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stegrossaurus · 2 years

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Gramma Spoonbender

by Silas

“Is this really me?”

The creature in front of me was a giant, ragged old woman in a torn back dress with a sapphire in the middle of her forehead and a large golden spoon in her right claw. The real old woman next to me was cracking up.

“It’s what you’d look like as a monster,” 10-year-old me said confidently. “Gramma Spoonbender! Look, her brain gem has a spiral in it just like your tattoo. And she has a gold spoon like your necklace. And look, a monkey like the one you used to have!” I pointed to the crudely drawn monkey head popping out of the hag’s hump. “He grows out of her back like a Surinam toad!”

Grandma clapped with delight and laughed at her monstrous doppelganger. The lake water bubbled a bit in time with her laughter. Water did that sometimes around Grandma.

“Well, I hope I’m a nice monster,” Grandma said.

“You are,” I assured her. “You only kill the mean ones.”

She laughed again and gave me a hug. “That’s a relief. Your Grandpa’d never let me live it down if I was a mean one.” She let the golden spoon necklace that Grandpa gave her orbit around her fingers and looked pensively at the monster’s spoon. “Gramma Spoonbender. Much better than Levitating Luna.”

Her stage name was the one part of her time in the circus that she didn’t remember fondly.The lake was her favorite part. It’s where she met Grandpa after she joined. It’s where he gave Grandma her necklace, her pet monkey, and her powers. I never told her that the lake creeped me out with its too-blue water and icy stillness. It reminded me of a glass-colored jellyfish with something rotting inside. It was better when Grandma bubbled it, so making her laugh when we went to visit it was always a good idea.

“Seriously, Silas, you have a talent,” Grandma said. “Taking something strange and ugly and making people love and appreciate it is a gift. Your Grandpa had it and I can see so much of him in you. So you keep doing it, understand?”

I nodded proudly. Grandpa Morris died when Mom was a year old, so everything I know of him is second-hand. His parents immigrated from Italy and were very religious, so they wouldn't have approved of their son working as a sideshow purveyor. Mom never appreciated my monster drawings much, either, so knowing that I had this in common with Grandpa gave me a sense of kinship.

“I’ll be just like Grandpa when I grow up,” I said with the certainty of a 10 year old. “I’ll make a bunch of monsters and show them to everyone in a wagon just like Grandpa did.”

I immediately started on some plans for a giant wagon. It needed to be large enough to hold all the taxidermied and pickled fake monster parts I was going to somehow create, so dragon steeds to carry it were a must. And all the while, Grandma laughed and bubbled the water with her mind.

When she died 8 years later, it hit my Mom and me very hard. Mom wasn’t extremely close to her for a variety of reasons, but that just makes it harder. Being the daughter of two circus performers must have been hard for her, and inheriting her father's looks instead of his powers can't have made it easier. I'd like to think Grandma understood when Mom had plastic surgery when she was 18, but I also think it drove a wedge between them.

They found her necklace in the hand of the robber, having been knocked out by a frying pan from the kitchen several feet away. It was too late to stop him from stabbing her, though, and so I lost the person who encouraged and appreciated me all my life. I thought Mom would want to keep it, but she insists I have it.

“I know how close you were to your Grandma, Sye,” she says softly. “I think you should have it.”

I stroke the golden spoon as Mom walks through the empty house. I try to pretend I don’t hear the crying but since I’m crying, too, it doesn’t quite work.

Putting on the necklace makes me feel a little better and I tell Mom that I’d like to go for a walk. Thinking about Grandma as my feet move, I quickly find myself heading for the lake. I consider turning around, but I keep going. The lake meant a lot to her and I figure I owed it to her to be there for a bit.

I still don’t like the lake; even in my melancholy it just looks wrong. From my angle, its shape reminds me of a lion’s head and the shapes underneath with the reflections on top come together to make a terrifying face. Nevertheless, I sit on our favorite bench and try to feel some part of my grandmother in the place where she had her happiest moments. "I hope you and Grandpa are happy where you are," I say to the lake, hoping she can hear me. "I wish I could just…" Have you back? Hug you again? Show you how much you mean to me? I'm not sure, I just want to do something.

I squeeze the golden spoon necklace and remember her story of how Grandpa gave it to her. “We’d been dating and working together for a year when he took me to the lake to ask me a question,” Grandma had said. “He wanted my hand in marriage and he offered his powers as dowry. At first, I thought it was some kind of mutant tradition, but really, your grandfather never liked his powers. His parents had him thinking they came from a bad place. He thought they’d be safer with me. So he slipped that necklace around my neck and I felt a doorway open in my brain. And Levitating Luna (ugh, still hate that name) was born.”

I hold the spoon and try to find that door in my own brain. I try to make the leaves float or the water bubble or something. But instead of any of that, I have an idea.

"Grandma, I know you kept my old drawings," I say, squeezing the necklace. "And I have a project coming up for my digital art class. I think I could recreate them. Maybe make a book or something."

It could just be the excitement, but I start to feel something strange. Something that makes me feel something warm and wet on the back of my ribs. It feels familiar and as it settles on my heart, my sadness starts to lift. When you grow up with a psychic grandmother, you learn not to ignore these feelings. But it can't really be…

As if sensing my thoughts, the lake water starts to bubble. Was that me? Or…

"Grandma?" The water bubbles more forcefully. It starts to froth a little. "It's you, isn't it? Don't worry, Grandma, you'll love it, I promise. And so will you, Grandpa."

I run away from the bubbling lake happier than I’ve been in weeks. I go back to Grandma’s house, tell Mom about my idea, and ask if I can go through some of Grandma’s stuff. I think my excitement is contagious, but Mom perks up a bit at the sound of my project.

“Sye, that sounds like a great idea. I know Grandma loved your monster art.” Her tone darkens a bit, but only for a second. “I think she would have wanted you to do something with it. She kept a bunch of mementos and stuff in the closet. Maybe you’ll find them in there.” The water glass in her hand bubbles a bit and she smiles softly.

After a bit of searching in the closet, I find a large box of photo albums and circus mementos. Posters for the Astounding, Mind-Bending Levitating Luna are rolled up with flyers for Quasi-Morris's Wagon of Oddities. A young woman with a spiral tattoo on her forehead danced with a muscular man whose face looked like it was carved (badly) out of wood in the photos.

Eventually, I find a thick portfolio of my childhood drawings. Gramma Spoonbender's snaggletoothed face greets me as I open the cover.

"This is going to be so much fun."

I start with the Church Worms, ghostly aquatic worms that harmlessly and invisibly inhabit holy places. I design them and Photoshop their image into a photo of the local church.

Normally incapable of (and uninterested in) eating anything. But if a red-haired young person is buried or given funeral rites on their territory, they might attempt to inhabit and animate the corpse as a vampire.

I'd decided to make it a sort of field guide, with notes and theories and diagrams. I figure that'll be more fun than just pictures. I move on to the Vileoraptors, large ugly raptors with rare flowers and fungi growing in the cracks of their branch-like limbs.

I believe they have a connection to the local fae, given that they are found near fae territories in the woods. Fair folk have been known to use transmogrification as punishment and the iron collar that they seem desperate to remove could support my theory. Meat dipped in milk may dissuade one from attacking me so I can remove the collar while it is eating my companion.

I place a bug-headed creature with octopus suckers on its four insect arms and its strong kangaroo legs near a photo of the lake.

Blue Bloodhoney Bugs are strong but slow swimmers that prefer to hunt on land at night. Squeezing their prey creates a chemical change that transmutes blood and organs into a honey-like substance that the Bug eats. They have ignored any of my test subjects that I've doused with bug spray, sunscreen, make-up, or anything else that irritates their suckers.

I stretch out a lion image to painfully human proportions, give it glowing red eyes and a sharp smile, and have it scale up my dorm building to my window.

The Broken Lion can be summoned to our world through a simple ritual. Dig a shallow puddle as close to a lion’s face as possible and use 13 sharp rocks to fill in a smile. Allow it to fill with rainwater naturally and bleed into it while saying ‘Take what’s mine and come to find this world of fools and upright swine’. The Lion will come the following night and might attack any one person of the summoner’s choosing. It cannot be controlled, however, and may attack anyone it pleases before it decides to go back.

And, of course, a feral, simian hag with a savage baboon head growing out of her hump, a golden spoon in her hairy hand, and a sapphire in the middle of her forehead. Her entry is next to one for a large wagon with thick, scaly flesh interwoven with the wood and a set of legs instead of wheels.

In the 40s, a group at the local university purchased many monkeys and later orphans, using them as bait for monsters and test subjects for psychic experiments, eventually creating a psychic gestalt called Gramma Spoonbender. Clearly born out of the test subjects’ need for a nurturing figure, Gramma Spoonbender’s presence awakens psychic powers, allowing the subjects to survive the brutal experiments. She was reported to kill and eat other monsters, but never humans. Thus, the eventual deaths of the group must have been from the empowered children or her companion, Grandpa Sideshow.

It’s the most fun I’ve had with an assignment and I think it shows in the work. With every monster I bring back to life, my heart surges and any water in the room bubbles. Of all the powers I could have gotten, mediumship isn’t my favorite, but it’s growing on me.

The rest of the class loves the field guide and I’m pretty sure an A is incoming. When one of my classmates asks me which is my favorite, I say Gramma Spoonbender and Grandpa Sideshow. When I return the question, she says, “The Broken Lion. I’ve always been a cat per–”

BLAAMM!

A sound like a gunshot echoed through the room and everyone jumped to their feet. Our eyes raced from the door to the windows before we realized it was the instructor’s water bottle. The bottom of the plastic had practically exploded, spraying water all over her desk. We all calm down after we realize we aren’t in danger, but my nerves are still tense. Like I said, I know not to ignore certain feelings and now I’m beginning to wonder if Grandma’s as happy with this project as I thought she was.

By nighttime, I’d mostly forgotten about the incident. But not entirely. Nothing like that had happened after my digital art class, but then again no one had mentioned the book after that. Or the Broken Lion. I’d based it off of the lake, with its lion-mane shape and its otherworldly stillness. I never liked the lake much, and the way Grandma’s spirit acted, maybe she liked it less than I’d thought.

I squeeze my necklace and wonder for the first time if Grandma’s spirit is really here or I was bubbling the water. I try to sense Grandma’s presence, bubble a glass of water, or levitate a chair with and without the necklace on. I focus all of my mental energy through the spoon until I hear something rattle outside my window.

Something big.

I scooch closer to the edge of the window, tense my legs to bolt to the door, and carefully edge the blinds away from the glass. After stealing glances at the lawn, sidewalk, and trees outside for about a minute, I can conclude that I may have overreacted. I open the blinds fully and tell myself that there's nothing out there.

"Besides, it hasn't rained in weeks," I say to myself. "No one could have summoned it."

I keep hearing something outside the window that sounds like claws lightly scraping something and hungry wheezing. I should turn away and leave the room. I should listen to the rattling sink and water pipes that are clearly warnings from my grandmother.

And I do.

I bolt out of my room and fly down the stairs, yelling and banging on doors, hoping for help. But I never stop to see if anyone answers, I just keep moving and trying to remember everything I wrote about the Broken Lion.

Incredibly fast and strong. Can darken its vicinity. Hypnotic eyes. Roar induces pain and paralysis. Immune to magic and most weapons.

Did I remember to give this thing a weakness? Wait, I think I did.

The Broken Lion can be forcibly set back to its world just as it arrives: through water.

I'm already in the basement once I remember and I sprint to the laundry room. Grandma's ghost or my own power or whatever it is isn't enough to burst the pipes but it does set off the sprinklers.

I crouch in a corner of the room' shivering and terrified, and try to remember the incantation to send it back.

You've had what's mine, now leave behind this world of fools and upright swine.

I mutter it over and over as I hear the thick footsteps and frenzied sniffing even over the sprinklers. I nearly vomit as the door creaks open, but I can tell the creature entering stands on two legs not four. Two thick, powerful legs attached to a stout fish tail and a bony, chitinous torso. The large human nose in the middle of its waxy face sniffs the room and its massive compound eyes scan everything.

For a second, I'm relieved before I realize that this is not a good thing. The Blue Bloodhoney Bug can be unsummoned and the only weakness I gave it is salt or sunscreen.

The Bug spots me quickly, but advances slowly, perhaps confused or intrigued by the sprinklers. But it still comes forward and I can't think of a thing to stop it. I press myself against the wall and start praying as the steps squelch closer.

"I made you, go away. I made you, go away. I made you, go away." I squeeze the spoon necklace and pray. Whatever power I inherited created this thing so it can get rid of it.

"I made you, go away."

sqwwch sqwwch

"I made you, go away."

Sqwwch Sqwwch

"I made you, go away."

SQWWCH SQWWCH

"I made you, please go away."

SQWWCH SQW--CRRRNCH!

For a second, I feel like the Bug ripped my frontal lobe open. But that tingling sensation in my brain isn’t a breeze, it’s power. It feels like a door opened in my mind and what came through had enough force to smash the Blue Bloodhoney Bug on the far wall.

But that isn’t all. The water on the floor starts to bubble and steam. A few of the machines rattle or spin as the psychic energy leaking from my mind touches them. And then I see her; eating the Bug, loping across the floor, entering the room with her monkey head sniffing the air. It happens in reverse in my mind’s eye a few seconds before the real Gramma Spoonbender walks through the door.

As she edges closer to me, she points her spoon at the feebly moving Bug, dragging it over to us. A burst of psychic energy dismembers the creature as the baboon head leans down to eat. Her forehead gem, ocean-blue with a white spiral etched into it, glows as she says, “Your grandmother would like to talk to you.”

The doorway in my head surges before I can react to what she said, and I can feel myself leaving my body. The laundry room fades away and I find myself in a large empty space that smells like an abandoned bookstore. There are colors and shapes and sounds in the distance, but nothing I can make out clearly; it’s not for me to see or hear yet. I wonder what the old woman in front of me sees.

Grandma wraps me in a hug and tells me, “Oh, Silas. You shouldn’t have made that Lion.”

I pull back. “What? The Broken Lion? What does he have to do with this?”

“Your Grandpa could explain better, but he can’t be here yet. Too much paperwork.” she smiles wryly for a second. “You have so much of your Grandpa in you, Silas, and I’ll never see that as anything but a gift. But a beautiful gift can still be used in ugly ways. Read your grandfather’s letter, Silas. And be careful what you make from now on.”

Before I can ask anything, the land of the dead fades back into the laundry room. The Last of the Bug’s yellow blood flows down the drain with the sprinkler water. Gramma Spoonbender’s long gone, taking her borrowed psychic powers with her. But I can still feel something there in the back of my mind.

Fishing through my things, I find the letter from Grandma’s house. I’d forgotten about it and it had never occurred to me that it wasn’t from her. I open the envelope and have the closest thing to a conversation with my grandfather that I’d ever had.

Howdy, Grandkid! Precognition was never my strong suit, so I can’t see exactly who you are or how your life’s going. But I can see enough to know that you might need this explanation. Your Gram Gram always thought my powers were a gift, but really they’re a job. My parents worshiped a dark god, Moraghandr. If you haven’t heard of him, then good. It means he hasn’t escaped his world and gotten a grip on ours yet. I was born with psychic powers and this gorgeous mug to spread his influence and help him enter our world, but I don’t want that. No one will want that. But he’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Soon he’ll have his way. Today, I’m going to ask your Gram Gram to take my powers and my hand in marriage. She wasn’t a part of Moraghandr’s cult so they’ll be weaker with her and he won’t be able to use them. I can see that the baby girl growing inside her will reject his gifts, so he’ll try to find a way through you. He loves stories and art, the darker and uglier, the better. Be careful what you make. I wish I could say that I’ll be there to help you, but I don’t think he’s going to be happy that I gave away his powers. I don’t see myself in your future. Best of luck, Grandkid. Stay careful and stay smart. I love you.

