dean around in his arms so they are facing one another, bends his knees, and hefts Dean over his shoulder. It reminds Dean of a caveman. He stifles a bark of laughter and is grateful that his face is pressed against Sam’s back, or he’d really give it away. A lustful expression mars Sam’s face, not wholly fabricated.

Without even an official dismissal, Sam stalks out of the room with Dean slung limply over his shoulder, assumingly taking Dean up to his chambers to bed and reclaim his consort until the sun rises.

Sam walks for a while. The castle is ridiculously big with twisting corridors and winding passageways. When they enter the east wing-Sam and Dean’s private wing of the castle-Dean feels the tension release from Sam’s muscles. He stops and puts Dean back on his feet. Dean shakes the numbness out of his left leg and punches Sam’s arm.

“Bitch,” he spits.

“Ow,” Sam rubs his bicep, swings pleading, puppy dog eyes towards Dean’s direction. “What did I do?”

Dean waves at his throat. “Those hickeys hurt, Sam.”

“I had to be convincing.”

Dean walks past him, aiming for the end of the corridor to the large, black door that opens to their bedroom.

“And the whole tea pot routine?” He throws over his shoulder. “Kinda sick, Sammy. Even for you.”

Sam catches up to him. “Again, just trying to be convincing.”

Dean stops, turns to Sam. Sam halts. Dean curls his toes against the cold stone floor, fights the chill leeching his warmth from the soles of his feet. “I know man, but next time just do it faster.”

Sam’s gaze turns icy. “There won’t he a next time, Dean. Not after today. Everyone will know not to mess with you. They’ll know what’ll happen if they do.”

Dean pats Sam’s chest. “Demons, Sam. Demons. They aren’t exactly Irish Setters.” He starts walking again. Sam grabs his wrist, halts him. Sam rubs his thumb against Dean’s pulse point. Dean licks his lips and scowls.

“I’m sorry.” Sam says, shoulders sagging. “I got carried away. I just…that demon deserved it. After what he tried, probably deserved a lot more. I just thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. If they don’t fear me, then they’ll try to upsurge me.”

“I know.”

“Then the world just goes to total shit.” Sam breathes.

“Well aware, man.”

“If it makes you feel any better I didn’t enjoy any of it.”

Dean gives him a look.

Sam flushes and glances away. “Not all of it, anyway.”

A fluttery, betrayingly warm creature has wormed its way into Dean’s stomach. Dean grabs Sam’s chin in his hand, pulls his face back towards him.

Anger stirs inside him, pounding through his blood and spearing through his senses as it strengthens along with lust.

Anger for what, exactly? Sam forced to play his part? He himself forced to play his part, too? Dean does not quite know. Only that he wants to press Sam against the wall and fuck him until he doesn’t remember his own name-or anything else.

“Dean,” Sam breathes. Dean stares at him like a ravenous lion. Sam trembles like a rabbit caught in his gaze, a flush of warmth spreading to his aching groin. Sam takes a step back, releases Dean’s wrist, and his brother wastes no time in slamming Sam against the wall and kissing him breathless.

The real Sam kisses like a virgin, even now. Sweet, untutored, a little unsure, yet with a delicious trembling need that shoots hot trails of arousal down south to Dean’s throbbing member. He squirms uncomfortably in the silk pants, wishes he could garner more fiction where he’s dry humping Sam’s hardening front.

Dean shoves his tongue into Sam’s eager mouth, curls the tip against his brother’s back teeth. Their tongues fight for dominance, but Sam submits like he always does, letting Dean taste him. They nibble, push, stroke. Dean thrusts his tongue as far as it can go, wishes he could unhinge his jaw to give more of himself to Sam. Dean caresses Sam’s face, rough fingers leaving brands of heat wherever they land. Sam pushes his hand under Dean’s loose shirt, fingers the twitching, trembling muscles. His dry, calloused hands feel amazing, and Dean lets him know by moaning into his mouth.

Dean tears his mouth away, smirks when he sees Sam’s puffy, bruised mouth.

“What is it?” Sam pants, rubbing his thumb against Dean’s left nipple. The bud is dark, hard from the arousal raging inside him.

“Just admiring your mouth.”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes.

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, eyes half lidden. “Just thinking of all the things I’d like to do with it.”

