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#more mermaid art for the walls
why-bless-your-heart · 11 months
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I like decorating.
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cuteniaarts · 6 months
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I’ve been in a Mermaid AU kind of mood lately :)
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hearnoweevil · 2 years
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Mermay, 2020
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1800titz · 3 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
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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.”
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silkjade · 1 year
Text
alhaitham x mermaid! reader
⤀ warnings: fem! reader, no pronouns mentioned a/n: another thing sitting in drafts that I was actually saving for Mermay ⋆.ೃ࿔*:・𓇼 next ノ series masterlist
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He was out at a cove, a little ways off from port ormos, studying newly discovered runes carved along the sea cavern walls. Your song was supposed to lure him to his watery grave, but….
“These earpieces are soundproof.” You’re caught by surprise when he responds in your language. His pronunciation is a little off, but to be fair, merfolk are an ancient race and haven’t been sighted in a very long time. As such, whatever linguistic knowledge that’s been preserved up until now is… distorted at best.
The two of you strike up a deal: you help him perfect the language of your people, and he’ll introduce you to the wonders of the world above. A fair exchange. You agree to meet at this same cove on nights of the full moon, although the interval between these meetings grow increasingly shorter, so much so that you find yourself visiting this human once a week. He’d always arrive just as the sun sets, skipping a chunk of crystal ore out into the sea, indicating his arrival.
“And what did you bring for me today?”
“These are called zaytum peaches.”
“Ooh they’re sweet! And jucier than bubble berries…”
“I wasn’t aware fruits could grow underwater.”
Alhaitham is a scholar with an eager mind, so when things peak his interest, it’s second nature to want to satiate his curiosities. He asks his questions, but never pushes you to answer. With time, you grow comfortable enough around him to openly divulge your life beneath the waves, and it becomes a wonderful exchange of language and culture.
“Would you like to come underwater?”
“I know you didn't like the harra fruit today, but I thought you'd given up trying to drown me. Soundproof earpieces remember?” he says, tapping said headphones.
You roll your eyes, pulling yourself further up out of the water, until your faces are only mere inches apart. That's not what you meant at all.
"They say a mermaid's kiss will give you the ability to breathe underwater...let me show you my world." Your voice, hypnotizingly low and sultry, immediately send alarms ringing in his head. Your fingers brush against his cheek, your touch feather light as you whisper into his naked ear, "Do you trust me?"
In the time alhaitham had spent with you, he had never forgotten about the dangers of a mermaid's seduction. But at this proximity, with you so close and your voice so enchanting... he feels his head spin, like he's in some sort of trance where it's nigh impossible to deny you anything. As if by instinct, alhaitham subconsciously reaches for the headphones hanging around his neck— his safety net, his life raft.
You pull away, sinking back into the waters. So he doesn't trust you. It's no surprise due to the nature of your very being, and to hope otherwise would be foolish. Still, its difficult to hide the irritation and hurt that laces your words before you bid him an awkward farewell.
Once you disappear into the sea, alhaitham lets out a groan, burying his face in his hands. Next time you meet, if you decide to return at all, he'll remember to teach you about the intricacies of human courtship rituals.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
a/n 2: alhaitham is allergic to rizz ;\ this was supposed to be just a short brainrot but i had so many thoughts about this (and still have more unwritten) anyways i love mermay what a great month to be online, so much pretty art
© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform
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crooked-wasteland · 5 months
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The rapresentation of abusers in helluva boss is something that particularly frustrates me, Stella in particular, it seems to be done just to victimaze certain characters not to show the complex dynamics of those relationships. It seems to me the writers aren't mature enough to handle these topics properly.
Abuse: The Heart of Vivienne Medrano
Christmas 1962, a man renowned the western world over for his revolutionary approach to animation sat in a withering melancholy as he watched what could only be called a cinematic masterpiece based on a novel classic. Walt Disney, now in the twilight years of his life, saw the walls closing in and his legacy coming to a close. This man, who pioneered the animated feature film, saw his greatest accomplishment as his greatest obstacle. The man responsible for the tales brought to life of Cinderella, Snow White, Pinocchio, and Dumbo felt trapped in his achievement. “I wish,” Walt lamented, “I could make a picture like that.”
To Kill a Mockingbird was a piece that challenged its audience. The discussion of a white man defending a black man in southern America, decades before the civil rights movement. The movement that, at the time the movie hit cinemas, was in its infancy. Released during the height of the historically revisionist counter movement taking place to combat the rising push of African Americans towards their human rights. The last film Walt Disney ever saw the production of before his death in 1966 was The Jungle Book, a movie that was the epitome of “Safe” and a message that upheld the status quo of segregation.
It wasn’t until 1972 that the media of animation became raucously adult with those political and challenging concepts Disney felt were unattainable. Fritz the Cat was an X-rated animated film composed of vignettes that were unapologetically perverse, violent, and aggressively political. Critical of politicians and the police with a sympathetic if exploitative lens towards the LGBT and racial minority communities Brooklyn-based director Ralph Bakshi grew up around. Bakshi proved that animation was not strictly a child-friendly media and that adult animation could be financially and critically successful.
(For more on Ralph Bakshi's career and animation history)
If one has ever had the opportunity to listen to a Brad Bird (director of Ratatouille and The Incredibles) interview, it is clear to see that the success of Bakshi was generally quite limited. That animation is considered a genre and not a medium of art has resulted in animated films being knee-capped in the box office. There is far more potential to animation, highlighted by Howard Ashton in his collaboration with Disney studios during the Renaissance. Responsible for resurrecting the feature-length animated movie through The Little Mermaid and credited for the monumental success of Best Picture Award winner Beauty and the Beast, Ashton once said that the potential animation was ideal for musical theatre. The limitless possibilities given the medium gave the possibility of introducing Broadway to the common folk who didn’t live in New York and otherwise couldn’t afford the theater. He was quoted saying that live action musical films were “an exercise in stupidity,” highlighting the freedom that comes with a blank page.
However, the success of animation, and media in general, comes down to the message the media wishes to send. The reason the Disney Renaissance films have enjoyed their position as cornerstones of pop culture and creativity was because it did introduce the artform of musical theater into homes and made them readily accessible to everyone with an even heightened sense of fantasy that revitalized Walt’s ethos of making films for the child in everyone.
With Bakshi, it was the loud and violently political message of a revolution taking place. This continues in adult animation with the Simpsons, a series critical of hyper-capitalist America and the fallout of Reagan’s economic disaster that the effects of which are still being felt today and a satire of toxic masculinity and abusive family dynamics.
So, ultimately, the value of a piece of media is a cross between its social artistic influence and the message the creators are intending to make. While Medrano’s influence on the field of indie animation is often mischaracterized as a “pioneer”, the fact is that indie animation and pilots have existed and been funded before Spindlehorse existed. It is simply that Medrano has had the spotlight handed to her for the myth surrounding the production and subsequent success of his indie projects. Artistically, her influence can be summarized as a double-edged sword. For some, she is the motivation for inspiring artists to connect with the community to one day, hopefully, create their own work. On the other hand, she is the cautionary tale of why investing in an indie project is a financial risk for an audience member and a risk to the community as a whole that poses a real danger of making the indie sphere financially cannibalistic, as her public persona is off-putting to “normies” and her show is simply not good.
Much like Disney, the man in 1962, and Disney the company circa 2023, the revolution of animating "because you can" loses its luster very quickly. Without something profound to say, an entire company, regardless of its social influence, can fade into irrelevance despite still being "successful". The story of Disney is a cautionary tale for Indie animation as a whole and Spindlehorse in specific.
And that is the other axis on this chart. Her narrative lacks a message worth telling, and that’s very much due to her not having anything worthwhile to say.
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“I really liked when things and shows and stories allow the characters to be flawed, and allow them to grow and to change. And I think that’s something that’s, you know, the world is not black and white. And I like things that explore the gray and that and the complexity, of life and mistakes and of things like that.” - Vivienne Medrano
It is not for want of mockery that I carefully transcribe Medrano’s words in her interview. To read the words aloud tells the story just as clearly as I have set out to do here. This is someone who is highly inspired by better media, who has ideas and a belief that she has something to say. But that is where the belief ends. There is no conclusion to that thought any more than there is one in the unfocused and run-on sentences she rambles along throughout the interview. She talks of “Things” without clarity, because she herself is a fundamentally incurious individual who has never once spent the time critically analyzing herself, let alone the work of others to better grasp what about it resonated with her. She merely consumes art insatiably and without any substance. Like a diet of fruit, it has a superficial veneer of positive value. Fruit would be considered healthy as it is “natural”. However, it is the nutritional equivalent of candy, lacking vital components that are necessary to sustain basic life, it is pure sugar. Her work, similarly, lacks any value of depth that would qualify as meaning.
Which comes back to what the message is in her work.
When it comes to others in the field of indie animation, Medrano does not have many friends. In response to the Lackadaisy situation, creator Tracy explained why she returned Medrano’s donation. For one, the donation was not Medrano’s money, but money she crowd sourced from her employees. While the $5k for the producer spot of the fundraiser would have not been a dent in her personal wallet, Medrano is so uninterested in supporting fellow creators while presenting an impression of camaraderie that she instead took money from the people she is in charge of the paychecks for to get her name in the credits of another creator’s work. In regards to why Medrano was declined her support, it was due to numerous individuals who had such an awful experience working for Medrano that they did not want her involvement associated with the project to any extent. When the money was returned, she made the situation extremely public and encouraged harassment by liking tweets attacking Tracy and the Iron Circus team.