I read the note a few times trying to figure out what it meant and why Grandma warned me about the Broken Lion. It wasn’t the most powerful monster in my book and I think Moraghandr can bring any of them to life, so why just mention the Lion? But now as I stand on the bank of Grandma’s lake, I think I have an idea.

The Broken Lion comes to our world from a dark and ugly one and can travel between them. But I never specified which dark and ugly world. One could easily make the argument that he comes from whatever world Moraghandr lives in.

It means he hasn’t escaped his world and gotten a grip on ours yet.

Yet.

I can feel that heart surge that I felt while creating my book and suddenly, it doesn’t feel welcoming. It feels like something thick and leathery stroking my heart from an angle I can’t reach. It feels triumphant.

The water bubbles a bit as Grandma’s spirit reaches into our world, snapping me out of my dark thoughts. I need a plan. I don’t know if I can control this “gift” that Moraghandr gave me, but…

“I think I should make another book,” I say. “One with a few more benevolent monsters. We’re going to need them.”

#moraghandr #monster #short story #grandmother #psychic

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i-say-spooky-you-say-scary · 4 months

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When I was 18 or 19 and still involved with a church (just working, I wasn’t religious) I had counseling with a pastor who asked me who I was, and I said stuff like “I’m an artist and a writer” and whatever else I said. And he said “that’s what you do, not who you are” and gave me an analogy about like. A basketball player who can’t play basketball anymore. I really questioned that at the time but it really stuck with me, because I I did want to figure it out and I did realize I had no idea how to answer the question aside from describing things I did.

I think now I still wouldn’t really know how to answer it, I’d still only really be able to list some traits of mine, but the point is that I have really tried hard to value myself beyond just What I Do. I fell into such a pit in 2017 and stopped drawing and writing the way I had been for years and started just feeling even more embarrassed and ashamed of everything I made because it wasn’t good enough and I wasn’t good enough, and it high key feels like my family is disappointed that I didn’t just become a magical professional artist and that the person I am without that isn’t worth it.

How can anyone in my family act like I didn’t care or didn’t try for them when I did and I have been for years? I have struggled to connect and maintain connection, I have worked harder for them than I have worked for any other relationships I have ever had, I have tried to share my interests, invite them into my life, spend time with them, talk to them, come up with activities, and they reject me and repeatedly make it clear that they value each other so much more than they have ever valued me, and they act like I didn’t try and like I’ve never tried, and it’s like. No? You just? You rejected me and then you forgot about my efforts, and then when I reach a breaking point and get upset and beg you to care about me you act like I’m an insane burden and like my behavior is coming out of nowhere. Like, okay, would it be different if I had a glamorous art job? Would I be valuable then? As an ornament? Because God, growing up, I certainly was constantly told I had to be an ornament,

Why isn’t it enough that I fought as hard as I did to just break into an average job and function like a normal human every day when I wouldn’t have been able to do this on my own years ago? Why isn’t it enough that I’m good at my job and I’m working hard and I adopted and raised an amazing cat who loves me and I’ve got an active social life with lots of friends who also love me? Why can’t they be happy and proud of me for that? Because those are huge, huge, HUGE accomplishments for me. Why can’t they want to know me, really know me, and instead just. Keep blaming me for shit I did when I was twelve, and forgetting and disregarding my efforts? Why do I have to beg my mom to act like she wants to see me? Why is my brother telling me he didn’t think I wanted to reconnect when I have been trying to do that for years? Years? To the point where I can explicitly go “I want to be friends I want to connect I want to talk about things other than emergencies” and he just???? Forgets????????

Literally just why was I born into this? Why have I been treated this way and overlooked and ignored and blamed and restricted this way my whole life?

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greenmansgrove · 5 months

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I struggle to feel qualified to do my own readings…

and I also struggle to understand my self-readings. I worry for bad news, I worry for bias, I worry for missing something. And yet, I still feel called to perform readings, particularly in the times of strife I’m experiencing now. I actually performed this reading the night of my birthday — a yearly tradition.

I mainly use John Matthew and Will Worthington’s Green Man Tree Oracle, which is just a illustrated ogham deck and even includes the Forfeda. Saturday’s reading was as follows:

Ivy / Gort - Call upon those around you.

Vine / Muin - Consider what you hold dear; learn to let go.

Elder / Ruis - Sometimes we must make sacrifices.

*sigh* When I most need the readings, they always rip me to shreds. Given my predisposition towards hyper-independence, I know that I am being called not only to draw from my community for support, but also, given the difficulties I am experiencing, think about what matters most in these times and understand that, even if I have to give up what I want most at this time, that the blessings after such a sacrifice may increase.

It doesn’t feel fair, but I know there is truth in it. It hurts to hear when I spent so many year in deep material and emotional insecurity. I was beginning to resent this reading. What happened to my “protection” and safety I thought my first ogham reading had assured me I’d had in drawing Rowan / Luis two years ago? Just when I thought I was finally reaching stability, it all falls away before me.

I thought of The Morrigan, too. Chiefmost among her signs to me has been Elder / Ruis. It is how she lets me know she is near and watching. Thrice now I have found it growing in places dear and sacred to me. But it almost never comes up in my readings. The first and only other time I have pulled Elder was in the reading I performed for myself in September, when I began my dedications to and preparations for joining The Order of the Morrigan. At that time, I understood it to be confirmation of what she wanted of me, but perhaps it was also a warning of what was to come and something for which she was trying to prepare me.

Now I pull Elder again, when I know exactly what sacrifices are being asked of me. It is not necessarily a physical sacrifice or a sacrifice to the Morrigan, but a sacrifice of something towards which I had worked hard and which I may now need to put off in favor of focusing on what matters most. I almost resent this, too.

I admit that in working with the Morrigan, I fear being tested. I loathe the idea of a god testing my faith and resolve. Perhaps others are comfortable with it, as is their prerogative, but given my own religious trauma, I feel it is a breech of trust and mutual faith, and it is a boundary I have sought to set with the Morrigan since making my dedication. Was she testing me now? Or was she punishing me? That, too, I loathed, because as much as I reflect, I struggle to think of what I could have done and how to make amends.

I required clarity. Thus, I pulled from my Oracle of the Morrigan illustrated by Morrigan Oran. I had officially dedicated this tool to the Morrigan earlier in the week during the full moon, and I was nervous about my ability to interpret the abstract symbolism, but I needed clarity from the Great Queens herself. She would want me to stretch my oracular skills.

After shuffling the deck several times with my question in mind, I pulled the “Cycles” card. I took a long, hard stare at the card and read the little booklet’s entry, which the illustrator had channeled in her creation of the artwork. At first, I was only more frustrated at the vagueness. But soon enough, at least one meaning dawned on me, and it was almost as if I could hear the Morrigan saying,

This is all part of a Cycle. There will always be bad times. Neither you nor I can prevent them all, no matter how much you pray or what sacrifices you make. It is the way of things.

Though I still worry for bias, I found this comforting. Perhaps I am not actually being tested or punished. Perhaps this is not more of the same through which I have struggled in the years prior and against which I have been bracing. Perhaps I am just in a bad spot, and I can and will pull through.

I suppose I have the skills and resources on which to pull. I want to put my faith in this reading and find the will and confidence to keep moving and accept the sacrifices I must make. I am scared to, but I know I can.

#the morrigan #divination #ogham #druidry #unverified personal gnosis #elder

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thewinedark · 5 years

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Unique Dark Academia Fashion Ideas

By now I think we all know that silk shirts, oxfords, and old blazers are staples of Dark Academia fashion. Here are some ideas for fitting your wardrobe to the aesthetic that I haven’t seen a lot of.

Tops

Silk button downs are great, but if you want something perhaps less fancy and simple, here are some ideas:

Cardigans. Specifically, tighter button down cardigans. While they are very similar to silk shirts, they aren’t quite as eye catching, and usually not as bright. I have a cream silk blend cardigan that I’ve been wearing under blazers instead of silk; it’s warmer, for one, and doesn’t make me feel so pretentious when my classmates are all in sweatpants.

Cotton. Especially for warmer months, a good cotton shirt looks great tucked in a pair of high waisted shorts or trousers. I would suggest one with buttons as an accent, to avoid it being too plain. You can also roll up the sleeves for peak “disgruntled professor/lawyer” look.

Sweaters. I don’t just mean a black turtleneck here. Turtlenecks are of course great for winter and fall, but other sweaters are great also. I especially would suggest sweaters with interesting weaves or embroidery, as without the turtleneck they often need a little something extra to dress it up. There’s also the classic look of putting a button down underneath and pulling the collar out. For colors, jewel tones are always best in my opinion: deep reds, emerald greens, midnight blues. But you know yourself best, and if your hair looks great with cream, or light blue makes your eyes pop, go for it. Be sure to tuck over sized sweaters into your bottoms to avoid losing your figure.

Bottoms

Bottoms are a little easier, as they’re usually not the statement piece of an outfit, especially in dark academia. Still, high waisted, pleated, 100% linen trousers are hard to find in thrift stores, so here’s some alternatives:

Black jeans. Personally, I avoid low waisted pants like the plague. Unfortunately, it’s hard to find high waisted suit pants in thrift stores, especially ones with the tighter fit that I prefer. Often, I go for my pair of good quality, 100% cotton, extremely high waisted black skinny jeans instead. Avoid jeans with rips or that aren’t a uniform color. I definitely would suggest black if you’re going to wear jeans, though that may be my inherent dislike of blue jeans talking.

High waisted pants of any kind. When it comes to tucking shirts in bottoms, you want a high waist. I can tuck the bulkiest of sweaters easily into my jeans, because they are high waisted and made of a thick material. Thin, flimsy material is hard to hide the lines of your tops in, and lower waisted pants often can’t hold the hem long before the top gets untucked.

Skirts. I prefer more masculine clothing, but I do have quite a few skirts that I wear on occasion. And good lord, if they aren’t the most comfortable pieces of clothing I own. Specifically, long flowing skirts made out of 100% silk, cotton, or wool. Wool is great for winter months, and adds an extra layer of protection from the cold. Cotton and silk is best for the hot summer time, and if you’re having trouble with staying in dark academia fashion when you’re sweating out of your fingernails, consider skirts. A long skirt can dress up something like a t-shirt if you do it right. Sandals, a long breathable skirt, and a tied up or tucked in shirt is a great go-to when the sun is sucking away your soul.

Shoes

I still don’t own a pair of oxfords.

Boots. I’m a boot person. For dark academia, I would avoid taller boots; ankle boots or calf-length boots are the way to go. Go for leather, and tighter fits. A great way to pull your outfit together is to match your shoes and your belt or bag, and well as the hardware. If your belt is black with a silver buckle, go with black boots with silver accents. Try to avoid mixing metals (silver with bronze, etc.) if at all possible.

Ballet shoes. I don’t own any, but personally I think they’d be a great alternative to simple flats; especially if you lace the silk ribbons up your shins a bit. These are definitely best for summer months though, I would not recommend during the winter.

Accessories

A single accessory can completely change your outfit and aesthetic. Personally, some of my most used clothing pieces are not what you’d call dark academia. My go-to jacket is a bomber jacket with patches, and my usual boots are heavy Harley Davidson biker boots with metal caps. Here are some accessories that can turn your everyday outfit to something more dark academia-esque.

Suspenders. I would recommend suspenders for everyone honestly. I was having trouble with a pair of trousers, because I needed to keep them high on my waist and tight to tuck in my shirt, but they had no belt loops. Suddenly I realized someone had solved the issue centuries ago, and used my suspenders. It worked perfectly, and also added a whole new level of dark academia to my outfit. I like using them in a subtle way though: under a jacket or blazer usually, that I might take off if it gets hot and just so happen to show off the suspenders underneath. Or, never even take the jacket off and just let people get subtle looks at them. Drawing attention to suspenders makes me feel like a douche for some reason; maybe it’s the images of fedora tipping that flood in.

Satchel or book bag. I know this one is a staple, but listen. Buying leather satchel changed everything for my look. I might have a bomber jacket, skinny jeans, and biker boots but a satchel thrown over one shoulder shifts everything about my appearance. If you are able to buy one new, Amazon has some great options under $100 dollars. If not, keep your eye out whenever you go to the thrift store.

Hair accessories. Try silk ribbons. Pull your hair back with them, braid them into your hair, or use them as headbands. Learn how to braid metal cuffs into your hair if you’re up for a challenge.

Scarves. Scarves are such an easy way to dress up an outfit, as well as keep you warm. I would suggest long, silk scarves that have enough width that you can style it around your head/hair, which I think is a great look that also keeps your ears warm. Jewel tones are definitely suggested here, especially if you’re wearing all black it’s a great statement.

Jewelry. If you’re religious, I would highly suggest jewelry with some sort of religious symbolism. Religious imagery is something I defiantly associate with dark academia. If you have any jewelry pieces that were passed down to you, try them. I like rings a lot, but for my right hand I cover all my finger with heavy steel rings that cover my knuckles (for punching purposes). On my left hand, I have rings from my family. I would again suggest not mixing metals, though it can look eclectic if that’s a look you like.

That’s all I could think of at this moment, but feel free to add your own or message me! Go forth and dress to make yourself confident, whatever that may look like.

#dark academia fashion #dark academia tips #dark academia #clothing tips #dark academia clothing #grey academia #light academia #dark academia ideas #dark academia inspiration #fashion #dark academia aesthetic #dark academia style #my posts #thewinedark

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starlightsearches · 4 years

Text

The Supreme Leader’s Wife

18+ Only! Minors will be blocked.

Armitage Hux x Reader (she/her pronouns) x Kylo Ren

Warnings: Smut (18+ only) PIV sex, name calling (very minor), cuckoldry, brief orgasm denial, fingering, masturbation (m), choking (minor), some dom/sub elements (also minor), religious imagery (whoops), language. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Wow, okay, I don’t really know where this came from and I probably won’t write anything like it again. Very loosely inspired by this drabble that I did a few days ago. Shout out to the wonderful @thembohux for their support and encouragement. If you enjoy this, you should definitely check out their Emperess AU.

Let me know what you think! I appreciate any and all thoughts 💖

General Hux stands outside the door, hands clasped behind his back in tight fists, the fingers of one hand circling his other wrist with enough pressure to bruise. The nape of his neck itches, leftover moisture from the shower dripping down the collar of his greatcoat and wetting the back of his uniform. He had spent too long in the refresher, trying to wash the thoughts from his head, trying to decide whether or not he would even come—it had almost made him late.

He’s here, right on time, whether or not he should be. The door opens, and he steps inside the darkened room.

“Come in, General.” It’s Ren who speaks, voice low and quiet. Hux follows the sound, moving carefully in the darkness to the sitting area. Ren lounges arrogantly, sprawled on the couch like a throne, arms bare and stretched casually over the edge of the sofa, regarding Hux with the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. It puts him on edge.

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

“Yet I’m here.” Hux looks away, hoping he appears bored as he takes in his surroundings. He'd been in the Supreme Leader's chambers before—on business—but you had never been around during those meetings. It's strange how habitual it feels to look for you when he enters the space.

