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1800titz · 2 months

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HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic.

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second.

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night.

It’s a cute shop.

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort.

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery.

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him.

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue.

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote.

“Oh, I’m just looking.”

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge.

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples.

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.”

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.”

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there.

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.”

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?”

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?”

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.”

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment.

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.”

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.”

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence.

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.”

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels.

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink.

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.”

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space.

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy.

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.”

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate.

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.”

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin.

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.”

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s.

Yeah.

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay.

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.”

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work.

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue.

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs.

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length.

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt.

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.”

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me.

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows.

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off.

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up.

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again.

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders.

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more.

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones.

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior.

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child.

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.”

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs.

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together.

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider.

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it.

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert.

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top.

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.”

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together.

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.”

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.”

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic.

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.”

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes.

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things.

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.”

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?”

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.”

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece.

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.”

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?”

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.”

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin.

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?”

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.”

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.”

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.”

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.”

This is The Turning Point.

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked.

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.”

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both.

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash.

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from.

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.”

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?”

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?”

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.”

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling.

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting.

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.”

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed.

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.”

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.”

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.”

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her.

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it.

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?”

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.”

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights.

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.”

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time.

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres.

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay.

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with.

Christ.

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands.

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face.

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.”

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again.

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.”

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features.

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.”

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.”

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation.

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.”

“Thank you. What now?”

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.”

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse.

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?”

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.”

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet.

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging.

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?”

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.”

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

#harry styles #harry styles smut #(ish)? there’s a lot of innuendos in this one #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles valentine’s day fic #valentine’s day fic

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ms--lobotomy · 2 months

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Short, dirty daemon Fulgrim fic made in defiance of God and all He deems holy. May write another bit of it in the future. Who knows.

—-

Summary: You tried to hide from your town’s invaders, but a certain snake daemon takes a liking to you.

Word Count: 800

TW: dubcon, general 40kness, this isnt the smuttiest thing I’ve written but I felt the most dirty writing this. Have fun

—-

Your hiding spot wasn’t perfect, but it was the best that you were able to come by. Twisted men in violet armor roared past you, never thinking to check the cabinet in what used to be a building. In a hurry you’d pulled out all of the silverware and ripped out the shelves of the cabinet, and you waited. You waited amidst the screams of your fellow civilians, amidst the grinding and tearing of flesh. You waited as the sounds grew louder, and as rubble moved and shifted near you.

You tensed up. You had nowhere to run. You had heard rumors of men in violet armor, men that either killed or took prisoners. Being killed was the preferable option. They would do unspeakable things to the survivors, all in the name of pleasure and sensation. They’d spared you all the gory details, but you were able to fill in the blanks.

You heard the crackling of dish against dish outside of your hiding spot. It was almost as if someone was sifting through it, trying to make sense of the random assortment of pottery. You tried to suppress your breathing, taking short, quiet breaths every so often. But in the end, it was futile.

“I can hear you in there, you know,” you heard a voice coo at you. Before you knew it, the cabinet doors were open, and you were being scooped up by four arms and held close to an armored chest. The man… the being who had taken you had a long snake tail trailing behind him, and some of his stark white hair fell onto you.

“Let me go!” you cried as you kicked and screamed. But your efforts were futile. His grip on you was firm, and he was maybe twice your size. His wings folded around you, almost completely cloaking you. He slithered back from where he came, towards a violet ship from which more disfigured men came. Some of the men closer to you stopped to stare and you, and some of them reached for you as if to pry you from your captor.

“Find your own human,” he snapped at his men. Your writhing became weaker and weaker until he reached the ship and you were exhausted in his arms.

He chuckled. “We’ve barely begun, darling,” he said as he slithered up the ramp into the strange ship.

The hallways were cramped. The thing that took you could barely fit through the halls, but he navigated them with ease. “Let’s find a private room, shall we?” he asked. You tensed up, and he threw his head back in laughter.

“You’re going to learn to like it,” he hissed in your ear before finding a door that he could barely fit through and opening it. It was almost empty, save for a mirror and some various items on the floor. He carried you into the room before shutting the door, pulling out a key and locking it. He set you down so that you would face the mirror. Your face was flushed with horror and something else.

“You’re so cute when you struggle,” he remarked. “Please. Would you do me the honor of taking off your clothes?”

“And if I refuse?” Your voice was faint and wavering.

“Oh, do I have to do all of this myself?” he asked, pinning you to the wall with two arms and taking off your clothes with the other two. “You’re really making this hard for me, you know.” He cast them aside as if they were nothing, and you were stark naked in front of him now. You could swear that he was a little smaller than he was, though he still towered over you.

He grabbed ahold of your face with his free hands and mashed his onto yours, immediately adding his tongue into the mix. A slight “mmph-“ escaped your mouth, and you went limp in his arms. Before you knew it, though, he lifted his face from yours and turned his attention to the items that scattered the floor.

“You would look so good in rope,” he mused, picking up some rope off the ground. He held your arms behind you and tied them up in a practiced maneuver before doing the same to your legs. When he was finished, he turned you around to look at yourself in the mirror. Here you were, reduced to nothing but a plaything for this monstrosity. What was even stranger was that you didn’t exactly hate it either. He trailed two hands along your body, stopping at your chest. He grabbed you there, and your face scrunched up.

“Sensitive?” he asked, his fingers pinching your nipples. You felt a noise escape you.

“Get ready. We’re going to be in for a long night.”

You nodded.

#warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #fulgrim x reader #reader insert #fulgrim #warhammer lobotomy #im not getting into heaven with this one

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flowerishness · 4 months

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Art Deco

Maybe the rarest tea cup in the collection is this Shelley 'Cloisonne Black Crackle Chintz' pattern made between 1925 and 1945. Shelley Potteries was established in mid-1800s in Staffordshire, England. However, Shelley is probably best known for its fine bone china "Art Deco" ware of the inter-War years.

#flowers #photographers on tumblr #Art Deco #Shelley 'Cloisonne Black Crackle Chintz'#tea cups #flores #fiori #fleurs #blumen #bloemen #Vancouver

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ok-pop-1 · 5 months

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god gave me feet so i could run (and instead i stood and came undone)

a drabble inspired by @breannasfluff's eldritch wild series :)

---

Smoke and ash and a burning, smoldering oil, like the scent of a gas lantern fills his nostrils. Mixed in is cold, dead coals and ice and the sharp needles of pine. A moonless night in a glade should be comforting, should be familiar, but it overwhelms him, fills him through and nearly guts him in its intensity, in its animosity.

Midna laughs under his feet, where his shadow moves without his consent. “Still scared of me, farmer boy?” she hisses in his mind.

“No,” he says out loud, because it doesn’t matter if he is. Because he can’t act like it because his shadow exists under all his clothes, because her needle-like teeth could sink into him and rip his throat out before he realizes--

“Good.” Another cackle follows the statement, ghostly fingers smoothing over his neck and leaving burned, crumbling flesh in their wake. “You Hylians never know who you should actually be scared of.”

It’s a long time before he understands her words. It’s a long time before the ice-cold crackle of burning coals under his feet and the dripping weight of oil riding his back become familiar, welcome sensations. Before losing them feels like some part of his soul has been wrenched away and thrown into the ink-black sea that bore his friend.

It’s a long time before he stops expecting to feel the whisper she left behind.

It’s a long time before he feels something like it again.

The kid washes over him almost without warning. And at first, he jerks away, no longer used to the sensation of a fog rolling through and choking out his breath, of how the light of dusk is too little to see in but enough that you think you can, of dusty fingers leaving dirt in their wake and sharp teeth at his neck--

Everyone else tends to skitter away from Wild’s very being, and he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs the kid’s hand and imprints the memory of rotten bark and rain on dead leaves into his palm, into his being.

“Ain’t it funny,” he asks with a wink, “how Hylians ne’er know who ta be afraid of?”

