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#polished gray pottery
1800titz · 1 month
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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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wellpresseddaisy · 2 years
Text
Long Ago (and far away)
Part 6
Severus shut his front door, turned, and just leaned against it for a moment. He gripped tightly to the tin of biscuits, partly to keep his hands from shaking (stress? too many bouts of crucio at too young an age? who even knew at this point), and breathed deeply. The faint hint of lemon oil furniture polish and the heavier scents of beeswax and lamp oil grounded him deeply in his home. He listened, letting the fire crackling in the sitting room grate and the muffled tick of his mantle clock further settle his jangled nerves. Slowly, his fingers unlocked around the tin, holding it more naturally, not in the vice grip he'd had before. Anxious questions wished to bound about in his brain, chasing answers until he'd worked himself into another headache. 
But he had a great deal more to do today than sit about and fret. He forced himself to push off the door, heeling out of his boots and padding into the sitting room in stocking feet. He'd left his house shoes upstairs. Again. 
"Severus!" The bright greeting, so reminiscent of the previous day, nearly had him hurling the tin at the voice. 
"Sir?" He managed a strangled reply, heart thudding. 
"How was your visit with the Weasleys?" Tom Riddle bustled (and how did a man of his size manage to bustle?) into the sitting room, bearing a loaded tea tray. The warm smell of baking scones drifted out of the kitchen with him before the door swung shut. He'd obviously done some transfiguration work on his clothing, enlarging a different shirt and pair of trousers to fit better.
"It…" he paused to clear his throat. "It went well, thank you. Mr. Weasley was called away, so I spoke to Mrs. Weasley. She sent me back with ginger newts."
"I just made tea...thought you could use something." He smiled gently. "Why don't you put your tin in the kitchen and then come sit with me?"
Gently worded as it was, Severus knew an order when he heard one. "I take my tea with only a splash of milk, please."
He escaped to the kitchen, thankful for a few more moments to collect himself. The vow he'd made once, to protect the boy, twanged at him, unsettling even his iron control. Now that he knew, he had to take action. Well, once he'd spoken to the Weasley boys, Merlin help him. Severus set the tin on the counter and paused. The dishes they'd used that morning sat in an actual drying rack he didn't remember owning, and a batch of steaming hot oat scones sat cooling on a rack that he also didn't remember owning. If he hadn't had more breakfast than he was accustomed to and biscuits he'd have been tempted.
Turning, he swept back into the sitting room, sinking onto the sofa next to Riddle. He accepted a cup of tea and sipped...perfect. Severus wanted to be surprised, but found himself appreciating Riddle's domestic abilities instead.
"Are you…did you get the information you needed?"
The heat of the drink through his mug warmed his hands while the bright, almost citrus notes lifted his mood. At least a bit. He rubbed his fingertips against the pottery, the repetitive motion soothing some of his stress. 
He loved the heavy, hand-thrown mugs. He'd found them in the Lake District one chilly summer and fell in love with the smudgy greens and grays and purples. They looked like a foggy morning on the moors.
"I think so. I'm going to have to engage in some amount of subterfuge, I think. I'll ask Minerva to tea tomorrow, if that doesn't upset any plans?" 
"Of course not." Riddle smiled warmly at him. "It can be a touchy thing, placing children."
"And especially touchy with this one. We really ought to have an office of child welfare, but that upsets certain factions." Severus sighed. 
"There now," Riddle murmured. "Your shoulders are down from around your ears."
"I suppose…Mrs. Weasley was distressed. It can be difficult. She's been writing to the headmaster."
"Hmm, she would. Used to complain about you, frequently, but that was mostly that you would give her twins occasional pointers."
"What did my...counterpart think of you?" He couldn't help the curiosity, driven to know that answer, even if it was rude. It was the same urge that sometimes resulted in explosions in the lab.
"Oh, he would have cheerfully seen me to the bottom of Black Lake." Riddle smiled at him, warm and frank. "We had a somewhat...contentious relationship. I was called in as a response to...well, what happened at the start of your second term teaching?"
"The sixth and seventh years engaged in a 'prank', the results of which could have killed a professor. I took appropriate measures." Severus settled his mug on his knee and stared down into the depths.
"Your counterpart caned sixteen students in front of their housemates. I was brought in by the board in the aftermath." Riddle clarified.
Severus startled, nearly upsetting his mug. Riddle removed it gently from his hands and set it on the table.
"I take it you didn't have the same reaction?"
"I would never…" Severus began before stopping to collect himself. He did not wish to sound like some hysterical, Wilde-ian duchess. "I confined them to their rooms and forbade them from communicating with either housemates or home. I wrote to their parents or guardians, informing them of the situation and possible disciplinary routes. To a one, they chose the same consequences and the headmaster agreed."
"That would sidestep the issue with, well, fourteen sets of parents and guardians screaming for your head." Riddle folded Severus' hands between his. "The board decided I would be a tempering presence and…to continue with his employment, your counterpart had to agree to live under my guardianship. He didn't care for that. I do hope I won't be as much of an imposition on you."
Severus swallowed hard. This sort of man, treating him with warmth and kindness, would be too easy to rely on. And it was only for a day. He had to remember that, no matter how much he wanted. Riddle wouldn't stay forever. Hell, Riddle probably wouldn't stay past the evening, once he had his finances sorted.
His counterpart was, clearly, a complete sapskull. And probably a tarmagant to boot.
"I doubt you will be." He answered, finally, withdrawing his hands. "I should go and dress."
"Of course. I'll be waiting. Just—"
"Yes?" Severus turned back at the bookcase.
"Lucius Malfoy, Severus. He…he made a curtsey where I'm from. You said he'd chaperoned you to Gringotts once. I just remembered why that bothered me. It was Mrs. Malfoy who was head of the family, despite marrying in." Riddle's brows creased in concern. "Do you know…"
"I…I have no idea. He never said and at the time I would have been too young to really pay attention. Oh, hell." He leaned against the bookcase and let his head thump on a shelf. "He may well have ruined me. Socially, at any rate. Although…it isn't as if I had a sterling reputation before that."
Witch Weekly had done a piece on The Scandals of Severus Snape when he was named head of Slytherin.
It was illustrated. He wondered if Minerva kept a copy. 
"I just wonder why Gringotts allowed it." Riddle said. "They've always been strict about the chaperonage requirement. It's the one way they can stick it to the upper class."