A well-known member of Medrano’s crew, Hunter B, was leaked speaking crassly of other animation projects that were still in the process of production, met with support from other members in the discord. One of these creators being Ashley Nicoles from Far-Fetched. A former friend and creative partner on the Hazbin Pilot whose podcast streams featuring Edward Bosco and Michael Kovach single-handedly maintained interest in the show until the winter of 2021, free of charge. Ashley once spoke of how Medrano would speak disparagingly of an employee to her, saying that this individual was “Too unstable to work with”. Which, regardless of whether or not that is Medrano’s honest opinion, counts as defamation by an employer. It is the exact reason why most previous employers will not give a negative, detailed review of a former employee, maintaining instead to verify facts of the employment. If Erin Frost was more experienced and less involved in social media exposed culture, they could have easily sued Medrano and Spindlehorse for damaging their reputation in their field of employment.
Which circles back to Medrano’s self-assigned message of her show:
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“Abusers rely on your silence. They rely on knowing you can’t retaliate without consequence. That they can tell any lies and vague around without getting called out. But we see you, and you don’t have the power you think you do anymore. A message I put into my work. “Fuck you!” - Vivienne Medrano
Medrano, who has vague and sub tweeted individuals like Lackadaisy Tracy, The Diregentlemen, Michael Kovach, and Ashley Nicoles. Medrano who has instigated and incited harassment campaigns knowing that no one can call her out without severe and relentless backlash from her cultish fanbase that she personally encourages through positive reinforcement of liking the tweets of fans. Medrano who relies on the silence of other creators in the field due to the fear of her ire collapsing their projects before they even have a chance to begin.
Vivienne Medrano with an extensive abusive history that continues to this day, has something to say about abuse.
What Medrano has to say about abuse comes from someone who has the position of superiority in all of her relationships, but feels like she’s the outcast and bullied loser. Her self insert that is repeatedly expressed in every character at one point or another is how easily they abuse those around them just because they can, but that the narrative justifies their “acting out” because they are sad. According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, “An abuser externalizes the causes of their behavior. They blame their violence on circumstances.”
Indeed, the lists of abusive characteristics and traits, according to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, overwhelmingly encompasses the characteristics shown by characters like Loona, Blitz and Stolas that Medrano repeatedly has attempted to rationalize, justify and minimize. Which, “An abuser often denies the existence or minimizes the seriousness of the violence [including emotional and mental abuse] and its effect on the victim and other family members.”
It is not surprising, then, that the conversation of abuse in Helluva Boss is often infuriating. The narrative underplays the harm done by characters we are supposed to see as “good”. Not allowing for them to grow or change, but ignoring and minimizing the behavior, justifying it through circumstances and perpetuating the false belief that victims are not, themselves, abusers.
One of the first blog post rants I ever made about mental health and abuse was the affirmation that not all victims of abuse are survivors. I wholly stand by that. Victims of abuse perpetuate abuse. A victim and an abuser are one in the same, whereas a survivor is someone who has actually done the difficult work of being self-critical. And the one thing we all are very aware of is how much Vivienne Medrano rejects criticism.
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Just another manic Monday
Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 17
Prompt: Platonic Stobin
Rated: G
CW: monsters
Tags: Urban fantasy AU; Magic AU; Creature AU; background Steddie; background Buckingham
Notes: Based on an idea and the gorgeous art by @house-of-the-moving-image - so happy I got to throw a little something together for it. 🥰
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“I don't understand this,” Steve yells, jumping over another garbage bag like a hurdle sprinter. “That thing is fucking huge, where was it even hiding?”
“Gee, I dunno, Steve!” Robin skids to a halt beside him and impatiently hops from foot to foot while he pulls out their scooter from  between two dumpsters. “I didn't ask, you think we should wait up?” 
Somewhere behind them, something lets out a loud, gargling roar. A giant body scrapes against the walls of the alley. 
Steve gulps. 
“Nah, I'm good,” he says and tosses her the egg. It's larger than his own head, and Robin sags briefly under its weight. “Get in!”
Sometimes, Steve really, really wishes he was normal. 
In a world where ninety-seven percent of the population are either magic users, non-human, or hybrids, people like Robin and him tend to get the short end of the stick. Take the job market, for example. What's a guy to do if most entry-level positions require basic flight skills, or rudimentary knowledge of summoning spells, or two years minimum of experience in applied runology? 
The job at Fleetfoot Delivery is actually okay, all things considered. The pay is decent, the uniform isn't completely humiliating, and his coworker is his best friend and platonic soulmate who happens to be just as lamely human and completely unmagical as himself. 
It's easy work. Customers trade items via the app, Steve and Robin deliver the goods from the pickup location right to the lucky new owner. 
Basic stuff. 
Simple. 
Boring.
Except for the days you get chased by giant fucking monsters. 
“Who even sells a phoenix egg online?” he asks while he waits for Robin to clamber into the side car. “I mean, shouldn't we be calling child protection services or something?” 
“Phoenixes are extinct, Steve, everyone knows that!” 
He hums vaguely. He does know that, of course, but the question has its desired effect - namely to send her off on a tangent and get her mind off things. 
“The eggs that are left are infertile, but they're highly coveted in certain circles. Rumor has it that consuming one will boost your magic like nothing else. Chrissy says there's a sea witch living off the coast who's been looking for one for-”
“Chrissy, huh?” Steve grins and swings a leg over the saddle. The scooter stutters to life. “The cute little mermaid with the milkshake order from last week? You two on first-name terms now?” 
“Oh, fuck off!” Robin jabs him in the ribs, but quickly clutches the egg again as he needs to swerve around a stack of old, soggy cardboard boxes. They're picking up speed, but not nearly enough in the crammed, narrow alley. Behind them, the roaring and scraping are getting louder. “You don't get to berate me for flirting with clients. If I see you do that ass-wiggle in your stupid shorts in front of that dragon dude one more time-” 
“His name is Eddie,” Steve snaps, neck erupting in heat. “And I don't think he has any idea what my first name is. Or my last name.”
“Yes, Steve, of course,” Robin deadpans. “That is why he calls you big boy and honey and sweetheart. That is the actual reason.” 
Steve lets this statement simmer for a few seconds. 
“Shut up and tell me where to deliver this thing,” he then says. 
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robin smirk while she fishes her phone from her pocket and tells him the address.
“Oh, freaking great,” Steve grouses. “That's only on the other side of town. Won't take forever at all at this-” 
“Steve?” says Robin. Her hand is tugging at the sleeve of his uniform jacket, like she's been trying to get his attention for a while. “Steve, you may wanna go faster.” 
“I know!” he groans. “Need to beat rush hour, or we won't be home until-”
“That's not what I meant!” Robin shouts. Her voice goes all shrill and grating towards the end, and he almost crashes them into the wall in his impulse to cover his ears. 
“Well, what do you-” he starts to say, but doesn't get any further.
There's a loud crashing sound as the dumpsters are mowed over. He glances over his shoulder, just long enough to see a slimy, clawed something that's roughly the size of his house erupt from the alley behind them. It shrieks. The rush of hot, stinking breath sends garbage flying in all directions. A fist-sized glob of spit hits the back of Steve's head with a wet splotch. 
“Ugh, what the fuck? I just washed my hair this mor-”
“Drive!” Robin slaps his arm. “Oh my God, drive, drive, drive!” 
Steve does. 
They shoot out of the alley and onto the main road, just narrowly avoiding a collision with a flock of banshees. As their scandalized shrieks and the roar of the monster fade behind them, Robin's wristwatch buzzes. 
“Oh,” she says. “Today's your lucky day. A certain dragon just ordered an entire crate of aventurine, express delivery.”
Steve groans and takes a right, reaching up to disentangle half a banana skin from his drool-coated hair.
The day is shaping up to be a real Monday. 
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All my holiday drabbles
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heartfullofleeches · 2 years
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Night Gallery
Various Yanderes (F, M, G.N) X G.N Nightguard Reader
A concept story for a haunted art gallery that branched past what I originally wanted. Feedback is appreciated.
An art collector with a taste for the abnormal opened an art gallery comprised of the world's most bizarre works of art fifty years ago; just a week before his death. The gallery remained open and in the care of his family due to a sudden boost in popularity the following month.
Prior to when you applied for the job, the gallery had never needed a Nightguard in its entire lifespan; but a recent string of break ins lead to the new owners change of heart. It was for their safety, rather that those who residing with the galleries walls. As most have grown accustomed to their new lives, they will do anything to protect them; finding solace in the one paid to do the same.
-
You begin your shift in the garden. On top of your guard duties, you also tend to the plants after one too many gardeners quit over being bitten during the day. The roses nipped and hissed at you when you first started working here, but now they purr at your feet or wrap around your ankles so that you couldn't move; allowing you to shower them in a nutritious bath. Greedy little things, but with good reason.
"Ahh... Thank you, my dear."
Behind the patch where the flowers grew, there was an elevated stand on which the statue of a rose bud stood. With enough water, the stone flower would blossom. A wriggling mass of stems gather in its center, forming the upper torso of a human made of thorns and roots. Its face splits open, a living, red rose blooming from the crevasse. Its singular eye stares down at you; body craning over its podium to get the best look it can.
"It's so nice to see your face again, Y/n. Makes up for the lack of sunlight those awful artificial lights try to replicate."
You smile. Rosebud was one of the easier inhabitants of the gallery to deal with; mainly due to the fact they couldn't move on their own. They were mostly gentle in nature, and normally just chatted the ear odd of you - the only human both it and its roses tolerated.
"Your petals are as healthy as always, Bud." You reply, pouring the remaining water in the can on a rose that nuzzled your foot. "You still get sunlight while you're asleep."