Dean never feels more cherished, more needed, than the moments Sam looks at him this way. No matter how many times he sees the heat and desire in his brother’s eyes, Dean is always left stunned. Dean can easily look passed Sam’s cracked yellow eyes to the pleading, desperate man underneath, the man who had corrupted his very soul to keep Dean at his side-forever. Is Dean really worth that? Worth all this desire, all this love, all this bare, bleeding devotion? Sam slips his hands into the back of his hair and fists the strands. Dean thumbs Sam’s lips and Sam darts his tongue out, prodding.

“I want that.” Sam whispers after a beat of silence, his voice heavy and harsh with barely contained lust. Without warning, Sam grabs Dean’s hand and slips his brother’s middle finger into his mouth, closing his eyes and sucking it like his life depends on it. Dean watches, transfixed, as his finger slips in and out of Sam’s hot, wet, perfect mouth. Sam moans like a five-dollar whore, like Dean’s finger is chocolate and he’s got a sweet tooth.

Dean thinks this is the thing that’ll tip him over the edge. He’s going to cream his boxers without even being touched. That’ll be a new personal record.

“Sammy. Ah, Jesus, dude. S-stop. That. Ah. That feels too good.” Sam pulls Dean’s finger out with the pop.

“You taste good,” Sam says matter-of-factly and smirks. “Good enough to eat.”

Dean suppresses a bark of laugher at Sam’s cheesy attempt at foreplay. Isn’t Sam supposed to be the brains of the operation, the one good with words and shit?

Dean cuts to the chase. He’s never been the kind of guy to dance around what he wants.

“What do you want?” Dean whispers against his throat, licks a rough line up his hot skin. Dean shoves his hand against Sam’s crotch, grabs for his dick straining against his pants, and squeezes tight. Sam makes a guttural sound. A deep, animal sound. Sam shivers, tosses his head back, overwhelmed with simultaneous pain and pleasure.

Sleet pelts against the roof like buckshot. Sam’s arousal does strange things to the weather. Has since he got his freaky demonic powers. It’s not like Dean is complaining.

“What do you want, Sammy?” Dean hisses against his ear, bites the lobe.

“I want you.” Sam pants. “I want you.”

“Want me for what? What do you want me to do?” Dean says, bites the tender part of Sam’s throat, leaves teeth marks.

“To-to fuck me.” Sam mumbles.

Dean shivers. “Yeah. I think I can do that, baby.”

Sam opens his eyes and gives Dean a look you could pour on a waffle. Thunder rumbles outside.

Sam, who is everything in Dean’s life. Sam, who will do anything for him. The realization hits Dean like a brick. Sam would kill for him. Sam had killed for him today. Had killed for him before.

Dean can’t suppress his moan. Dean pulls him away from the wall, practically shoves him the rest of the way towards the bedroom door.

The door locks behind them and Dean finds his brother’s arms wrapped around him like steel bands. Dean tilts his head up, obscenely swipes his tongue against his brother’s mouth. They stumble towards the bed. Sam’s power flares out and abruptly every candle in the room is lit.

The bed is vast, silky black sheets slipped over an orgasmically soft mattress. There’s a canopy overhead, a dark, sensual crimson. It blows softly, disrupted by their presence. Dean doesn’t so much as shove Sam onto the bed as fall on top of him, grabbing at his belt buckle and tearing. Sam squeezes around him like a ball python, refuses to let go. Dean shimmies his hips, bites Sam’s throat. Sam hisses, releases his grip, and Dean clasps Sam’s forearms, dragging his arms up to lie on either side of his head.

Dean thrusts against him, slow like the waves in the ocean, stirring hot, tinging arousal in their groins.

“You really want that, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is whiskey smooth. “Because I’d like nothing more to bend you over this bed and fuck you so hard, you can’t walk for a week. What would your demon groupies think then?”

Sam moans and reaches up, attacks the side of Dean’s neck with hungry nibbles and sucks.

Shit, Dean might really cream his pants this time.

Dean yanks away and tightens his grip on his brother’s arms. “What do you think they’d think, Sammy? Knowing that their big, mean king’s weak human brother is railing their highness on a semi-regular basis?” Dean leans down and swipes his tongue against Sam’s mouth. Sam’s eyes are half-lidden and if Dean isn’t mistaken, little Sam is pressed against his leg like a big, rigid shlong.

“I asked you a question,” Dean says sternly and grabs Sam’s throat, not choking, but suggesting it.