"They may have allowed it once or, more likely, he just paid a fine. It isn't as if I'm really part of…any of it. It just…well, it makes life just a little harder."
Severus left as quickly as he could without looking like he was fleeing.
-----------------
Severus stood before his clothes press, ghosting his fingers over the fine fabrics. Merlin but Narcissa spoiled him. Sending him beautiful clothes and fruit from the conservatory and his favorite tea. She's shielded him, too, at school and after. She'd taught him to carry himself properly, to speak well, to behave as a Pureblood ought.  
He should have known, really.
Thinking of her, his hands bypassed trousers and pulled out one of her gifts. He undressed quickly, depositing his teaching clothes on one of the valet stands that lived in the corner. Trousers folded across the bar, his coat on the heavily padded hanger, and his shirt folded and set over the trousers. He pulled on fresh combinations and padded barefoot back to the highboy next to his clothes press. He rooted around in one of the top drawers, coming up with a pair of fine, black silk stockings and Slytherin green ribbons.
Severus sat on his bed to pull on the stockings, adjusting the emerald green clocking to emphasize his ankles. He gartered them just below the knee with the ribbon. The garters weren't strictly necessary, charmed as the stockings were to stay up, but a bit of hidden cheekiness bolstered him, the snakes twining about the ribbons, ghosting an embroidered tongue over the garter's edge every so often. He slipped his feet into house shoes to keep his stockings from snagging on the floor and stood, turning to the pile of fabric on his bed.
The cream colored under-kirtle went on easily, the same silk and wool blend as the previous evening, but this one with sleeves to accompany the high collar. Severus fastened the collar, settling the shoulders before smoothing the heavy skirts. He squirmed into the sleeveless, high-collared kirtle next, using a touch of magic to do up the opening at the left side. The black woolen fabric laid stark against the sleeves and collar of the under-kirtle. The collar fastened with just a touch of his fingers as well, and he arranged the under-kirtle's collar to just peek out. He wouldn't wear a cravat, but the high, layered collars gave the impression of stock collar and waistcoat. 
Severus picked up the last layer and shook it out. He slipped into the long, flaring coat. As deeply black as the kirtle, it was cut almost exactly like his teaching coat. The skirts, though, flared out over those of his under-layers and skimmed the floor. He did up the buttons that ran from chest to hip, appreciating Narcissa's eye for detail in the perfect fit. Twisting his arm a bit, he fastened the buttons on one sleeve, adjusting the cuff down over his knuckles, before moving to the other. He shook out his skirts one more time before he hopped to settle everything and then went to check himself in the full-length mirror.
His breath caught in his throat at his reflection. The lamps lighting his room softened the edges, but he looked...he looked right. Both sides of himself blended skillfully in one ensemble—Potions Master and Prince. He wasn't a tall man; early malnutrition put paid to any great height or breadth for him (and he should have seen the markers in the young Potter), but the sweep of the skirt and the unrelieved black gave him presence. He'd never match the polished beauty of a child of an Old House, but he finally felt like his deepest self. Heart stuttering, he trailed his fingers down the glass, some unspoken yearning lodged around his sternum.
But he had no time for yearning. He shook himself out of his reverie and went to collect his gloves from the highboy. He'd wear his black over robe out to dispel the slightly ecclesiastical look. One time being accosted in London was enough.
And he would cease such silly wanting.
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indiantraders · 5 months
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GLOSSARY OF TERMS USED FOR NATIVE AMERICAN JEWELRY PART 2: L-Z
Here we continue our helpful glossary of terms commonly used in reference to Native American jewelry…
LAPIS LAZULI – also known as Lazurite, this deep blue (sometimes tending to indigo) semi-precious stone has been valued worldwide and is especially noted in ancient Egyptian archaeological finds. It is found in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Siberia, Chile, Canada, and the USA.
MALACHITE – this semi-precious green variegated stone is a mineral carbonate of copper. Opaque and with green and black bands, its use dates to ancient Egypt and it was believed to hold magical powers. High-quality malachite is rather rare and the stone is found from Zaire to Russia, Europe to Australia, and in Arizona and New Mexico. It’s a popular addition to the Native American jewelry of the Southwest and is notably seen in inlaid Zuni pieces where it complements turquoise.
MATT – or matte refers to a non-reflective finish on silver and other metals.
MOTHER OF PEARL – derived from the interior surface of the mollusk shell, it is used in Zuni inlay jewelry and has a milky-white, pink, gray-blue, or grayish-silver appearance.
NAJA – this Navajo word refers to the crescent-shaped pendant suspended from squash blossom necklaces. It is also sometimes suspended from horse bridles.
NAVAJO – the largest US Native American Reservation, the Navajo Nation occupies land in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. Also referred to as the Dine, these Native American people of the southwest are renowned for their weaving and silversmith work. Navajo jewelry tends to be distinctive for its embossing and the use of turquoise.
ONYX – a form of chalcedony quartz and usually black, this opaque, near-opaque, or translucent stone is popular in Zuni and Navajo jewelry. If the chalcedony is variegated, it is called agate.
OPAL – formed as silica from decomposing rocks that mixed with groundwater, most opal is between 50-65 million years old. It appears in an array of colors, from blue to green, white, pink, and black, with iridescent flashes of red, blue, yellow, and green.
OVERLAY – notable in Hopi jewelry designs, this silversmithing technique involves soldering two layers of silver together.
PENDANT – refers to a jewelry piece that is worn suspended from a necklace. They may also be worn as a pin or brooch in some cases.  
QUARTZ – a crystalline mineral that is usually transparent when polished and available in an array of colors. Pure quartz is colorless.
SANDCAST – a technique whereby metal is cast in molds made of stone.
SANTO DOMINGO – a Native American Pueblo tribe renowned for their shell and turquoise heishi bead necklaces and traditional pottery making.
SHANK – refers to the part of a ring that encircles the finger.
SQUASH BLOSSOM – an traditional heirloom jewelry style of many native Americans (the Navajo in particular) and worn by women, young girls, medicine men, and chiefs, it features beads (usually silver) with “petals”.
STERLING SILVER – 92.5% silver combined with 7.5% copper for enhanced strength.
SPINY OYSTER – the orange sell of this marine creature has long been used in Naïve American jewelry, especially Zuni inlay work. The shell comes in shades from dark red-orange to yellowish and, like coral, is often set alongside Turquoise for a striking effect.
TUFA CASTING – metal is cast in molds made of porous rock created by volcanic ash.