"Yes, yes, I know, but I'm far more beautiful in the sun. You should have seen me when the park was closed for a week. I was a masterpiece! But enough about me for now at least. Since you can here so early, you probably have to visit the others now.
You glance at the clock; confirming their theory. The roses shoot up your legs at the comment; thorns crawling at the ends of your pants.
"Sorry, boss asked me to come here first."
"Well ignore the man next time. I do not mind waiting, if it's to spend time with you. Let's welcome a new dawn together, Rosetta."
You shake the last flower off your leg. "Will do, Rosebud."
"Thank you. Please take one of the little ones with you before you head away, they miss you so much when you're gone."
Rosebud plucks one of the roses, and hands it off to you; careful not to prick you with their thorns as your hands meet. The rose's petal lips kiss up your hand andover your cheek before you're able to put it in the water can for safe keeping.
"I need to get going. See you later, Rosebud."
-
You reenter the gallery through the main gate. More of its residents seem to be awake, but no one left their habitat yet. A mermaid splashes you with water to get your attention; blowing a kiss as they beckon you to their painting. A star shoots across a night sky in the stained ceiling of the central hallway. Despite the many dangers, your job definitely was one
"Heyy. Hey, Y/n come 'mere. I have found something~"
A shadowy hand waves you over to a painting frame; your uniform hat tossed back and forth between the silhouette's many hands. The room behind it was filled with junk; most stolen from the lost and found box a few feet away. The plaque beneath it read: "Finders Keepers."
Enticed by your missing cap, you walk over; knowing it wouldn’t be easy to get it back. "What do you want now?"
The scavenger giggles. "I want to make a trade. Y/n found something, and I found Y/n's hat."
"Is snatching my hat when I wasn't looking really finding it?"
"No, but I found Y/n so I found it."
The scavenger was one of, if not the most active paintings. It would search around for things people lost to take back to its frame, and on occasion chased you around to do the same. It leaves the prettier items of its collect out for you either as a lure, or present for you. You even found a watch stuffed in your locker once. Thank God the gallery didn't have working cameras.
The only way to get the scavenger to go back on its own other than going yourself to give it something you owned. It claimed your items were the highlight of its collect. Even candy wrappers were enough to please it. With nothing else on hand the last time it hunted you, you had to give up the hat off the top of your head. The only problem was that your boss was upset over you losing it.
"Give me that pail."
Your face scrunches in confusion. "Why do you want this?"
"Y/n held it, so it's something that's theirs. Therefore I want it. You want your hat back, right?"
"..Fine, but if I get in trouble for losing it, I want the wallet you stole last week."
"Deal."
You hand it the watering can, remaining at arm's distance as you snatch your hat back. The scavenger giggles in glee at its new treasure, and you take it as your cue to leave. As soon as you leave, it pulls the rose out of the pail; its many hands crushing the flower into a bloody pulp.
"I found them first, pest."
-
Continuing your night leads you to the second floor. Your job didn't require you to inspect them all, but you had to remain active - for more reasons that one. This is the moment when you really had to be on your toes. The higher the floor, the more dangers its residents were. Since most knew you weren't there to cause trouble you were safe from harm, but with that came their obsessions with you and wanting you to join their world. The shift was almost over, so you should be fine.
"Y/n? Is that you?"
Shit.
Down the end of the hall, a woman turns in your direction. Blood stains the collar of her long, once white dress; the fabric now an off colored pink. She smiles beneath her veil - the woman in red.
"Hello, my love."
Her official title is "The woman in white.". A classical oil painting of a young woman in front of a cottage sitting in a bench swing tied to the tree outside; her beautiful laced dress blowing in the wind as she swong forward. At least, that's what it look like in the beginning.
Over time, she grew closer to the ground; sitting stationary in the bench in today's time. Her clothes as white as a dove's wing became stained; another splatter added with each missing person's report that came in.
"Welcome home. Just give me a moment, and I'll be with you." She turns back to the painting in front of her, a scream ringing through the hall as she slashes it with her palette knife. Not all of her victims were human.
There were many more changes to her than just her attire. What once was a dolce painting who only caused the occasional disappearance now was one with a vicious strike against any who tried to interfere with her objective.
You were already gone the second she took her eyes off you, booking it around the corner and off to any place you could hide. You dive for the receptionist's desk and squeeze beneath it just as you hear her heels stomping away in the opposite direction. She was after you right after you ran away, but unfortunately was one of the slower one and lost you as soon as you were out of sight.
"Careless again, were we Y/n?"
You look up at the man leaning over the desk, smiling back at you with a perfect row of pearly whites. You hear the tap of his foot against the tiles as you both watch each other.
"She'll come back soon you know.."
You nod. He unclips the pocket watch from his belt.
"Two others are active tonight as well.. I'd say about three hours is fair for this round. That should give you enough time if you hurry."
You nod again, slower; unsure of your safety of you didn't take his help.
The Director grins. "Shall we head to the fifth floor?"
-
He leads you up to the fifth, and final floor; and exhibit that had yet to be unveiled. Stepping over the velvet gate, you walk through the darkness with only a faint light in the distance. You take a sit at the table at the end of the room; him taking the opposite. There's a pot of tea brewed between you two. He was waiting for you. As he always did.
"Let us have another wonderful time together, Y/n. And if you aren't so lucky in the morning, a blissful eternity."
There was only one rule your boss gave you when you first applied. Always leave the gallery before the second hour of dawn. You didn't need to him tell you why that rule was in place.
It's currently 3am.
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goldenheart-week · 2 days
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Goldenheart Week 2024 Prompts
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Each day has four prompt options to choose from: a "Goldenheart" prompt, a "Blackloin" prompt, an AU, and a quote from the movie or comic. There are also five alternative prompts if you are not inspired by any of the options for a given day.
All kinds of fanworks are welcome: digital art, traditional art, 100 word drabbles, ficlets, longer fics, poems, embroidery, cosplay, music, gif sets, vids, etc.
Day 1/June 27: Firsts (meeting, kiss, "I love you," etc) | Memory | Commoner Ballister AU (Ballister doesn't become a knight)
“You always remember things as better than they were.” / “And YOU always remember them as WORSE.”
Day 2/June 28: Forgiveness | Apologies | Prince Ballister AU (Queen Valerin makes Ballister her heir instead of a knight)
“Ballister, wait — if I don't make it out, I need to tell you—" / "We can't do this now. Just...just promise me you won't get yourself killed."
Day 3/June 29: Pride | Weakness | Magical Creature AU (Mermaids, Vampires, Werewolves, Shapeshifters, etc)
“They’re going to love you. Like I do."
Day 4/June 30: Friends | Jealousy | Gay Dads AU
“She’s not just a creature. She’s my friend. Someone I love is going to try and kill her. And she’s going to kill him."
Day 5/July 1: Disability | Regret | Modern AU
“I wish — we could just go back. I wish things could be how they were."
Day 6/July 2: Trust | Scars | Everything is Fine/Science Mom AU
“Then you never knew me at all."
Day 7/July 3: Healing | Pain | Role Swap AU
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" / "Because I love you!"
Alt Prompts: Beyond the Wall | “I love you” | Family | AU
“Arm-chopping is not a love language!”
So that we can find your posts and reblog them during Goldenheart Week, please tag Tumblr posts with: #goldenheart week 2024, #day [x] or #alt prompt, #prompt name, #goldenheart, #nimona. Additional tags for fanwork type are also welcome (#nimona fanfic, #nimona cosplay, #nimona fanart, etc.). Please also be sure to tag for content triggers (#suicide, #suicidal ideation, #self harm, etc.).
Check out the FAQ for more details and feel free to send asks if you have any questions!
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A trigger, a memory
<<<Prev (Like old times)
(a thousand crowns) Next>>>
Pairing: Buggy x female mermaid reader
Warnings: none
Word count: 1300
Content: Buggy kisses you blind 🙈
---
The silence around you amplified the sound of your heartbeat and your content filled sigh escaped your soul the moment his soft lips found yours. His fingers tightened around your waist as though this was what the he had been starving off, you.
All the distance between you and him had dissipated. His body was flush against yours as your chest pressed into his. He groned with delight from the base of his throat, his eyes closed as his hands wandered, like he was reading the marking on your body as if it was a map to a treasure he craved to always hold on to. His hands traced up the curve of your body as he paused over your heart.
He had you memorized, as your hands slid down his back, his muscles tensing where you touched him, he hunched over as he deepened his kiss, like you were the fountain of youth, the more he tasted you the more he grew younger that he could go back to a time he had now be bruised by his life out on the sea. To time innocence was a part of him, a part of him that you brought back to life.
This hunger, the muffled sounds and the way his body melted beneath you. You could move him however you wished but no matter what you did his hands grabbed at you, taking you with him and his staggering steps. Like he could no longer be told to keep his hands off you.
The power of being Queen couldn’t compare to the power he bestowed you with. How you were the only one to touch his face. How only he knew where you liked to be held. There was nothing to be taught, it was instinct. Your minds understanding the other and so your bodies did too. His skin radiated the heat of his workout but also as he worked up a sweat now.
He staggered back till he found the edge of the wall. Blind, both of you, but you moved around each other, as though you could read the cues, as though it was only the two you that heard the music. He switched over, his lips trailing down your neck now as he picked you up. Your back pressing into the wall behind you as your legs wrapped around his firm waist.
His arms were well sculpted, from the hours he had spent training or from possibly breaking and putting himself together over and over again. Either way, with your mind silenced as he held you, you couldn’t care for the reason behind how good he felt. It grew irrelevant, his pain had turned him into a work of art that only you had the privilege to hold.
He pulled away to catch his breath but it looked like he didn’t want to and you would have let him to continue till you both had passed out. Because that was how much this void had made you feel empty. You caught you breath too but your eyes couldn’t leave each other’s.