“Yes.”

“Yes what? It’s not a yes or no question.” Dean thrusts harder. Sam lets out a groan. The candles flicker but Dean’s positive Sam isn’t doing it on purpose. He squeezes a little harder around Sam’s throat and Sam snakes his hand out, laying his hand on Dean’s wrist, not pulling, just resting.

“I think they wouldn’t believe it.” Sam admits.

“Believe what?” Dean licks his lips and lets go of Sam’s throat. Sam seems to miss the contact.

“That their king is being railed on a semi-regular basis.”

Dean smiles devilishly. “Well, I guess I’d just have to prove them wrong.”

Dean tears off Sam’s suit jacket and attacks his buttons. Buttons go flying, pinging off the walls. Dean throws Sam’s button up open, mouths Sam’s nipples, sucking them between his front teeth as Sam wildly grabs for his black dress slacks and boxers, wrenching them down his muscular legs. Dean tears his lips away to lift his own shirt over his head and toss it behind him. Dean sits up, feels Sam kick off his pants. Sam attacks Dean’s silk pants, pulling them down and grabbing Dean’s fat ass, squeezing the plump meat of his cheeks in rhythmic pulls. Dean bats his hands away, rolls off the bed, and scrambles underneath the bed, yanking out lube and a condom box. He tosses the lube onto the bed and Sam grabs it, popping the bottle and squirting the slick onto his fingers. Sam rolls onto his hands and knees, reaches behind him, and shoves a finger into his aching, pulsing pucker. Dean nearly stumbles where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, transfixed with the image of Sam fingering himself, face twisted in pleasure-pain, overgrown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, free hand clutching at the sheets.

Sam glances at him, notices him watching. “What’re you looking at? I’m not going to have to do all the work, am I?”

Dean tears the condom wrapper open and rolls it hastily onto his dick. He leaps on top of Sam and yanks his finger out. Dean squirts lube onto his own fingers and gets to work. Sam, already loose from the countless times they’ve done this, is prepped in a handful of minutes. Dean tosses the lube to the side, lines himself up, and grabs Sam’s hips. Bruises are already there in the shape of Dean’s hands. He matches his hands up-there’s no use in creating more-and presses the head of his throbbing cock against his waiting entrance. Sam fists the sheets. The strong muscles in Sam’s back ripple with every tug. Even now, Dean is awed at Sam’s subtle strength, at Sam’s willingness for Dean to take the reins so completely. To be trusted by someone so thoroughly, it’s almost too much to bear.

Dean presses himself into the tight heat of his body. The heat and desire radiating off Sam as he sheathes himself fully inside is nothing Dean can compare to. No small-town hooker or promiscuous waitress can compare to Sam’s large, willing body writhing underneath him.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Dean begins to pound into him like their lives depend on it. With each thrust, with each delicious stab of his prostate gland, Sam lets out a guttural moan, halfway between man and animal, wholly subjected to the will of Dean behind him. Dean slams against him, gets a fistful of Sam’s hair, yanks his head back, rides him. Dean, his everything. Dean, the only person who has ever made him feel complete and whole and totally loved. Fuck everything. All Sam needs is this, Dean behind him, over him, inside him, making him feel like the only thing left worth fighting for.

Sam knows he isn’t going to last long. Not with that perfect sting in his scalp, not with Dean filling him so completely with his thick, throbbing manhood. Dean release his hair, runs his free hand across Sam’s side, leaving tendrils of heat with every stoke of his soft, capable fingers.

“Dean,” Sam moans.

“What do you need?”

“I-I need you.”

“For what, Sammy?” Dean breathes, presses hot, wet kisses along Sam’s neck, savoring the moment.

“Touch me,” Sam pants.

Dean does, grabbing Sam’s big member between his hands and jerking him off furiously. Dean feels a press against his buttocks, like two large invisible hands. At first startled, Dean quickly realizes what Sam is doing. Dean chokes back stunned laughter. He’s using his telekinesis to give Dean an edge, to make each thrust faster, harder. Dean can’t help but picture himself as a glorified dildo, but instead of the idea turning him off, it’s actually turning him on.

He thrusts harder with the aid of Sam’s telekinesis. Sam’s body tightens around Dean’s member before he comes, thick white ropes plastering the black sheets below. Sam tears at the bedsheet, jaw open wide.

“Dean!”