TURQUOISE – a semi-precious stone made of phosphate of copper and aluminum. The Navajo are particularly renowned for their Native American Turquoise jewelry and the stone is also widely used by the Zuni in their distinctive inlay designs. Ranging from aqua-blue to green and even shades of yellow and white, turquoise is found in arid regions where copper is also abundant. One needs to be aware of whether turquoise is genuine/natural or chemically enhanced or stabilised.
ZUNI – Native American Pueblo peoples of western New Mexico. They are renowned for their silver and turquoise/jet/coral/ and other semi-precious inlay jewelry, beadwork, fetishes, pottery and basket weaving. https://indiantraders.com/blogs/news/glossary-of-terms-used-for-native-american-jewelry-part-2-l-z
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Photographer Anne’s 150 yr. old cottage, is in a very rural part of Germany. (Rural places make this city girl nervous.) The cottage was last remodeled mid-century and she has no plans to remodel.  Currently, it doesn’t have a bathroom (Anne built a composting toilet in the garden outhouse) or warm running water, so for now, it’s best for weekend visits and short-term stays.
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Original details include blue tile, a painted staircase (ladder), and a door from the early twentieth century, adjacent to one from the midcentury-era remodel.
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A rail of hooks from the hardware store and two umbrellas from a German flea market.
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The upstairs crawl space where Anne sleeps is pretty cozy, and it’s not dreary- gets the morning sun, just fine.
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An industrial work light hangs from an S-hook above the bed in this room. The walls in this house are incredible, and look at the floor! 
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Anne, who likes “simple, good things,” and doesn’t “need new things all the time,” has a collection of items throughout the house, each with a different story. The paper-bag-looking tote on the dresser is made by Japanese artist Kazumi Takigawa from waxed canvas dyed with tea and coffee. I’m lovin’ the peach & gray front door, too. 
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The main bedroom downstairs is furnished with a vintage crib from Anne’s sister and a bed frame from a toy maker in the north of Germany. It’s very short, Anne explains, so tall guests have to sleep at a diagonal.
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A single sprig from the garden in a handmade vase. The vintage lamp was found at the flea market.
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The living room has two antique armchairs, a midcentury bureau, and a chest used as a coffee table. The chest is from Anne’s great aunt, who once used it to store coal in her Berlin flat. The funny skinny door, Anne thinks, was used between sections of the cottage back when two families would inhabit the same house; “but I have no idea why it’s so small,” she says.
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Anne bought the house from the daughter of a stove maker, who lived in the house after her father passed away. That explains this beautiful blue stove.  Anne had a friend help her reconnect the stove to the chimney to get it working again.
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Anne mixes a German rustic palette of browns and yellows with bright bits of pastel enamelware in the pantry-like space near the kitchen.
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Two aluminum industrial shelves are filled with found ceramics (“I really have a thing for old stoneware pottery,” she says) and also some handmade by Anne. All the enamelware in her kitchen is bought from various flea markets.
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Most of the furniture in the house Anne found in the storage shed; some of it was repainted.
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The rack above the stove is custom made from a blacksmith at the village’s Christmas market. The pot holders are made by a local woman who sells them in the village floral shop.
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Anne builds a fire in the old stove first thing in the morning to warm up while she cooks breakfast on the cast iron stovetop. She bought the stove from a flea market vendor she shops with often.
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This is wonderful. The mug and the plates are Anne’s handmade ceramics and the salt pot is from a friend in Berlin. It’s inspired by 19th century shoe polish pots.
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The gray fabric used as a curtain is a moving blanket from the hardware store. Love this house so much!
https://www.remodelista.com/posts/anne-schwalbe-country-cottage-rural-germany-farmhouse/
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authoressskr · 3 years
Text
Ruby Dragon Surprise (i)
Characters: f!Reader, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Clint Barton, Mercy (*previously Y/N in Bucky’s Dragon Soulmate Story*), mentions of Peggy Carter
Warnings: Language and no Beta   ::    Notes: This particular story will probably be three parts, cause Steve is emotionally constipated   ::   Word Count: 4849
I went with a dragon!soulmate!au, which I hadn’t seen before, but I did have a nifty dream about it that spawned this whole idea. He’s still an Avenger. Events are basically still the same (not exactly the same...people are alive who died in the mcu), just with dragons. ‘Cause who wouldn’t love a dragon companion?? This will be an ongoing series with different Avengers finding their soulmates with their dragons.
Howlite and Hearts (Bucky)
Please do NOT repost, copy & paste, post or share my works on any other platform without my EXPRESS PERMISSION.
-+- REBLOGGING is fine and very appreciated! -+-
Since men emerged from caves, began using tools and reshaping their environment, they have been intrigued by the draconian terrors of all shapes and sizes that roamed the world. The first records of man and dragon working together are from Mesopotamia, pieces of shattered pottery pieced back together showing a dragon standing beside a woman. Assyrian artifacts depict water dragons helping farmers in the field. Egyptian murals show dragons protecting the Pharaoh and his family, others showing different breeds of dragon fetching books from inside the Library of Alexandria.
History is dotted with famous dragons and their bonded humans; King Arthur and his steel-colored dragon, Excalibur. William Shakespeare and his dragon, Bard. Cleopatra and Bucephalus, named after Alexander the Great’s legendary steed. Abraham Lincoln and his dragon, Crusoe.
Over the centuries, dragons have become smaller from the giants painted in mythology, old texts and wall murals. The biggest dragon these days are about the size of a large crocodile, with the biggest recorded in the last decade almost as big as a hippo. Height varies on the type of dragon - with the tallest one balancing on its tail, hits almost eye level with a giraffe.
Classes have been taught for centuries about dragons and the bond between them with humans. Dragons will sometimes die right after their human counterpart and vice versa. Dragons who have lost their counterpart will sometimes live, seeking out their counterpart’s soulmate to stay with their draconian mates as well. It is not an uncommon thing - especially after times of war - for soulmates to have both dragons if one has died.
Dragon pairs will usually have the same colors and markings, even though they will often not be the same type of dragon. Dragons may look similar to the human eye, but a dragon will know it’s mate no matter what. It has not been determined how the dragons know their mate almost instantaneously, but after millennia humans have begun to follow the dragon counterpart’s knowledge in this area. Marriages of alliance and royalty have often been changed or dropped when one party finds its soulmate. In the same vein, marriages have also been arranged due to this circumstance as well. Cinderella is the most referenced fairy tale of this, with Cinderella having the same sapphire and gold colored dragon as the prince (*Dragon color varies by region and culture).