And there it was, the true star of the show, the beautiful effortless smile he was blessed with. It spread across his face as his diamond eyes took you in, he looked glorious, his blush causing his cheeks and nose to turn red and it only deepened the more he looked at you. As he sobered, a quiet laugh bubbled from within his chest. It was childlike and yet held the seriousness of his age, it was low and light, it was free and bright as he placed his forehead on yours allowing your nose to nudge his.
If there was one sound you could have trapped forever in a conch, it would be this particular laugh of his. So raw and authentic that you would listen to it always.
You placed a final kiss on the tip of his nose as he set you down while he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. When he stepped away, it felt like half his burden had vanished. His eyes looking away at something else around him before coming back to focus on you again, as if nothing else captivated him.
“I can’t stay for long.”, you smiled at him as you found your shawl again, your fingers tracing your lips as it thrummed.
“Then I’ll come find you at the palace.”, he winked as he grinned. There was no stopping him now, he was going to be incorrigible down to a fault.
“And what reason will you fool the guards with?”, you pinned up your cover but your eyes resonated the same mischief he held in his.
He pulled on a loose white shirt on himself as he fixed the buttons on his cuffs.
“Honey, I’m a pirate. I’ll smuggle myself in.”, he said with confidence and you knew it was very likely. He was going to pop up into your everyday life now and that made you feel excited for the new day to dawn.
“Now off you go then, sugar lips.”, he nudged his head towards the door as he watched you linger.
"Don't want to get you in trouble, as much as I would like to.", he blushed again and he looked like the boy who had rescued you.
“Bossy as ever.”, you shook your head but you could hear the smile in your voice.
You took slower steps as you passed him by because truth be told your heart was here, but as you moved towards the door, he held your wrist. When you turned to see what he was up to now. He held up a belt in his other hand and in it glistened with your daggers tucked in it. You inhaled a sharp breath, it had been a while since you had held them.
“You need the right tools to win wars.”, he hummed knowing well that having your weapons back would make you feel instantly better.
You took the leather belt in your hand and without further pause, your secured it around your waist. It's weight felt like it was a part of you, and now you were whole.
His thumb traced over your fingers as he held your gaze again.
“And it feels like a part of me is with you when you wear them. To watch over you when you’re far away.”, he said tenderly, raising your hand up to place a kiss on the back of your hand.
“Come back to me soon, Céane.”, he whispered against your skin as your hand slipped away from his and it made your head whir. As if your mind had needed to hear the exact words, in that particular order for it to replay a hidden memory.
The faint smell of gasoline, the stuffy air within the wooden vessel, the images flashed in your mind. Of a dark night, a little box with hay, in it a child with her name scribbled on a piece of paper, you. The space around you began to feel claustrophobic as your head began to throb. The love in buggy’s eyes turned to worry as he reached forward to hold you steady.
“What is it?”, he asked.
You didn’t know. Your hands held the sides of your head as a series of events began to make sense. How you were shipped off Makara. The gasoline similar to the smell that had burned your nostrils on that night, as the fire blazed behind, a face, a familiar face holding you gently.
You closed your eyes as you focused on the memory that was being unearthed. You fingers holding onto Buggy’s arms in desperation and he didn’t question you further. It was the mystery behind how you ended up in the town you grew up in. In that orphanage, that also got burned down.
You crumbled. For being a daughter of the sea, fire seemed to follow you everywhere. Your mind now a collection of picture frames zooming forward and backward in time that it made you sick, the gentle sway of the boat making you nauseous.
As you drew in controlled breaths, that face began to grow clearer. The person who placed you in that crate, the person that secured the door sealing you away from the riot, to change the course of history.
“Come back to me soon, sweet Céane. This island will crumble without you.”, his voice was distinct.
The face, one you had seen everyday since you set foot on this island. Those glasses could never be mistaken. Your heart stopped when Hassan’s face grew clearer.
Buggy whispered your name again. And you didn’t have the strength anymore. The recollection had pushed your mind to an edge you had never entered before. So the world grew dark and your limbs went limp but you didn’t hit the ground.
All you felt then was Buggy holding you up.
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stylescine · 11 months
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Summary: A night at the tattoo studio turns out to be more interesting than you thought while meeting the owner, Harry Styles. Pairing: tattoo artist!Harry Styles x Princess!reader Warnings: angst (especially about reader's life/expectations), mention of a tattoo gun Words: 2.5k
A/N: The first chapter is here! Tell me what you think! Also considering updating every Sunday from now on :)
Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Ask | Read the Prologue
You remembered the brief period in your life when you had lived with your parents in a normal house and not a palace. The walls had not been there for hundreds of years and there was no obligation to keep them as clean and unharmed as possible. You had your own room, still bigger than most kids would ever have, and all you did was put pictures up on the walls, plaster them with posters and even attach some of your favourite wristbands to the wall. They were your small creative space for that time and you had been crying the day you moved out again. 
Being inside the tattoo studio reminded you of that time again. While the room was kept in a darker tone, the waiting area consisting of a small black table, a dark armchair and a couch for two people, the walls spoke a different language. Red stripes decorated the wall behind the couch, but its opposite counterpart had many pictures of people with impressive tattoos on them. Different artworks were displayed as well, making you question how anyone could ever be talented enough to produce something like this. You remembered taking art classes every now and then as a child, but it had no future anyway – you were made for other things. 
Another small table on your left was filled with disposable cups and a coffee machine as well as sugar and some gummy bears. You assumed it was there for the clients. 
The owner walked over to the armchair and sat down in it, resting his tattooed arms on the sides. You were able to make out a mermaid tattoo as well as a heart and anchor. Your curiosity was urging you on to get a closer look at the tattoos, but you knew it would probably be uncalled for. Not many people around you were tattooed. While there was no rule banning tattoos for the royal family, none of your family members had any. Since the staff was mostly dressed in suits most of the time, you never knew if any of them were sporting tattoos. 
So your natural curiosity probably came from your distance to tattoos in general. 
“I have never talked to a princess before.”
You fumbled with your sleeves nervously at his words. Of course, he hadn’t. A part of you had even wished for him to not recognise you, but how could he live in the UK and not know your face? 
“I have never talked to a tattoo artist before.”
A low laugh came from the man. His green eyes stayed focused on you as he crossed his legs and seemed to get more comfortable in the chair. His dark curls looked as if he had run his hands through them too often. You could now make out the motive on his shirt – it seemed to be the name of a band you didn’t recognise. 
You were wondering if you had already embarrassed yourself with your words, but the man didn’t seem to show any signs of that. 
“Are you not going to sit down?” 
Sitting down meant you would have to stay. But wasn’t that what you were here for? The rain outside didn’t seem to stop and there was no way you would get home safely without being sick the next day. 
If anyone at the Palace knew about where you were, without security, they would call you naive. Following a stranger just because the weather was bad? Sounded like a death sentence. 
You hesitantly walked over to the couch and sat down on it, placing your handbag next to you. Your dress was already wet in some places and you could still feel the chill in your bones. It was warm in here, but not warm enough yet. You pressed your legs together, trying to warm up again. 
“You’re cold,” the stranger pointed out and pushed himself out of the chair. Your eyes followed him as he disappeared in another room, coming back with a light blanket. “I turned up the heating, but that’s gonna take a bit, so you can have this until then.”
He handed you the blanket which you quickly wrapped yourself up in. Why was he so kind to you? You had just been standing outside of his studio and hoped the rain wouldn’t kill you. 
“Thank you..?”
You didn’t even know his name and no sign outside gave you a hint for that. 
“Harry.”
“Harry what?”
“Styles. But why would that matter?” He looked amused for a second, a smirk on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. 
“Because I can’t just call you by your first name,” you defended yourself. Rule number one: Never call someone by their first name (even when they were offering that to you) and always remember their title!
You were just pretty sure you didn’t have to expect a title in this case. It still didn’t change the rule for you. 
“Why can’t you?” His voice was still amused, the smirk persisting. He raised his eyebrows at you as if he was curiously waiting for an answer. It made you nervous. Why did he have to ask? Why did he have to make you so unsure about it? Was it not normal to insist on last names even if the person introduced themselves with their first one? 
“I just… I never do that.”
“Maybe you should now. I’m just Harry.”
‘Just Harry’ sat back down in his chair, but the amused expression never left his face. He seemed to enjoy this exchange and his gaze never left you. 
You gave him a small nod, still not too sure about all of this. What if you were bothering him? He surely had better things to do at this time. 
Maybe you should have introduced yourself by now. You didn’t want to come across as rude, but since he had immediately identified you as the Princess, you totally forgot that a more personal introduction should have happened. 
“I’m Y/N.” 
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N. Do you want me to use your title or is that not necessary when I saved you from the rain?” Harry’s lips moved up into a smile again and he supported his head with his hand as he looked at you. His green eyes seemed to look right through you as if he could sense the unease inside you. You weren’t used to non-formal meetings like this. Questions like this would never have to be answered usually. 
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” you shrugged and gave him a hesitant smile. No one was here to correct you, so you might as well use the chance to be treated like a normal human being. “I would actually appreciate it if you just called me Y/N,” you added, pulling the blanket tighter around you. 
Warmth was slowly filling your body again and it didn’t feel like you were going to freeze to death anymore. 
“Got that.” Harry gave you a reassuring nod as well. “Do you want anything to drink? Is someone going to come pick you up?” 
You looked down at your hands as soon as the last question left his lips. He was right to ask that, of course, but the problem was, no one was going to come pick you up. If you called your driver now, he would fall out of bed and would then have to explain to everyone how you somehow got out of the palace. And you were sure you would kick off a crisis in the palace within seconds. 