Whispers and words churn behind him, the others wondering what he could mean, and he ignores them. Because the kid’s too-blue eyes flicker over his form before a grin breaks over his face like a piece of pottery cracking open, and the hand he holds grips him back like he’s the shadow Wild’s been looking for, too.

---

read on ao3

#legend of zelda #linked universe #lu #loz #lu twilight #lu wild #fiction #my fic #the title is long because my brain is just like that ig #the shorter the fic the longer the title #it's a scientific fact

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muffinsin · 4 months

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At last starting out on Cassie’s part in this! ;)

Bela’s part can be found HERE

Let’s get into it! ;)

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

You bite your own lip in anger as you stare at Cassandra in front of you, a pout on her lips, her hand dangerously close to the glass on the table.

“Pay attention to me!”, she demands. You could roll your eyes at your little brat.

“Cassandra, I’m working. I’ll play with you after”, you reassure. She has none of it.

You gasp as she moves her hand, promptly knocking the glass off the table.

She eyes you, excitement bubbling within her. You don’t grant her the satisfaction of a reaction.

With golden eyes set on you, the brat then moves on to the second glass. “Cassandra-“, you attempt to stop her, but the glass is already knocked of the table.

She smirks, as if impressed with herself. Now you are paying attention to her!

You grow furious at the brat when her hand moves to a vase standing on the table. “Cassandra!”, you yell when she moves it a little. The brunette giggles at this.

“Ohohhhh, so scary!”, she crackles, her eyes shining with excitement. This is so much better than torturing the prisoners!, she thinks.

You feel your hands and eye twitching in anger when she pushes the vase closer to the table edge.

“Cassandra!”

You leap for it, hoping to catch the expensive pottery, but it’s no use. By the time you make it to her, Cassandra is crackling with laughter and the vase is on the ground.

She gasps when her jaw is grabbed tightly and you pull her against you. You practically see the arousal and excitement in her eyes.

“You filthy little brat!”, you curse. Cassandra giggles, her hand reaching for another glass. You grip her wrist tightly and pull it from the table.

“Oh come o-OAH!”, she shrieks when you suddenly push her harshly against the table edge, your hand pushing down on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and forcing her to bend over.

“What are you doing?!”, she gasps when her dress is lifted. She blushes hotly with embarrassment as her panties are revealed.

This is such a compromising situation…in public no less!

“What I’m doing, is putting an entitled little brat in her place”, you snarl. She feels you use your belt to tie her wrists behind her back and squirms as her black, thin panties are tugged up.

“You’ve been an insufferable brat today, Cassandra”, you curse. She shrieks when a harsh slap is delivered on her ass cheeks, bared due to the tugged and stretched panties.

Her arms yerk forwards, as if to reach to her face and stifle her moans. Never have you done such a thing to her in public! Any maiden could enter the dining hall and her reputation would be ruined!- her sisters could! God bless, her mother could!

You chuckle as you notice her squirms when she bites her lip. “Aww, don’t you want people to discover what a filthy brat you are, Lady Cassandra?”, you coo. Her pussy drools as her name is said, her title laced with sarcasm and mockery.

“Let me help you, my brat. Not that you’d deserve any help”, you coo.

She watches you reach forwards, her thighs spreading when it causes your bulge to rub up right against her thick ass. She mewls below you, squirming and attempting to get her tied hands on you.

“MGHM! Mgm’ey!”, she attempts to shriek upon having an apple you plucked from the fruit platter shoved into her mouth. It works as a relatively effective gag, although you can see the brunette’s fangs already pushing in and daring to split it in half.

It will not last long.

Cassandra shrieks at another slap to her ass, and another.

Another below, on her thick thighs. She groans and turns her head paranoid. What if someone was to discover them?!

You coo at her, delivering yet another loud smack to her behind.

“What is it, you poor thing? Afraid someone will walk in on the big, bad Cassandra Dimitrescu being punished like the little, entitled brat she is? Maybe it’ll serve as a lesson regarding manners and behaviour”, you coo. She growls, but this quickly turns into another whimper and whine as you spank her again.

She gasps when her panties are tugged again- wetness drools at their sides. She knows she’s soaked from the rough and mean treatment she’s receiving from you, and you know too. With proof, now.

You tsk at her, playfully dragging your fingertip against her soaked slit. She whimpers sweetly against the apple occupying her mouth.

“You’re dripping, Cassie”, you coo. She’s glad to be facing away from you, a warm blush taking over her entire face and the tip of her ears.

She whimpers as you stroke your fingertip along her slit, teasing. When you dip it against her clit, her hips buck adorably.

You notice her tug against the belt, and snicker. She’s in no position of power now, and the little brat knows it. Knows it, and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cassandra squirms when you tease her, fingers sliding against her soaked slit, her arousal apparent.

“Would you look at that”, you fake gasp, relishing in her moan when you push a finger inside her wet pussy.

“Someone likes this, hm?”, you coo. She squirms helplessly, moaning into the apple as your single finger thrusts. A shriek is heard when her ass is slapped again, and she clenches around you.

“My, Cassie. I know you like pain, but must you make it this obvious?”, you scold teasingly. “People might mistake you for a little painslut if you keep this up”

Her head feels dizzy, overwhelmed with her own arousal. She squirms beautifully on the table, her thighs soft and warm, her pussy even more so.

Another slap against her ass. You enjoy the contrast of the red on her cheeks to the rest of her pale skin.

And another.

Cassandra feels dizzy by the fifth one. Her flesh is on fire, and she loves it.

The bratty thing moans into her makeshift gag helplessly, her arousal so clear, her hips grinding as though to feel more of your finger inside of her. You know your girlfriend will not be able to get off with a mere one, no matter how hard the poor thing tries.

“Come on now, before you drool all over your mother’s desk, Lady Cassandra”, you tease playfully, grabbing her by the belt around her wrists.

She is pulled up and shrieks as you pull her along, one hand on the belt while also keeping her dress lifted. Her naughty, lace panties do a poor job of covering her, and drool runs down her chin.

The thought of being discovered this way is both humiliating and arousing to her, yet she tugs wildly and whimpers helplessly all the way until you at last reach her room.

Cassandra gasps and attempts to curse the moment the apple is taken from her, yet is quietened when instead she feels your fingers pushing down on her tongue.

Including the one used to fuck her.

She hums and moans eagerly, hips grinding yet again. She sucks your fingers greedily, eyes closed and focused on her task.

You chuckle at her, and Cassandra feels herself being guided away from the closed door.

“You know, I’ve had some delicious plans with you, Cass”, you reveal. She grunts and gasps displeased when you push down on her shoulders roughly, promptly making her fall to her knees.

When you walk over to the closet, she looks at you eagerly.

Golden eyes widen as you take out a paddle, black and wide, capable of not only pleasuring her, but making her feel torn in two and set aflame.

She yearns to feel this one against her ass cheeks, slapping and bruising her skin as you discipline her. The thought almost makes her want to misbehave again.

Her eyes glisten with excitement when you set it down on the bed.

“However,…”, you state, digging through the drawer yet again.

“Of course, my slut just had to act out and be a little brat”

Golden eyes follow your arm, and as she sets her eyes on the leash and collar you’re holding, she gasps.

“Absolutely not!”, she shrieks, her arms tugging and knees pushing. You grip her shoulder tightly to keep her from standing up and smirk at the naughty excitement in her eyes.

“Don’t you know that little brats must be punished? Perhaps think of that before becoming one”, you scold.

She hisses when you grip a handful of brunette hair tightly, pulling and tipping her head back. She’s never been this wet.

“Now be a good little brat and let me leash you”

Cassandra feels as though she can cum from this alone.

She whimpers and moans, tied hands tugging with the urge to reach forwards and grab. She feels you remove her normal choker gently, instead clasp a collar on her that connects to a leash.

She gasps breathlessly when the leash is tugged and she falls forwards, caught merely by your grip on her jaw. “Are you going to behave now, you naughty thing?”

She presses her thighs together subtly, eyes darting to the paddle resting on the bed. You know what she wants.

“Do you seriously think you’ve been behaving well enough for that, Cass?”