Soulmate bonds are some of the strongest bonds in our world. Both between a dragon pair and between a human pair. And on the flip side of the Cinderella story, dragons will attempt to push their human partners together if the human counterpart doesn’t seem interested or could result in a rejection.
On the same page, a rejection of this bond - always by the human partner - can have devastating consequences. This broken or unformed bond may result in: at first, flu-like symptoms but can build up to more serious symptoms such as feeling weak or run down, tremors and/or tics, varying weight loss, chest pains and even very mild seizures have been documented. Usually the bond is mended or solidified before it comes to these more serious issues. There are also historic rumors of deaths from broken hearts due to rejections, which has yet to be scientifically proven. The aforementioned symptoms may require hospitalization.
To date no dragon has succumbed to any symptoms from their human counterparts due to the rejection of the bond, which dragon experts seem truly puzzled by due to the strong bonds that can be formed between a human and a dragon. Rejections, however, are rare and scientists aren’t yet sure of all possible symptoms associated with a rejection of a bond. Touch, however, is shown to remedy these symptoms in trials and is known to be a powerful connector between a human and it’s dragon partner as well.
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If there was one thing Steve Rogers knew, it was that Peggy Carter was his soulmate.
He’ll admit he doesn’t think of it as often as when he came out of the ice, but he does still think about it - about Peggy - every few days. More so when Bucky, Sam and himself are out for lunch or when he and Wanda may be grabbing some coffee, because that is when he sees soulmates together. 
The way soulmates look at each other is different. Like they don’t just see the person before them, but everything they are and could be; all rolled into everything they love.
And he’s envious of that look.
He knows he hasn’t received it. And he truly believes he hasn’t given it either. Sometimes he chalks it up to not being actual bonded soulmates with Peggy. Because he knows that the love that was blossoming would have turned into that loving, enraptured gaze he always longed for.
It’s the thought that gets interrupted when his cell rings on the way back from their morning run. He quickly switches his coffee cup to his other hand to fish the phone from his pant pocket, revealing Tony’s face on the screen.
“Hey, Tony.”
“Need you, the bird and the metal popsicle back here asap. Got a hit on a Hydra offshoot. Wheels up in 30.”
“Got it. We’re just a few blocks from the Tower now.”
“Pick up the pace then, old man,” And the call ends. He looks at Sam and Bucky before tossing back what’s left of his coffee and throwing it in a nearby trash can.
“Mission. Wheels go up in 30.” Sam sighs at his words.
“Morning calls are rare, man. Must be big.”
“Hydra,” Bucky mutters with a shake of his head before polishing off his own coffee. “Come on. Gonna take most of that time to get the scalies ready.”
“You know,” Sam mutters with a smug grin as they all continue towards the Tower, “You’ve picked up your soulmate’s habit of calling the dragons weird names.” Sam tosses his empty cup and dodges a swat from Bucky.
“Jealousy is an ugly, ugly thing Sam…”
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Steve shifts in his place in the rafters, Rak wiggling on his back in response to peer over his shoulder down at the HYDRA agents. He nods at Bucky, who is perched across the building, just above the exit.
“Where’d you find this one?”
“Get this - a museum.” The blonde HYDRA agent cackles, leaving the brunet nodding, a serious look on his face. A loud clang of the door reveals two more HYDRA agents, dragging another person between them while a third agent follows behind with a tactical machine gun held tightly in his grip. If body shape is anything to go on, it’s a woman. A curvy and buxom one. Bucky quickly types out an update in Morse code to Natasha who is stationed outside with Sam and Tony as the brunet drags a heavy wooden chair into the middle of the room.
They toss the captive into the chair, zip tying their wrists behind them before pulling off the thick bag from their head. If looks could kill…
“Now, Miss, we are going to ask you a series of questions -”
“Fuck. Off.” Steve’s eyebrows shoot up at the venom in her tone.
“You don’t seem to know who we are.” Her jaw clenches as she looks away from the salt and pepper haired man who dragged her in. “Come now. I don’t want to injure you more than necessary…”
“Right.” She snaps, looking down at her lap with a sigh. The tall brunet who helped drag her in shifts to stand behind her, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking her head back. Her gasp makes Rak hiss in his ear, Steve feeling his claw tips through his suit. He tilts his head to rub it against Rak’s, offering that silent comfort to calm him down.
“Now, Miss, the first question is: You work in the nearby museum, correct?”
“Seeing as that’s where you took me from…” She gasps again as the hand tightens in her hair, bending her head back a little more. That’s when she notices Bucky in the rafters - quickly closing her eyes and sniffles loudly.
“What are you working on there?”
“Paleontology mostly. But when I started there I worked in the geology department. I’m a floater between departments since I don’t have my full degree yet.” The man relaxes his grip a little, pushing her head forward towards its normal position again.
“Rocks and bones.” The older agent chuckles before rubbing his hand over his graying beard. “Do you do anything else in the museum?”
“I assist only in the two departments. The only reason I help the geology is when the woman who regularly helps is gone cause she’s having a rough pregnancy.”
“Now we know that’s a lie. You spend a lot of time in the accounting office.” Her head is pulled back again so she’s looking at the ceiling again.
“I’m not sure you lot are aware that each department has a budget. I have to submit forms every month about the spending. Plus, one of the accountants is my friend.”
“So you are saying our intel is wrong?”
“Look, I’d like my head to stay attached, but yes, your intel is shit. Probably someone just looking not to be in the position I’m currently in.”
“So the museum isn’t looking into the dragons ancestors?”
“If they are, then I don’t know about it. I’m a peon!” She yanks her head from the man’s grasp and struggles in the chair.
“Little cherub, you are a terrible liar.”
“Listen asshat, I am keenly aware I’m a terrible liar. So I tend NOT to lie. Especially to someone who has tied me to a chair and has a fucking gun!!” He sighs, giving a little shake of his head before his hand shoots out and backhands her, making her head snap to the left. Rak’s claws pierce through his suit, smoke curling from his nostrils making Steve tense under him even more. He holds his hand up in a stopping motion, Bucky cocking his head slightly before Steve gestures over his shoulder at Rak.
“Woman, HYDRA has been looking for you for awhile.”
“Seems like a waste of time to me. I can’t have anything HYDRA could possibly want. Except maybe morals.”