“No, I don’t think so,” you chuckled nervously. Harry furrowed his brows, his expression puzzled. “So you’re going to walk home when the rain stopped?” He asked instead. 
“I guess.”
That was your only choice. You would just have to hope that no one would recognise you and would start a mob on the streets. Then you had to convince the first guards you would see that they had just missed you leaving the palace this morning. The thought alone was already making you nervous. Your fingers grabbed the blanket tightly as if holding onto it would give you some sort of balance again. 
There was a long silence in the room, only filled by the rain outside and the occasional sound of thunder in the distance. 
Harry eventually got up from his chair and walked over to the back room again. You bent forward a bit to catch a glimpse at what he was doing, but he soon disappeared fully. Did you already make him dislike you? Was that what most people thought of you? You had seen some of the articles the press wrote about you and your family…
Then you could hear the sound of mugs against each other, then hot water was being prepared. “How do you like your tea?” His voice sounded over to you and you placed the blanket aside to get up and walk over to him. 
The room in the back seemed to be a small office. You hadn’t noticed the two black doors on both sides before, but the door to the office was wide open. There was a computer on the desk as well as a  bunch of drawings. They ranged from snakes to roses and more complex designs like a mermaid. Harry was leaning against another table on the other side of the room which was filled with empty food packages and a kettle. Two mugs with tea bags in them were already placed next to it. 
“I usually have it with some milk and a whole lot of sugar,” you answered. “I can put it in myself, don’t worry.” 
“Good.”
When the water was ready, Harry filled both of your mugs, before handing one to you. He walked over to a small fridge underneath the first desk you had seen. He took out a carton of milk, handing it to you. There was a small cross tattooed on his hand. Maybe you could take a closer look at all the other tattoos at some point. All of it seemed so intriguing to you. 
You placed your mug down again and filled it with milk. By the time you closed it again, Harry had placed some sugar next to you. 
When you were done preparing your tea, Harry poured some milk into his own mug and then put it back into the fridge. 
Your eyes started to wander through the room more. “Is this where you work?”
That was probably a dumb question. Of course, he was working here. You still felt so out of place, so overwhelmed by the fact you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, that stupid things like this just slipped past your lips so easily. 
“This is where the organisation happens. I guess you’ve never been in a tattoo studio before?” He asked, but his tone didn’t hint at any amusement. He seemed to take you seriously nonetheless. 
“I haven’t, no,” you admitted and turned back around to Harry. He had a small smile on his lips while he took a sip from the mug. “Want me to show you around, princess?” He asked, his eyes shining with excitement. 
Pride was filling his voice and you could tell that this studio, this job, seemed to mean a lot to him. You also appreciated the fact that he was even willing to show you around. He could have just let you wait out the rain in the waiting room and be done with it. 
“I would love that,” you agreed, nodding your head. Both of your hands wrapped around the mug as you followed Harry out of the office again. “We’re not a big studio, you know? I have two rooms for the clients. I have two other people working here with me.” 
He pushed open the black door on the left, opening up the view to a room with even more drawings on the walls and a client chair in the middle. A small stool was next to it, with wheels underneath it. 
Your eyes moved to the tattoo gun next. “Wow,” you whispered, following Harry into the room. You kept your hands around the mug tightly, not wanting to spill anything or even touch something you weren’t supposed to. 
All those drawings were so impressive. There was another desk filled with them, but an iPad was on it as well. You assumed this was where Harry was designing some tattoos. 
“And you draw all of this?” You asked curiously, pointing to all the different designs around you. This was impressive to you. More than that. It was fascinating to say the least. You had seen portraits of your family members almost looking like pictures, but this was even more intriguing somehow. A few of the designs instantly clicked with you and you found yourself wondering what they would look like on your own skin. 
“I do. Well, I guess some of them are from my friend. She usually works in the other room. But the ones you saw in the office are all mine,” he explained, pointing in the direction of the room you were previously in. 
You sat the mug down on the desk absentmindedly. 
“This is honestly so cool. I’ve never been in a place like this before and this job… I wish I could do that,” you admitted, walking over to the chair to run your hand across it. For a moment, you felt like it was calling to you, to be a bit more rebellious tonight, to come home with a tattoo your parents surely wouldn’t approve of. 
It was tempting. You had always felt the need to break out of your cage, to do anything that would resemble a bit of freedom to you. 
Harry’s eyes were watching you, a shimmer of something you couldn’t quite place in them. He stepped a bit closer, pointing to the chair. “Sit down, if you want.”
You didn’t hesitate again and sat down in the chair, feeling the comfortable leather beneath you. You looked down at the insides of your arms, trying to imagine the black ink there. 
“Tell me what you’re thinking about.” Harry moved a bit closer, his eyes fixated on your arms as well. His eyes darkened and his voice grew lower. You could hear the clock ticking loudly and for a moment, you held your breath as you stared at your blank skin. 
How did the wish to go to a party turn into this? 
“I’m thinking about a cage on my arms.”
“Are you a trapped bird, princess?” He asked, eyebrows raising with curiosity. You looked at him again, straight into the green of his eyes. It reminded you of the grass outside, the freedom of running through a field. 
You weren’t supposed to answer this question. You weren’t supposed to be here. 
You weren’t supposed to look at Harry and feel the goosebumps spread over your body. The man was attractive, confident and free. The latter was something you could never be. 
You gave him a small nod and Harry pushed his stool back a bit, fumbling in the pockets of his sweatpants. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, placing one between his pink lips. 
“Sing me a song then, caged bird. I will be listening all night.”
-
taglist: @tenaciousperfectionunknown @kimmi-kat @victoria-styles @thatgirlthatreadswattpad
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thesirensims · 18 days
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The Bikini Bottom Legacy
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Hi Guys! Oooooo🎙️🎶🎵🎼🧜🏽‍♀️! My name is SirenSims & I have been thinking for a long while about a legacy challenge that I could create that was a bit different from the other challenges I have been seeing. So I thought about the personalities of the Spongebob Squarepants Characters, and so The Bikini Bottom Legacy was formed! There are a ton of personalities to play with in the Sims 3. So this Legacy will help you discover those and have some juicy Storylines to keep it engaging! It was hard to pick just 10 archetypes, and some of these features I’ve never used before so I’m excited to try this out! 
If you decide to do this, tag me thesirensims or bikinibottomlegacy so I can see! And feel free to let me know what you think. This is my first challenge so if there are things I could do differently/better let me know!
Important! - This Challenge is not Basegame only, if you find a way to convert it to Basegame or to the Sims 2, Please tag me! I would love to see that! Also, This Challenge is Story Driven to help it not get boring fast. So try to stick to the required storylines as needed. And please do not use the money or needs Cheats in this challenge if you can manage ( Makes it more fun IMO) <3
And without further ado, the challenge.
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Generation 1 - SpongeBob Squarepants
You have a heart of gold and just want to make others happy with your Cooking! Your Family raised you to be positive, helpful & friendly (even to your detriment!). Moving into a new town you bring light, laughter, and good food. You bought a two-story tiny house for you and your feline friend (Cat with any G name you want). You made two best friends, one Grumpy and one Lazy ( Make them in CAS or find sims with those traits in town). By the time you reach level 6 or 7 seven of your Culinary Career, you feel like spreading your love by extending your family. So you adopt a kid-aged sim ( Easily Impressed & Couch Potatoe Trait required). At this point you know everyone in town & go out whenever you are invited (despite the inconvenience). You have a lot of experiences on your belt and you boast a jellyfish you caught yourself and a few different Butterfly Species you collected on days off (atleast 3 types). You end your life as a wise Chef that people can't help but love!
Traits Needed - (You can use This mod to add more traits if you want, or just choose 5. Natural cook and childish being required.) Natural Cook, Childish, Cat Person, Easily Impressed, Good, Workaholic, Neat, Lucky.
Lifetime Wish - Celebrated Five Star Chef
Career Needed - Culinary (Specifically a Dinner, not the Bistro)
Recommended Town - Any European World You like or Monte Vista.
Aesthetic Color - Yellow (Pastel, Golden, Sunshine, etc...)
Create A Sim Addons - Freckles and or Moles. Bunny or Buck Teeth (Using Sliders and Teeth CC). Blonde hair with any race of sim. Blue Eyes. Uniform for Everyday Outfit (Colored in red, white, and khaki brown). Sim's name must start with Sv or Sp (Otherwise call them a Variant of Bob or Bobbie).
Favorite Food - Burgers (Obviously LOL)
Favorite Music - Island Life
Zodiac Sign - Sagittarius
Voice Pitch - High (Male or Female)
Charity - Give up to $5,000 to charity.
Starter Money - $1,500 (After Decorating or just struggling with bare necessities)
Romance - Meet a Mermaid or Scientist and marry them.
Pet Goal - Become Best Friends with Cat.
Heir - Adopt a sims of child age.
Get up to level 4 or up to 7 in Martial arts skill.
Max the Chef Skill and Charisma Skill.
Brighten 10 Sims day.
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Generation 2 - Patrick Star
You have a soft place in your heart for your parents. Especially the one that adopted you, because life was hard before you met them. You only moved out of their home after you became an adult since you were so comfy. You miss their cooking and how they accepted you for who you are. But since they passed, it's been hard to look at the walls of bright yellow memories. You move into a tiny house or apartment because you don't require a lot to live comfortably. People expect a lot from you, however, you don't have the same work ethic as your parents. You start off as a Day Spa attendant for the perks and to help others relax and have a good time. You go to clubs every weekend and get sloshed. You even have a one night-stand or three. As a hobby, you love to fish (Maybe you could do it for money one day). You just want to relax and live free. Can you survive on a reckless low-maintenance lifestyle?