“She’s still getting ready," Ren pulls the thought right from Hux's head, responding as if he had spoken aloud, "but I’m sure she’ll join us in a moment.”

“And it's— I mean, she knows that she doesn’t have to . . .” He sighs through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. Ren doesn't bother to finish his sentence this time, sinking further into his seat—enjoying the way the general fumbles.

“Fuck you?" He finally offers, running his tongue over his teeth when a blush spreads over Hux’s cheeks, "this was her idea."

Oh. The general’s knees go weak, the blood rushing from his head, his cock certainly flushed and aching. How many times had he imagined what it would be like—fooled himself into believing that it was your hands, not his own, bringing him his release? How many times had he watched you speak and thought about pulling a moan from those pretty lips?

A part of him trembles, his body on full-alert, trying to bury those thoughts where Ren could not find them—as he had done before—but he manages to brush the fear away with some effort. Ren had certainly already seen them, and, apparently, he didn't mind.

The refresher door opens and you appear at the threshold, hesitant, but when your eyes meet his, you soften. The air is charged between you, hints of your desire evident in the warmth he feels just looking at you, in the way your teeth run softly over your bottom lip.

Ren beckons you to him with an outstretched hand, and, reluctantly, you peel your eyes away from Hux, moving across the room to your husband, the fabric of your robe swishing gently against your thighs.

He doesn't usually let himself stare like this. He can resist the urge, most of the time, when you're dressed for a meeting, or a gala, but he's never seen this much of your skin before. His eyes stay glued to the hem of the robe, the sway of your hips as you make your way to your husband.

You curl into Ren’s lap, and he holds you tightly, one possessive hand splayed wide over your stomach, the other trailing to fingers up and down the inside of your thigh. He presses a kiss to the junction of your shoulder and neck, and you melt, lips parting gently when he grazes the delicate skin with his teeth.

"Sit down, general."

Desire pools in Hux’s stomach, and his palms grow moist in his gloves. He can’t help the shame that floods him, a ruddy heat that spreads through his torso all the way to the tips of his fingers and tells him to look away. His mind can not let go of the idea that this is not something meant for him to see, but he can’t deny the way his heart races when Ren’s hand trails higher, and he spies a hint of black lace at the apex of your thighs.

"I'd prefer to stand."

“Sit down or leave,” Ren’s voice is steady and hard, totally unaffected as you move against him, writhing in his lap. He slips the hand on your stomach under the fabric of your robe, parting it beneath his fingers. He kneads your breast beneath the fabric and you press up into his touch, spine arching, jaw hanging open, your head falling back against Ren’s shoulder. Hux does as he’s told, falling into the chair behind him, holding back the curses that threaten to spill out from his lips.

"If I'm going to let you do this, you have to do as I say," Ren continues, but Hux only half-hears him, infinitely more interested in the way the tendons in your neck flex as Ren slips one hand beneath the waistband of your panties, the fabric distorting with each long, slow stroke of his fingers. A low moan escapes your lips.

“Well, will you?” Ren smirks at him, pulling his hand from between your legs, taking his middle finger into his mouth, letting it linger before he pulls it out with a soft, wet pop. You whine at the lack of contact, the sound cut off by a small cry when he pinches your nipple beneath the fabric.

“Will I what?”

“Do as I say?”

Hux’s core tightens, his jaw so stiff it’s a wonder it hasn’t snapped. He knows that Ren’s getting off on this—torturing him, making you so desperate and needy. He wants the one thing Hux swore he’d never give him.

“We’re waiting, general,” Ren strokes his hand from the hollow of your throat, between the valley of your breasts as he parts the robe down its center, exposing the barest sliver of skin before he meets the black lace again, stroking three thick fingers over your clothed cunt. Hux presses his lips together so firmly that they turn white.

Unphased by Hux’s stubborn response, Ren changes tactics. Shifting his attention to you, he grips your jaw in one massive hand and forces your eyes to meet his as he whispers, just loud enough for Hux to hear, “So wet already, little slut? Do you need the general to fuck you that desperately? Why don’t you tell him how badly you want his cock?”

“Please,” you’re grinding against nothing now that Ren has removed his hand, the word distorted by the strength of his hold on your face. A sharp pain draws Hux back from the scene before him, and he tastes blood, his teeth digging sharply into the meat of his cheek. He wonders if Ren would refuse your release if he decided to leave right now.

“Alright, fine. I’ll do whatever you want,” Hux can’t stop himself, can’t imagine going back to his quarters alone. His hands ache at the thought, unsure how many times he’d have to fuck his fist raw to stop seeing the image of you begging for him engraved on the back of his eyelids.

“Good. Why don’t you show him to the bed, love?”

Ren releases his grip on your jaw, sliding his hand out from under the robe, propelling you forward with a smack to your ass. Hux forces himself to make eye contact when you offer him your hand.

He follows you through the doors, to the bedroom, the heat of your skin sinking easily through the leather of his gloves and doing nothing to quell the sweat beading against his palms. The sight of the bed, with it's dark, silky sheets makes him light-headed. This is the place you lay every night—the place where Ren has you, the way he’s about to have you. Hux reminds himself to breathe.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hux whispers as you turn around to face him, pulling him closer with a hand at his waist. Ren hasn't entered the room yet, and although the other man assured him it was fine, he'd never forgive himself if he learned that you had been coerced.

“I’m sure,” your smile is sincere, and you’re close enough now that your bodies brush, the material of your robe slipping gently against his uniform, "I’ve always wanted this. From the moment we met," You stroke your hand up his side, fingers dancing lightly over his ribs before you take the collar of his great coat in your hands, pushing it down off his shoulders.

“You’ve always wanted . . . me?” The edge of the bed dips under his weight as you pull him into a sitting position, and he resists the urge to rub his palms over the tops of his thighs. You smile again, dropping your chin to your chest, suddenly shy.

“You didn’t know? I thought I had been too obvious.”

Ren enters, chair in hand that he rests at the end of the bed before stretching out across it, his legs spread wide, making no effort at all to hide the considerable tent in his pants. Hux averts his eyes, more than a little flustered. He had passively assumed that Ren was well-endowed, given the man’s stature, but having his assumptions confirmed is an entirely new feeling.

Ren refuses to shy away from the attention, resting his hands behind his head, the picture of self-satisfaction. There’s a suggestive humor in his voice when he speaks.

“What are you waiting for, general? Kiss her.”

Hux collects himself, taking a moment to remember why he’s here before he does as he’s told, cupping your jaw lightly. There’s a soft sheen of moisture coating your lips, but you lick them regardless, darting your tongue over your skin as he pulls you closer. He presses his mouth to yours gently, and you sigh against his skin, sinking into him. He can feel your heartbeat in the tips of your fingers when you brush them over his cheeks.

“Like you mean it.” Ren's voice cuts in, and Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes. He is kissing you like he means it, not that Ren would understand that. He’s not about to argue that point, though. He pulls you closer instead, one hand firm at your waist, slipping his tongue into the warm center of your mouth. You taste sweeter than he had expected.

The room grows warmer, your heat sinking through his uniform, deep into his skin and he's almost able to forget Ren's presence, caught up in the infinitely more pleasurable feeling of your hands and your body on his. Your grip on his uniform is desperate, needy, but never harsh. His stomach lurches when you lay back, letting his weight rest more fully on top of you.

A thin layer of sweat glistens on your neck, and he collects it on his tongue, licking a stripe up the column of your throat, the salt of your skin mixing with the lingering flavor of the leftover perfume that still clings to you.

His fingers find the collar of your robe, pulling it down off your shoulder, lips trailing leisurely over your collar bones. He can feel, more than see, Ren’s irritation at his reluctance to speed up the process—his annoyance permeating the room—but he chooses to ignore Ren more fully. If he only had one chance to experience such long-lived fantasies, he was going to take his time.

Your fingers card gently through his hair, stroking from the back of his neck up, pulling him closer, the wet heat of your breath soft against his ear. One of your hands finds his, letting him feel the soft lace that covers your breast under his fingers.

He pulls away slightly, absorbed in the gentle shift in your expression when he runs the pad of his thumb softly over your pebbled nipple, relishing the quiet gasp the move elicits.

You shrug the robe off your shoulders the rest of the way, leaning back with a coy smile, letting him admire the way the lingerie enhances your frame—the peaks and valleys of your body on display for him.

There’s no need for Ren to order him to continue—he’s back on you before the other man can express any kind of frustration, his lips on yours, clumsy and desperate and so damn eager that he surprises himself. Hux’s fingers tremble against your back as he works to undo the clasp of your bra, a shaky breath of relief leaving his lungs when it gives way without too much trouble.

You slide the garment off your shoulders, letting him look at you, your chest littered with fading bruises—Ren’s marks. The general’s mouth waters, and he leans in closer, ready to taste more of you, but he comes to a halt when you press one hand lightly to his shoulder, stopping his approach. Your tongue traces the top of your teeth before you turn to look at Ren.

Of course. He needs permission.

Ren’s leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, the blood gone from his fingers. Hux is surprised that he had not touched himself yet. He would not have expected Ren to have that kind of restraint.

“You can leave marks of your own, if you’d like,” he says, shifting in his seat. His thinly veiled desperation brings a smile to Hux’s face—Ren didn’t have a monopoly on being difficult.

He turns back to you for confirmation, and you nod, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Just nothing above the collar, general,” you snake your hand over his again, pressing it into the supple flesh of your breast.

Hux has never believed in the existence of a pleasant afterlife—especially not for someone like him—but he’s sure that if one did exist it would pale in comparison to the way you gasp when he presses a kiss to the valley of your breasts, the hummingbird beat of your heart making itself known against the tip of his nose.

He wastes no time now, lavishing your body with the press of his lips, occasionally surprising you with a soft bite, the gentle graze of his teeth. Subtly, he lets one hand trace its own path down the curve of your waist and over the swell of your hip before nestling it gently between your thighs.

“General,” you gasp when he slides one finger past the hem of your panties and into your waiting heat, your cunt giving a preliminary squeeze around the solitary digit. Your hips shift against his hand, body desperate for more, but he refuses to give in, pinning your hips in place with the edge of his own. Hux has always been a patient man. He wouldn’t dream of rushing this.

“So needy, Your Highness,” he whispers, ghosting the pad of his thumb gently against the stiff peak of your clit in slow, languorous circles, “Has your husband not been fucking you the way that he should?”

You moan quietly in response, the sound muffled by the fabric of his uniform as you bury your head the crook of his neck. He keeps his movements slow and methodical, curling his finger against your tender front wall on each stroke, increasing the pressure on your clit with steady precision. A lower, deeper sound joins the steady chorus of your sighs and Hux’s heavy breathing.

He catches Ren’s eye over the expanse of dark sheets. It seems the Supreme Leader has finally given in, one hand stroking up and down his clothed length with excruciating leisure. The muscles in his jaw tighten, a testament to the restraint it must take to only offer himself this inadequate kind of relief, his dark hair plastered in slick strands against his sweat-soaked skin. There’s an animal, in his features—a carnal and base burning in his eyes that he cannot mask.

Hux snorts. Ren had spent all this time pretending that this was a favor for the general—bargaining chip, a kind of leverage. But the veil has been lifted. Ren is enjoying himself just as much as you are.

He adds a second finger without warning, savoring the way you shake against him, how exquisite you look with your head against the mattress, eyes shut tight and jaw pressing against the boundaries of your skin in a silent scream of ecstasy.

“General, please,” you manage to whimper, the languid movement of your hips meeting him at every stroke, chasing after the peak of your pleasure. He stills his hand.

“Armitage,” he says brusquely, breathing labored, the sound blocked out by the soft cry that escapes your lungs, tears of frustration pricking the corners of your eyes, “call me Armitage if you want to cum.”

“Do as he says,” Ren orders with no attempt to mask the tremor in his voice, stilling the pace of his hand to a stop, savoring the pain of his own stolen release.

“Armitage,” you grip at his uniform with both hands, pulling his mouth to yours, desperation evident in your every movement, “please, gods, please—”

He lets you kiss him, focuses all the attention of his hand on your clit, the movement of his thumb against the sensitive skin quicker and harder but no less steady.

He feels you break against him, your jaw left slack as he licks into your mouth, your thighs quivering at his sides, cunt clenching around his sopping fingers. He holds you against him until the shaking stops.

Your kiss finds his cheek first, arms heavy and graceless as they pull him closer, your lips traveling sloppily against his skin until they meet his own. You press your mouth to his, and some part of him thinks that it feels like love. Wishes that it could be love.

You whisper something to him, breathing too hard for the words to come out clearly, your hand teasing him through the fabric of his trousers. His cock jumps, unfamiliar with this kind of attention; it’s not love, but maybe it’s enough.

Your fingers make quick work of the fastenings on his uniform, pushing it from his shoulders, your hands trailing down his arms, the cold air collecting against his skin for only a moment before you sweep it away with your searing touch. You lift your hips into his, slipping your underwear off with both hands, totally bare for him.

“Enjoying yourself?” You’re not talking to him, Hux knows—his enjoyment is more than obvious as he licks and sucks over the soft flesh of your chest, your voice catching when he takes your nipple into his mouth with a soft bite. You’ve turned your attention to Ren, now, and Hux pauses his ministrations, passively curious. He watches as you pass the sweat and slick-soaked lace in your hand to your husband, who balls them into his tight fist, working the fabric leisurely over the head of his now-uncovered dick.

“I think you’re being spoiled, love” he says, leaning closer, on his knees at the side of the bed. He strokes his thumb across your cheek, sparing a short glance for Hux, “you’ve been letting the general do all the work. Why don’t you show him how good you can be? How good you always are for me?”

Hux’s breath hitches. He likes the sound of that.

You smile wide at the thought, pressing a soft kiss to Ren’s unsuspecting lips. He stands quickly, turning back the way he came, but not before Hux catches the softest hint of a blush spreading across his temple.

You press against Hux’s torso, guiding him into a sitting position. He rests at the edge of the bed, chest thrumming as you straddle him, your thighs caging his hips against the mattress and your hands on his shoulders. Your fingers slip down his spine until you reach the hem of his undershirt. He stops you from untucking it with a hand on your wrist.

“I’d like to keep it on,” he knows you can feel the trepidation in his shaking hands; he sees the questions in your eyes, and for a moment he’s afraid, wondering if you also have your husband’s talent for picking thoughts from his mind—if you somehow know the way his stomach sinks at the thought of being totally uncovered.

“Alright,” you say, brushing past the pause, leaning closer to caress the ruddy skin of his chest with your lips, the glide of your tongue over his neck pulling any and every insecurity from his head. When you drag your hips over his, your bare cunt sliding deliciously over his dick, he forgets everything but his own name.

He’s not sure how it happens, whether it’s your hands or his own that finally pull his cock into the open air—he’s gone lightheaded, arms shaking as he grips the sheets in white-knuckled fists, focusing all the energy he can summon on keeping upright.

The head of his cock stutters against your entrance, the slick on your skin coating his own as you shift your hips back and forth with just enough pressure to keep him hard, letting out a delighted gasp when he twitches, the tip of him bumping up against your swollen clit.

“That’s enough teasing.” Ren stands behind you, one hand on your shoulder, the muscles in his other arm flexing as he pumps his cock in his hand more vigorously. You roll your eyes, turning to press a soft kiss to Ren’s chest before seating yourself fully on the general’s stiff cock.

The air punches from Hux’s lungs, his brow furrowed, breathing hard as he adjusts to the feeling.