“We don’t need morals in HYDRA.” The blonde grunts out from his leaning place against the wall.
“I’m aware. Ya ever think that’s why SHIELD and the Avengers whip your ass? Resign you to the shadows like the phantoms you are.” There is a loud enough explosion that everyone turns towards the exit, the men all tensing. “AND YOU KNOW WHAT? YOUR SIGIL OR WHATEVER IT IS MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING SENSE! HYDRA MEANS 5! WHY DOES YOUR SYMBOL HAVE 8? AND DO YOU ALL KNOW THAT THE HYDRA WAS DEFEATED???” Her head is sent sharply to the left again, blood trickling from her lip at the contact.
“WHO FOLLOWED YOU?!” The older agent snaps at the blonde and brunet who they saw first.
“NO ONE, SIR!” Bucky drops down just as Tony comes through the back exit, making Steve shimmy upright before he begins across the beams in the rafters to cut off their retreat.
He drops down with a dull thud, blocking the HYDRA agents as planned but the brunet with the machine gun has it pointed under the woman’s jaw.
“She’s not so sassy now,” The man in charge smirks out, stroking a finger down her cheek. He glances behind, seeing Bucky, Tony and Natasha behind him.
“You know, nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance.” Her words loud and clear as her gaze slides towards the older agent, the muzzle of the gun digging harder into her skin at her words.
“Snarky little bitch, isn’t she?”
“I like snark,” Tony mentions, looking to Natasha who just rolls her eyes. “But that’s because I’m just so good at it.”
“Release the girl, unharmed, and we’ll take you alive.” Steve offers, Rak’s nails digging into his shoulder once more as smoke begins to curl out of his nose again.
“How about no?” The agent whom had been silent this entire time speaks with a sneer, his little blue dragon’s head popping from a pocket in his utility pants.
Bucky lets loose a single round to the knee of the agent with the sub machine gun, making him buckle and the gun drop from his grip. That’s when Tony blasts the salt and pepper haired man past Steve as Natasha cuts the woman free, only for the woman to rush past Steve and the other agents deeper into the warehouse. Rak jumps from his shoulder and flys after her, prompting Steve to sigh as Bucky runs past, following after her and Rak.
“Does she realize the exit is the other way?!” Tony yells through the comms, taking a stance by where he’d entered to fend off dozens of incoming HYDRA. Two men run towards Steve only to stutter to the ground as electricity surges through their bodies.
“Thanks Nat.” He grunts before rushing through the doorway to find his best friend, his dragon and the directionally impaired woman.
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You’re trying desperately to remember the turns they’ve dragged you through, looking for the spot where they had separated the two of you and tossed a bag over your head. A man moves to grab you, only to be attacked by an aggressive ruby dragon. It then scrabbles up your legs and perches itself on your shoulder, urging you on with a little grunt. You tread a little more carefully after that, but no less urgent, a scream clogging your throat as someone grabs your shoulder from behind before slipping a hand over your mouth. 
“Don’t scream.” You nod as the former Winter Soldier comes into view. “You know, the easy exit was the other way.”
“I’m aware. But they tossed my dragon in a big plastic looking box then I got the bag and drag treatment.”
“This warehouse has two floors in the front half, did they take you upstairs at all?” A shake of your head is all you can manage before the dragon flits from your shoulder and begins running down the hallway. “I guess we follow Rak then. You stay behind me and if I tell you to do something -”
“Consider it done.” You agree before gently pushing at his arm to get him moving.
Rak doesn’t stop until he’s about two hallways off where you all stopped, hissing and sending several fiery breaths towards the small side dock where HYDRA agents were loading up your dragon.
“Velma!” Her answering screech is enough to get you moving, Sgt. Barnes hand shooting out to keep you behind him. He’s got two of them shot and Rak is mauling another when you see a silver blur knock out the other two. It’s only when you turn to your right do you see Captain America snatch his shield, holding it for a beat before turning to look at you. If looks could lecture...you’d be in for a loooong one.
But as he gives you that look all you can think of is that now all the douche HYDRA agents are now k-o’ed, so you rush over to the giant box, sticking your fingers through the big air holes to stroke at her muzzle, Rak chirping at Sgt. Barnes, who steps around your crouched form and snaps the two heavy duty locks off with his metal hand. Your dragon bursts from the cage and tackles you, curling herself around your chest and neck as best she can as you coo reassurances to her.
“We gotta go,” Steve takes hold of your elbow, helping you up as you heft Velma off the ground, her wings wrapping securely around you as you follow Captain America back the way you came. Rak is riding on his shoulder and moving his ruby head back and forth between you and the hallway ahead. The Black Widow joins you halfway back and takes point, an emerald green dragon with beautiful iridescent wings in shades of purples, blacks, greens and a few splashes of a pale yellow shimmer brightly even in the dim lights of the warehouse hallway. You let out a soft grunt, hefting Velma a little higher as your arms start to tire. “Almost there. I can carry her, if you like?” He doesn’t look at you when he offers, simply continues looking forward at his measured pace beside you.
“I can manage,” Your pride answers before your tired arms can get a word in, a smile twitching at his lips at your answer, which just makes your pride suddenly all the more determined to do it yourself. He moves forward when you all get back to where the attack began, Natasha taking his place before Falcon glides in through the hole in the wall.
“It’s all secure to the jet,” He reports as he lands. “Tony is circling the outer gates to make sure they don’t have anything else - hostages or weapons.”
“Alright. Let’s get her on the jet. We’ll look her over and call into the compound for the doctor to be ready when we arrive.”
“Already done,” Natasha confirms and they all move in a protective box around you and Velma, Falcon now on your right and Natasha on your left as the good Captain takes the lead and the Sergeant keeps his place in the rear.
You’re herded - there is no other way to put it really - onto this very expensive, military-looking, and slightly futuristic jet. Falcon gestures to a seat and you kneel in front of it, carefully dislodging your draconian partner before taking the seat. Her scaled head nudges your open hand, reminding you that you’ve both made it.
Safe echoes in your mind and you nod, meeting her light amethyst eyes.
Safe, you reply as she climbs awkwardly into the seat beside yours, laying her head on your thigh.
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“Baby,” She coos to the dragon, a shiver going up his spine at the softness and care in her tone, her hand sliding easily over it’s red scales as Sam returns to her side with a first aid kit.