Traits Needed - Couch Potatoe, Childish, Easily Impressed, Party-Animal, Slob, Absent-Minded, Heavy Sleeper or Angler.
Lifetime Wish - Master Romancer or Presenting the Perfect Private Aquarium.
Career Needed - You can either become a self-employed fisherman or Only work in Part-time Jobs (Specifically the Spa Career).
Recommended Town - Any Island or City World You Like, or Pleasant View
Aesthetic Color - Pink ( Pastel, Hot pink, Rose Gold, etc...)
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must have a few Moles and maybe even a scar. Give sim Pink Hair. Sim must have a fat or thick body type due to years of eating a lot. Beach style or Beach theme party outfit for Everyday wear. Have a piercing or two and tattoos once you become a teen/adult. Sim`s name must start with Pat (Can also be a variant of Patrick or Patricia).
Favorite Food - Tri Tip Steak
Favorite Music - Beach Party
Zodiac Sign - Aquarius
Romance - Have some one-night stands.
Heir - A baby you had because of a one night. (Must have the traits - Grumpy and Artistic)
Charity - Give up to $2,500 to charity in honor of Last Gen Founder.
Catch 3 different Types of Butterflies.
Throw at least 3 Successful Parties.
Visit Parents grave once a week to mourn.
Brighten 5 sims day.
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Generation 3 - Squidward Tentacles
Your Parent was definitely not strict, but they gave you so much freedom that you ended up resenting them and the rest of the town. Their lack of attentiveness caused you to fall off a slide and break your nose, as a preteen, so you had to get it fixed. However, a mishap occurred at the plastic surgeon that made your nose a little longer than normal. You had to move to the City where people are as rude and isolated as you are. One thing that you do thank your parents for is their overbearing but consistent support of your love for Painting and music. Once settled in the new City you make one friend who is so positive you don't see them very often (On Purpose!). You also make an enemy on the first day that infuriates and intrigues you at the same time. Your Dream is to be a composer for Movies, but you`ll be happy just making a living in the arts in general. You hate Butterflies and Jellyfish cause they remind you of your Parent, but you do get a pet and name it after your Parent. (Maybe you do miss them). Hopefully, a life of semi-solitude will fulfill you and help you live your dreams.
Traits Needed - Grumpy, Loner, Artistic, Dislikes Children, Hot Headed, Snob.
Lifetime Wish - Master of Arts or Rockstar
Career Need - Hit Movie Composer or Self-Employed Artist.
Recommended Town - Any City town you want or Bridgeport.
Aesthetic Color - Irish Green (Light green, Pastel, soft green hue, etc...)
Create A Sim Addons - Give Sim a longer Nose. Allow the sim to have a grunge aesthetic with brown and green colors. Sims' hair can also be colored or highlighted a shade of green. Sim can have a nose piercing and one to two tattoos.
Favorite Food - Philly Cheesesteak
Favorite Music - Classical
Zodiac Sign - Aries
Romance - Enemies to lovers (You can have a love child or get married and have a baby accidentally)
Heir - An accidental baby (Must have traits - Frugal and Mooch)
Max any instrument skill in the slowest time possible (Reach lvl 10 as an elder!)
Reach at least Lvl 6 in Cooking skill.
Join or start a band and host at least 1 SUCCESFUL performance (Getting over 100-300 Simoleans in tips)
Heckle at least 5 different sims.
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Generation 4 - Eugene H. Krabs
Even though your Parent did not plan for you, you still had an okay childhood. To make up for the distant Parenting you grew an attachment to the idea of Financial stability. Your parent loved their dream more than providing for the family. You plan to never make that mistake! You are brilliant at selling things and decided to move to an island. This was a strategic move to sell more modern things to natives who live in older comfort. You have a love for food like your grandparents that caused you to sell muffins and lemonade in your childhood. Now as an adult, you are considering being either a Restauranteer or Hotel Mogul. You will use anyone for a quick buck, causing you to sell out your best childhood friend, making them a lifelong nemesis. Despite your success, you feel lonely and have love hidden in your heart that you want to share. So you adopt a girl toddler that looks nothing like you. You shower her with love and even a bit of your money (Through kicking and screaming!). At the apex of your career and wealth, you feel a hole in your heart only a warm body could fill. You meet a sim that makes you feel romantic and alive, you spend some time wooing them. And although it didn't work out, you can look back on your life and say you loved every bit of it.
Traits Needed - Born Salesman, Frugal, Mooch, Ambitious, Natural Cook, Lucky
Lifetime Wish - Swimming in Cash or Resort Empire
Career Need - Self-Employed Resort Owner, or Own The Bistro & Diner
Recommended Town - Any Island World you Like or Isla Paradiso
Aesthetic Color - Green
Create A Sim Addons - Sim has a pudge due to eating well when they made meals. Sim must dye their hair red by Young Adulthood. Sim must wear a suit with blue colors.
Favorite Food - Waffles
Favorite Music - Electronica
Zodiac Sign - Libra
Romance - Fall for someone Older ( One Life State Above Yours - Adult or Elder)
Heir - An adopted Toddler (Must have Traits - Snob & Dramatic)
Mooch over 100 Simoleans from one sim.
Reach Cooking lvl 10.
Only shop with Coupons.
Never buy anything over 300 Simoleans.
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Generation 5 - Pearl Krabs
You loved your childhood and your Single parent. You love the life that you were afforded and you have no desire to give it up. You are a bit of a brat, but that's only because you're a star (Obviously). You plan to make it big in the movies and keep up the family legacy by keeping up the money. So of course you move back to the city of dreams your grandparents used to live in. However, that might be hard considering your eclectic taste in decore and cars. Hopefully, a high-paying profession will make up for your purchases. Despite your Big Features, you`re attractive to most sims around, and you take advantage of this by starting an affair with a wealthy celeb. Hey don't judge, we only mess with sims that impress us. Maybe we will settle down with that same sim one day, or maybe another (😉). During your 7th year as an actress (Level 7), you remember your Parent and what they did for you. So in a moment of passion, you adopted a smart kid and funded their dreams the way your Parent did for you.
Traits Needed - Snob, Dramatic, Schmoozer, Star Quality, Irresistible, Great Kisser
Lifetime Wish - Lifestyle of The Rich & Famous or Superstar Actor
Career Need - Actor or Socialite (Find Socialite Career Here)
Recommended Town - Any City World you Like or Anne Arbor
Aesthetic Color - Hot Pink
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must have Blonde hair despite race. Sim must have some big features and a shapely body type. Must wear Girly pink dresses. Sim must have blue eyes and bangs.
Favorite Food - Lobster Thermidor
Favorite Music - Pop
Zodiac Sign - Leo
Romance - Have an Affair with Married Celebrity. Marry a Celebrity (It can be the one you had an affair with if you like)
Heir - Adopt a child sim. (Must have Traits - Genius & Computer Whiz)
Befriend at least 4 Celebrity sims.
Have one Scandal.
Dance on table at the Club at least once.
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Generation 6 - Sandy Cheeks
You love your Mother for how she supported your dreams. It gave you a leg up in school and allowed you to have some fun while studying in University, You have a logical yet fun spirit that leads you to make the world better using science. You have the spirit of your great-greatx2 grandparent. This pushes you to help others and make advances to make others' lives easier. You have a love of your body that was shared with your mom. However, you take to a different place by learning Martial arts. You gain a high level in that skill during a trip to China. China is where you also find the love of your life (another martial artist) and bring them home with you after a small wedding ceremony in their community. As you advance in your Career as a scientist, you feel further fulfilled by teaching sims martial arts on the side. You cap off your life (aka level 7 of the science career) by making your own offspring. You have a plant-sim baby. This decision will change the lives of others down the line. Was this unnatural child a mistake?
Traits Needed - Handy, Eccentric, Disciplined, Genius, Computer Whiz, Green Thumb
Lifetime Wish - Scientific Specialist or Martial Arts Master
Career Need - Science
Recommended Town - Any Town World or Riverview
Aesthetic Color - Lilac
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must have light brown hair. Light brown eyes. Sim should have buck teeth (which can be simulated using sliders and bunny teeth cc). Sim if a woman must be slim thicc (Small waist, medium boobs, big butt). Sim can wear glasses if you want to show their intelligence that way.
Favorite Food - Grilled Cheese
Favorite Music - Geek Rock
Zodiac Sign - Virgo
Romance - A martial artist from China ( Have a whirlwind romance that ends in marriage before the trip ends).
Heir - Plant-Sim (Must have traits - Evil & Bot Fan)
Max the science skill.
Make your Imaginary friend real.
Have a collection of animals. (Turtles, and other small pets)
Max the Martial Arts Skill.
Max the Yoga & Meditation Skill (Here is the Yoga Mod)
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Generation 7 - Sheldon J. Plankton
You lived in a level of solitude, as your hero parents were not into your brand of social interaction (Klepto and Mean Spirited behavior). Even though you were pretty smart, you still felt the need to take things that weren`t yours. Despite all of this, you somehow managed to be a scientific prodigy like your mom. You had a childhood friend that you had a bad betrayal from, and that sim became your nemesis for life. This betrayal made it hard for you to make friends. You decided to go to University online to hone your skills. After you graduate, you leave home and find a new job to reinvent yourself. So you join the Criminal career so you can become The Emperor of Evil. There's always been an emptiness in your soul that you fill with machines so you won't be alone. In the end, you live life with a robot who loves you and start a makeshift family from that union.