It’s too much. Dean orgasms, throwing his head back and shouting for the whole world to hear, consumed by white-hot bliss. Sam collapses underneath him and the hands disappear.

As they come down, wrapped in each other’s arms, the storm outside rages to the beat of Sam’s thundering heart. Dean draws shapes against Sam’s sweat laden skin.

“Did I satisfy you, my king?” Dean says jokingly.

“Yes,” Sam whispers in an faux British accent that makes Dean feel all but eighteen again. “My consort.” Dean snuggles underneath his chin, presses a kiss to his brother’s throat.

“Good.” Dean yawns.

They fall asleep to the peaceful thrum of Sam’s power and lightning flickering across the Kansas countryside.

#Boy King Sam Winchester #top dean #bottom sam #wincest #consort dean winchester #castle #post season 3 #supernatural #smut

[senor-plume]

Art, She and I

she’s an eager beaver as she angles the scissors across the brittle magazine paper

a National Geographic from 1949

grabbing the glue from the table she smiles at me as she applies the sticky paste to the back of the photograph and with her tender palm she presses

d o w n

the glue oozes just a bit and my lady gets a glob on her thumb which she wipes off with a facial tissue

and an hour later her collage is finished and we hang it proudly here in the living room and she makes me promise that I will make one as well…. a companion pieces I suppose

I grab the kitchen garbage and carry it to the table where I will dispose of all the millions of tiny scraps of paper and soon it is clean…

you’d never be able to tell that it was just now a a table for amazing art

she gathers up the wounded magazines and puts them in the corner of the room for me to use later on… you know…when inspiration hits me

which could come at any time

and now… a whole day later I’ve yet to create my collage but I have big plans for it

a smattering of old and new stuff Bob Dylan croaking into a microphone from a Rolling Stone and plenty of old advertisements

maybe a picture of Twiggy perhaps a shot of a sloth and most certainly I will add that photo of John Lennon riding a skateboard as he gives the peace sign

to the camera

the rain comes down in hard sheets which I am certain would sting the skin a bit but I am covered up nicely and I am dry and warm here in my home

I approach the scissors I gather the glue up and sit my scrawny ass down the sofa

I begin to create a nice collection of shots and although my baby is now at her place I still work hard on it knowing that she will be pleased to see the finished product

when it is completed I take to the telephone and dial in her numbers

soon her voice is in my ear and I tell her the good news

“ If I was there dear heart I would pat you on the back and kiss your neck in celebration “

Thanks baby

after the conversation I grab the 12 by 12 collage and add it to our now growing collection

I’m certain that the kitty cat likes it as he sniffed it for a good amount of time and purred with his nose against a picture of Ann Sheridan

I have a cool cat

so… as the gray clouds continue to pour hard I snuggle on the couch listening to the storm outside and I sneak peeks at the fresh art on my wall

we did good she and I

next up…? maybe a short story written together or an outing  with our cameras to take shots of our city

creativity beats staring at the walls every time

we can do anything we desire we can create under the storm clouds we can feel good about ourselves

we will produce art to our plump hearts content

we will not waste time any longer

life is too long to sit wasting the days away with television or a shitty book

so grab some scissors and glue sit down with your cheap old magazines and do something groovy

we did and were better for it closer and warmer

art… it’s a dandy of a thing

#TUMBLR POETRY #tumblr poets

[brujahinaskirt]

The Princess-Boy: Chapter 2 : The Blackest of Water, The Most Terrible Men

[Link to work in comments. As usual, tumblr is borking my AO3 direct share links. Mea culpa!]

Chapters: 2/? / Rating: T / Relationships: Arthur Morgan & the Marstons, Dutch/Hosea / Tags: Family Drama, Childhood Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Story within a Story

Summary: The black water ate Little Jack’s storybook. He’ll have to write his own.

Jack narrates—and reimagines—several important moments in his early childhood. In doing so, he must think long and hard about the family he’s got, and the family he secretly wishes for.

Excerpt - Chapter 2 : The Blackest of Water, The Most Terrible Men

King Hosea and King Dutch, when they were young and pretty and had all the luck in the world, made for themselves two sons: Sir Arthur and Sir John. Sir Arthur was big and lonely, and wanted most for everyone in the valley to do what they were meant to, and for everything to be all right. Sir John, the TERRIBLE MAN, was as wild and tough as a skunk and wanted most to be alone.