“They do anything else besides these?” Sam asks gently, his finger brushing softly over her cheek where it’s already beginning to swell. A shake of her head is all she manages, “Okay, I’m gonna clean it with an alcohol pad.” Sam swipes it across her cheek and around the left side of her mouth to get off the dried blood. When he dabs just under her lip she hisses and so does Rak, her own dragon tensing up and curling it’s upper lip just enough to flash the tips of its teeth.
“Down, kids,” She mumbles out before Tony struts onto the jet.
“All clear. Let’s go home.” Tony sits beside her as the jet begins to ascend, both men’s gazes dropping to her free hand which is gripping the edge of her seat. “I’m Tony.”
“Y/N.”
“Dragon?”
“Velma.”
“Velma,” Tony repeats with a chuckle. “I like it. Suits you both. This is Jericho.”
“‘By faith the walls of Jericho fell’…is that right?”
“Exactly! ‘See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands’. My mother insisted that I know the Bible. I just liked the idea of marching and horns defeating a strong enemy. No bullets, no bombs; just faith.”
“Kind of goes against the initial sort of images of yourself, huh?” Tony leans in slightly, a grin flirting on his lips.
“Have you been talking to my wife?” She leans in too, their foreheads nearly touching.
“I think I’d remember talking to her.”
“She is very memorable.” He agrees, leaning back in the seat before waving his finger at her chest. “Buckle up. We should be there in about twenty or thirty.”
“Do you need anything?” Steve asks, Bucky’s eye popping open from his resting place in the corner and a tiny twitch of his lips making him want to glare at his best friend.
“No, thank you.” Steve nods, moving to the front to talk to Natasha when Rak flits to the floor and scurries over to her, his head tilted to one side with his begging eyes on. Steve moves to turn back to stop Rak from bothering her. “Get up here then,” A smile dancing in her eyes as he chirps happily, leaping easily into her lap and shaking his wings out before carefully settling down, his snout resting beside Velma’s.
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You’re just nodding off when the jet lands, carefully tapping Velma and then Rak to wake them before stretching, wincing at the soreness in your face and neck.
Steve walks by you as the bay door opens before he whistles, Rak’s head perking up from the seat beside you, but he doesn’t move. This doesn’t seem to sit well with Steve, who glares at his partner like he’s betrayed him.
The dragon begrudgingly jumps down and stands at the Captain’s feet, an outstretched hand drawing you from the curiosity you felt watching Rak and Steve. You’re met with storm blue eyes and a small, easy smile.
“Come on, kid,” Unclicking from your seat, you accept his hand with a hushed thank you. You are hardly off the jet before a white marble blur nearly takes James down, his laughter ringing out before a woman appears just after, helping him up and the two of them disappearing into the building. You’re caught at a crossroads of sorts...Do you follow? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous?
“Are you Y/N?” You’re startled from your thoughts by a woman with thick black hair piled atop her head in a white lab coat.
“Yes?”
“I’m Dr. Hale. Natasha and Tony told us to be expecting you.” She gestures you forward, opposite to where the Avengers disappeared to. You follow obediently, with Velma trailing behind you, also looking to where they’d all gone. “Do you have any medical conditions we should be aware of?”
“No.”
“High blood pressure?”
“No, but if it’s high I was just taken hostage and then backhanded twice before having a gun shoved against my jaw while they tried to take my dragon.” She makes a face, eyebrows raised and fighting back a smile before she manages a big nod.
“Understandable...well let’s check all that. Was your dragon injured?”
“I ran my hands over all of her and she’s not injured that I can tell.” You look down at her, purple eyes alight. “You hurt, baby?” Velma shakes her head, her tail twitching slightly when she does so.
“Perfect. We’ll just check you over and then Tony should come get you.” All you can do is nod, following her into a very white and metallic exam room.
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Steve’s voice can be heard through the door of his room, he’s sure of it.
Rak has snapped at him twice so far and nearly set his comforter on fire because he ordered him to stay put while he showered. Steve knew where he would wander off to and he told Rak he needs to let the doctor do their job and check them over. He had angrily settled down when Howl had come into the room, the bigger dragon tossing himself down onto Rak’s bed - successfully luring Rak to him and calming the little spitfire down long enough for Steve to get a shower.
Once he was out of the shower, Rak started up again, a stare off ensuing between the two of them while Howl looked on in amusement.
“I said no!” Steve snaps at the wyvern before clenching his jaw so tight he’s sure he hears a pop. Rak opens his mouth, flashing all his teeth only to snap it closed when Bucky’s soulmate sticks her head in.
“Sorry. I knocked, but you must not have heard...I was just looking for Howl.” Howl’s whole body shakes as he wiggles his way happily to her. “Tony just went to get the woman from the infirmary, just to let you know.” Steve scowls at her as Rak begins to follow Howl out the door.
“Hey! Best behavior. And you need to cut the whole hissing, snapping and fire at me, you little gas ball.” Rak snorts, almost giving an eye roll as Steve blocks the door. “Shoulder.” He points for emphasis, his partner huffing as he slowly climbs up onto his shoulder. “And stay there, do you understand?” He turns his ruby head away and Steve’s mind wanders to the impossible...but he quickly shakes that thought from his head.
When she enters the room with her dragon, her cheek and lip swollen a little more than an hour ago when he’d seen her.
Wanda gasps as she enters the room, looking from Rak to Velma, Rak doing the exact fucking opposite as he was told - flinging himself from Steve’s shoulder and running towards you and Velma - before giving a little squeal.
“I’ve never seen a dragon soulmate pair meeting!” Steve looks in confusion from the dragons to Wanda and then to the woman, the room now deadly silent except for the soft, contented growls coming from the pair of ruby dragons curled around each other at Y/N’s feet.
“What - no, that’s not - that’s not possible.” Steve snorts in disbelief after he manages his oh-so eloquent words. “No. She’s not my soulmate,” The words tumble from his lips before he has a chance to really think the situation over but his eyes still see everything.
They see the hope that was blossoming in her soft eyes and they see the confusion flash through those pretty eyes before the hurt makes the light die out in them, her eyes dropping to the floor quickly.
He opens his mouth to refute his own words - to apologize and take it back - when he sees Bucky glaring at him.
After all, hadn’t it been him who had told Bucky to go after his dragon and his soulmate? Who had told Bucky he’d give anything to be in his shoes? And now that he was, he had just rejected his soulmate.
You could hear a pin drop as he stands there gaping like a fish before managing to firmly close his mouth.