Hux had spent plenty of time jealous of Ren, a kind of awed hatred that his greatest rival had so much of what Hux desperately wanted for himself. Power, glory, accolade. It's all dust compared to the way you envelop him on that first and divine thrust.

“Does he feel good, love?” Ren asks, peppering the skin of your shoulders with a few soft kisses before he tucks one finger under his chin, admiration in his eyes as he takes in your pleasure-soaked expression. “Is it everything you wanted?”

“Hmm,” you hum contentedly, circling your hips steadily, getting a feel for his length and size, squeezing him just right, “perfect.”

You speed up slightly, lengthening your strokes, pulling away from him until only the head remains inside before seating yourself down once again, trembling with each sublime impact, your thighs shaking with each movement.

“Just— Just like that,” Hux stutters, head lolling back, letting himself enjoy this. He likes it more than he thought he ever would—allowing someone else this kind of control, letting you set the pace. He wants you to feel good. He wants you to use him.

Ren looms over both of you, his chest flush with your back, the pressure from his body only heightening the gratification Hux feels.

You whine, pressing the general into the mattress, laying him flat on his back with your hands on your shoulders before you sit up, the deeper angle pulling cries from your lips like never before.

“Please, my love,” you press one hand back against Ren’s chest, fingers too limp to reach for him, but he already knows what you want. Hux watches as one of Ren’s giant hands encircles your neck, and he kisses you deeply, the tears that coat your cheeks glistening in the low light. It’s a mess of a kiss, all teeth and tongue, Ren so eager to please and you so desperate for pleasure.

“Gods— f-fuck,” Hux reaches his precipice sooner than he might have hoped, the sight of you so thoroughly fucked and writhing against Ren bringing him to a high he had not previously thought possible. You recognize his need, snapping your hips faster.

Ren removes his hand from your neck and slides it down over the damp skin of your stomach, pushing one thick finger to the space where your body meets Hux’s, sliding it between your folds.

“Cum for me,” he commands, working quick hard circles over your clit, “both of you. Cum for me now.”

You let go with one shattered breath, riding him through your release, fracturing over him with a scream. It’s celestial, this divine indulgence. There is no god in this universe but you and your magnificent cunt.

Hux abandons himself, spilling deep within you with a groan, every muscle in his body aching as his own climax finds him and his vision goes white. His heart leaves his chest, no other reason to beat now that he’s had this.

You fall into him, stroking one hand absentmindedly over his hair, your shaking bodies unable to do anything but breathe together. The slap of skin and soft grunts fills the room as Ren chases his own release, breath stuttering in his chest when he finds it, ropes of his thick, white cum painting down your spine and then he collapses, too.

Ren lands in a messy heap, half on top of you and half on the bed, smearing his own spend over his skin. Without warning, Hux finds Ren’s mouth against his own in a fierce, urgent kiss.

Hux waits for some kind of repulsion to overcome him, waits for the return of the burning hatred that normally occupies his chest whenever Ren is present, but it never comes, a different kind of burning taking his place. More than anything, he’s annoyed. Annoyed how good Ren’s mouth feels against his own. Annoyed that he wouldn’t mind if it happened again.

“There,” Ren says, rolling back on the mattress, relieving you of the weight of his body, “now both of you are mine.”

Hux scoffs, offended at the implication, but he can tell you notice the way his cock twitches inside of you at the thought. You smile knowingly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple as you roll off of him on the other side, the three of you lying together in the rosy-colored afterglow.

Minutes pass, or hours, Hux is unsure how many when he finally decides to move, his muscles stiff and aching.

“I should return to my quarters,” he says, lifting himself to his feet and reassembling the pieces of his uniform. You move to sit up, but Ren holds you in place with a gentle hand.

“Rest, love,” he says quietly, “I’ll show him to the door.”

Hux leaves you with one final kiss, one of longing, and hope and gratitude. Your fingers brush against his just before he leaves.

There’s an uncomfortable silence between the two men as they move through the abandoned living area.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Ren says as Hux stops just before the threshold, turning to look at him.

“I didn’t expect that it would,” he replies. Both men know that they’re lying to each other. And maybe, at this moment, while their skin is still warm from a shared love and the scent of your perfume lingers on both of their clothes, it’s a form of kindness to keep believing that this wouldn’t change their world. For now, this is enough.

Hux returns to his quarters, alone but not lonely. For the first time he can remember since he boarded the Supremacy, he sleeps through the night.

#armitage hux x reader x kylo ren #general hux x reader x kylo ren #armitage hux x you x kylo ren #general hux x you x kylo ren #general hux x you #general hux x reader #armitage hux x you #armitage hux x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #armitage hux smut #my writing

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thankskenpenders · 4 years

Text

So there’s been a lot of buzz about the big leak about Sega’s upcoming plans for Sonic. The source is allegedly credible, but even credible leakers can get stuff wrong, so as always take all this with a HUGE grain of salt. (Some of this is also just stuff that isn’t that hard to guess based on the trajectory of the series recently.) I’ve been asked about it, so here are my thoughts

The big thing here that people seem to be talking about (aside from details on games that may or may not be in development) is that Sega wants to shift focus entirely towards Modern Sonic. (Although, remember, we’re literally getting some Classic Sonic stuff from IDW this year. We’re talking about the games here.) Now, I love me some Classic Sonic content. Mania is easily in my top 3 Sonic games, maybe even my absolute favorite, and it saddens me that the team has gone their separate ways instead of being kept on by Sega to make a sequel. Sonic Mania Adventures, Sonic Mega Drive? Phenomenal stuff. BUT... well, if they play their cards right, I think this is a smart move

Tyson Hesse also recently expressed his opinion that the hard divide between Classic and Modern Sonic is hurting the franchise, and I kind of agree. Everybody loves Mania (again, myself included--I bought it twice), but Mania didn’t do much to solve the core problem of Sonic’s reputation. If anything, it being the best reviewed Sonic game in years (and being followed up by the mediocre Forces) just kind of proved all the naysayers right. The best Sonic game in years was the one that ignored everything made after 1997, and the 3D game that followed it Just Didn’t Get It. (To be blatantly clear, I am not accusing the Mania devs of trying to tank peoples’ opinions of the rest of the franchise or anything absurd like that.)

Continuing to divide the attention of the games between two Sonics risks exacerbating this. People will be validated in viewing the Classic stuff as “the REAL Sonic” while the Modern stuff is just seen as that weird thing Sonic morphed into, when in reality the Modern stuff has been the heart of the franchise for the vast majority of its life at this point. There didn’t even used to be a harsh divide between Classic Sonic and Modern Sonic as separate entities! The divide between the two is way less clear cut than many will tell you, especially if you look back at stuff like Adventure, Advance, and Heroes that were still clearly drawing heavily on the Classic material. Back then, Sonic was just Sonic--he just happened to get a slightly different coat of paint in 1998. You could have SA2′s Sonic running around in Green Hill or Sonic Advance’s Sonic fighting the Eggmobile with the wrecking ball. It was no big deal

Classic Sonic is also, by its definition, a time capsule. It has to be how people remember Sega’s Sonic being in the early ‘90s. They can’t experiment too much with it or add too many new elements or you’ll upset people. Add another ally to the cast and you’ll rile up the “Sonic has too many friends” crowd. Change the gameplay and people will say it’s worse. Give Classic Sonic a voice and people will just say he should be mute. There’s room to do great stuff within the boundaries defined by the old school media, as we’ve seen, but you can only take that so far

(And hell, even if Sega’s going for nostalgia bait, take a quick look at the fandom and you’ll see a HUGE amount of nostalgia for the Adventure and Advance games. I, myself, am a 27-year-old who grew up playing those games religiously, and I know a lot of y’all reading this are in the same boat)

I mean, look at something like Mario. Nintendo hasn’t buried the classic Mario games at all--but at the same time, you also don’t see them splitting Red Overalls Mario off into a different entity to please old school purists. Mario is just Mario, and people like Mario, because Mario platformers are consistently good regardless of style. Like Tyson said in that forum thread: “The goal should be to just make Modern stuff good enough that people don't need to reminisce anymore.” Hopefully, this is what Sega’s trying to do. Not dividing the series in two so they can please old school fans while having no idea what to do with the mainline games, but rather just trying to make the new 3D entries something they can really be proud of as their flagship titles

So, TL;DR: I wish we were getting Sonic Mania 2, but if this is all true and Sonic Team wants to try harder to put out good content with the modern cast in both 2D and 3D then I am 1000% down for that. There is so very much to love in the world of Modern Sonic, as anyone reading the IDW comics knows, and I want the games to reflect that potential more consistently

(Also if this is accurate then I’m happy to hear that they’re moving away from the boost formula. I’ve had a lot of fun with the boost formula games, but Forces made it blatantly clear that they didn’t know what else to do with it)

#tkp post

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binniedeactivated · 4 years

Text

mentality. || yeongyu 💦

╰─▸🖤❝ @[𝒃𝒖𝒈𝒔𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈.. ] ✎𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝒚𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒋𝒖𝒏 𝒙 𝒃𝒆𝒐𝒎𝒈𝒚𝒖 ✎ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕, 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆¡ ✎ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕; 1.5𝒌 [@𝒃𝒖𝒈𝒔𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆] 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇𝒇...

┌ in which the priest’s son is ordered to give private religious lessons in exchange for the neighborhood boy’s salvation. ┘

→ tw:// mockery of religion, offensive language, smut - read at your own risk

“what’s with the pink shirt?”. yeonjun’s father immediately asks, his eye snagging onto the bright fabric like glue. yeonjun toyed with the hem of his sweater, “what? it’s just a sweater”. he replies thinking nothing of it. he grasped his backpack off of the hang rack. his father stares at the dainty color in discontent.

“you look gay. go put on another sweater”.

“dad are you serious? I’m going to be late for the tutoring session. I can assure you that I’m not gay. pink is just a color”.

“you know you aren’t gay but what about everyone else? some man is going to look at you and surely think the opposite”.

“and why should I care about what they think?”.

“because you’re my son and I’d rather not raise a bunch of homosexuals”. he blankly responds. he glares at his second born son who jogs down the stares behind yeonjun tiredly rubbing his eyes and shifting his disheveled hair.

“take your brother soobin for example. see? even in the house he’s wearing something manly. a good ole t shirt and sweatpants”.

“what are you guys on about?”. soobin questions underneath his breath. yeonjun rolls his eyes while watching soobin stumble into the kitchen and raid the cabinets to satisfy his growling stomach.

“dad thinks I’m gay because I’m wearing a pink sweater”.

“soobin won’t you tell your brother there are more colors to wear other than this girly color he has on?”.

soobin sighs. conversations like this was almost second nature at this point, especially being the priest’s son. he was well aware that his father was not only strictly religious but he was also strictly a homophobe. soobin stuffs a cookie in his mouth too tired and hungry to pick a side in their argument. he just repeated his father’s words.

“yeonjun hyung there are more colors to wear other than the girly color you have on”.

he grumbles before exiting to the living room. his father folds his arms and gives yeonjun a look as if to say, ‘i told you so’. yeonjun stared at him and huffed his breath. he knew there was now way around it so he just marched himself back up the stairs and changed into a black sweater instead. he stopped by the bathroom mirror to fix his hair up a bit after seeing how messed up it gotten from his quick change. he made sure his blonde strands were parted perfectly to the left.

“and who the hell are you trying to look so good for?”. taehyun smirks before walking into the bathroom behind him. taehyun was the youngest. the baby of them all. also the most misbehaved one of them all, but you didn’t hear that from yeonjun.

“shut up and take your piss”. yeonjun replies with a quick smack upside his brother’s head before he shuts the door behind himself. he rushed down the staircase and announced that he was leaving. he quickly grabs his backpack again and close the front door in one swift movement in hopes of avoiding another interrogation by his father.

yeonjun wasn’t a stranger to beomgyu’s home. in fact he’s already been there a few times and his parents knew him very well, which is why it almost took nothing for them to open the door for him each time. being the priest’s son made them think that he was the best kid ever and that beomgyu needed to take notes from such an example.

like always, yeonjun took his shoes off beside beomgyu’s bedroom door and knocked promptly.

“who is it?”.

“yeonjun”. he responds, rolling his eyes. who else would be coming at this time of day?

with a few quick shuffles beomgyu opens the door to his room inviting yeonjun in. it reeked of this tropical scented perfume. it actually smelled nice to yeonjun, but it would smell even nicer if beomgyu was a girl of course.

I mean seriously, what kind of teenaged boy wore perfume?

yeonjun shrugs off the scent and sits on beomgyu’s bed. his dad made it his mission to redeem anyone and everyone from their sins and he ordered his sons to do the same. only--the sin they were being redeemed from were never specified.

yeonjun draws out his pencils and notebooks from the last time they met. he clicked his pen a few times and then scribbles on his paper making sure it worked perfectly. beomgyu watches intently from the corner of the room, his hands folded behind his back. he adored yeonjun.

yes, adored.

he thought the older was so gorgeous. he was so witty and funny and he was so smart. his voice was smooth and low when he talked and god his smile was to die for. he most importantly loved how small he was in comparison to yeonjun.

meaning that yeonjun could crush or throw him whenever he wanted and that idea alone made beomgyu’s dick twitch in his pants.

“hyung before we start is it okay if I show you something?”.

yeonjun rolls his eyes and exhales annoyingly. “beomgyu if you think you’re about to get a kiss out of me you’ve lost your damn mind. that shit is gay I already told you”.

beomgyu bites the inside of his cheek and frowns, “no it’s something different this time”.

“beomgyu--”.

“please hyung?”. beomgyu whines sweetly. yeonjun shakes his head in frustration, “whatever-fine. make it quick because you’re running behind on these lessons”.

“you have to close your eyes”. beomgyu orders. yeonjun covers his eyes with his hand. “fine. they’re closed”.

unbeknownst to jun, beomgyu strips himself of his trousers and slips on his pretty pink pleated skirt with his white high knee socks to match. he straps and pink heart shaped choker onto his neck and pulls his baby blue v-neck sweater over his head and tuck the edges in carefully. he fixes his crinkled chestnut colored hair. he nervously folds his hands, he hoped yeonjun liked it.

“you can look now hyung”. he orders once more. yeonjun’s eyes flutter open at the sight of beomgyu’s skirt steadily spilling over his slim milky thighs. his sweater hung gorgeously to the side displaying his collarbone and choker. it didn’t help that the sun’s rays slipped through his window, glowing his frame that much more. he looked like an angel almost.

wait--what the fuck is yeonjun saying?

“beomgyu what the hell is that?”. he says instead.

“I want to show you my new outfit. my parents would kill me if they ever saw me in this”. beomgyu states while looking down fiddling with the pleats.

“you know that gay scale I was telling you about? yeah. this is at like 100% right now”.

beomgyu sat himself on the bed across from yeonjun. “I’m happy when I dress like this. you don’t think it’s pretty?”.

“you can’t call yourself pretty. you’re a boy. that word is an adjective for girls and women”.

beomgyu bit his upper lip shamefully. his eyes dart down. he sighs and makes another move. he climbs onto yeonjun’s lap with his thighs on either side of yeonjun’s legs. he wraps his arms around his neck and sits his face only inches apart from the older’s.

oddly enough, yeonjun could feel his heart began to pound.

“what can I do to be pretty to you, hyung?”. beomgyu questions with his whole heart. his coffee colored eyes bore in his with desire, need, and lust. yeonjun took a couple of swift glances at the boy’s plush pink lips.

no--look away yeonjun. what are you doing?