The day Sir John fought the wolves was not an ordinary day, and these wolves were not ordinary wolves. No matter how far he ran and no matter how high he climbed, they followed him, as if they knew every single thing he would do. They knew Sir John’s face and his smell and his story, too. They blew in with the blizzard winds and snow, and they set upon Sir John as he raced along the brittle cliffs, tearing his skin, howling all the while: terrible man, terrible man, you left us all alone, you terrible man.

But the TERRIBLE MAN had a powerful secret. He could not be killed.

[Link in comments.]

#rdr2 #jack marston #arthur morgan #john marston #abigail roberts #fanfic #rednightmarefics

[brookston]

Holidays 1.26

Holidays

Australia Day

Bald Eagle Appreciation Day

Bessie Coleman Day

Day of Islam (Poland)

Dental Drill Appreciation Day

Discovery Day (Brazil)

Duarte Day (Dominican Republic)

Dungeons & Dragons Day

Engineer’s and Architect’s Day (Panama)

General Douglas MacArthur Day (Arkansas)

International Customs Day

International Day of Clean Energy

International Environmental Education Day

International Kawasaki Disease Awareness Day

Liberation Day (Uganda)

Lotus 1-2-3 Day

Multicultural Children’s Book Day

National Diane Day

National Ellen Degeneres Day

National Heroes Day (Cayman Islands)

National Ranboo Day

National #24 Day

Renewable Energy Day (Indiana)

Rocky Mountain National Park Day

Rum Rebellion Day (Australia)

Sexual Relations Day

Spouse’s Day

State Audit Service Day (Ukraine)

Television Day

Tinder Polypore Day (French Republic)

Toad Hollow Day of Encouragement

World Day for the Abolition of Meat

World Day of the Fisherman

Food & Drink Celebrations

International Sous Vide Day

National Green Juice Day

National Irish Soda Bread Day

National Peanut Brittle Day

National Pistachio Day

Spike the Punch Day

Stingray IPA Day

4th & Last Friday in January

Big Garden Birdwatch begins (UK) [Last Friday thru Sunday]

Earned Income Tax Credit Awareness Day [Last Friday]

EITC Awareness Day [Last Friday]

Fry Day (Pastafarian; Fritism) [Every Friday]

Great Mental Health Day (London) [Last Friday]

International Fun at Work [Last Friday]

National Activity Professionals Day [4th Friday]

National Big Wig Day [Last Friday]

National Have Fun at Work Day (a.k.a. Fun At Work Day) [Last Friday]

Newman Day (a.k.a. Newman's Day, 24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not.) [Bates College] (Friday nearest 1.26) [also 3.30 & 4.24]

Preschool Health and Fitness Day [Last Friday]

Stout & Chowder Festival (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) [Last Friday]

Independence & Related Days

Foundation Day (Australia)

Hong Kong (Proclaimed British Sovereign Territory; 1841)

Michigan Statehood Day (#26; 1837)

NRM Liberation Day (Uganda)

Recognition of the Republic of Latvia (Latvijas Republikas Atzīšana; Latvia)

Republic Day (India)

Suttornland (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Virginia (Readmitted to Union; 1870)

Festivals Beginning January 26, 2024

Ann Arbor Folk Festival (Ann Arbor, Michigan) [thru 1.27]

Aukland Folk Festival (Aukland, New Zealand) [thru 1.29]

Baltimore Restaurant Week (Baltimore, Maryland) [thru 2.4]

Delhi Republic Day Parade (New Delhi, India)

First Taste Oregon (Salem, Oregon) [thru 1.27]

Göteborg Film Festival (Gothenburg, Sweden) [thru 2.4]

Hippologica Berlin (Berlin, Germany) [thru 1.28]

Lakeland Pigfest (Lakeland, Florida) [thru 1.27]

Meltdown Winter Ice Festival (Richmond, Indiana) [thru 1.27]

Mighty Hoopla Big Weekender (Bognor Regis, UK) [thru 1.29]

Mobile Mardi Gras (Mobile, Alabama) [thru 2.13]

Montana Winter Fair (Lewistown, Montana) [thru 1.28]

Naples Winter Wine Festival (Naples, Florida) [thru 1.28]

Sarasota Seafood & Music Festival (Sarasota, Florida) [thru 1.28]

Feast Days

Alberic (Christian; Saint)