She’s staring at their dragons, snouts pressed along side each other with their wings touching, tails twined together before she looks up and blinks rapidly. He knows she’s willing the tears away and it physically hurts him to see her avert her eyes.
Clint steps forward, whispering in her ear before offering her his arm. Clint takes her past him, both of their dragons trailing eagerly after her and both blatantly ignoring his very existence.
“All clear boss,” comes a familiar accented voice, Steve can feel all of his family’s eyes boring into him before Natasha speaks up.
“What the actual hell, you dumbass?”
“My sentiments exactly.” Tony pipes up from behind her.
“Didn’t you say you wish you were in my shoes?” Sam just harrumphs at Bucky’s words from where he’s sitting on the couch by Bucky and his soulmate.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” Wanda mutters among the other comments, worrying her bottom lip.
“It’s not your fault, Wanda,” Mercy soothes from the couch, hand gently squeezing Bucky’s as her dragon Cloud moves from her shoulder to Bucky’s, sensing his tenseness.
“Clint’s giving her a tour. She’ll be staying here until we can find out specifically why Hydra was after her. That should give you enough time to pull your head out of your ass,” Tony states while shoving his long sleeves up a bit on his forearms, hitting Steve with a “Sweet Jesus” side eye that Steve was all too well acquainted with.
“It just came out!”
“Like diarrhea…” Pietro says loudly from the kitchen, tossing a handful of grapes into his mouth. Steve glares at the male Maximoff, whom he literally didn’t even realize was in the damn kitchen.
“Again, it just came out. I didn’t even think about what I said!”
“That is abundantly clear,” Howl crawls into Bucky’s lap at his words, big eyes pleading to his human dad for pets to calm them both down, tail twacking Mercy who just rolls her eyes playfully at his needy and loving response to Bucky’s mood. Bucky smiling oh so softly at Howl and Mercy, as he strokes the oversized dragon taking up his lap.
Steve watches that and he aches for it. Those knowing looks to share with his soulmate.
But Peggy is gone.
And he doesn’t know where to go from here with this woman. Or the fact that Rak is completely convinced that Velma is his mate.
Because he is pretty sure she isn’t.
‘Pretty sure’ isn’t going to cut it for everyone else though. It definitely won’t be enough for Rak, that little gas ball of betrayal.
Steve was well and truly fucked.
Tagging:  @moonbeambucky @thewhiterabbit42 @nobodys-baby-now @unleashthemidnight @stay-frosty-royal-unicorn @chelsea072498 @clockworkmorningglory @sakurablossom4 @marichromatic @blondecoffeecake @ourloveisforthelovely @whinywingedwinchester @feelmyroarrrr
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starlxghtmoon · 3 years
Text
Spread Your Wings || Chapter One
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Pairing: Hawks x Reader || Tangled AU
Warnings: None!
Word Count: 2,000+ words
A/N: I’m super nervous about this, but excited! Sorry if this first part is boring, it’s supposed to act as an introduction and I tried to add more feeling to it than just happiness all around ajbfkjabkjawoifn but whoever reads this shitty fic of mine, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own BNHA or Tangled, both and all characters except OCs [Mimi the cat] belong to their respective creators. This is purely creative fun.
Chapter Two
Masterlist
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An elderly hooded woman approached the shrub with caution, looking around to see if anyone had followed her before pulling back her hood and uncovered the mysterious object. Underneath sat a golden flower, it looked ethereal with the way it softly glowed in the night; many tales have been made about this flower, some say it bloomed from a droplet of the sun that fell to the earth and could cure any illness, heal any wound. But the woman who was selfishly hoarding it, used it to stall her own time with a simple song.
“Flower, gleam and glow.” 
The flower began to glow brighter as she sang her song in her old worn voice.
“Let your power shine.
Make the clock reverse.
Bring back what once was mine.
What once was mine.”
As she finished her song, her aged voice grew rich and light, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips as her appearance shifted back to her younger days, gray going black. But the sound of shouts and flickering lights interrupted her serenity and in her rush to hide the flower once more and hide her own identity, she knocked over the shrub disguise, uncovering the flower for the guards approaching her spot to find.
“We found it!” A guard called out, commencing the uprooting of the magical flower, bringing it to the ill queen and healing her sickness. Soon after a princess would be born with snow white hair and e/c eyes.
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However one evening, that same woman would sneak into the king and queen’s quarters where the baby peacefully slept, needing the flower’s magic to stall her mortal time once more.
“Flower, gleam and glow.”
She began to sing again in her croaky voice, the baby girl’s hair, white as snow began to glow a soft f/c. The woman leaned in, reaching out for a strand of her pure white hair, the effects of the magic flower already doing it’s work on the woman’s body. 
“Let your power shine.
Make the clock…”
The woman cut a strand of her hair as it glowed, but it immediately lost its power, the strand of hair changing from stark white to h/c. And since she’d cut her own song short, the magic didn’t take, reverting her back to her aged self. Gasping out of shock, the woman had no other choice than to take the baby.
As the child let out a cry, the woman scooped up the baby and made her escape, the sound of the baby’s cries awoke the king and queen, sending them both into a panic as the woman stole away the baby, disappearing into the night.
Restlessly, the kingdom searched and searched for the princess, but deep in the forest, hidden away in a tower, the woman would raise the girl as her own. Determined to keep her new flower hidden.
However, as well as the woman could keep the girl hidden, she couldn’t hide the outside from her as each year on her birthday, lanterns would be released into the night sky in hopes that the lost princess would return. And that lost princess was...you.
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The shutters of the tower were swung open, as you grinned mischievously and looked around out the window. In the corner of your eye, you caught sight of a fluffy black tail swishing around behind one of the potted plants. You slapped a hand over your mouth and snorted softly before getting an idea and a mischievous glint to your eye. Straightening up and crossing your arms, you nonchalantly shrugged and looked away.
“Well, I guess Mimi isn’t out here.” You spoke, easing the midnight creature outside your window, making her let her guard down before suddenly she was yanked up by her tail, letting out a distressed meow. “Gotcha!” You exclaimed with an amused laugh. Letting the cat down from your trap of hair, you began to add on, “That’s 22 for me. How about 23 out of 45?” The cat grumbled in response, “Okay. Well, what do you wanna do?” The cat perked up at that question, letting out a gleeful meow and turning to the outside of the window, pawing out with a suggestive nod. “Yeah. I don’t think so.” You picked up the cat and swung your legs around to dangle out the window, placing the ball of fur in your lap. “I like it in here, and so do you.” Pointing at the cat, she stared up at you unimpressed. “Don’t look at me like that, you’re literally a cat. You should like being inside with me.” Mimi’s ears drew back in distaste. She did like being inside, but she also adored you and wanted you to have a taste of the outside world too. You've been cooped up in this place for 18 years straight, c’mon! “Oh, come on, Mimi. It’s not so bad in there.” You scritched behind her ear, eliciting a purr from deep within the cat’s chest before you pulled the cat into your chest and slid back inside.