No, instead she watches as you take another toy out- a slightly smaller dildo, yet long with a thick base and a suction function at the base, as well as some lube.

Led by the leash and cuffed by the belt, she follows you to the desk in her room. “We’re going to see if you can keep these manners up, darling”

She merely bites her lip in return, watching as you clear the desk of papers, weapons and pencils.

You don’t need to demand her to undress, instead smile satisfied when she easily swarms out of her dress, left only in the collar, leash, and the belt slung around her wrists.

Golden eyes watch eagerly when the toy it set on the desk, and a tongue darts out to lick dark painted lips.

“Get on there”

Cassandra giggles, and does so eagerly. She’s so needy, she’s overly eager to have something inside of her.

When her naked form straddles the toy, and its thick tip pushes against her soaked entrance, she realizes it might be larger than she first anticipated.

A tug on the leash has her attention back on you.

“Go on, then”, you demand lightly. She’s blushing sweetly, the brat in her tamed for the time being.

Cassandra moans as she is pushed down, the toy moving inside of her smoothly. She feels warm with it inside, her nipples hard and eyes closing for a moment.

“Now, bounce on it like a bunny”

Your whispered words make her golden eyes snap open, a small whimper slipping past her lips to betray her arousal even more.

She does as she is told, moaning and gasping as she rocks her hips and moves up and down on the toy, riding it like- for once- a good girl.

Her head is thrown back soon, her lips parted as she moans and pants for you.

For a while, you watch the pretty thing ruin herself for you. Her beautiful, smooth back arched, her nipples erect and standing for you, shivers breaking out on her pale skin.

“I-I need…!”, she gasps, her hips grinding up and down eagerly. Each time the toy moves within her, you hear the squelching sound coming from her went cunt.

“Shush, you don’t need a thing you aren’t given”, you answer strictly, cupping the whimpering woman’s breasts eagerly.

The more you grope and pull, knead and rub, the harder it is for her to hold back. She feels completely helpless and needy, her lips parted as she moans nonstop.

“A-AAH! Yes!”, she groans once she angles her hips just right. It’s such a delight to watch her, yet it feels like your patience is being tested- how much longer can you truly watch her ride the toy without taking her and ramming yourself into her?

As Cassandra gets closer, you notice her entire body becoming more sensitive. Simple brushes against her clit have the woman throw back her head, simple tugs on her nipples make her cry out her pleasure.

She moans as the leash is tugged again, hard, with the intention to yank her forwards yet again. She feels your lips on hers, your hands on her hips.

You guide her with your hands, encouraging a faster and rougher pace as she rides and gets closer to orgasm with each passing moment.

Her lips are warm against yours, her tongue easily dominated by yours in her hazed and submissive state.

You grin just as she feels herself get close, and watch her body language carefully.

Just as her legs shake uncontrollably, her hips twitch and her eyebrows furrow, you grip her hips tight enough to stop her movement. The leash is tugged and held tight.

The brunette gasps and whimpers, shrieks and curses, but you do not give in.

“You’ve been such a brat today, do you think you’ve still got the privilege to cum? No, my sweet bunny. But perhaps you can earn it back…”

Cassandra is momentarily stunned into silence, words taken as she is attempting to process being dominated, edged, teased and humiliated all at once.

She gasps, however, at another tug of the leash that has her fall forwards into your arms, and whimpers when she is already dragged from the table again.

With the dildo situation on the floor, she knows to once again sink down on it. Still, pleasure hits her at the mere sensation of the tip sliding back in, so that she already feels eager to cum again, despite your words.

Eager to earn back her privilege to cum, she opens her mouth the moment you allow your uniform to hit the floor.

As though tugging her by her body and hair wasn’t humiliating enough, you opt for using the leash to bring the brunette close between your legs.

You feel her blush against your thigh as she leans against it, beautiful, golden eyes looking up at you.

“Be good. Don’t bite”, you remind her as you catch the deviousness in those beautiful orbs.

Then, at last, you feel her wet mouth around you. Cassandra is all but slow with you, her lips wrapped tightly around you, her mouth closed.

She’s visibly enjoying herself as she begins to ride the toy within her yet again, only to imagine it’s you she’s riding this time. “Mghmmm”, she moans hotly, her tongue swirling around your warm cock.

Her hums send vibrations from your cock all the way up your spine and have you shiver as you groan from the pleasure given. Cassandra is overly aware of the leash held tightly in her hand.

“G-God, yes…”, you groan, your other hand coming up to cup the back of her head. She hums again, a smile forming on her lips at the reactions she is able to draw from you.

Her cunt grinds down against the toy eagerly, her moans muffled against your cock. She’s taking it deep inside of her, and feels how it fills her just right.

You’re feeling hot all over, the ticklish, bubbly feeling in your lower stomach all to familiar to you.

You feel her teeth drag against you teasingly, sharp and hard against your sensitive skin.

You give the leash a tug and grip her hair tightly, command enough to put the woman back in her place.

“Mghmm, mgGHM!”

Gags and muffled moans emit from her as the leash is tugged again and you slip fully inside, down her throat. You feel the collar on her, just how tight it sits on her neck.

She too, rides the toy desperately. Perhaps, she thinks, if only you’re too focused on your own orgasm, she can sneak one of her own!

“G-Good girl, mo-Ah! More!”

Her eyes shut as you thrust your hips forwards, your cock pushing down her throat and fucking it raw.

Cassandra moans as she too nears the edge, tears forming at her eyes as you make use of her tight throat.

Your balls slap against her chin roughly with every thrust into her mouth, and each time you pull out even slightly, you’re covered in more and more of her drool.

She needs only a little more-

She feels so close, so close! And your eyes are closed! Surely you can’t deny her this one!

Cassandra’s hips thrust wildly, her throat tightening around your cock every few moments.

Just when she feels so good and close again, she feels your thigh sling across her shoulder.

The new angle restraints her movement yet again, merely have her sink down on the dildo and deny her to ride it any longer. Additionally, this grants you to thrust deeper into her throat.

You feel white dots cover your vision for a moment, then scream your orgasm too.

Cassandra groans and whimpers as cum is shot down her throat, more and more until you’re done and pull yourself out. Cum and drool sticks to her mouth as well as your cock.

“My, and just when I thought you started to behave, my bunny. Maybe I will just need to punish you some more~”

#cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x reader #🇳🇱 dutch anon

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capriciouswriter207 · 3 months

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What does history sound like?

History sounds like the wind caressing the wheat, Gilded Helianthia would say. It is the sickles and scythes taking the harvest, the bubbling Helianthian brews, the clash of blades within the arena.

History sounds like the growl of blood sheep, Mythland would say. It is drops of blood hitting the group, the strange pulses of corruption, the careful whispers in the street.

History sounds like magic, the Crystal Cliffs would say. It is the simplest spells being cast daily, quills scribbling all sorts of incantations on parchment, the mighty roar of dragons.

History sounds like the forge, the Grimlands would say. It is metal hitting scalding hot metal, the echoes of pickaxes in a deep mine, the exasperated sighs of experiments gone wrong.

History sounds like paint strokes on clay creations, Mezalea would say. It is pottery shattering on the ground, the crackling flames that support the hot air balloons, the diss tracks against those who wronged them.

History sounds like the waves crashing ashore, the Cod and Ocean Empires would say. It is the song of the deep, the cry of the seagull, the music found within the shells.

History sounds like nature, the Overgrown and Undergrove would say. It's the howls of wolves during a full moon, the rustling of leaves, the chimes of amethyst and other crystals.

History sounds like a tiger on the prowl, the Lost Empire would say. It is parrots squeaking in the distance, the crumbling of ancient buildings, the ancient chants of the worshipers.

History sounds like gentle snowfall, Rivendell would say. It is the hail on the roofs, the crunch of snow under heavy boots, the bleating of sheep.

History sounds like the wind moving dunes, Pixandria would say. It is the crack of thunder on a clear day, the buzzing of the bees in a few small parks, gentle candle flames.

