decade accurate marauders era wardrobes - james potter
james' is a more stereotypical take on the seventies. i feel like he embodies the common characteristics of this period of fashion, with its exaggerated collars and pant legs, vibrant colors and patterns including paisley print.
paisley print has origins dating back to thousands of years ago from somewhere between modern-day iran and the india-pakistan border. along with indian music, fashion, and hinduism, it gained major popularity during late 60's/early 70's in us and european pop culture due to the quickly growing hippie and psychedelic movements.
although southern asian influence has held a place in european fashion, its mid 20th century renaissance was largely pioneered by the beatles (a band that i think james would've really liked).
indian!james is a popular headcanon so i feel especially inclined to include paisley and other patterns derived from india/southern asia that had influence on british pop fashion as a nod to this interpretation of him.
idk what it is about it but something about sherpa lined denim jackets and just denim in general scream james to me. such a shame he didn't get to live through the 80s god he would have loved double denim 💔
contrary to popular belief james fleamont potter did in fact strut, in platform shoes with chunky heels that alerted everybody on hogwarts grounds that he was approaching from miles away
in the 60s and 70s glasses shifted from being used solely for eyesight to fashion accessories. this change gave a rise to a variety of glasses styles such as different frame shapes, lens colors, and sizes. james is commonly depicted as wearing teashade/john lennon glasses but comically large square shaped aviator glasses are so much more uniquely 70s (and james coded) imo.
i'm not sure who said it first but red converse are also very james coded. he has a pair of beat up chuck 70s that he wears on early morning runs, sneaking around the castle, quidditch practice, etc etc
james was a male athlete in the 70s him leading quidditch practices in short shorts and a crop top might as well be written in canon idc‼️
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Title: Storge
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 1,004
Rating: G
Summary: As the quest concludes and the war ends, Poseidon is left with the truth and the realization that Percy means more to him than he knew.
Also available on ao3.
Camp Half-Blood celebrated. The night sky bloomed with multicolored fireworks. And amid the cacophony, the gods discovered the truth.
At Zeus’s command, Athena had called for a meeting with the whole council to end the war between him and Poseidon. But now Olympus shuddered with war’s echoes once again.
“So much for a swift and crushing victory, eh dad?” sneered Ares. He leaned back on his throne, the ancient stone pressed against the back of his leather trench coat.
“Silence,” Zeus ordered with a scowl. Thunder rumbled above them. “Your role in this has not been forgotten.” His irises swirled with storm clouds. He propped himself up, resting his arms on the circular marble table that the Olympians sat around. “We must decide what to do with Luke Castellan.”
Poseidon watched the proceedings with feigned indifference. He clenched his fists beneath the table and felt the leftover prickle of electricity dance across his fingertips. Even for a god as prominent as he, stopping Zeus’s Master Bolt with his bare hands was a harrowing experience. It was not often that gods held onto another’s symbol of power.
Across from him, Hermes twitched. His face shuttered.
“He is lost to us,” answered Athena with the authoritative tone he always recognized. She looked like that girl who went on the quest with Perseus except she was taller with narrower, more angular features. She had the same dark curls, but never wore her hair down. It was slicked back into a tight knot and accentuated her calculating gray eyes. “He eludes us with the power of his sword, and that puts him under Kronos’s protection. It is inadvisable to deduce where the portals will take him with so little information.”
Zeus frowned.
Athena clicked her tongue. “We must decide what to do with the other one…Poseidon’s spawn. Perseus Jackson.”
Poseidon straightened. The quake inside his chest threatened to release the force he held back. Long Island’s shores were bombarded with waves. “Enough,” he growled. He unclenched his fists. His trident crackled in its sheath attached to his throne.
The council quieted. Athena narrowed her eyes.
Zeus grunted, folding his arms as he glared. “I will not renege on the prize I have awarded the boy if he does not cause a disturbance,” he said. “I refuse to be indebted to a half-blood.” He lifted the Master Bolt. Its energy reverberated from the floors to the Corinthian columns that enclosed them. “He has returned what is mine. For now, we watch him.”
Poseidon thought to relax, but that was before Apollo with his sunny grin and even sunnier disposition, decided to interrupt.
“My Oracle spoke,” Apollo started with a singsong tune that grated on Poseidon’s nerves. “This may be the Prophecy. We must prepare soon.”
Poseidon sucked in a steadying breath. A new squall formed near Australia’s Shipwreck Coast.
Artemis rolled her eyes. “Not everything needs to be said in haiku, brother,” she admonished. The silver in her hair gleamed like the moon.
Poseidon sighed. The tension in his shoulders never lessened. “Perseus is not yet sixteen,” he said. “Leave him be.”
“We will get nothing done talking in circles. I have duties to attend to,” Zeus added. He nodded to Athena. “Finish this.”