“you can start by getting off my lap”. yeonjun hisses, but beomgyu knew he didn’t mean it. he adjusted himself, letting his cock get good rub on yeonjun’s thigh. feeling this, yeonjun’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.

“kiss me hyung”. beomgyu begs, ghosting his lips over the older male’s. yeonjun’s breathing hitched while beomgyu leans in and kisses him anyway. the both of their lips danced in perfect sync and parted whenever their lungs begged for air.

beomgyu takes yeonjun’s wrists and slides them up his thighs and yeonjun mindlessly allows his hands to roam gyu’s inner thighs. he could feel gyu’s lengthy thick cock twitch against his hand. beomgyu pushes yeonjun’s chest down onto the mattress, now on top of him and relishing the way he could easily grind his hips against yeonjun’s clothed cock for more friction.

yeonjun felt more than ashamed of himself when he felt his dick grow beneath him. he couldn’t believe how turned on he was from this. he wasn’t gay--no this didn’t make him gay. beomgyu was dressed like a girl after all.

“beomgyu get off of me we have to stop”. yeonjun breathes. beomgyu slides his tongue along yeonjun’s lips and give them a chaste kiss. “mmm. but I want to suck your dick. it’s so hard beneath me”. beomgyu smirks and reaches back to palm it. yeonjun winces at his touch.

beomgyu glides down planting sloppy kisses along yeonjun’s happy trail before sliding his pants down. his dick sprung free and slapped against his stomach. bright red and oozing precum. gyu teasingly gave the boy a couple of cat licks towards his tip. the feeling of gyu’s wet tongue against his needy cock was exactly what yeonjun wanted.

it isn’t what he wanted--hell no--because he wasn’t gay.

he wasn’t gay.

right?

“you should see the way your dick jumps when I do this”.

yeonjun glares down and sits on his elbows, “beomgyu I don’t think we should be doing this. just get up I promise I won’t tell anyone about it”. he utters in distress.

beomgyu takes his lips and kiss the tip before letting his disappear between his lips. his teeth lightly grazed it but gyu was sure to tuck them away, refusing to let yeonjun see the animalistic side of him when it was there first time doing anything sexual.

his tight warm mouth coddled yeonjun’s cock in the most delicious way. even as he worked his way down yeonjun relished the way it filled his cheeks until he choked. and when he did, he came back up with teary eyes and puckered drooling lips full of precum and saliva. the squelching noises of beomgyu’s mouth made yeonjun’s heart pound. he drops his head back between his shoulders and closes his eyes in bliss.

“fuck beomgyu”. he groans and it made beomgyu excited. he’d been waiting for this moment. waiting for the time he could touch and suck yeonjun as much as he wanted. waiting for when he could make yeonjun moan for him and him only.

beomgyu elicits soft dainty moans while his mouth was filled with yeonjun’s cock. he uses a hand to stroke the remaining portions of his dick and repeatedly slobs over the throbbing tip. not to mention his back was arched perfectly in the air, displaying the skirt that didn’t look as ugly as yeonjun portrayed it to be.

yeonjun hips began to twitch into the younger’s mouth. he reaches down to grab beomgyu’s soft locks as his eyes rolled to the back of his head once more. “ffuck is it supposed to feel this good?”. he asks honestly.

beomgyu grasps the base with one hand and covers his tips with another, he lets his mouth wrap around the shaft of his dick and hungrily licks and sucks up and down continuously. the sensation felt like a punch in the stomach to jun who wasn’t used to it. he doubles over and bites his lips, tugging at beomgyu’s roots harder.

the wet sounds of beomgyu’s mouth and tongue bounced off his bedroom walls and yeonjun thought he was going to lose his mind if beomgyu didn’t stop. his dick throbbed harshly between the younger’s lips. “o-okay beomgyu you can stop now”. yeonjun exhales with breathing becoming shaky. an overwhelming feeling was washing over him euphorically. beomgyu continues bobbing his head against his dick making sure he captured every spot.

“b-beomgyu I said you can stop”. yeonjun warns again with his hips stuttering into his mouth. “I want to see you cum”. beomgyu muses, stroking his dick one last time with his hand before yeonjun’s hot liquids were darting everywhere.

he can’t believe he just did that. what the fuck?

he panicked, “beomgyu if you tell anyone I’ll kill you”.

#yeongyu smut #yeonjun smut #beomgyu smut #txt smut #txt #yeonjun #beomgyu

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seanfalco · 4 years

Text

Want | Priest!Kay x Reader {Part III}

Fandom: Season of the Witch Modern!AU Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: Catholicism, Religious imagery, Angst, Infidelity (I’m also not Catholic, so hopefully I haven’t made any glaring errors.)

masterlist

Kay stood by the sanctuary doors under the pretense of greeting his parishioners, but really he was searching for one in particular.

He’d barely been able to eat or sleep since their mid-week lesson, [y/n]’s confession of feelings leaving him conflicted and distracted, barely getting this week’s sermon prepared on time. Unsure what he would even say to her when he saw her— he knew nothing he could say would make things alright, not after he’d rejected her, but that didn’t stop him from just wanting to see her.

But when her fiance and his parents walked in, [y/n] nowhere to be seen, his heart dropped to his stomach, sharp disappointment filling him til he nearly couldn’t breathe.

“No [y/n] today?” he asked as he shook the others’ hands, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“No, she’s not feeling well today,” Matthew answered. “She’s been feeling off for several days now actually.”

“Poor dear, hopefully it’ll pass soon,” his mother murmured and Kay nodded, watching them as they took their seats, a frown twisting his lips.

What were the odds that [y/n] was actually sick and not just feigning illness to avoid him? His stomach churned at the thought, but he made his way dutifully to the altar to start Mass.

If he thought it was hard to concentrate when [y/n] was out in the congregation watching him, this was even worse, his thoughts continuously straying to what she was doing, and if she was alright.

He ended up losing his place several times and by the end of the service he felt so anxious he thought he might be ill himself. He idly thought about calling her from his office to check on her, but it wasn’t as if she’d be likely to answer, and there was no way he could just show up at her apartment — that’d be incredibly inappropriate, besides, what would he even say?

He already knew there was nothing he could say, though he wanted to.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he noticed someone enter the confessional and he sighed, heading that way.

This is your duty, get yourself under control, Kay, he told himself, opening the door to the priest’s compartment and took his seat. Through the latticed partition he couldn’t tell exactly who was on the other side, and his thoughts returned to the other day.

“I’ve been having… impure thoughts.”

He shivered at the memory, his mind wanting to chase that line of thought to speculate what sort of sinful scenarios she’d been imagining him in.

No, Kay, what is wrong with you? He thought frantically. Do not be swayed by sweet temptation.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, uh… well, a while since my last confession.”

Matthew’s voice on the other side of the partition jerked Kay back to the present, his gut twisting with guilt at what he’d nearly allowed himself to think about the other man’s betrothed.

“Go ahead, my child,” Kay prompted, hoping the other man wouldn’t notice how strained his voice was.

“Right, okay, uhh, where to start…?” Matthew mused. He paused for a long moment as if thinking. “Well, I’ve had a lot of sex… like, a lot,” he began, and Kay’s gut twisted farther at the thought of him and [y/n] before he forcefully pushed that image from his head. “—And not just with my fiance. There’s been others, sometimes even two at once—“

Kay frowned, interrupting the other man.

“Wait, are you saying you’re been unfaithful to [y/n]?” he asked, trying to keep the sharp bite of his anger from his voice.

“Well, yeah,” Matthew replied. “I mean, as good as she in in bed, I don’t wanna be stuck having the same boring sex with one woman my whole life. In fact, this whole marriage was my parents’ idea in the first place, and if I don’t go along with it they threatened to cut me off,” he explained, Kay’s anger mounting with each word.

“Does… does [y/n] know about this?” he asked, seething, his hands balling in his dark robes.

“No, I mean, she’d flip out if she did, and then she’d bail.”

Kay couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he couldn’t even warn [y/n]— confession was sacred. What he heard in the confessional couldn’t be revealed to anyone. But the worst part about it was the irony. He’d pushed her away when she’d tried to tell him she wasn’t happy, thinking he might be breaking up a loving marriage, but it was already doomed to begin with. Of course [y/n] was unhappy.

“So… what, Father, how many Hail Mary’s do I need to do to be good?” Matthew asked, pulling Kay’s attention back to him and he scowled.

“That’s not how it works,” he countered. “To be forgiven, you must truly repent and feel sorry for what you’ve done, and vow to the best of your abilities to not give into temptation and repeat your sin,” he explained sharply. “If you have no intention of ceasing your adulterous ways then you cannot truly be forgiven.”

“Alright, alright,” Matthew relented, “I promise to the best of my abilities to avoid temptation,” he exclaimed, though it was clear by the tone of his voice that he had no intention of stopping.

In a hollow voice, Kay absolved the man of his sins and sent him on his way, unable to bring himself to leave the solitude of the confessional yet. [y/n]’s words swam in his head, guilt and desire and temptation following them, gripping him.

“I never wanted this! I still have feelings for you. They never went away!”

Who was he kidding? She was still all he’d ever wanted. And if Matthew couldn’t see just how special she was, he didn’t deserve her. [y/n] was right, he couldn’t give her what she wanted… but maybe Kay could.

“Ah shit,” he muttered under his breath.

Without another thought, lest he talk himself out of it, Kay pushed open the door and hurried back to his office, shedding his robe and grabbing his keys.

——

It was the insistent pounding at the door that roused you from your fitful slumber, and you rolled over to check the time on your phone. It looked like Mass would be over by now, but you couldn’t believe that that was Matthew at the door.

Maybe if you didn’t answer, whoever it was would give up and go away. Besides, you weren’t exactly fit to be seen at the moment—!not having bothered to shower or change for the last few days, your eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying for hours on end.

However, when the knocking persisted, growing, if possible more frantic, you reluctantly pushed yourself out of bed and threw your robe around yourself as you shambled to the door.

“I’m comin’, hold your fucking horses!” you called, peering through the peephole while your hand rested on the door knob.

When you saw who was standing outside, looking nervously around, you jerked back, your pulse instantly pounding loudly in your ears.

For a moment, you pressed your forehead to the door, trying to decide what to do.

“[y/n], please, I know you’re in there! I just want to talk,” Kay called through the door and you took a steadying breath, unlocking the deadbolt, but leaving the chain in place, pulling the door open only a crack.

“What’re you doing here, Kay?” you demanded, though you didn’t give him a chance to speak. “I think you already know why I didn’t come to church today, and if you’re here to ask me to come back to do my lessons, I’m not going. I’ll call the Parish office tomorrow and request a new teacher—“

“That’s not why I’m here!” he exclaimed hastily, cutting you off and your eyes widened. “Please, can I come in? I don’t want to speak through the door and I want — I need to talk to you!”

The desperation in his voice and the wild light in his emerald eyes made you pause. Biting your lip, you considered his plea.

“Okay, just… hold on a sec.”

Shutting the door to unlatch the chain, you wondered if you’d come to regret this, but something in his voice, in his eyes had swayed you. You’d never seen him quite so frantic before. Opening the door fully, you stepped aside so he could enter and you noticed he wasn’t wearing his white collar.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he passed and you quickly shut the door behind him, turning to face him while folding your arms defensively over your chest.

You were about to demand why he was there again when he spoke first, rendering you momentarily speechless.

“Oh, [y/n], you look awful” he exclaimed softly, worry lacing his voice as he took a step toward you, his hand reaching out.

Quickly looking away, you wiped at your already raw eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tears that were once more gathering.

“Kay… what do you want?” you asked instead, hating how your voice wavered.

He sighed heavily, his eyes going to the floor for a moment before lifting once more, his thick brows drawn down over a piercing gaze.

“Do you love him?” he demanded, his question taking you off guard and you faltered.

“I… I don’t know. Why are you asking me that?”

At your answer Kay gaped at you in disbelief for a moment. “Then why are you marrying him, [y/n]?”

“I don’t know,” you replied automatically, your voice growing stronger as you continued. “I don’t really have a choice, do I? I need the stability Matthew can give me. Besides, it’s not like I have much say in the matter, my parents—“

“That’s not a good enough reason!” Kay snapped and you recoiled as if slapped, knowing in your heart he was right. “What about love? Don’t you deserve that?” he exclaimed, a wild look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

The question stung and you bit your lip to keep from trembling. “Yeah, well, maybe the man I love, I can’t have. You made that clear enough the other day,” you muttered, drawing your arms around yourself and turning away so he couldn’t see the tears that filled your eyes. “So, what does it matter anyway?”

Kay shook his head, opening his mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he closed the distance between you in one stride, his hands going to your face as his lips collided with yours, taking you by surprise.

As soon as his lips found yours, his hands reverently cupping your cheeks, you froze, your mind reeling and your breath catching, and before you knew what you were doing, you were kissing him back with a desperation that nearly tore you in two.

You were dreaming. You must be.

But no, he was real, and solid, and right there, kissing you like you’d imagined so many times.

Clutching at his shirt, you pulled yourself against him and his hands left your face, his arms wrapping around you, embracing you tightly and you responded in kind, slipping your arms around his neck as your lips moved against his hungrily.

Gasping a hasty breath, you didn’t pull back for long, your tongue darting out to taste him, and he moaned into your mouth as he gave in.

All too soon however, he was pulling back to look at you, his long dark curls falling into his face, and you lifted your chin, your eyes finding his. “What made you change your mind?” you asked softly, barely daring to breathe, afraid all this would be taken from you again if you questioned it.

“I...I made a mistake,” he replied uncertainly, but as he continued, the fierceness from earlier returned to his voice. “I was a fool, alright? I lied, when you asked if I still felt anything for you. I’ve been lying to myself for most of my life,” he exclaimed.

“All I’ve ever wanted was you. I never stopped loving you, [y/n],” he confessed, the ache in your heart growing. “You deserve so much more than… him,” he nearly whispered.

At his words a myriad of questions sprang to mind, all clamouring for attention — what did this mean? How was it supposed to work? You were technically still engaged. It would look rather suspicious if you and Kay were suddenly to run off together, but—

Before you could focus on any one thought for too long, Kay’s mouth was on yours once more and this kiss, if possible, was more passionate than before, your back making contact with the wall behind you with a soft thud and all those thoughts fled.

All you wanted to think about was what was happening now, in this moment, everything else could come later.

Afterall, how long had you imagined this?

“Kay,” you murmured, whining softly as he drew back, though he still held you tightly.

“[y/n],” he sighed, affection thick in his voice as he pressed his forehead to yours, his curls brushing your face. “I need to get back,” he continued reluctantly, and you whined louder.

“Stay,” you begged, not loosening your grasp on him. Part of you was afraid if you let him go, he’d disappear.

“I can’t,” he choked, as if it took all his willpower to refuse you.

“But… what happens now?” you asked, reluctantly, letting him step out of your embrace.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head as he caught his breath. All he knew was that he wanted to stay and that was his sign to go… for now. He was still a priest after all, even if his heart had given into this temptation. “We’ll figure it out,” he promised, holding your face to press a kiss to your forehead.

Watching him walk back out your door was one of the hardest things you’d ever done, but his promise echoed in your ears and you clutched to it.

We’ll figure it out.