History sounds like the Dragon's death throes, the empires would say. The sound of history informs the present and lays the groundwork for the symphony of the future.

#empires smp s1 #This is what happens when I listen to a song I haven't heard in a while #“in your voice i hear the sound of history”#That's the specific line that inspired this #anyway guess I'm in a mood to write for empires now #might be a few more coming this week #and perhaps the next too #capricious writings

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queenofthedepths · 10 months

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How your Venus placement influences your senses 🌹🍰 PART ONE

We all know Venus as the planet of love, but did you know that this planet also has a direct impact on our sensory preferences and what we find to be pleasurable and luxurious? Whether it's textures, colors, scents, sounds, or tastes, the sign and house of Venus can play a significant role in shaping our experience with the 5 senses.

Although this is primarily focused on Venus, you can also check for your Moon sign and Sun sign.

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Venus in Aries/1st House:

Colors: Bold, bright, vivid colors. Eye-catching and fiery colors. Intense reds and oranges. Colors that resonate with their passionate and assertive nature. Electric blue, hot pink, or vibrant yellow. Colors that create strong visual contrast or appear daring. Warm hues such as gold, salmon, terracotta, maroon or burgundy may also be appealing.

Textures: Rough fabrics, leather, or metallic surfaces. Textures that are stimulating and invigorating. Sleek metals such as stainless steel or polished chrome. Fabrics with raised patterns, such as jacquard or brocade. Embossed leather, mesh netting, or rib-knit patterns could not only add more visual interest but could add a more intriguing tactile sensation.

Scents: Citrusy, spicy, or woody fragrances with a hint of zest or warmth. Scents that wake you up or give you a boost of energy. Smells such as cinnamon, ginger and black pepper or lemon, orange and grapefruit. Scents with exotic or adventurous undertones jasmine, ylang-ylang, or sandalwood. Or invigorating, stimulating fragrances such as peppermint, eucalyptus, bergamot.

Sounds: Beats that are lively and energetic, such as rock, pop or electronic music. Music with a strong sense of rhythm that makes you want to move or dance. Upbeat hip-hop, afrobeat, latin music or reggae can tap into their love for dynamic and spirited sounds. Songs with bold lyrics, anthemic qualities, and passionate vocals. Nature sounds such as crashing waves, chirping birds, roaring thunderstorms, or crackling fire.

Tastes: Flavors that are bold and adventurous. Spicy, tangy or intense flavors that give you a kick or can really stimulate your palate. Dishes that are well-seasoned and flavored with chili peppers, hot sauces or fiery spices. Citrus fruits and lemon-infused dishes. Savory, robust tastes such as grilled steaks, spicy barbecue, umami-packed sauces, or dishes seasoned with herbs like rosemary, thyme, or cumin.

Visuals: Imagery that evokes a sense of action and adventure. Watching sports, dance performances, action movies, fashion runways or looking at visually striking artworks. Visuals that convey movement. Live concerts, action-packed video games, adventure novels and media that depicts strong, confident individuals. Paintings, comics and films about courageous heroes, inspiring leaders, or fierce warriors. Spaces that are modern, edgy, provocative or avant-garde.

Venus in Taurus/2nd House:

Colors: Rich, earthy, soothing colors. Hues that remind them of nature such as greens, browns and jewel tones such as emerald, sapphire, and amethyst. Colors that evoke a sense of luxury and wealth such as burgundy, gold, or royal purple. Neutrals such as ivory, cream, or taupe can also be appealing as they create a sense of elegance and sophistication.

Textures: Silk, velvet, and cashmere. Soft, luxurious fabrics that are comforting to the touch and evokes a sense of coziness. Suede and felted wool. Plush materials such as knitwear and faux fur. Smooth marble, polished wood, and ceramic pottery offer them a good balance between refinement and natural elements. Fabrics made from natural fibers such as cotton, hemp, or bamboo, which offer a soft and breathable feel against the skin.

Scents: Floral, earthy, or warm scents. Natural smells such as rose, freshly cut grass, jasmine and honeysuckle. Fragrances that bring a sense of tranquility and help connect them to nature or scents that evoke feelings of comfort and luxury. Sensual and inviting smells such as patchouli, amber or musk. Rich, decadent scents such as warm vanilla, cinnamon, cocoa or juicy scents such as ripe strawberries, luscious peach, or creamy coconut.

Sounds: Gentle, soothing melodies. The calming sounds of nature such as birds singing, rustling leaves, ocean waves, or rain falling. Music that provides a comforting ambience such as soft instrumental music, acoustic folk songs, or smooth jazz. Music that is serene and atmospheric. Amorous, sultry, sensual tunes such R&B ballads, bossa nova or classical slow-tempo romantic songs.

Tastes: Rich, decadent flavors. Foods that are sweet, creamy and evoke a sense of sensuality like caramel, honey, or desserts made with ripe and luscious fruits. Earthy or hearty flavors are also appealing such as roasted vegetables, grilled meats, flavorful stews or dishes seasoned with herbs like rosemary, thyme, sage or basil. Comfort foods such as mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, or creamy soups. Indulgent tastes like rich red wine and decadent chocolate.

Visuals: Images that are elegant, refined, and comforting. Natural landscapes such as lush green forests, blooming flowers, and serene mountains. Classical architecture, graceful artworks, and interiors that exude a sense of sophistication and timeless beauty. Floral arrangements and glamorous spaces. Media such as period dramas, romance movies, nature documentaries, artistic performances or cooking shows.

Venus in Gemini/3rd House:

Colors: Vibrant, lively and bold colors. Shades that are eye-catching and stimulate the senses such as sunny yellow, electric blue, or bright orange. Color combinations that contrast with each other such as complementary colors or black and white. May also enjoy multi-colored patterns or psychedelic hues.

Textures: Silk, chiffon, and organza. Fabrics that are light, airy and easy to move in. Sheer and feather-light materials. Textured surfaces that stimulate them such a raised patterns, embossed leather, or embroidery. Could also be drawn to smooth and glossy textures like satin or metal. Likely to enjoy mixing and matching, so they can get the best of both worlds.

Scents: Fresh, bright, clean scents. Citrus fragrances such as lemon, orange, or grapefruit. Light and airy floral scents like lavender, or rose. Clean linen, cotton or ocean breeze. Smells that evoke a sense of freshness and energy. Eucalyptus and peppermint. May also enjoy exotic or spicy scents such as cinnamon or cardamom. May be drawn to fragrances that blur the lines between masculine and feminine.

Sounds: Upbeat, energetic, and eclectic. Lively genres such as pop, rock, or electronic can appeal to them. Playful beats like hip-hop or swing music. Experimental sounds such as alternative, indie, or avant-garde music. Music with engaging lyrics, meaningful messages, or witty wordplay. Podcasts and audiobooks that provide stimulating information or storytelling. Social ambience such as busy coffee shops or bustling city streets.

Tastes: Versatile and adventurous flavors. Dishes with a diverse blend of seasonings or ones that incorporate exotic fruits and vegetables such as dragon fruit or lychee. They usually enjoy trying cuisine from all over the world and being exposed to new flavors. Fusion dishes the blend different cultures together. Flavors that are light, fresh and invigorating such as crisp salads with zesty dressings, citrus-infused dishes, or light and refreshing desserts

Visuals: Imagery that is vibrant, playful, and dynamic. Visuals that evoke a sense of whimsy and humor. Designs with intricate patterns, unexpected color combinations, or visual illusions that help stimulate the mind and evoke curiosity. Films that make you laugh, thought-provoking documentaries, and mystery dramas that leave you wondering what happens next. Multimedia artworks, graphics that convey movement, street or travel photography.

Venus in Cancer/4th House:

Colors: Soft, muted, pastel colors. Baby blue, pale pink, lavender, and mint green. Colors that evoke a sense of comfort such as soft brown or warm terracotta. Or colors the remind them of the moon and night sky such as black, white and silver. Antique whites, faded yellows, or sepia tones can evoke a sense of sentimental charm and evoke memories of the past.