Traits Needed - Kleptomaniac, Evil, Computer Whiz, Eccentric, Bot Fan
Lifetime Wish - Emperor of Evil or More Than A Machine
Career Need - Criminal
Recommended Town -Any Country Town or Lunar Lakes ( You do not have to move for this gen)
Aesthetic Color - Green
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must keep a lean or skinny physique. You can use plant-sim skin and detail replacements. This sim can wear glasses if you like. Sim can wear shades of grey with either a suit or overalls (You decide their aesthetic)
Favorite Food - Hamburger
Favorite Music - Digitunes
Zodiac Sign - Cancer
Romance - Fall in Love with the Sim Bot you plan to make Sentient. ( Call simbot Karen)
Heir - Baby you had with Karen. (Must have Traits - Neurotic & Handy)
Steal candy from a baby.
Burn down a home.
Steal from at least 2 Homes.
Build the Perfect Simbot.
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Generation 8 - Mrs. Puff
Growing up with an Evil parent and a stressed robotic mom didn't help the anxiety you were born with. You always had the uncomfortable feeling that something was going wrong. You helped yourself destress with food, which made you gain a plumb physique. To help you pass the time you gained an obsession with cars. Your evil parent was a mechanical genius and you learned to drive at a young age. You even knew how to fix vehicles as well. However, above all else, you have a knack for home decor and design. you became used to homes as you stayed inside often as a kid to avoid danger. It was your dream to become an interior designer. You find love unexpectedly with a younger wealthy sim. You have a love child by that sim. That boy was born brave and took care of you until you found inner strength.
Traits Needed - Neurotic, Unstable, Hopeless Romantic, Vehicle Enthusiastic, Handy, Frugal.
Lifetime Wish - Home Design Hotshot
Career Need - Interior Designer
Recommended Town - Any Comfy World You Like or Strawberry Acres (you do not have to move for this gen)
Aesthetic Color - Aqua
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must have a bigger body type (Not fit). Sim must have Platinum blonde Hair despite race. Sim must have Hazel eyes. Sim can wear an academia-style outfit with red blue and white color patterns.
Favorite Food - Cobbler
Favorite Music - Soul
Zodiac Sign - Capricorn
Romance - Get into a Relationship with a Wealthy Sim (Get pregnant from this relationship)
Heir - Baby Boy (Must have Traits - Brave & Loves to Swim)
Max the Handiness Skill.
Freak out on at least 2 Sims.
Build one Car.
Own 3 Cars apart from the one you built.
Make all appliances in your home unbreakable.
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Generation 9 - Larry The Lobster
You didn't have much of a childhood, since you spent most of your time protecting your worrying Mother. You were a nice kid who never made friends until you were a young adult. You are all about helping people with their fitness and helping them have safe fun at the beach. So your best path was becoming a lifeguard. One day you get abducted by an alien (Do you become pregnant? Do you keep it?). This experience causes you to take life more seriously and makes you want to protect people even more. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alternate Option; Instead of Alien pregnancy and a possible love story. You can find love with a mermaid sim.
Traits Needed - Athletic, Brave, Loves to Swim, Daredevil, Charisma, Good
Lifetime Wish - Perfect Mind/ Perfect Body or Seaside Savior
Career Need - Lifeguard
Recommended Town - Any Beach / Island World or Sunlit Tides
Aesthetic Color - Red
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must have Red hair and Green eyes. Sim must have an athletic build. Sim can have freckles. Sim can have a Scar or two. Sim must have Beach type of Attire for every day wear (For males an open shirt, for girls a crocheted top)
Favorite Food - Stu Surprise
Favorite Music - Hip Hop
Zodiac Sign - Scorpio
Romance - Fall in love with Alien or Mer Sim. (Have a half-alien or mermaid sim baby)
Heir - A Female Occult Sim (Preferably a mermaid, but it can be alien too). (Must have Traits - Adventurous and Shy)
Save at least 10 Sims (5 if you're trying to speed up the Challenge)
Break up with 2 Sims before Settling Down.
Host 3 Epic Parties. (Can be any type of Party)
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Generation 10 - Princess Mindy
You grew up in a warm and loving home with a great father who believed in you and protected you. He emboldened you to follow your dreams. Now you want to travel the world and document it with your trusty camera. You have always loved taking pictures and having new experiences, even though you are shy. You want to break out of your shell and become a brave explorer. You are also a good person who always gains bravery from being able to help people. Maybe you will find love during your adventures. And if not who cares!! You`re In love with The Journey Anyway!
Traits Needed - Adventurous, Lucky, Photographer`s Eye, Shy, Good
Lifetime Wish - Seasoned Traveler or Grand Explorer
Career Need - Self Employed Photographer or Monarch (Find Monarch Career Mod Here)
Recommended Town - Any World you Like or Sunset Valley
Aesthetic Color - Turquoise
Create A Sim Addons - Sim must wear glasses. Sim must have Short Black hair. Sim can wear a girly top and a long jeans skirt.
Favorite Food - Kelp
Favorite Music - Island Life
Zodiac Sign - Pisces
Romance - Do whatever feels right to Finish your story!
Max the Photography Skill.
Collect 3 Butterflies (2 must be RARE)
Befriend 1 rich Sim.
Reach at least to lvl 6 or 7 of Model Skill.
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Penelope is legit one of the most interesting antagonists I have ever seen. From just ONE conversation it's obvious there are so many layers and questions about her left to understand. To name a few:
-She's smart enough to create an entire murder plot, hunt down the mystids by herself and act out at least two completely different personas in such an effective way that not even her family, fiancee and two trained detectives could figure out
-Claims not to care about her family and dismisses them all as being aunhappy and unfulfilled (which is true), but then almost immediately confesses that the whole killer painting thing was to spare Flora, Fifi and Poppy from suffering even more.
-Grew up ignored by Pointer (who point-blank admits he wanted to disown her), thinking she was cursed and that something was trying to "reach out" to her on her bedroom wall because of the incinerator, and so messed up by abandoment issues that she apparently killed six people (including her own parents and cousin/friend)
-The entire can of worms that is her relantionship with Fitz: how did their engagemnt happen? Did he know about Penelope's issues or real personality? Did she love him for real but her paranoia over Poppy made her think he didn't feel the same? Was it all a ploy? If so, why?
Anyway, it's amazing how game that seems like just a silly murder mystery with pretty art can have such an compelling story, and I'm praying that SFB gives my girl a chance to shine in Mermaid's Tongue and other games to come.
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not-wholly-unheroic · 3 months
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A Comparative Analysis of Hook’s Ship and Cabin in Popular Media Portrayals
Part 5: Peter Pan & Wendy (2023)
For the final part in this series, I want to take a look at Disney’s most recent live-action retelling of Peter Pan. While the film itself isn’t perfect, I will say that at least in terms of its external appearance, this is one of my favorite representations of the Jolly Roger because of the intricate details included. They’re subtle—blink and you’ll miss them entirely—but they tell an interesting story.
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First, let’s take a look at that figurehead, shall we? Unlike so many other versions of Hook’s ship, this time, it isn’t a menacing skull or claw but a lady. While this wouldn’t be an uncommon sight on a ship, this particular lady is not a saucy mermaid or proud goddess… Instead, she appears to be in mourning, her left arm raised to cover her eyes while her right is extended longingly toward the side of the ship. Zoom in and you’ll see why. Carved into the wood is a row of children. We can see the wooden children again in a brief close-up near the end when the ship is flying and nearly runs into the cliffs. This figurehead is a mother weeping for her lost little ones. And if that doesn’t break your heart and make you seriously think on what this version of Hook’s mindset must be like, I don’t know what will.
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There are even children’s faces—or rather, a specific child’s face—carved into the railings on the ship. We can see it in a few scenes but this is one of the clearer images I could find. Does this look eerily like Molony’s Peter to you? Because I think it does. But maybe that’s just me.
Then we get to the outside of Hook’s cabin—which unfortunately is never really clearly shown in the film. However, we DO have some behind-the-scenes images of it and OH MAN…. This part of the ship very clearly depicts Peter chained to a tree while four mermaids reach out to him, attempting to offer comfort and aid.
If you’ve ever seen the original cover art for the novel, this seems to be a nod to it. On it, Peter sits on a rock playing his pipes while a mermaid approaches on either side and the crocodile lays curled up beneath, Hook’s claw poking out of its mouth.
That Hook would have such artwork blatantly referencing his time on the island as a part of his ship tells us a great deal about how effected he was by his time there. This ship seems to be one that Law’s Hook himself designed very intentionally. Despite all his hatred for Pan, he keeps his long-lost friend close at all times and openly bears his grief over the loss of his mother and Peter through the artwork that surrounds him.
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In contrast to the ornate decorations on the outside of the ship, the inside of this Hook’s cabin is surprisingly sparse and practical. It is probably more realistic than any other version we have seen thus far, but it feels strangely empty and dark for a Hook’s residence. The bed is—much like in Disney’s animated film—a simple cubby built into the wall with only a thin curtain to separate it off from the rest of the room. There are a few books on the shelves to the right of the bed and some bags of what I assume may be rations stacked to the left.
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What’s really interesting, though, is what we see in the brief close-up shots we get of the shelves near the doorway. There are all kinds of things in jars, preserved presumably in alcohol. One jar noticeably contains what looks like an octopus (or part of one)…possibly in passing reference to Hook’s animal antagonist in Disney animated sequel…while at least two others contain human hands. Right hands, to be specific. One of the hands is actually even labeled with a name—Stubby Bartholomew (?). According to an interview, Law seemed to indicate that his Hook was looking to see if he might somehow replace his own missing hand. Regardless, though, I want to know the stories behind these hands. Who were the men they were attached to? Why was Law’s Hook fighting them? Did they know he was going to save their hands, once severed? Did he just take the hand of the person or did he kill them and remove the hand after death as a kind of sick trophy? This is definitely one of the creepier things that we have seen with any Hook.