-------------------------------

Everything Tag List: @magic-multicolored-miracle @midnightseance @etherealsxnder @iamsexytrash @orions-nebula @slutforrobbiebro @the-freckled-luba @xenteaart @gurlimtired @phoenixhits

#season of the witch #priest!kay x reader #priest!kay #robert sheehan character fic #my writing #fic: want #priest kink tw #catholicism tw #infidelity tw

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elduwrites · 3 years

Text

Reminders That I Love You - Chapter 3

“Don’t be a brat.” Cas tugged his hair again. It was harder this time and lasted until a small moan escaped Dean’s lips. Then the contact was gone. Damn. He usually had more control than that. But they had been very busy, and angry with each other, lately. This was a welcome change of pace.

“Anyway, I believe in you.” Cas grinned. “Now be quiet, I need to concentrate on my work.”

Also available on AO3

Word count: 4916 (story total: 7603)

Chapter 3/3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

When Cas returned, Dean laid naked in the middle of the bed, legs spread and hands beneath his head. He grinned up at his boyfriend who stopped in the doorway for a while, just starring at him.

“See something you like?” Dean asked, letting his tongue dart over his bottom lip for good measure.

“Yes, you’re very beautiful Dean,” Cas replied matter-of-factly. Then he walked closer, keeping his eyes plastered to the man on the bed the entire time. “And you’re being very good for me.”

“Not like you asked me to do anything complicated.” Dean looked away, lightly biting his lip. He wanted to be good, especially after the evening they had, but he had to earn it.

“The complexity of the task does not dictate how pleased I am when you succeed,” Cas said sternly as he sat down on the bed, leaning over the other man. “Some days I want you to prove just how good you can be for me. Today is not about that. For now, I want to remind you how wonderful you always are to me Dean. Even when you don’t see your own worth.”

“What if I want, or need, to prove that I can be good for you?” His voice was small even to his own ears, but it needed to be said.

“Then that’s for another day.”

“But-”

“No,” Cas said firmly. “On Saturday I will have you collared on your knees with my cock in your mouth while I research my next paper, but I have a different plan for tonight. Are you going to be a brat and question my decisions, or will you be still and obedient like my good boy ought to?”

Dean swallowed hard, but kept his lips closed. Saturday could not come soon enough. But Cas knew what he needed, and what he could take. If he said that this wasn’t the day for proper play, then he was right. Of course he was. Dean looked up, meeting the others gaze and held it until his boyfriend smiled.

“Good,” Cas said. He ran one hand through Dean’s hair, tugging slightly before letting go. Dean leaned into the touch, whimpering slightly as it disappeared. “Remember these?” Cas pulled a bunch of pens out of his pocket. Except, these weren’t normal pens. They were the temporary tattoo markers they had bought for when Claire was desperate to draw on them. Cas had insisted that they were better for their skin than regular pens, and their niece was overjoyed with the vibrant colors that were much easier to cover their arms with.

“I remember,” Dean replied. How could he not? The guys at work always commented on his wonderful new tattoos whenever Claire had spent an artistic weekend at their place. They were rather hard to wash off too. Not that he really minded that part, it was usually a nice reminder of a good family weekend.

“I presumed you would. Now you’re going to lay back, relax, and stay as still as possible, while I cover your skin in all the reasons I love you.”

“Kinda hard both to relax and stay still,” Dean said. Mostly just to say something back to that declaration.

“Anyway, I believe in you.” Cas grinned. “Now be quiet, I need to concentrate on my work.”

Dean took a few deep breaths, relaxing into the mattress as well as he could. Meanwhile, his boyfriend’s big hands ran down his chest, barely grazing his nipples, down his stomach and up his sides. He whimpered again, pushing up into the touch. Why had he denied himself this closeness for so long? Those hands on him were better than almost any sensations. Perhaps except for those fingers in him.

“So beautiful,” Cas said, leaving a small kiss slightly under his left nipple. It was followed by the familiar sensation of the marker on Dean’s skin. Familiar, but still different than when their niece was ‘making him pretty’ as she liked to call it. Cas’ hand seemed surer and less hesitant than Claire often was. And the skin of his sides and stomach was more sensitive than his arms and calves, which were usually the body parts decorated. As the pen stopped its motion, Dean looked down his body. Sure enough, the word beautiful was written in red over one of his ribs.

“Incredibly kind.” Cas left a kiss under the first word, then wrote with a new pen over that same spot. Soon the word kind shone out in orange letters.

“You’re so good with Claire, Madison and little Bobby. The best uncle and godfather anyone could wish for.” Another scribble over his skin. Dean focused on keeping his breathing even so as not to disrupt the others work. When he looked down again, amazing uncle, was written in bright yellow.

Another kiss, halfway down his side, then. “You’re so open and accepting of everyone who need it. I’ve never seen you judge anyone for anything other than being hateful assholes. And those people always deserve it.” The pen moved over his skin once more. As it stopped, Cas moved his hand to squeeze his hip lightly. Dean squinted at the newest word. It looked like it said accepting in deep green letters.

“Dude, are you making my stomach into a fucking rainbow?” Dean asked incredulously, while his boyfriend put down the green marker in favor of a blue one.

“Why are you surprised by this? I make everything into rainbows.” That much was true. After years of hiding his sexuality from overly religious parents, Cas had put all that repressed energy into buying and creating rainbow colored-everything. There were at least seven different flags, and far too many t-shirts. They had rainbow-colored throw pillows in many different designs, and a shower curtain decorated with a tree with rainbow leaves. There were rainbow coasters, cups, water bottles, and at least fifty different buttons and stickers. Everything Cas painted these days were either rainbow inspired, bees, flowers, or, somehow, all of the above. Dean had barely kept him from hanging up rainbow curtains in their living room. That shit was just tacky, and therefore banished to Cas’ office. The office that contained a stuffed rainbow unicorn next to the stuffed bee on top of the bookshelf. Not to mention the queer section of that bookshelf that had the books sorted by rainbow colors. So okay, this was not actually surprising. Still though…

“Don’t mean you have to make me into one.”

“Why does it bother you more that I’m writing in color that that I’m doing it in the first place? You seem to have your priorities mixed up sweetheart.”

“I dunno… It’s just real obvious is all.” That was a bad excuse. He was aware of that. It just felt different in all these colors than it would have otherwise. Even so, his boyfriend was right. It didn’t actually matter. So why’d it feel like a big deal?

“It’s not like anyone else is going to see you this way. Right Dean?”

“Of course not.” It was far too cold for him to go shirtless anywhere other than inside their house. And even during summer, he preferred to wear at least a t-shirt. Only Cas got to see him shirtless for long periods of time.

“Then why does it matter? I like you like this.”

“I dunno.” Dean looked away, biting lightly at his lip. It was hard to argue his point when he didn’t actually have any reasoning, and Cas was all cold logic. The rainbow thing wasn’t a problem either. Not really. He was just caught off guard was all. But there was no way he could admit that now.

“Do you know what I think?” Cas moved so his knees where on the other side of the other’s hips, rested his hands next to Dean’s head, and leant down so their faces were mere inches apart. “I think you’re trying to rile me up. I think you’re being difficult on purpose. This,” he ran his right hand down Dean’s side, stroking over the words, “doesn’t actually bother you. You’re just clinging to the only argument you could find because affectionate words make you uncomfortable. Perhaps you’re even angling for a punishment?”

Dean whimpered lightly at that. Trust his boyfriend to psychoanalyze him in a situation like this. As if they didn’t have better things to do than trying to get to the bottom of his issues. His fear of intimacy as both Cas and Charlie was so fond of calling it. This was not the time.

“Is that it Dean? Are you trying to make me be rough with you because that’s easier to deal with? Would you rather have me spank you till you’re a writhing mess or perhaps slap you hard enough that you’ll feel it for days?”

“Please.” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, but his boyfriend seemed to have enough ideas of his own. As long as Cas gave him something.

“Too bad really, that I already told you we’re not doing that tonight.”

“Cas. Please.”

“I’m not changing my plans just because you’re being a brat,” Cas almost growled. “However, I can’t let that kind of behavior go completely unchecked either.”

“Please.” Dean repeated. By now it could be called pleading, almost begging. His boyfriend usually liked that, was more likely to fulfill his wishes when he asked nicely. But it didn’t seem like he was budging this time. His expression was blank, not betraying any of his thoughts. Would whatever he was planning be good or bad? Well, it was always good with Cas, but sometimes that also meant torturous. Then again, that was often the best of all.

Cas suddenly sat up until he was kneeling over him. Then he ran his hands slowly down the other’s shoulders and chest, stopping to pay extra attention to his nipples. Dean swallowed the groan that wanted to erupt as both his nipples were pinched hard.

“Don’t be quiet on my account,” Cas said, pinching even harder. Then he let go off the left one, only to bend down and bite it. Dean moaned, arching his back into the pleasure-pain sensation.

“There you go. Keep making those pretty sounds for me,” Cas grinned down at him before leaning in to capture his lips in a rough kiss. Dean quickly opened up for him, allowing his boyfriend to dominate his mouth completely. As the kiss broke off, Cas moved so sit next to him on the bed again, one hand resting comfortingly on his stomach. Dean put weight on his elbows, wanting to follow, but one sharp look from the other man made him rest back onto the bed. That earned him a soft smile and a gentle hand playing with his hair.

“Touch yourself for me,” Cas said, giving a significant gaze down to the others cock, then back up to his eyes. Dean starred at him for a moment before he followed the order, slowly jacking himself off. This seemed too simple. Was this evening really all about pleasure? And affection or whatever?

“Faster. Put some effort into it.”

Dean fastened his grip and speed his movement to a pace that would have him desperate in no time.

“Good boy,” Cas murmured into his ear. “Tell me when you’re close.”

Oh. Of course. Dean closed his eyes, jerking himself in all the ways he enjoyed the most. Firm grip. Fast movements. A twist of his wrist on every third or fourth upstroke. Pausing for a moment to run his thumb over the slit, coaxing more pre-cum to ease his movements. He was hurdling steadily towards an orgasm, feeling his boyfriend’s heavy gaze on him the entire time.

“’M close,” he moaned out.

“Stop. Hands on the bed.”

Dean quickly followed the order, breathing hard as he tried to calm down. He whimpered sightly at the receding orgasm. It was so close, but far out of his grasp.

“So good for me,” Cas murmured, then leaned down to kiss his stomach. “I love seeing you like this. So desperate to please.”

Dean smiled, relaxing further into the bed. He was still on edge, desperate for release, but it seemed somehow less important. He was pleasing Cas, and his boyfriend would surely take care of him.

A sudden feeling of a marker over his skin almost made him flinch, but he managed to stay still as not to mess up the other man’s work. Peering down, he saw his boyfriend with a blue marker in hand, obviously continuing where he had left off earlier.

“Cas? What?”

“You didn’t think I was done, did you? I already told you I wasn’t changing my plans. I don’t like leaving my projects half-finished.”

“I guess not.” It certainly had seemed like he’d changed his plans. Dean really should have known better. When Cas first made up his mind, he stuck to it. He peered down at his stomach, seeing desperate to please written under the green accepting.

“Dean. Look at me.” Cas laid a hand on his cheek and starred intently at him as their eyes met. “Indulge me in this. Let me show you affection. You deserve to be loved.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean tried to look away, but the other’s eyes were captivating, holding his gaze steady. “Indulge yourself or whatever.”

“Imprudent boy,” Cas smacked his hip lightly. “I want to worship you, just let yourself enjoy it.” With that he picked up a purple marker, putting the tip of it against the skin right above Dean’s hipbone.

“You deserve to be loved,” Cas repeated while writing what was probably the same words into the other’s skin. Dean barely suppressed a shiver as those words finally washed over him. How many times had Cas told him that by now? And how many more times had he found himself doubting it?

“Now continue touching yourself.”

Dean’s hand moved almost on autopilot, wrapping around his cock and jacking it with sure movements. He kept his eyes open this time, taking in all the emotion in his boyfriend’s eyes. No one could convey emotion through a look quite like Cas. And he was using that ability now to express all the love he insisted that Dean deserved. It was enough to make a guy believe him.

Pleasure built up within him even faster this time around. He jerked off until he was moments away from orgasm before he moaned out that he was close.

“Stop.”

His movement stilled immediately, but he clutched the base of his cock for a few deep breaths before he was calm enough to place his hand back on the bed. Perhaps even closer than Cas would have taken him if the former had been doing the touching.

“You’re doing remarkably well.” Cas left a kiss to each of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Dean whimpered in return, struggling to keep himself from pleading for release. He really needed to come. Preferable five minutes ago. Instead, his boyfriend took up the red marker again, and started writing on the right side of his stomach. Dean couldn’t find the energy to read the words anymore, but it was impossible to ignore the several times Cas murmured “good boy” into his skin while he kissed around the new words. In return, Dean let out an undignified sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan. He was being good.

“Yes. Good boy with his pleasing sounds.” Cas smiled down at him, while stroking over his stomach in small circles. “And you are so good to everyone Dean. You care so much. I’m in awe of the love you show to all the people around you. Such a wonderful, caring man.” There were more pen scratches and kisses against Dean’s stomach. This time he simply breathed through it, letting the words and affectionate touches wash over him.

“Not to mention the love you put into your food. Before you, I mostly ate just to sustain myself. Now I do it for pleasure as well. You taught me that through your food, you’re such an amazing cook Dean.” More writing on his skin. More fingers tracing patterns on his stomach. More kisses to his side and chest, followed by a sharp bite to one nipple. He arched into it, chasing the mouth as it moved away. His boyfriend chuckled and pushed him back down with a flat hand on the middle of his stomach.

“Touch yourself again.”

He did. With fast strokes, spurred on by the hands exploring his body. Every time Cas pinched his skin or twisted a nipple, he moaned loudly. All the touches went straight to his dick, and within a couple of minutes he was writhing on the bed, barely able to contain the orgasm.

“’M so close. Please Cas.”

“Stop. Now.”

His movements stopped, but he looked pleadingly up at the other man. “Please Cas. I can’t… I need to come.”

“Patience sweetheart. You can wait. And you will.”

Dean whimpered again, but kept his mouth shut. There was no use arguing with Cas’ decisions. He had made that mistake in a similar position once before. That night he was not allowed to come at all. Taking several deep breaths calmed him enough to remove his hand, and finally look up at his boyfriend once more.

“Good boy. Now, where were we?” Cas looked down at his writing, tracing the words with a gentle finger. At that point, even the small gesture was enough to push Dean towards the edge. He shook with self-restraint, clutching the sheets hard and focusing on his breathing.

“Oh yes,” Cas continued in an even voice. “You, Dean Winchester, is one of the most selfless people I have ever met. You give so much of yourself to others. You say yes to helping out whenever the chance occurs, with no regard for how it will affect you. Every fiber of your being seems determined to change the world for the better. Your selflessness was one of the first things I noticed about you.”

��You’re way too articulate,” Dean half-moaned, earning him another chuckle. Then the pen was back, tracing over his skin. Followed by warm lips, copying the pattern of the letters. Every point of contact sent tingles through his already over-sensitive body, forcing small sounds of out him.

“You keep me grounded and sane. I’ve spent so much of my life with my head in the clouds, not really wanting to partake in the world around me. You changed that by showing me how good reality can be. I want to experience real life with you Dean.”

The statement was followed by more pen scratches, then kisses to his stomach, up his chest, and then peppering his face. Dean whimpered, lifting one hand to clutch at the others arm. A tear found his its way down his cheek, but was soon kissed away. It was all too much.

“Shhhh, just one more thing now,” Cas murmured into his skin. “You are doing so well for me.” Their lips met in a long, soft kiss that swallowed all the sounds coming out of Dean’s throat. Then Cas moved to write a last word on his stomach with slow, steady movement. As the pen disappeared, one hand traced all the words on his torso while his boyfriend left three small kisses to his stomach, chest, and forehead.