Textures: Lace, cashmere, fleece and velvet. Fabrics that are delicate, soft and cozy. Smooth materials such as marble, satin or silk. Cozy knits and fluffy blankets that provide a sense of warmth and security. Fabrics like cotton, linen or bamboo can also help them feel comforted and grounded, as it offers a sense of connection to the natural world.

Scents: Homey, nurturing, aquatic scents. Fragrances like jasmine, rose, lily, or violet that evoke feelings of romance and tenderness. Sweet and warm aromas such as vanilla, honey, caramel or cinnamon and nutmeg can provide a sense of warmth and comfort. Fragrances that remind them of home and nurturing environments like freshly baked goods, clean sheets, or baby powder. And smells that remind them of the ocean or the sea breeze.

Sounds: Heartfelt, nostalgic, and sentimental. Music that stirs their emotions, that expresses deep feelings, vulnerability, or explores themes of love, home and childhood. Calming nature sounds like ocean waves, falling rain, or singing birds. Vocalists that convey warmth and comfort with soft-spoken words and soothing tones. Soulful music, folk or acoustic could be something they enjoy. As well as any vintage music.

Tastes: Home-cooked, traditional flavors. Comfort foods like mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, soups, stews, or warm baked goods. Flavors that remind them of their ancestral roots or helps them feel connected to their heritage. Foods with fresh and nurturing ingredients. Organic and locally sourced foods. Indulgent desserts such as pies, cakes and creamy puddings. Sweet and savory combinations such as maple-glazed bacon, pineapple pizza or salted caramel.

Visuals: Imagery that is inviting, serene, and nostalgic. Vintage photographs, retro fashion, or images that capture bygone eras. Comfortable, well-decorated spaces with warm lighting, plush textiles, and sentimental objects. Nature scenes that involve water such as tranquil beaches, lakes or gently flowing rivers. Images that have a dreamy, ethereal quality. Preferred media genres may include: fantasy, romance, historical, vintage, cartoons or family-oriented media.

#venus #astrology #venus signs #my post #venus and the senses #aries venus #taurus venus #gemini venus #cancer venus

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closingwaters · 5 months

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TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @kadavernagh @closingwaters

SUMMARY: Regan feels a pull that differs from the dead, and stumbles upon Teagan. With a scream, she manages to set the nix free.

WARNINGS: None

The discovery, like many great ones, had been an accident. A happy one, maybe, if Regan could feel such a thing. Screaming near the hardened goop along Worm Row was out of frenzied desperation – there wasn’t enough time to get somewhere more isolated, and most people had learned to stay away from the substance’s margins by now. It had been a good instinct; there was no one there. But when the scream came, the ooze quaked, flying from the pavement and the trees like cracked pieces of pottery. Underneath, green leaves sprawled from the branches, as all of the others that had been outside of the goop had already shaken off their fall colors. Like it was preserved.

Did that mean those trapped underneath might still be alive? She couldn’t feel any death radiating from the area, but that didn’t mean much in the face of the unknown. It was dwarfed by a far larger question: could they be freed? She needed to think on this, what it might mean. Tell someone, maybe. There was a thought. Who could she even tell? I screamed at the goo and it exploded. Elias would think she was insane. Jade would think her strange…er. Emilio… well, that could work, but could she stomach it?

Regan stuffed her hands in her pockets and pulled in a long breath. The cold air was irritating to her lungs after screaming, making her skin prickle all the way from her neck to her –

No, that wasn’t the cold. It was weak, but unmistakable. The presence of fae. Everything was heightened right now, her muscles exercised in the way they needed to be, her attention sharp as a scalpel. She easily identified the origin. A tall projection sticking up from the goo, right at the edge. About the size of a person. As Regan tread closer and the light bounced off the rough angles of the structure, she could pick a face out of it. Limbs. Features. Familiarity. Teagan.

Her stomach hardened like the substance she was staring down. She knew what needed to be done. Cliodhna would have said Fate brought her here today and showed her the path. Regan couldn’t refute that. Óinseach, she berated herself; she knew well how the burden of proof worked, but often, that changed nothing.

There was no point on asking Teagan. Regan knew better than to rest her hand on the substance. Touching it obviously hadn’t gone well for Teagan, or countless others. And then there was the scream. If she had a hand on Teagan, even with the hardened goo in between, it could kill her.

This one, at least, would not be so torturous. Regan reeled a deep breath, winding herself. She shuffled backwards, probably further than she needed to, but she didn’t want to risk the harm. The scream behaved, exploding out, the force of it covering the ooze. And as a fissure crackled through Teagan, Regan chose to focus on the lack of death filling her lungs. She’d survive this yet.

The coarse embrace of whatever the goo was began to loosen, the textured connection retreating its grasp. There was nothing. For a long while, lungs burned and vision remained obscured, pain sweeping under skin like tremors of an earthquake and ears catching final muffled remnants of a hollow and terrifying scream. All this, accompanied by the clanking of a toppling bucket.

Teagan gasped as her tomb crumbled around her, setting her free. Knees buckled, a struggled whimper escaping her while she surveyed her blurry surroundings. Several sensations and discomforts attacked her at once, the most jarring being a crisp and chilling breeze. It was warm the last time she had been graced with the dance of wind on her skin. The startling realization sent her to the ground in an unceremonious bundle of weak limbs.

“Where…” She trailed off, voice catching painfully on her jagged throat. Her entire body felt too dry, the last drops of water from the bucket next to her not being enough to sate her. “Water. Water.” Teagan all but begged for it, only just then able to put together the blurry set of colors in front of her. Regan. Why was she there anyway? She wondered blearily, attempting to roll over to her hands and knees to crawl. It was futile, and she remained on her side, looking pitifully at Regan.

“What happened?”

The hardened covering cracked and then practically exploded, revealing the trapped individual underneath. Regan was quick to clamp her mouth shut. Teagan was free. Anything more would just vibrate her organs and bones into a different kind of goo. “Teagan?” Between the scream and whatever sensory overload she must have been experiencing right now, Regan didn’t really expect the woman to hear her. She barely appeared to register she was there. But as scared eyes found her own, Regan tried again. “Teagan. You’re out.”

She hadn’t exactly planned on helping out a giant, pink amphibian. What she had would have to suffice. Regan reached into her bag and pulled out her water bottle, placing it carefully in Teagan’s shaking hands. Pink as she was, she still looked pale, sickly.

“Come on. We need to –” She couldn’t decide what was more pressing – examining Teagan or getting her out of pedestrian sight while she looked this way. She probably couldn’t even hold a glamour up. Yeah, she needed to get out of here. “Can you move?” That was negatory, Regan realized, as Teagan rolled on her side like an obedient dog. Not good. Regan crouched down, offering a hand to Teagan, her other arm supporting her from behind. “I think… I think we both have questions. You must be disoriented. I don’t even know how long you were in there.” She surely didn’t either. They’d need to figure that out. Or, actually, Arden would know. Right, Arden. That was the proper place to bring Teagan.

Regan started shepherding Teagan toward the car, one shuffling step at a time. She couldn’t help but notice the tail – her tail – was longer, though however long she was trapped in the goo probably halted her healing. “I felt your presence from under the… substance. I thought I could get you out by screaming. So I did.” Which begged the question: were there others?

Right. They both had questions, and in a public space neither one could have them answered. That’s when Teagan realized the state she was in. Her glamour was down. “Shit…shit.” No matter how hard she tried, the illusion would not comply. The veil failed to conceal her true nature, and Teagan had no other choice than to force her body to will itself off the ground. She was grateful for Regan’s help, almost surprised at the strength she displayed. Teagan had nearly all her bodyweight resting on the banshee, and she only saw a tinge of extra effort. Though, given what the woman’s job likely entailed, it made sense for her to be able to lift above her own weight.

“You could sense me even through that?” She chuckled lightly, no humor able to be found in such a pathetic sound. “I appreciate what you did. Don’t even know how long I was trapped in there.” Teagan breathed shallowly, struggling to keep her feet moving one in front of the other. What should’ve been a daily task became a painful chore, nearly sinking whatever optimism was left in the nix. If she focused on it any longer, she was sure it was leave her completely, so she refocused on Regan and her car.