The meeting adjourned. The gods flashed away, vanishing to tend to their domains. But Poseidon lingered. He had not moved. He stared at a pearl he rolled in his palm.
“Do you ever dream about mom?”
His son’s voice rushed into his head like an endless current. Perseus’s eyes were so much like his own, so much more than he had imagined. Poseidon had not answered his question. He had not forgotten.
He clutched the pearl tight and stood, trident in hand.
“He is your weakness, the boy.” Someone disrupted the silence.
Poseidon turned.
Athena observed him from the pathway that led to the rest of Olympus’s sprawling city. “If you are not careful, he will become a liability to you.”
He inclined his head. “What's this?” he asked with a sardonic smirk. “The goddess of wisdom and battle strategy giving me advice?”
“It is simply an observation.”
“An observation I do not crave.”
Athena scoffed. “You surrendered for him,” she replied. “You lost the war for that boy. He is nothing more than a blip in our eternity. What will happen in the future when there is more at stake? What will you choose, your son or the Fifth Age?”
He parted his lips, but no answer came. Athena departed down the path. He was alone.
He walked to the edge of the council room, intent on watching what remained of the fireworks below. Even from here, he could see them. If he concentrated, he could hear the laughter of the demigods and smell their offerings scraped into the bonfire. Most of them did not know what had transpired yet.
He only wished Perseus was spared betrayal.
The hearth that occupied the edge of the room snapped. Out of the warmth appeared the form of a little girl in drab robes.
“Hestia,” he said with a slight bow. “I am sorry to disturb you. I will soon depart.”
“You are lost,” she remarked. She always sounded so much younger than she was. “You are thinking of him…of your family.”
“You are my family,” he countered.
She smiled and offered her right hand. “Take my hand.”
With caution, he took it.
As soon as they touched, images flooded his mind. He saw Sally Jackson. She pressed her forehead to their son’s. The sunlight dappled the rivulets of her hair and brightened Perseus’s blue eyes.
He saw Perseus in his cabin at camp, running his fingers along the water in the fountain, a pensive look on his face. On his neck, he wore a new bead on the necklace Chiron had given him. Painted against black was a delicate sea-green trident.
When Poseidon remembered himself, Hestia was gone. The visions tucked away inside him.
“Yes,” he whispered into nothing. “I do dream of you.”
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hands (put your empty hands in mine)
vash x reader drabble (rated g, 550 words)
Scarred from wrist to fingertip—just like the rest of him—Vash’s hands are never anything but gentle and careful when they wrap around yours. All of him is careful with you, often borderline treating you as if you’re fragile, but can you blame him when human life so often is? It’s only out of love for you; out of fear that you’ll be ripped away from him. Still, he can’t bear to hold on too tight. The guilt (of putting you in danger just by keeping you close) is something he’ll never fully be able to escape, but it’s something you can help lessen, with patience and love and the constant reminder that he is deserving.
At first, even just holding your hand is nearly enough to make him cry. He’s denied himself a great many things over the past hundred and thirty years—affection chief among them—and accepting it now is difficult, even when it’s something he wants more than anything else. Give him some time to get used to it; he’ll be seeking it out constantly before long. Your hand in his becomes an anchor, a comfort, a reminder that you’re here and you’re real and he isn’t alone anymore. You’re nothing short of a miracle, to him.
Though, of course, he gets nervous, especially in the beginning—his hand sweaty and trembling as he gives you a wobbly grin; he might even give you his prosthetic hand to hold (although any other time he favors the other) to keep you from seeing just how nervous he is. Not that you can’t tell. You know him too well for that. He’ll be even more awestruck when you take his right hand anyway, interlacing your fingers with his and giving him a squeeze of reassurance. You don’t mind if his palm is a little bit sweaty. Yours is too.
Not to say that you shy away from his left hand: though the metal gets far too hot to hold beneath the desert suns, it cools in the evening like everything else, and you can sit with him, tracing the nicks and scuffs of it. He doesn’t have much feeling in it, but watching you draw mindless patterns against it makes his heart sing. Still, the fact that it’s a weapon makes him hesitant to touch you with it; he wishes he could keep that part of himself away from you entirely. You coax him out of that melancholy every time, though—especially when you take it and press it to your cheek, swearing the coolness of it feels like heaven.
One surefire way to get him to melt is to brush your lips over his knuckles, or even better, press a kiss to his open palm when he goes to cup your cheek. He’s always red-faced around you, but when you give him such open adoration, your lips against the calluses he’s acquired in all his years as a gunslinger, he lights up like a roman candle, pink to the tips of his ears. (And if you compliment his hands? If you tell him how safe and loved they make you feel? How you love that he chooses to use them for good? For love and peace? Vash has long since decided that he’s yours forever, but this only cements that fact tenfold.)
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