“Do you want to know what it says?” Cas asked, his lips curling into a smirk. Dean inclined his head in a way that was meant to be a nod. Apparently it was enough, as his boyfriend continued. “It says excellent cocksucker. The things you do with your mouth are downright sinful.” Dean almost chocked on air at those words, and his lips fell open of their own accord. Cas took the opportunity to push two long fingers into his mouth.

“Suck.” That was a command he didn’t really need. Closing his lips around anything Cas put between them was second nature by now. His boyfriend had a borderline obsession with that part of his body. Not that Dean would ever complain. It fit perfectly with his own love of having his mouth filled. Oral fixation Cas sometimes called it, his voice always filled with awe or deep pleasure. “Now touch yourself.”

He was slower to follow the command this time, more focused on the fingers pushing slowly in and out of his mouth. Even so, his entire body lit up with pleasure as his hand wrapped around his dick. It only took a few pumps before he was back on edge again. Cas was tugging at his hair and moving his fingers steadily faster and harder into his mouth. Dean almost gagged a few times, but forced himself to relax. The pleased expression on his boyfriend’s face was more than worth it. Pleasure built with every jerk of his hand, and every movement of Cas’ fingers. He was hurdling towards an orgasm, and this time it didn’t feel like he could stop. Moaning around the fingers, he tried to say that he was close, but it came out as a garbled mess. Fuck. He was so close, but he didn’t have permission to come. And he didn’t have permission to stop jerking off. Starring up, he tried to convey his desperation, tried to plead with his eyes. It was hard to focus on anything else than delaying his orgasm, the world seeming hazy around him. As such, he didn’t notice Cas’ face coming closer until a dark voice whispered into his ear.

“Come for me Dean.”

Two more jerks of his hand and he did just that. The orgasm tore through him, almost making him black out. His whole body convulsed in pleasure as cum coated his stomach. It was so good. Cas always made it better than he managed by himself. Even when he technically was doing all the work himself. He kept jerking in slow movements, drawing out the orgasm while he slowly came back to himself. Soon he grew oversensitive, but kept up the movement until strong fingers wrapped around his own and dragged his hand away. He sighed in relief and pure exhaustion, blinking up at the man above him.

“Hello Dean,” Cas murmured with a pleased smile. “You did perfectly for me.” Dean blushed at that, looking away. That only earned him slightly annoyed sound from the man above him before his face was peppered with kisses. “One day you will believe my praise.”

“One day yeah. Maybe.”

“You will. I intend to remind you of it as often as necessary until you do.” The statement was followed up with more soft kisses to Dean’s face, and a hand carting through his hair. Sighing contently, he leaned into that touch. This was, possibly, his favorite part. Cas was always so affectionate after sex. All soft touches and endless skin-to-skin contact. And like this, during the afterglow, Dean allowed himself to drown in it. Except, they weren’t both basking in the afterglow. With more effort than he was ready to admit, he lifted a hand up to Cas’ hip, squeezing lightly.

“Want me to get you off too?” He asked with a grin, eyes slowly drifting down the others body.

“Not tonight. I already got all I wanted.” He did this every once in a while. Actually, he did it rather often. As if he got more pleasure from getting Dean off than actually having an orgasm of his own. It wasn’t anything Dean could pretend like he understood, but Cas surely knew his own wants best. He was certainly direct enough about shoving his cock down the others throat when he felt like it.

“You’re sure?” Dean met the other’s gaze again, searching for any shred of indecision there.

“Yes Dean. I just wanted to watch you come apart. I might, however, fuck you in the morning.”

“Yeah. Okay. Awesome.” He grinned again, probably looking dopey as hell, as he relaxed back into the bed again. This time determined to stay put. Everything was right with the world again. Well, except for the rapidly drying pool of cum on his stomach, but that was a problem for future-Dean. That guy had energy for all sorts of things.

“I’ll get a washcloth,” Cas said as he stood up from the bed. Because he was freaking perfect. Dean told him as much, causing a fond smile to appear on his boyfriend’s face. Cas’ hand found his, giving one last squeeze as he started to turn away. Pain flared from Dean’s knuckles at the contact, making him flinch. His boyfriend froze at that, starring down at him.

“Dean? What?” Cas dragged his hand close, inspecting the tender area closely. His face turned from confused to worried, eyes scrunching up in familiar fashion. Dean looked at the hand as well. Now that they gave it attention, it was obvious that it was red and slightly swollen. A miracle that it hadn’t been noticed before. “Dean what happened?”

“Umm… I got into a fight with the shower wall.” The last thing he needed was for his boyfriend to blame this on himself. Sure, it happened because Dean was angry about their fight, but that was on him. Neither of them needed Cas to deal with any misplaced guilt over that.

“You got into a fight with the shower wall,” Cas repeated slowly.

“Not my finest moment.”

“Dean,” Cas sighed. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I know.”

“You can’t hurt yourself just because we fight.”

“I know.”

“Next time you decided to fight an inanimate object, please make it a verbal match. That one you at least have a chance to win.”

“That’s uncalled for.” Dean tried to scold his face into annoyed, but couldn’t keep a smile from breaking out. Apparently Cas was not in a lecturing, or self-hating, mood. This was going much better than expected.

“You know I’m right.” Cas smiled lightly, then looked more serious again. “Does it hurt?”

“Nothing I can’t handle man.”

“Dean.”

“Yeah. A bit.”

“Okay.” Cas nodded solemnly, then put his hand down and turned towards the door. “Wait here.” With that, he left the room, leaving Dean to study his knuckles. They didn’t look that bad really. He’d damaged them much worse on several occasions, but he’d mostly outgrown that part of his life. That was a teenage and early-to-mid-twenties thing. Which was probably why they looked more painful than they really should, they were no longer hardened by abuse. Or maybe he’d just hit that wall harder than intended. He shook his head lightly and laid the hands back on the bed. It didn’t matter now anyway. With a yawn, he closed his eyes, making himself more comfortable.

He was almost asleep when Cas returned, so he just grunted noncommittedly as a greeting. Sleep seemed more important than anything. Until a bag of freaking ice was dropped on his knuckle. His eyes flew open, and he starred down at the offending item. His boyfriend gave him an amused glance as he placed an ice bag on his other knuckle as well. Okay, they weren’t actually ice bags. When Dean looked closer, he saw they it was frozen peas partly packed into a dish towel. That didn’t change the fact that they felt like big bags of ice.

“Why?” He grunted, giving the pea bags a dirty look.

“Because you refuse to take care of yourself, so someone has to.” He couldn’t exactly argue with that. Instead he sighed, watching as Cas took a warm washcloth to his stomach, wiping off all the dried cum.

“You’re really confusing my senses here.”

“Sorry sweetheart.” Cas gave him a quick kiss to his forehead, before throwing the washcloth towards a corner, turning off the light, and getting into bed. Moving around with the freaking pea bags was complicated, but his boyfriend was efficient as always when cuddling was involved. Soon their legs were tangled, a comforter pulled over them, and Cas had an arm around his waist and head resting between his chest and shoulder.

“I’m glad you came back,” Dean murmured into the darkness, half-hoping the other wouldn’t hear him. Of course, he had no such luck.

“Me too. And Dean?”

He hummed lightly in response.

“I promise to be better at reminding you how much I love you. Maybe even stop walking out every time our fights get too intense. But you have to stop pushing me away.”

“Yeah I…. Fuck, I’m sorry Cas. I’ll do my best.” He took a deep breath, starring into the darkness of the room. “And I love you too. You know that, right?”

“I do. Most of the time.”

“Well I love you all the time,” Dean insisted, then gave his boyfriend an awkwardly placed kiss on his forehead. It seemed like he had to get better at those reminders too. He looked into nothing for several long minutes while Cas’ breathing turned heavy, soon making way for soft snores. Shaking off one of the pea bags, Dean circled an arm around his boyfriend, holding him close as sleep finally took him as well.

#destiel #destiel fic #eldu writes #finally finished this thing #minors dni

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 4 years

Text

merry christmas to all who celebrate! this is a lil fluffy-as-all-get-out christmas one-shot I wrote for the @destielsecretsanta2020 -- my giftee was the lovely @justonecitizenoftheearth!!! I hope this fic brings you joy, and a merry merry christmas and happy holidays in general to you :)

a love that’s meant for me (yes this title is from the kelly clarkson song “under the tree,” leave me alone about it)

It all started because of a dog.

To be more accurate, it started because of a dog and a former angel of the lord and a three-year-old who was also God, but when Dean had tried to blame Cas and Jack, he’d gotten a couple of dirty looks. Miracle, however, was a dog, unable to give effective dirty looks--and she couldn’t kick Dean out of his own bed like Cas could.

Dean and Cas had gone on the weekly grocery run, and had decided to go to Walmart just to get some last-minute Christmas presents. Dean hadn’t expected Walmart to be a religious experience for Cas, but he supposed that when your ass had just been yanked out of the Empty, everything was awesome.

Cas had gotten it into his head that they all needed matching sweaters, and then he had seen that dog sweaters were a thing, and Dean was sorta-kinda powerless to tell Cas no (no, Sam, he wasn’t whipped), so they’d left the store with red snowflake patterned sweaters for everyone, even Miracle.

(Then Cas got into the idea of properly celebrating Christmas--the only thing they weren’t doing was going to church.)

So now Dean was in the war room, looking up at a massive Christmas tree that they had just dragged inside, off the back of Cas’s truck.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again,” Dean said, turning from the tree to the tangled pile of tinsel on the table.

“Because you love me,” Cas replied, with complete ease and confidence. He was sitting on the floor next to the tree, detangling lights. Jack was on the other side of the war room with some boxes of ornaments.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Cas beamed at Dean. “I never will.”

It hit Dean sort of like a truck, because he got it. He was never going to be used to Cas loving him, either. It felt like the best night out, a smooth ride in a classic car, the nicest aged whiskey, a bacon cheeseburger...but also, it felt small and simple and happy. Cas was in snowman-patterned pajamas, and his hair was salt-n-pepper because he was human now and aging, and his blue eyes were warm with mirth and--

“Dean?” Jack asked.

“What, kiddo?”

“Angel or star for the top of the tree?”

“Oh, definitely the angel,” Dean said, and Cas grinned again.

------------------

“We have to have pie,” Dean said, “It’s Christmas.”

“Dean,” Sam said, “You always think we should have pie.”

“And?” Dean turned back to the cookbook he was looking at. They were all in the kitchen now, with Cas and Jack making hot chocolate while Sam humored Dean. “Apple and pumpkin are a must.”

“Cherry?” Cas offered, smiling at Dean.

“Key lime!” Jack said, adding at least half a bag of marshmallows to his hot chocolate.

“Wrong time of year, kiddo,” Dean said, “Maybe for the Fourth of July.”

“Pecan?” Sam said.

“Sounds good to me.”

“You just want an excuse to make four pies.”

“No, Sam, I want an excuse to eat four pies.”

------------------

Despite the Christmas cheer that permeated the bunker, Dean still felt a little bit off-center. It had been a hard year--hell, it had been a hard forty or so years before now, when they were finally getting peace. He had Cas, and Sam had Eileen, and all together they had family--Jack and Miracle, and then Jody and Donna with the rest of the girls, too, people who were coming over for New Year’s.

But Dean was uneven. He secretly wondered when all of this would be taken from him, when he would wake up and find that the warm body next to him wasn’t Cas but just his imagination.

So far, it hadn’t happened. So far, Cas was still a solid weight, arms wrapped around him. Cas was both terrible and wonderful to share a bed with--he was gloriously warm, almost like a heater, and loved to cuddle, but he also hogged blankets and moved around a lot. Dean woke up every morning with their floor covered in pillows.

Christmas Eve was no exception. Dean awoke to Cas shifting, pillowing his head on Dean’s chest. Cas’s arms wrapped around Dean, and he sighed contentedly in his sleep, fully relaxing his weight onto Dean.

“Cas, wake up.” Dean used his free hand, the one not currently smothered by the weight of a former angel, to shake Cas’s shoulder.

“Mmmph.”

“Cas.”

Cas shifted, looked up at Dean blearily. “What do you want, Dean?”

“Okay, grumpy. I just wanted you to stop cutting off my circulation.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. You have to be nice to me.” Cas did roll off of him, though.

“How do you figure that?”

“I used to be an angel. Christmas is Jesus’ birthday.” Cas grinned lazily at Dean, a shit-eating grin if Dean had ever seen one.

“Oh, fuck off.” But Dean took Cas’s hand, intertwining their fingers and drawing them up to kiss Cas’s knuckles. “What do you want to do today?”

“Pancakes.”

“Fine, but you have to help.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cas snuggled close to him again. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

“No shit. There was another person stealing all the blankets.”

Cas ignored the jibe. “You had a nightmare.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me, Cas.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that, right?” Cas was propped up on an elbow now, staring at Dean, his gaze bright and warm.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean pulled him down to kiss him and tangle his fingers in Cas’s slowly greying hair, “Let’s go make those pancakes.”

------------------

“These don’t look like angels at all,” Jack said, glancing at Dean.

“I know, kiddo. Not the point. They’re just supposed to be fun.”

Cas stopped moving his arms--he was still lying on the ground, making his snow angel--to say, “This is cold.” “Then get up.” Dean offered a hand to pull Cas up.

“Can we have hot chocolate when we get inside?” Jack asked hopefully.

“Actually, I was thinking warm apple cider today. Don’t ruin your sweet tooth before cookies later.” Dean beckoned Cas and Jack to follow him inside, where Eileen and Sam were hanging up tinsel in the library. They made a bee-line for the kitchen, though, in search of warm drinks.

“Didn’t realize you’d be the practical dad,” Cas whispered, his chin nearly on Dean’s shoulder as he heated up the cider on the stove.

“Really, I just wanted apple cider. And I don’t think Jack’s ever had any.” Dean turned his head slightly to press a kiss to Cas’s cheek.

“What a Samaritan.”

“I try.”

------------------

The rest of Christmas Eve passed in the same lazy manner--making gingerbread, making a mess decorating gingerbread, drinking more cider, watching Christmas Vacation in the Dean Cave (starting with a quick debate about whether Jack was allowed to watch the infamous pool scene or not), and then, finally, going to sleep.

“You know the best thing about our kid being God?” Dean asked as he lay in bed, watching Cas put on his pajamas.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have to do Santa.”

“Fair.” Cas let out a laugh, “Did you ever do Santa as a kid?”

“When Mom was alive.” Dean rolled to stare at the ceiling. “Besides that one time with that wood nymph--this is the first real Christmas I’ve had in...a long time.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Cas climbed into bed next to Dean as he spoke, “This is my very first Christmas.” His lips tickled Dean’s ear.

“You always make me feel better. Turn off the lamp, will you?”

Cas rolled over sideways and switched the lamp off before letting himself be pulled back into Dean’s arms. “Is it after midnight?” Cas asked.

“I think so, yeah. Why?”

“I wanted to make sure it was Christmas.” Cas’s hand found Dean’s cheek in the dark. “Can I give you your present now?”

“Uh…” Dean swallowed thickly. “Do you want the lights back on?”

“No, this is fine.” Cas took a pause and then started speaking again, faster this time, like he was nervous. “You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to, I get it if you’d rather not do something like this, but--”

“Are you trying to ask me on a date, angel?”

“No, I’m asking you to marry me.”