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Speaking of creepy…on another wall, we see a dried fairy corpse pinned up like a butterfly. We don’t often see Hooks being completely ruthless on-screen, but this one definitely gives off a threatening vibe from all the dead things he has collected within his cabin walls.
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There’s even a dead crocodile… Not THE crocodile, of course, but there IS a large skull which we can see he keeps underneath his desk. It shows up again later more noticeably and in a comic fashion in the finale when the ship is being turned upside down and the skull becomes stuck on his head…but it’s there even in the first shot we see of his desk. There’s also an hour-glass… Not a clock, of course, but the time theme is still present.
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And then there is the gramophone, which once again, clashes with everything else about this Hook (clothing, a more classic wooden ship, etc.), which otherwise suggests someone from the earlier part of the Age of Sail. Unlike the ones in Hoffman Hook’s cabin, though, this gramophone is pretty obvious because Law’s Hook is actively listening to something on it when the kids first enter his cabin. A friend did a great write-up on the significance of exactly what he is listening to that you can read about here. Suffice to say for our purposes here, though, that the opera he is listening to wasn’t written until 1853, and gramophones themselves were not around until even later in the 1800s. Law’s Hook does mention that his mother is long gone by the time he leaves Neverland and goes looking for her, though, so perhaps his ship and belongings are reflective both of the time period of his youth and a later time period when he returned to the “real world.”
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Then again, Smee is said to have pulled Hook out of the water as a child, and Smee seems intimately familiar with the older wooden style ship as opposed to steam ships, which would have been becoming pretty common by the mid to late 1800s, so it’s hard to say for sure. (Bonus content not entirely related but just because it’s cool… In a few shots of Mr. Smee, we can see there is a very small tattoo on his right hand. It’s a teapot. Which is just…such a perfectly Mr. Smee thing to have a tattoo of, and I love it.)
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While Law’s Hook was disappointing for some fans of the more classic elegant, over-the-top versions of the character, he’s undoubtedly intriguing, particularly when we examine his Roger. This Hook is unlike any other. He wears his heart on his sleeve—or rather, his ship—and surrounds himself with reminders of Death and Time, as if he knows his own symbolic significance as a manifestation of the doomed Old Man going up against Youth. And yet…in this version, he is not quite so doomed, returning in the end, to make peace with Peter and accepting that one can be “old” while maintaining a spirit of youth.
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mermay-abyssal-zone · 19 days
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ABYSSAL_ZONE is returning for MerMay 2024, with more fun prompts lined up offering a darker and slightly more hungry take on your usual mermaid fluff. Throughout May, we'll be running two events:
Weekly Prompt Releases Four(-ish) weeks of mermay, four weeks of new prompts. These will be in the same format as last year, consisting of eight new one-word prompts every eight days, plus a line of poetry for those who prefer a more wordy prompt. Use all of them, use none of them, write a different fic each week or work them all into one grand magnum opus - so long as you're having fun, it all goes. Add the fics to the ABYSSAL_ZONE Ao3 Collection or @ this blog to see them added to the ranks. Also, it doesn't have to be fic, you can make art, write poetry, even crochet something ocean-themed and send us a pic and we'll happily count that on our wall of honor.
MerMay Readers Bingo In the style of @feedthefandomfest's comment bingos, we've set up a fic reading bingo. Read mermaid (or siren, or selkie, or sea monster or... well okay you get the idea) fics and cross tropes off the the bingo (and maybe, if you're feeling kind leave a comment on the fic as well to show the author some love). Connect five crosses in any direction, and win.
The bingo card and first set of prompts will be posted on May 1st. As always, there are no time limits. Do as little or as much as you want, just have fun with it. Hope to see you there! 🦑🦑
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theresattrpgforthat · 7 months
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Hello! I read through the Wicked Ones rpg and really enjoyed it. Do you have any recommendations for games where you play as the bad guys? Preferably larger books.
THEME: Bad Guys
Hello friend! From monsters to villains to just plain ol’ bad dudes, let’s see what we got. I tried to stay away from one-page RPGs, but I can’t guarantee how long some of these books will be.
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SLA Industries, 2nd Edition, by Nightfall Games.
In the World of Progress, the corporation SLA Industries rules all. Employing Operatives to enforce, extend and maintain their power base, SLA controls a multitude of worlds - industrial, franchise and resource - with planet Mort at its core. As Operatives execute the company’s will, new threats emerge through the cracks of the city walls, turning Downtown into a battleground.
You, the SLA Operative, are fighting for fame and fortune against a backdrop of a crumbling reality. Operatives feed the always-on televisions with a gaudy media of wall-to-wall death and dismemberment. Operative life is all about climbing the corporate ladder and earning sponsorship deals and notoriety along the way.
In SLA Industries, you’re not exactly villains, but you’re not good people either. You work for an evil corporation, in a world of evil corporations, and you’re extending their reach for a chance to climb the corporate ladder. SLA Industries is reminiscent of trad games in terms of its complexity; character creation consists of spending points to improve abilities, and you can improve some of your character abilities by introducing flaws in other areas. Because of the roots in its game design, I’d expect a longer book to read through here.
If you want to learn more about this game, you can check out the game review for it on Cannibal Halfling Games!
Seven Deadly Sirens, by Litza Bronwyn.
In this game, you play one of seven types of mermaids and roll with seven deadly sins to power your basic and special moves in order to summon ships, lure men to you, devour their hearts, and collect their treasures. Fun, flirty, indulgent, and a little chaotic, this game is perfect for a night of raucous debauchery or an afternoon of silly adventuring.
This game is definitely on the shorter side, but I really really like the idea of using seven deadly sins as your source of power. This game is Powered by the Apocalypse, so expect something interesting to happen even with every dice roll. Unlike common PbtA games, you pick from a communal list of moves to define your character, rather than picking a playbook. The core loop of this game will involve luring men off of boats, killing them and raiding the boats for treasure.
Here, there be Monsters! By Wendi Yu.
here, there, be monsters! is a rules-lite response to monster-hunting media from the monsters' point of view. It's both a love letter and a middle finger to stuff like Hellboy (and the BPRD), the SCP Foundation, the Men in Black, the World of Darkness games and the Urban Fantasy genre in general. It is an explicitly queer, antifascist and anti-capitalist game about the monstrous and the weird, in any flavor you want, not as something to be feared, but to be cherished and protected.
Play as a diverse crew of monstrous, anomalous or just generally odd beings, fighting against those who would use, abuse or even annihilate you. Create and populate your own supernatural underworld, abnormal gang and extra-dimensional haven. Hunt monster hunters! Punch nazi occultists! Eat the rich! Protect each other! Fight back! Here, there, be monsters!
This is 164 pages of monstrous fun, in which your characters are likely treated like bad guys by the society around them, even if they’re not really villainous themselves. It gives you a chance to revel in your monstrosity, with 100 pre-made character backgrounds for you to peruse. One content warning: there is quite a bit of art revolving about bodies, in various forms (this is a monster game, after all). This isn’t meant to detract from the work - in fact, it perfectly communicates the tone of the game - but it is something you should be aware of before you buy.
Blood and Sacrilege, by Tom Clark.
In a Dark Fantasy setting based on the Early Middle Ages of England (The Dark Ages), you play as a brood of vampires bent on toppling the humans’ reign over Brackenstow. Here you'll find a country ruled by mortals, with vampires lurking in the shadows of society. It wasn’t always this way though; vampires founded Brackenstow and after a hard fought war, lost it to the mortals they once enslaved. 
Nearly a century after the vampires were defeated, legal rights to the kingdom are still squabbled over by the country's self-proclaimed leaders while bishops and ministers fight for their own influential positions. The vampire threat looms on the horizon… But the power vacuum left by a leaderless kingdom has taken it's toll on the stability of the land, leading to civil unrest and the more immediate danger of war. 
Now, with humans on the brink of societal collapse, the vampires peer out from the dark, and the broods that have laid in wait for so many decades start to execute their long-laid plans.
This looks like a game still in the works, but it sure looks promising. As long-defeated creatures of the night, you see a chance to take back a kingdom you once owned. Forged in the Dark games are all about projects that the group has to work consistently at in order to succeed, so expect plenty to read, especially if it’s inside such an established setting.
Villainous Fucks, by Keganexe (@keganexe)
Villainous Fucks is a tabletop roleplaying game designed for 2-6 players, about doing petty crimes as The League of Villainous Fucks, and ruining the day of Superheroes and Cops alike (and truly what's the difference). Villainous Fucks runs on Spencer Campbells incredible LUMEN System, and is inspired by the best Villains across media. LUMEN is designed for quick, tactical combat, and Villainous Fucks dials it up to 11 for the best in zany comic book style action.
If you are interested in ruining the day of do-gooders in over-the-top comic book action, and if you like your combat to be satisfying and punchy, you want Villainous Fucks. Instead of skills, LUMEN uses approaches: how your character does something is more important than what exactly they do. Is your villain Brutal, Cunning or Quick? My favourite little tidbit from Villainous Fucks is the characters’ stance on Cops. Villains believe that All Cops are Bastards, and All Superheroes are Cops. If you like revelling in doing crimes, then this is absolutely worth checking out.
Games I’ve Recommended Before
Monsterhearts 2, by Avery Alder. (Teenagers with great monstrous potential)
Spire: The City Must Fall, by Rowan Rook & Decard. (You’re sympathetic terrorists, but you’re still terrorists.)
This former request that asked about playing mind flayers and similar monsters.
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