“What is today?” She asked hoarsely, “It was October, last I remember.” Her brows sewed together, terrified at the answer she might receive. “Feels much colder than when I fell in. I was on my way to Arden.” Teagan’s eyes widened with worry, thinking of her partner. “Is she okay? Is she free? Did she…” The nix could only imagine where Arden’s mind went. Surely she believed she was dead. How long had she been grieving? How long had Teagan’s stupidity caused her girlfriend to be in pain? She stifled a sob, opening the door and fell into the passenger seat, chugging the water so quickly that much of it splashed onto her face.

The strain and weight of Teagan’s muscles was immense, but Regan held firm, trying her best to heft Teagan toward the car. Gradually, she seemed to be waking up from her haze, questions obviously flooding her mind. And soon, Regan’s ears.

October. So it had been over a month, and perhaps closer to two. “It’s November 26th.” Patient now oriented to time and place, Regan thought wryly. “Don’t worry about that now. There is nothing more pressing than getting you stabilized.” How she was alive, Regan wasn’t sure, but she surely needed food and water. The goo must have kept her in some kind of a… stasis. She tried to steady Teagan as she opened the door for her. “Sit. I want you to sit for a minute before we leave.”

Selfishly, Regan kind of needed that too. This was making her head spin. Which was something her lungs didn’t take kindly to.

More questions. “She’s fine. She –” Well, best not overplay it. Regan wasn’t sure Arden was actually all that fine. “She’s been worried, I’m sure. She hasn’t been harmed or trapped.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to shut out the insanity of this. “All of my training, all protocols, they would instruct me to bring you to the hospital right now. But I obviously cannot do that.” There was a pink problem. And Teagan didn’t need to share how she felt about hospitals a second time. “And so… I’m going to bring you to the morgue. Arden can meet us there, if you wish.” A pause, though this wasn’t particularly a question. “Okay?”

The urge to panic was strong, the nix’s mind screaming at the date given to her. Two months of her life were gone. Halloween had been missed, and so had Arden’s birthday. Plans had come and gone, time stopping for her, but painfully continuing for her girlfriend. How had she spent those days? With a bottle and some cigarettes most likely, and the thought made the nymph’s eyes water from the fountain of guilt. She closed her them tightly and willed her thoughts to slow, focusing on Regan. It wasn’t the time to break down. Falling into her prison was her own fault.

Teagan nodded weakly, her stomach grumbling and her head beginning to throb and pulse painfully, making her groan. “Sitting here is just fine with me.” She coughed, a poor attempt to dismiss the dry patches in her throat. The discomfort made her want to sink further into her seat, wish for the safe embrace of her bed, or Arden, or both. Both would be preferable. But Regan had other plans, and despite any hesitancy Teagan had, she knew it was for the best that she did what she was told. It wasn’t like she was capable of doing more than groaning in pain anyway.

“Okay. As long as you don’t take me to a hospital, I will do as I’m told. The morgue is fine, but, um…” She patted her pockets, only just then remembering she had left home without it. “Can you contact her? I don’t have my phone and for her sake, I need her to know that I’m okay. Alive. Please?” Tired eyes landed on Regan, a shimmer of light brightening in them. Gratitude. “And I really appreciate this, Regan. I know you’re doing your protocols and all that, but I still appreciate it. You’ve helped me so many times now.” Teagan swallowed, her throat burning at the friction. She couldn’t wait for the mayhem to be over, or at least for sleep to overtake her.

Teagan was either being reasonably agreeable, or didn’t have the energy to argue. Either way, Regan got what she requested, and the fae took a steadying seat. She was coming to understand Teagan’s physiology a little more. The way those projections – gills – on the sides of her face drooped, the leathered texture of her skin. Evidence of her captivity and the physical toll it had taken. She hadn’t fully realized she’d been studying Teagan until the woman spoke and surprised her, croaking voice not helping anything.

Regan thought for a moment, decided there was no harm in it and potentially a lot of good, and sent Arden a quick message. She was pleased they’d have each other again, but didn’t particularly wish to be present in the middle of all of their… soggy reunion feelings. She’d punt anything but medical questions to when they were all at the morgue, and let Teagan take it from there. While she had her phone, she also shot Marcy a quick text, requesting the lobby to be cleared out and Rickers distracted. That was easy to do, and Marcy was nicer about it than Regan was. Regan just locked him in his office sometimes.

Business accomplished, she glanced over at the exhausted fae in the passenger seat. Teagan didn’t look like she would fall unconscious if the wind brushed her skin now, so Regan made the executive decision to climb in and hotfoot it. An ambulance siren would have been nice. She could probably imitate one. But sometimes secrecy won over urgency.

“Think nothing of it.” Regan would be doing enough thinking for both of them. She had felt Teagan. But Teagan wasn’t the only one who had vanished underneath the goo; there were others, perhaps hundreds. And they were alive.

#wickedswriting #writings #waving words #regan and teagan #c: regan #still breathing

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recitedemise · 5 months

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"Ah. I see you've come upon the many offerings of my aspiring pupils." Gale sets the tea down. Comfort and leisure... it wears handsomely on him. By the closed doors of the terrace, curtains drawn back and velvet-thick, those dwindling rays of sunlight quietly wanes. The hearth's freshly crackling, its mollifying glow strewn golden on the floors, and up the handle of a mug, it glimmers like tanzanite. A whole host of mugs. Maybe ten of them. Twenty. His tower looms gargantuan, all old books and star globes. Doctor Dekarios, it would appear, is abundantly loved.

And that is new--refreshingly so. "Feel free to take one on your way back home, though I hope that won't be for a while yet. I hardly entertain enough guests to be outfitting the pottery business as lavishly as I am. I've looked forward to this, you know. You look well."

OPEN.

#OPEN.#EPILOGUE.#Me posting opens every few days because EYE like getting a thousand drafts to work on.#I will always be working on drafts.#Happily. If I am quiet... make no mistake.. I am on my day's 439695th reply sitting in my drafts.#Me batting my lashes at you over post-game shenanigans.#Yes I am saying all his students buy him mugs. Cuz what else do students give if not mugs and pencils. Anyway.

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drarrily-we-row-along · 2 years

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Day 195: Hobbies

"Alright, Mr. Potter," the witch conducting the interview said, "tell us about some of your hobbies. What do you enjoy doing in your free time?"

Harry blinked, leaned back in the chair, and tried to reign in the magic the was crackling in his fingertips. It was bursting at the seams to get out and Harry wasn't sure what to do with it; that's why he was here.

"Well," he started, "I am really busy." The witch hummed sympathetically. "I've got a lot on my plate with work, and functions, and fundraisers. And of course I see my friends and my godson-"

"So, no hobbies then?" she interrupted.

His jaw snapped shut. He's sure he'd always meant to find a hobby, to find something that brought him joy.

"Well," she said softly, watching the magic sparking in Harry's palms, little flickers of light and heat, like a miniature heat lightning storm in his hand. "I'm just an intake nurse, but," Harry looked up from his hands, taking in her face, reading her like he read suspects, "It sounds to me like you hold an awful lot of people and things together."

He shrugged, it's what had always been expected of him.

"My question, is who holds you?"

Harry's eyes prickled with tears and it startled him, the visceral reaction he'd had to her words.

She didn't seem to require a response, she simply gave him a little nod and stepped out of the room, leaving to return the results to the healer that would be seeing Harry next.

(Read more below the cut)

He sighed and looked down at his hand once more, watching the little flashes of light and trying not to think about what she'd just asked him.

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The healer had told him that he needed to take time off of work. He'd given him centering activities, told him to sleep more, exercise, and find a hobby that he could do with his hands.

At the time it had sounded like the healer was just trying to distract him from whatever weird things were going on with his magic, but the DMLE wanted him to take medical leave until it was sorted anyway, so what choice did he have?

He took a beginner pottery class.