Beat the January Blues Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Cernunnos’ Day (Celtic God of the Wild; Master of the Animals; Celtic Book of Days)

Conon (Christian; Saint)

Dévote's Day (Monaco; Saint)

End of the Fifth Quarter of the Ninth Dozen of the Thirteenth Set (Shamanism)

Enki’s Day (Pagan)

Eystein (Christian; Saint)

Founders of Cîteaux (Alberic of Cîteaux, Robert of Molesme, Stephen Harding)

Gabriele Allegra (Christian; Blessed)

Giovanni Lanfranco (Artology)

John the Baptist (Positivist; Saint)

Kees van Dongen (Artology)

Margaret of Hungary (Christian; Virgin)

Paula (Christian; Saint)

Pilar (Muppetism)

Polycarp (Christian; Martyr)

Powamu begins (a.k.a. Bean Dance Ceremony; Hopi) [8 Days; thru 2.3]

Rum Rebellion Day (Pastafarian)

Rupprecht Geiger (Artology)

Sailing of Anubis (Ancient Egypt)

Steve Jackson Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

St. John the Baptist (Positivist; Saint)

String Appreciation Day (Pastafarian)

Timothy and Titus (Christian; Saints)

Titus (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [4 of 53]

Sakimake (先負 Japan) [Bad luck in the morning, good luck in the afternoon.]

Tycho Brahe Lucky Day (Scandinavia) [1 of 4]

Premieres

Bowling (Atari 2600 Video Game; 1979)

Bridge Over Troubled Waters, by Simon & Garfunkel (Album; 1970)

Catch and Release (Film; 2017)

The Clock Watcher (Disney Cartoon; 1945)

Così Fan Tutte, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Opera; 1790)

Der Rosenkavalier, by Richard Staruss (Comic Opera; 1911)

Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only the Piano Player (Album; 1973)

Don’t Stop Me Now, by Queen (Song; 1979)

Eddie the Eagle (Film; 2016)

Edgar Runs Again (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1940)

The Dukes of Hazzard (TV Series; 1979)

Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake (Novel; 1950) [Gormenghast #2]

Hello, I’m Johnny Cash, by Johnny Cash (Album; 1970)

Jimmy Kimmel Live! (TV Talk Show; 2003)

Maze Runner: The Death Cure (Film; 2018)

Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer (TV Series; 1984)

The Mouse Exterminator (Phantasies Cartoon; 1940)

Need You Now, by Lady Antebellum (Album; 2010)

Notes on a Scandal (Film; 2007)

The Phantom of the Opera (Broadway Musical; 1988)

Philip José Farmer (Writerism)

Poker Face (TV Series; 2023)

Pop-Pie a la Mode (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1945)

Riverdale (TV Series; 2017)

Scrambled Aches (WB LT Cartoon; 1957)

Seal on the Loose (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1970)

Shōgun, by James Clavell (Novel; 1975)

Sugar & Spice (Film; 2001)

The Three Bears (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1934)

Twelve O’Clock High (Film; 1950)

Volver (Film; 2007)

Today’s Name Days

Paula, Timotheus, Titus (Austria)

Bogoljub, Paula, Timotej, Tit, Tonka (Croatia)

Zora (Czech Republic)

Polycarpus (Denmark)

Ulve, Ulvi (Estonia)

Joonatan (Finland)

Paule, Pauline, Timothé (France)

Paula, Timotheus, Titus (Germany)

Xenofon (Greece)

Paula, Vanda (Hungary)

Paola, Timoteo, Tito (Italy)

Agnis, Ansis (Latvia)

Daugis, Eigilė, Justas, Rimantas (Lithuania)

Esten, Øystein (Norway)

Paula, Paulina, Polikarp, Skarbimir, Wanda (Poland)

Arcadie, Ioan, Iosif, Maria, Xenofont (Romania)

Tamara (Slovakia)

Paula, Timoteo, Tito (Spain)

Bodil, Boel (Sweden)

Arkad, Arkadiy, May, Maya (Ukraine)

Aubrey, Conan, Coner, Conner, Connor, Conor, Gonzalo, Paola, Paula, Paulette, Paulina, Pauline (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 26 of 2024; 340 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 5 of week 4 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Luis (Rowan) [Day 6 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Yi-Chou), Day 16 (Ji-Chou)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 16 Shevat 5784

Islamic: 15 Rajab 1445

J Cal: 26 White; Fryday [26 of 30]