Dean didn’t answer--not out loud, anyways. There weren’t any words adequate enough for the swelling feeling inside his chest, so instead he found Cas’s mouth in the dark, kissing him clumsily and off-center.

“Is that a yes?” Cas murmured against his lips.

“What else would I say?”

Cas huffed out a laugh. “For the record, I did get a ring. It’s just in the dresser and I didn’t feel like getting up again. I was...actually going to ask tomorrow morning.”

“Why the change of plan?” Dean’s thumbs were now tracing along Cas’s collarbones.

“I just...saw you lying there, talking about Jack, and I didn’t want to wait.”

“We did twelve years of waiting, I think it’s okay to speed things up now.”

------------------

(Christmas set the standard for the ones to follow. Eileen had hung mistletoe over half the doorways in the bunker, which meant Sam was blushing crimson for most of the day. Jack loved being introduced to cinnamon rolls--especially the icing.

And Dean?

Dean loved being with his family.

And being engaged. Now that one really took Sam out.)

#destiel #deancas #supernatural #christmas #secret santa #offbeatwrites

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your-ace-cousin-clover · 3 years

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okay soooo... sorry for the delayed reply, i've been kinda busy!

i gotta start this off by saying how much i loved the way you wrote "[...] that feeling of wanting to reach divinity and holiness with your writing. The raw, exposed nerve of that writing." - it's hard for me to refer to writing as a hobby because it's such a substantial part of me, if that makes sense? or maybe that's just my codependent relationship to writing... whenever i don't write for a while i start feeling like a non-person! (ok, in hindsight this doesn't sound 100% related to the holiness bit, but that's what sparked the train of thought)

on for colored girls who have considered suicide - when the rainbow is enuf: i actually listened to a monologue from this a while ago on youtube, but I'll be sure to check out the full text!

also, on the topic of spoken-word & slam poetry: i'm going to a poetry reading at a friend's place later this month and it's nerve-racking. i mean, hey, of course i bleed into my poetry, and in theory i'm cool with that. but reading it aloud to a room half full of strangers? that's like lying on an operating table, flesh sliced open with surgeons over you. (i'm sure it'll be fun, though)

i've read primer for small weird loves and wishbone (because they're both included in richard siken's book crush - which is definitely worth the money (& btw, he has a new book coming out this year in fall/winter; thought i'd tell you in case you didn't know))! out of the two i like wishbone a lot more - although that's probably just because i relate to it a little bit more. i like making lists so i've compiled some of my favorite parts from the poem:

• "I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons [...]"

• "Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk."

• "[...] we keep doing it Henry, we keep saying until we get it right... [...]"

• "If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand."

• "This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish."

it's crazy (well, not really, but you know) that you mentioned jericho brown, because we read something by him in english class a few years back and he's completely slipped my mind since then! so, thanks for reminding me :)

first of all, i love how duplex starts and ends with the same line - and this may be a reach, but it feels sort of like coming home? he introduces us to the line, we go away for a while, then we're back at the beginning. and maybe i just feel this way because for me going home is synonymous with going back home. (not always, but a lot of the time.) also, the contrast of "none of the beaten end up how we began" & the poem ending exactly how it began? i don't have the right words to explain what, but there's something that grabs me in that.

now, let's take a short detour because i feel like dropping some recs. here's two poets whose work i really enjoy: chen chen and jasmine ledesma (who i think is on tumblr, too? @/candiedspit if i'm not wrong). i'd specifically like to recommend (and hopefully hear you opinion on) chen chen's i'm not a religious person but & jasmine ledesma's short stories no candy, sorry and FIEND.

links (just in case the previous ones don't work):

i'm not a religious person but: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58152/im-not-a-religious-person-but

no candy, sorry: https://tinyletter.com/jasmineledesma/letters/no-candy-sorry

FIEND: https://marchharemag.com/fiend

lastly, thanks for the prompt! i'll be sending you the poem in a separate ask (although i'm convinced it only makes sense if you're me) as to not make this one too long haha

-cat

Cat!

Sorry on the delayed reply on my side too. I've been sorta busy with a lot of stuff, but I had to drop in a message.

First of all, the poem? Iconic. It is so well written!!! Ahh! The way you use the numbers to count down all the things in a list sort of a format . And the splendid use of a clock ticking to signify the time coming closer and closer. It reminds of the Doomsday Clock which always reminds us that we are two minutes to complete destruction and in a way it is an inevitable destruction. "I'm one drink away from holiness and I'm not stopping" is such a vivid Ginsberg line that ahhh, it hits with the concept of the Beat Generation being these drunk, high poets who ultimately want to experience divinity through their intoxication and writing. And the ending with, "it's almost Valentine's- please tell your wretched heart I'm sorry." AGHH, the way the narrator tries to stop the inevitability of the sadness of romance?? Or being stuck in a relationship and trying to do better? The interpretations are left wide open and I love that.

[Let me know if you'd be okay with me sharing your poem? And oh, if you like to send me another prompt, I would love that.]

And I wanted to give you some advice on slam poetry performances, I have a bit of an experience with them. The surgical metaphor is indeed apt, there is some vulnerable to stand in front of a group of people to carve out yourself into words and see it take on a meaning for everyone differently. But, revel in that vulnerable state and see how that conveys meaning. Focus on a spot in the room and speak to it and let meaning take its own hold. And remember, even if you don't get the reception you are hoping for, hold onto the meaning that you initially wrote it with. How your poetry affects you in the end is what matters. And good luck! Let me know how it goes.

[I didn't know about the new Siken book. Do you know if it has a name? I'll have to look it up whenever it releases.]

Ahh, and I love the idea of listening favourite lines of poems, I might start doing that with my favourite poems too.

[Also, I know it's in the name, but there's something about the way Wishbone is written that it makes you keep as if you are splintering into bits and dissolving. Especially in the bit where he goes I wish you'd stop reminding about the debt because you can do nothing about it and even if you love me, it is not the way I want.; Please let me go, I cannot let you be in my debt anymore.]

Jericho Brown? Iconic. The cyclical nature of the form as well as it is sort of the same line all the while not being the same line is such a beautiful way to express the repetition, but all how each cycle in a way is different than the last one.

I loved Chen Chen's poem. The way God chooses to escape from his own reality through someone who does not believe enough in him to question him at first it beautiful. And what hits me is how God stops and creates a barrier again by sending the angel as soon as he is questioned in adjacent to his role in the universe. What interests me is how the atheist (I know it does not mention atheism directly, but close enough) is sent an angel and later meet with God, and therefore, the relation that they form is a meaningful bond between two individuals rather than being a power dynamic with the worshipped and the devotee.

There's something about Ledesma's stories about hopelessness in her both protagonists. In the same way, both are extremely tired of their circumstances and want to be somewhere else in perhaps a better versions of their selves. The scattered prose certainly draws it very strongly together.

And finally, to drop a rec of my own, let me know what you think of Ada Limon's "The Problem With Travel" and "Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds." They both are very beautiful poems.

Hope to hear from you soon! :)

#Cat anon #poetry

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multicolouredbeanbag · 4 years

Text

pt 3 sorting characters into hogwarts houses

Part 1 Part 2

Tl;dr: April Stevens is a Hufflepuff who projects Slytherin; at her core she is a loyalist and she values community, even though her definition of a community has become GREATLY limited due to… reasons.

so here’s the thing. April looks like a Slytherin. She talks like a Slytherin. She walks like a Slytherin. But I don’t think she actually IS a Slytherin.

Today I defend the idea that April Stevens is actually a Hufflepuff (primary, ie. her motivations/values) and a Ravenclaw secondary (methods/tactics). I absolutely love this character even tho she is a lil mean, and I think that viewing her through this framework does justice to her complexities/core of who she is.

I mention the primary/secondary sorting hats system in Part 1 so feel free to google that or read my other analyses first.

Spoilers below:

Let’s talk about April’s secondary first, which addresses the HOW of person. How they approach situations, how they problem solve.

HP canon often posits Ravenclaws as the “intelligent” character, and while April IS very smart, that’s not why I consider her a Ravenclaw.

April is a HUGE planner and collector of information. She likes to be prepared because it gives her control over a situation. She’s an excellent strategizer. She’s less comfortable with improvising without having some tools/contingency plans to draw from, so when she’s stressed, she has a tendency to fall back on the tools that she’s brought with her (in contrast to Sterling, who absolutely thrives in improvisation)

My first example is the debate tournament - as team captain, she’s in it to win it. Her strategy of choice is to prepare detailed dossiers on all the other team captains. This works well enough for her, until opponent debater Craig pulls a move she couldn’t anticipate (using his own research against her), and she falls to pieces. Still, she takes some time, gathers herself again, and pressures Sterling to use the dossier on Craig to take him down (contingency plan).

Other examples:

Asked Sterling to debate her when deciding whether to come out or not - girl RUNS on logic

April’s approach to school is very organized/planning based, she’s also kind of a major nerd OBVIOUSLY, so this is a more conventional representation of her Ravenclaw-ness

S1E1, she snatches the condom wrapper but retreats with the information probably for processing purposes. She makes a plan - use threat of exposure to blackmail Sterling into giving her the fellowship position, and doesn’t deviate from it, even when the plan fails. Sterling has to save her from that situation ultimately.

This is a little more vague, but I’m thinking about how April comes off as a rigid, somewhat inflexible character. She’s not very easily persuaded to change her behavior (this, of course, makes so much sense! When you think about being gay in the south like? Her reluctance to come out is completely understandable) which contrasts very severely against Sterling’s expressive fluidity. April is a lot more static, and part of that is because it’s difficult for her to thrive when it’s an area that she hasn’t had the opportunity to prepare/plan/study.

Now for the much more interesting and complicated part, April’s PRIMARY.

Again, the Primary is all about WHY someone does something. Their motivations and values. I argue that April Stevens is a true Hufflepuff because she places utmost importance on community.

The HP canon defining qualities of being Hufflepuff are patience and loyalty. It’s the fair and inclusive house. However, it would be reductive to suggest that all Hufflepuffs are friendly, warm individuals. They are bonded together not by their shared amity, but by their value of people and groups—community.

April’s “community” on the show is unfortunately tied to her family and the Christian community. She fears not belonging (bc homophobia) so she overcompensates by conforming aggressively (see, Straight-Straight alliance S1E1).

The episode that really sold this analysis for me was S1E7, when April and Sterling had a number of conversations about April’s dad.

April: “My dad used to call my family a team. And I worked so hard to be the very best version of myself because Team Stevens wins. Teams Stevens is perfect, except that it’s not.”

With these words, we get some insight into why she’s so intense and high-achieving and obsessive all the time. It’s not so much because she wants to win for herself, it’s more the fact that she’s part of a team. She does her part for the team by excelling everywhere she thinks it counts, and of course her underlying gayness contributes to her NEED to be perfect. In practice, it comes off as personal ambition, which is why April seems, at least on the surface, pretty slytherin-y. In reality, it must be more about compensating for something she feels she lacks. Team Stevens can’t be perfect if they’re ostracized by the community due to their (only?) child being gay, so of course she has to keep it to herself, and she has to be the best on all other counts so no one can ever touch them.

Another example, S1E6, at the tournament April says, “You know what’s going on with my family right now; we have become the black sheep of the entire community. I needed a win!” She projects her personal problems onto external academic goals.

This framework of achievement as a prerequisite of community, flawed as it is, seemed to be working for her, at least up until her dad was arrested for attacking a prostitute. In a conversation with Sterl, back when April was trying to steal the fellowship title:

S: Why are you doing this? Is it because of what’s going on with your family?

A: What John did is his problem.

S: He’s still your dad.

A: I don’t care. He beat up a prostitute! I’m not a fan of sex workers but they deserve to be safe!

She obviously feels confused and hurt that her dad lied to her and was violent to women, which is something she cannot stand. For a while, she drops her father like a hot potato, throwing away his letters from jail and ignoring his calls. Hufflepuffs value people—fair is fair.

But she kind of still supports him at the end anyway, when he comes home (s1E10). She must be feeling so conflicted when this happens. Dad is a part of family (established community) therefore she has to support him. Dad possibly hurt someone, but then he did get cleared of his charges. April is essentially making a choice between Dad and Sterling, established community vs. possible (in fact PROBABLE) community alienation.

Hufflepuff and Slytherins are both loyalists because they both care about people—Hufflepuff because they’re people, Slytherin because they’re THEIR people. For all intents and purposes, by S1E10, Sterling is one of April’s “people.” So how does April choose? She goes with the established community, which is really to say she chooses culture and tradition.

April has spent her entire life locking away a significant part of herself for the sake of her family and more generally, her religious community. In S1E8/S1E9, April is almost convinced to come out—FOR Sterling. She probably would have gone through with it were it not for her dad showing up the next episode. April obviously has (justified) reservations about coming out because it’s honestly pretty dangerous to be out in the south, and these circumstances haven’t changed just because she found a girl that she likes. But she is reluctantly on board because Sterling would have been there to take the leap with her… at this point, April had expanded her definition of community to include Sterling, and for a moment Sterling’s optimism had broken past April’s defenses. Then her dad comes back, and April realizes that she has to make a choice even though this choice hurts them both terribly—Sterling is after all, one person, and what is one person in the face of boundless historical tradition and family values?

Hufflepuff morality tends to be influenced by external inputs, while Slytherin morality tends to come from the internal, the gut. Hufflepuffs can and will ignore their internal feelings when they contradict with the needs of the community. Slytherins are less easily swayed by external influences if they are sure they are right.

April has shrunk down her loyalties to a more manageable level (truly, a very LIMITED circle), but still prioritizes fairness and loyalty and of course, second chances. It’s partly why she’s open to reconnecting with her father. Maintaining these loyalties comes at the cost of her relationship with Sterling, but this is something April is willing to do: self-sacrifice for (greater) community.

Just to take a step back, April and Sterling’s relationship back in 5th grade is just… fascinating. In S1E6, we find out that April’s whole grudge against Sterling comes from when Sterling “gave her away” to another group at recess. An odd event that they both remember differently, and who can say what really happened? All we know is that April’s animosity comes from this perceived slight— the abandonment by someone she once trusted and considered part of her community. It’s very telling that their rivalry stems from this particular moment, the fracturing of a loyalty, as opposed anything else.

April: “the past is the past, we’re all adults here” but alsooo April, >:’(

Another example: at the tournament, when April is trying to convince Sterling to use the dirt on Craig to secure their win.

S: I don’t know if I can stoop that low.

A: He did it to me!

April’s first instinct was a quid pro quo, you attack me, my group will attack you. Which is why she is so offended that Sterling refuses to take the shot, because in April’s mind, it’s only fair. This exchange supports the idea that April considers community first, ambition second.

I like to think that April hides her vulnerable side, her honest hopes and dreams, behind her external perfectionism and ambition. I like to think that she cares a lot, that she’s a prickly, distrustful, kind of Hufflepuff who craves validation because she thinks it’s a substitute for connection. And I would like to see her find that type of community, that she and EVERYBODY deserves: love that doesn’t contain (in her words) “a post condition that we follow their rules for love.”

#teenage bounty hunters #tbh #april stevens #sterling wesley #stepril #devon hales #character analysis #hp houses #ok but if the tbh characters actually did go to hogwarts april would HUNDO P be in slytherin #it's alllll about the choice #gotta live up to the clearly elite pureblood upbringing that she would have #an abrasive intense gal trying her best #I LOVE APRIL STEVENS and devon if ur reading this? love u too #y'all i'm not religious but is it obvious who I project onto?#if u read the tags #thank u

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