The instructor was ancient; Harry couldn't remember the last person he'd met who was that old. He seemed like he might be a bit senile, seeing as he had no idea who Harry was, which was just fine with Harry. But he was patient and kind, and Harry found that he quite enjoyed the time he spent with him.

He'd been truly awful at first, Harry couldn't even get his lumps of clay to center on the wheel. Then once he'd managed to center it, he'd use too much pressure or lift his hands away too quickly and his piece would go all wobbly or simply collapse.

And it was frustrating. Taking the mass of clay off the wheel so that he could start all over again was not something that he relished and it took him weeks to make anything that looked even remotely passable.

But he enjoyed it.

He liked the feel of the soft, wet clay under his hands. He like the way the wheel spun, the way that even the slightest change in his hands changed the structure in front of him.

He liked that when something went wrong, when something was destroyed completely, he could just start again. There was no great consequence for getting something wrong and that eased something inside of him.

Harry slowly got better at pottery, and maybe something inside of him was starting to get better too.

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

After the month that he'd been given as medical leave, Harry didn't really want to go back.

His magic still sparked and flared when he was stressed, when his emotions rose, and nobody at Mungo's seemed close to solving that mystery.

So he did the only think that he could think to do; he submitted his resignation to the DMLE and left. The press was everywhere, constantly hounding him and everyone wanted to understand his decision. But Harry didn't know what to say; he'd done his best to explain his condition but people hadn't understood.

And he hadn't been willing to say that he was exhausted. Tired of constantly worrying about his magic flaring and hurting someone. Tired of always being the savior, never being allowed to make a mistake.

It was by chance (or maybe fate) that he stumbled across a shop that sold Turkish Pottery. He immediately fell in love with the colors and patterns, with how beautiful and bright it was. At his sides, his hands twitched with the desire to create something like that; something that sparked joy merely by looking at it.

Booking a portkey to Turkey had been the easiest thing in the world. Spending the next three years learning the craft, practicing, and apprenticing had been the next easiest thing.

Moving back to England had been harder but Molly hadn't been well and he needed to be closer to her. So he'd gotten a little shop in Muggle London with a spot off in the corner where he installed a traditional kick wheel into the floor so that he could make pottery and maybe sell some of it at the same time.

It was working out alright, if he was honest. Only his friends knew that he'd returned, so he never had to worry about random witches and wizards popping into his shop to get a piece of him. And it was good to be close, good to be able to pop over to Ron and Hermione's for dinner, to have tea with Neville, to join Luna for a lunch date, and play a game of pick up Quidditch at the Burrow.

Seven months after returning, Harry had started to let his guard down. He'd started to believe that maybe this was it, this was his life now. Quiet, simple, happy.

And then the door opened, bell tingling merrily, and Harry looked up and everything fell to pieces.

Both literally and metaphorically because his hands released the vase he'd been casting too quickly and the clay wobbled until it collapsed.

But he hardly even noticed because there in his doorway stood none other than Draco Malfoy.

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To be continued...

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry #harry potter takes up pottery #yes there will be a joke about that in the next chapter #this is only going to be a two part one (she assures herself as much as she assures the lovely readers)#part 1

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chiropteracupola · 1 year

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(that rare thing around here - an original spooky story...)

Clapboard always seemed to get oak-leaves stuck in it, clinging in the layers of siding and sticking to the spiderwebs that draped the corners of the porch. Curtis brushed them away with the tip of his broom, and damned the spiders as a sticky leaf fell into his hair. There was always more to be done in early fall, as the spiders were now out in full force, well-fed long-legged things the size of half-dollars. As Curtis swept another layer of crackling-dry leaves from the edges of the porch, he turned, half without intention, to look back at the shelves visible through the front-room window.

The jar, of course, was nowhere near the door, most precious gem of Lucas’s collection as it was. In all the tiny parlor-museums that had sprouted in the new-built towns like mushrooms after a rain, very few could boast of possessing such a relic. But old Lucas had come by the jar and its contents somehow, long years before he had had need to hire on an assistant at all, and there it stayed in the glass-fronted case between bits of carved stone and painted pottery. Curtis had disliked the thing at first, hating to look at the distorted face of the thief behind the glass. But in time, he had found himself stealing glance after glance at it, and in occasional dark spaces of sleeplessness, imagining how the thief had lived and died.

The wind that day was on the chilly side, and it stung at Curtis’s face, not so much as a reminder of further cold to come as a suggestion of what might have been. Resenting it, he hunched his shoulders up a little further, and pulled the scarf a little closer around his neck, fingering the softness of yarn as golden as the autumn-dry grass on the hills. As he did so, Curtis thought of the thief’s head again, in its jar inside. He ran a finger and thumb along his own neck, feeling over the roughness left by a slight edge of stubble, and wondered if it had been quick. Surely they had not taken the head until the man was dead already, cut it neatly from his shoulders with care that they surely would not have offered to him in life. The head was a prize to be taken, and thus maintained well — one wouldn’t want the preserved face of an outlaw to be smashed ’til it was unrecognizable, though the grisliness of the trophy was of course unavoidable.

But beyond the roughly-severed stump of the neck and the softened, puffy eyelids, there was an odd fascination to the thief’s appearance, in dark hair floating in the preservative like smoke from a just-snuffed candle and eyes that seemed to follow onlookers around the room, though they were shut tight. It was not only as he moved about the museum-room itself that Curtis felt watched, but in his own rooms, and as he slept.

In dreams, the thief came to him with his head in his hands, staring clear and brown-eyed up at Curtis. Cautious, careful, he reached out and took the head, feeling the hard arc of the jawbone in his hands, the weight of it startling. Then, reaching carefully up, Curtis placed the head back on the ragged stump of the neck, all snagged and bloodied where the knife had stuck against the vertebrae, and held it there. The thief did not speak, only looked at him with those deep sad eyes, and Curtis looked back. With the head back in its place, the thief was of a height with him, and it was no difficulty at all to take the scarf from his own neck and wrap it about the thief’s, tying it fast and tucking the ends down under the collar of the thief’s worn jacket.

Curtis woke, cold under damp sheets, his own hand splayed across his throat, and saw his own steps outlined before him in the late-coming sunlight on the floorboards. The day that followed passed slowly and dimly, still webbed over with traces of dreaming, and only when night fell did he feel that he had properly come to himself again.

The sun was not too long gone, and the last curls of sunset light caught between the hills. At that bowed, obscured horizon, fog had begun to trickle into the valley below, pouring syrupy-slow down over the forest. Lucas had gone out for the evening, for it ought to have been a night for merriment, for sloshed-out cider and jarred fruit finally stirred into spice-cake. Curtis had begged out, saying he had no head for merriment, and it was true, he had not. But the keys of the cabinet were in his own trouser-pocket now, and it was with quiet steps and careful movements that he crossed the front-room and put his hand upon the lock.

There — he was in, but he could yet turn back, and ignore the plan that had awoken already so neatly-formed in his mind. Curtis imagined leaving the task undone, going back to the routine he had so long followed in Lucas’s service. He would polish glass, and dust cabinets, and light the lamps when evening fell …and through all of it the thief in his jar would watch him, baleful and betrayed behind the glass. Curtis could not turn and leave him, not when every day he would have to look…

He straightened his shoulders and resolved himself to the task, then turned and placed the lantern on the desk, just far enough out of the way that it would still cast light upon the blotter. His own shadow moved strange against the shifting pattern of tree branches cast through the window, the shapes of oak-leaves splaying out like a mantle over its shoulders.

Again, Curtis checked the lock on the outer door. Still shut, and giving a little shake of his shoulders, he wondered to himself why he had expected that it might be otherwise. As the wind shifted in the leaves, the lantern-light shone brightly for a moment on the tightly posed teeth of the stuffed bobcat atop the cabinet, still gleaming-sharp in death. Curtis made a mental resolution to take down the thing and dust it, when he had the time, for its fur was beginning to look a little moth-eaten with the years. That was, if he still had employment when the morning came around.