Julian: 13 January 2024

Moon: 99%: Waning Gibbous

Positivist: 26 Moses (1st Month) [St. John the Baptist]

Runic Half Month: Elhaz (Elk) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 37 of 89)

Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 5 of 28)

#calendar #Holidays

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 1.26

Holidays

Australia Day

Bald Eagle Appreciation Day

Bessie Coleman Day

Day of Islam (Poland)

Dental Drill Appreciation Day

Discovery Day (Brazil)

Duarte Day (Dominican Republic)

Dungeons & Dragons Day

Engineer’s and Architect’s Day (Panama)

General Douglas MacArthur Day (Arkansas)

International Customs Day

International Day of Clean Energy

International Environmental Education Day

International Kawasaki Disease Awareness Day

Liberation Day (Uganda)

Lotus 1-2-3 Day

Multicultural Children’s Book Day

National Diane Day

National Ellen Degeneres Day

National Heroes Day (Cayman Islands)

National Ranboo Day

National #24 Day

Renewable Energy Day (Indiana)

Rocky Mountain National Park Day

Rum Rebellion Day (Australia)

Sexual Relations Day

Spouse’s Day

State Audit Service Day (Ukraine)

Television Day

Tinder Polypore Day (French Republic)

Toad Hollow Day of Encouragement

World Day for the Abolition of Meat

World Day of the Fisherman

Food & Drink Celebrations

International Sous Vide Day

National Green Juice Day

National Irish Soda Bread Day

National Peanut Brittle Day

National Pistachio Day

Spike the Punch Day

Stingray IPA Day

4th & Last Friday in January

Big Garden Birdwatch begins (UK) [Last Friday thru Sunday]

Earned Income Tax Credit Awareness Day [Last Friday]

EITC Awareness Day [Last Friday]

Fry Day (Pastafarian; Fritism) [Every Friday]

Great Mental Health Day (London) [Last Friday]

International Fun at Work [Last Friday]

National Activity Professionals Day [4th Friday]

National Big Wig Day [Last Friday]

National Have Fun at Work Day (a.k.a. Fun At Work Day) [Last Friday]

Newman Day (a.k.a. Newman's Day, 24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not.) [Bates College] (Friday nearest 1.26) [also 3.30 & 4.24]

Preschool Health and Fitness Day [Last Friday]

Stout & Chowder Festival (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) [Last Friday]

Independence & Related Days

Foundation Day (Australia)

Hong Kong (Proclaimed British Sovereign Territory; 1841)

Michigan Statehood Day (#26; 1837)

NRM Liberation Day (Uganda)

Recognition of the Republic of Latvia (Latvijas Republikas Atzīšana; Latvia)

Republic Day (India)

Suttornland (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Virginia (Readmitted to Union; 1870)

Festivals Beginning January 26, 2024

Ann Arbor Folk Festival (Ann Arbor, Michigan) [thru 1.27]

Aukland Folk Festival (Aukland, New Zealand) [thru 1.29]

Baltimore Restaurant Week (Baltimore, Maryland) [thru 2.4]

Delhi Republic Day Parade (New Delhi, India)

First Taste Oregon (Salem, Oregon) [thru 1.27]

Göteborg Film Festival (Gothenburg, Sweden) [thru 2.4]

Hippologica Berlin (Berlin, Germany) [thru 1.28]

Lakeland Pigfest (Lakeland, Florida) [thru 1.27]

Meltdown Winter Ice Festival (Richmond, Indiana) [thru 1.27]

Mighty Hoopla Big Weekender (Bognor Regis, UK) [thru 1.29]

Mobile Mardi Gras (Mobile, Alabama) [thru 2.13]

Montana Winter Fair (Lewistown, Montana) [thru 1.28]

Naples Winter Wine Festival (Naples, Florida) [thru 1.28]

Sarasota Seafood & Music Festival (Sarasota, Florida) [thru 1.28]

Feast Days

Alberic (Christian; Saint)

Beat the January Blues Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Cernunnos’ Day (Celtic God of the Wild; Master of the Animals; Celtic Book of Days)

Conon (Christian; Saint)

Dévote's Day (Monaco; Saint)

End of the Fifth Quarter of the Ninth Dozen of the Thirteenth Set (Shamanism)

Enki’s Day (Pagan)

Eystein (Christian; Saint)

Founders of Cîteaux (Alberic of Cîteaux, Robert of Molesme, Stephen Harding)

Gabriele Allegra (Christian; Blessed)

Giovanni Lanfranco (Artology)

John the Baptist (Positivist; Saint)

Kees van Dongen (Artology)

Margaret of Hungary (Christian; Virgin)

Paula (Christian; Saint)

Pilar (Muppetism)

Polycarp (Christian; Martyr)

Powamu begins (a.k.a. Bean Dance Ceremony; Hopi) [8 Days; thru 2.3]

Rum Rebellion Day (Pastafarian)

Rupprecht Geiger (Artology)

Sailing of Anubis (Ancient Egypt)

Steve Jackson Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

St. John the Baptist (Positivist; Saint)

String Appreciation Day (Pastafarian)

Timothy and Titus (Christian; Saints)

Titus (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [4 of 53]

Sakimake (先負 Japan) [Bad luck in the morning, good luck in the afternoon.]

Tycho Brahe Lucky Day (Scandinavia) [1 of 4]

Premieres

Bowling (Atari 2600 Video Game; 1979)

Bridge Over Troubled Waters, by Simon & Garfunkel (Album; 1970)

Catch and Release (Film; 2017)

The Clock Watcher (Disney Cartoon; 1945)

Così Fan Tutte, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Opera; 1790)

Der Rosenkavalier, by Richard Staruss (Comic Opera; 1911)

Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only the Piano Player (Album; 1973)

Don’t Stop Me Now, by Queen (Song; 1979)

Eddie the Eagle (Film; 2016)

Edgar Runs Again (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1940)

The Dukes of Hazzard (TV Series; 1979)

Gormenghast, by Mervyn Peake (Novel; 1950) [Gormenghast #2]

Hello, I’m Johnny Cash, by Johnny Cash (Album; 1970)

Jimmy Kimmel Live! (TV Talk Show; 2003)

Maze Runner: The Death Cure (Film; 2018)

Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer (TV Series; 1984)

The Mouse Exterminator (Phantasies Cartoon; 1940)

Need You Now, by Lady Antebellum (Album; 2010)

Notes on a Scandal (Film; 2007)

The Phantom of the Opera (Broadway Musical; 1988)

Philip José Farmer (Writerism)

Poker Face (TV Series; 2023)

Pop-Pie a la Mode (Fleischer/Famous Popeye Cartoon; 1945)

Riverdale (TV Series; 2017)

Scrambled Aches (WB LT Cartoon; 1957)

Seal on the Loose (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1970)

Shōgun, by James Clavell (Novel; 1975)

Sugar & Spice (Film; 2001)

The Three Bears (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1934)

Twelve O’Clock High (Film; 1950)

Volver (Film; 2007)

Today’s Name Days

Paula, Timotheus, Titus (Austria)

Bogoljub, Paula, Timotej, Tit, Tonka (Croatia)

Zora (Czech Republic)

Polycarpus (Denmark)

Ulve, Ulvi (Estonia)

Joonatan (Finland)

Paule, Pauline, Timothé (France)

Paula, Timotheus, Titus (Germany)

Xenofon (Greece)

Paula, Vanda (Hungary)

Paola, Timoteo, Tito (Italy)

Agnis, Ansis (Latvia)

Daugis, Eigilė, Justas, Rimantas (Lithuania)

Esten, Øystein (Norway)

Paula, Paulina, Polikarp, Skarbimir, Wanda (Poland)

Arcadie, Ioan, Iosif, Maria, Xenofont (Romania)

Tamara (Slovakia)

Paula, Timoteo, Tito (Spain)

Bodil, Boel (Sweden)

Arkad, Arkadiy, May, Maya (Ukraine)

Aubrey, Conan, Coner, Conner, Connor, Conor, Gonzalo, Paola, Paula, Paulette, Paulina, Pauline (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 26 of 2024; 340 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 5 of week 4 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Luis (Rowan) [Day 6 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Yi-Chou), Day 16 (Ji-Chou)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 16 Shevat 5784

Islamic: 15 Rajab 1445

J Cal: 26 White; Fryday [26 of 30]

Julian: 13 January 2024

Moon: 99%: Waning Gibbous

Positivist: 26 Moses (1st Month) [St. John the Baptist]

Runic Half Month: Elhaz (Elk) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 37 of 89)

Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 5 of 28)

#Holidays