Soon enough, the cabinet door fell open smooth and slow, its hinges oiled by his own hand only a few days earlier. In his way, he had done the best he could for the thief’s head, polishing his jar when he could and pointing him to face the window. It had made a difference, he had hoped, to offer what little care he could. Curtis shifted aside the other objects in the case, the pottery and the stones, and the snakeskin tacked neatly to its polished piece of board. Last of all he moved the label from the front of the jar, read over again Lucas’s carefully printed handwriting. The name on the label was not the thief’s own, he was sure. Lucas liked bright things and legends, but there was no chance that the head of such a well-known outlaw as that had wound up in a no-account town like this, in a one-room museum in an old man’s dusty front-room. A dollar for a few minutes’ sight of the celebrated head of California’s own Robin-Hood, that was a rather high price for the asking, but one that a fair number of visitors were willing to pay. Having cleared the rest of the shelf, Curtis slid his intended prize free, pressing the cold glass against his chest as he got his arm half around it and carried it to the desk. The lantern-light turned the preservative liquid to a dark gold, and the head itself to a blurred mass of shadows.

Mindful of the sloshing of preservative and the scrape of glass on glass, Curtis lifted the lid from the jar. The alcohol within was cool against his hands as he reached inside, feeling carefully in the depths of the jar for the head. His fingers brushed against silky hair, floating gently in the liquid, and after a moment, tangled there. Curtis locked his hand in place, and tugged, and after a moment’s work, the head came free with a thick, squishy sound. It was heavy, and Curtis had to readjust his grip before he could get a good look at the thing.

Without the distortion of liquid and glass between them, Curtis saw that the thief was younger than he had expected, the twisted, pained death-look not so strong upon his face as Curtis had seen before. The skin had gone pale and spongy from long years under liquid, the dark hair slick and trailing down where Curtis had not gotten a hold on it. With his free hand, he brushed it away from his face, tucking it behind each ear. The lobe of one was torn — perhaps it had once held an earring, gone missing with the years. In those early days of gold-hunting, Curtis had heard that such earrings had been more common, but it had evidently been a mark of wealth to those that had brought the thief in as much as it had been to the man who had first worn that gold ring. He ran a careful finger over the ragged place the earring had left behind, sorrowful.

“I’d return it to you, if I knew where it is now,” he said softly, wishing with all his heart that he did know. But he did not, and instead sat silent and watched the way the lamplight caught in the thief’s alcohol-soaked hair, shining on the dripping preservative that had spread all down the desk and onto Curtis’s trousers. Something twitched under his hand, and Curtis blinked, only grasping the oddness of the movement a moment later.

The thief’s eyes flew open, and they were brown, the same soft sodden-leaf brown as they had been in Curtis’s dreams. The thief’s mouth curled, showing teeth, and as he smiled slow, Curtis nearly dropped him to the desk.

“You’re the one who polishes the glass.”

“How…?”

“Don’t you think I’d know your hands by now? They’re nicer than the other fellow’s, too — not nearly so bony. Can’t trust a man with hands like spiders, I say.”

“Did he—“ Conjectures clicked through Curtis’s mind, clattering and chilling. He had never heard the story of precisely how Lucas had come to own the jar, after all.

“Old Bony-Hands? No, he didn’t kill me, if that’s what you were fixing to ask. Now, I heard you had some intention of giving my earring back—“ The thief’s eyes flicked sideways, as if trying to gesture towards his torn ear without having hands with which to do so.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is.”

“Ah, don’t mind it, then. Whoever has it now has got my curse to his name just as well as my gold.”

“Your curse…?” faltered Curtis, still a little unsure of where he stood in this conversation. The thief blinked at him rather dramatically.

“Didn’t anyone ever frighten you with ghost-tales? No sitting in the dark hearing about enough ghosties and ghoulies to make your hair stand on end?”

“You’re the first ghost I’ve met.” Curtis felt, all of a sudden, very much out of his depth. “Is there anything else I could give you, if I can’t give you your earring back?” That seemed the right way to go about it, to make straightforward promises and smooth over what he couldn’t fulfill.

“A proper grave might be nice—“ the thief closed his eyes musingly “—better yet if it’s in church-ground. I’m sure the rest of me’s in a ditch somewhere, but fetching it’s too much to ask, even of a kind fellow such as yourself.” He smiled, dripping lips pulling apart in an awkward grin.

“That I can do for you, and happily.” Curtis gathered up thief and lantern, and, locking the door again behind him, stepped onto the porch. The lantern-light glinted faintly on a new spiderweb in one of the upper corners, and Curtis chuckled ruefully before starting out into the road. The cemetery was no great distance, and for the moment, there was still moonlight to see by as well as the flame he carried. As Curtis and the thief watched, threads of fog drifted across its face, covering and uncovering it in slow, uncanny patterns.

“A rogues’ moon. That’s what my grandmother used to call it, anyhow.”

“Ah, your granny was right,” said the thief, laughing murkily. “And a grand night it is, for a fine pair of rogues like us.” Curtis felt his face grow warm, and looked carefully away, hiding his smile in his scarf. But his comfort did not last for very long as he walked onwards, for as the fog covered the moon in earnest, he found that the light of his lantern did not carry far, and as he found the narrow path that led to the cemetery, the thief’s still-wet hair grew cold indeed against his hand.

In the daylight, the little square of ground with its scattering of pale, neatly maintained headstones was a pleasant enough place, built on the side of the hill so that visitors might stand and look down into the valley. Curtis had often walked there of a Sunday afternoon and paused in the shade of one of the few scraggly cypresses by the low wrought-iron gate, but he had always turned and taken himself elsewhere when the sun had begun to sink, and been in town again before the last stray bit of sunlight fitted itself into the keyhole of the hills. Now, it was full dark, with the sky so patched over with fog that any familiar stars were invisible, and Curtis, though he knew the path well, felt that he must surely have lost his way.

Strange fear overtook him — not the fear of any tangible pursuit, but the sort of terror that waits in shadow and comes creeping into the heart when one is alone in the hills. Hardly knowing what he did, Curtis broke into a run, the lantern in one hand, the thief’s head in the other. The breeze, turned cool with the night’s fog, chilled his face, the tips of his ears prickling with the cold. The tip of his shoe caught against a stone, and he stumbled, barely catching himself on one knee.

“Have a care!” griped the thief, his head swaying in Curtis’s uncertain grasp.

“Yes, yes,” said Curtis, breathing a little more heavily now, and awkwardly got to his feet, uncertain without the use of his hands. Dust clung to his trousers, tiny flakes of dead leaf sticking to the heavy cloth. All the summer had left behind was that dryness of the ground, dusty earth crumbling under his feet as he climbed the final rise of the path. He placed his lantern on the ground, then clambered over the low fence, holding the thief’s head high.

“Any preference on the place?” Curtis panted, his free hand pressed against his knee for balance as he tried to catch his breath.

“I’ll give you your pick of it,” said the thief, as if he was offering a fortune in gold. The thief’s head was heavy, and Curtis’s arm had long since become tired from holding it high, but words spoken in such a way did seem to be nearly reward enough. Finding a spot at the foot of a tree where the soil seemed less compacted, he accordingly began to scrabble a hole one-handed, the thief looking on from the safety of his other hand. But before Curtis could get very far, the thief made a little click of his tongue to stop him in his tracks.

“One more thing I’d ask of you, for your kindness. I’d have just one kiss of your lips, to keep me warm when I’m buried down below.”

“It’ll not be so cold as that, not here,” said Curtis in reply, “but yes, you may have it and gladly.”

“Aye, you’ve got a brain in your head, more than I ever had,” said the thief, and smiled, his teeth still shining-wet in the moonlight. Curtis laughed, and hefted the head in his hands again, lifting it so that his lips just brushed against the thief’s. With the same brief fluttering contact as the beat of moths’ wings against the glass of the lantern, they kissed, and Curtis felt the thief’s lips part against his, a final grin that would not be hardened in place by death.

#em writes stuff #oc time again hehe #jarstory #hey! happy halloween!#here's a little ramble of ghosts and kissin' and having feelings about the californian landscape

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