You climbed up onto the roof beams, preparing for the morning and opening up the ceiling shutters before swinging back down with your hair. You then glanced over at the clock on her wall and began your day with your usual routine.
“Seven a.m. the usual morning lineup.”
Fetching the broom, you started with sweeping up the floors.
“Start on the chores and sweep till the floor’s all clean.”
Next, you equipped yourself with a mop and scrubbers to continue on with your chores. If you didn’t, you’d surely die of boredom. Not that you didn't already suffer from basically being a bird trapped in the cage you called home.
“Polish and wax, do laundry and mop and shine up.”
At least you had Mimi there to keep your spirits up as you swept around the tower again, checking the clock again with a slight roll of your eyes.
“Sweep again and by then it’s like, 7:15.”
It only took you a good 15 minutes to do all that? Sighing a little, you continued on with busying yourself. What a drag.
“And so I’ll read a book or maybe two or three.
I’ll add a few new paintings to my gallery.”
You knew you were running out of space on the walls, but you could always find nifty places and open spots to paint. One day you might run out of room and as morbid as it sounded, the thought did cross your mind that you’d even expire here. But you hoped you wouldn’t, you stayed optimistic that you’d be able to leave the nest and fly. Until then, you’d continue busying yourself around the tower, counting the hours and days… maybe even years. Hopefully your activities would help distract you from those spiraling thoughts as well, it was for the better that you were stuck here, right?
“I’ll play guitar and knit and basically,
Just wonder when will my life begin?”
As you pulled a freshly baked pie out of the oven, you spotted the perfect spot to paint on the wall, measuring it up with your hands. 
Busting out your paint, you shoved the decorative piece aside and began painting. Filling the spot with soft blue paint as a base and planning out what you'd put there.
“Then after lunch it’s puzzles and darts and baking.
Papier-mache, a bit of ballet and chess.”
At this point, you were just annoying Mimi with your various different hobbies you picked up. Internally cackling at her torment. But none of it was malicious, Mimi loved you and you loved Mimi, she was your only solace here. One would never abandon the other. Your bond was unbreakable. 
“Pottery and ventriloquy, candle-making.
Then I’ll stretch,
Maybe sketch,
Take a climb,
Sew a dress.”
Mimi was absolutely over it and exhausted when you put her in a minidress resembling yours. She lowkey loved it, but it just wasn’t right. Cats weren’t supposed to wear dresses, but Mimi sure looked adorable in one!
“And I’ll reread the books if I have time to spare.
I’ll paint the walls some more
I’m sure there’s room somewhere.”
Now you were really getting stuck, looking for spots was slowly becoming more and more impossible. You sighed a little, slowly the same old same old was beginning to eat away at you. Grumbling a little, you decided to instead distract yourself with brushing your lengthy hair.
“And then I’ll brush
And brush and brush
And brush my hair.
Stuck in the same place I’ve always been.”
Finishing up brushing the ends of your hair, you sat there for a moment, breathing out a puff of air. You looked around from your seat upon the beams of the roof. The space was big and anyone would be comfy in a home like this. Right, a home, not a tower. You were a caged bird. And you certainly had the ability to leave, you could do whatever you wanted with your 70 foot long hair... but would you? Probably not, you wouldn’t dare betray your mother. Besides, the world was a dangerous place, your mother said so multiple times. But… you longed for something more. To feel the grass on your feet, feel the wind flow through your hair, swim in the water, explore the world and… see the floating lights that never failed to appear on your birthday every year.
"And I'll keep wondering and wondering
And wondering and wondering
When will my life begin?"
You approached the open window of the tower, longingly looking out at the scenery before you and sighing softly. Tomorrow you'd turn 18. For a moment, you wondered how many more birthdays you'd have to spend locked away, with so many questions and curiosities.
"Tomorrow night the lights will appear
Just like they do on my birthday each year."
You rested your cheek within your palm, leaning on the window sill as your gaze swooped around the trees and hills surrounding the tower. Your heart ached for more than what you had here and in a way, it made you feel guilty. Your mother did everything for you, she sheltered you, she fed you, she gave you a home and unconditional love. Sure, she was harsh and brash sometimes, but she only wanted the best for you, she wanted to keep you safe. She was protecting you and your gift. You wouldn't survive without her. At least, that’s what you believed.
"What is it like out there where they glow
Now that I'm older.
Mother might just let me go."
You put the finishing touches on that painting you'd been working on, you were jealous of your own artwork. The depiction you'd made of yourself watching the floating lights with pure amazement and wonder. You placed your hand on the dry paint, brows furrowing in frustration. Why do you feel so guilty for something you want?
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"Wow, I could get used to a view like this." His stop on the roof caught the attention of the two men with him. The dark haired one of the two rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"So could I-! I've seen better." The masked man with them commented, switching from amazement to stuck up. His outburst made the dark haired one immediately hush him, the masked man slapping his hands over his mouth.
"Do you wanna get caught or something?" 
"Sorry, Dabi." He spoke lower this time, making Dabi shake his head a little in dismissal before redirecting his attention to the other man with them who continued to stare at the view. 
"Hawks. We gonna do this or what?"
"Hold on." He made him pause, Dabi rose a brow, heavily annoyed and completely fed up with his antics. "Yep. I'm used to it. Guys, I want a castle." Hawks placed his hands on his hips, still admiring the view.
"We do this job, you can buy your own damn castle. Yeah?" Dabi stepped forward, grabbing the blonde by his collar and yanking him back.
Dabi and Twice securely held onto the rope, carefully lowering Hawks down into the crown room. If it were up to Dabi, he would've dropped his ass for the guards to take, but they needed that damn crown and he was gonna get it. 
One of the guards sneezed and Hawks let out a mocking groan, "Hay fever?" The guard looked over his shoulder, not noticing that he was there.
"Yeah." He looked back in front of him before realization dawned on him, "Huh?" He whipped around, the crown and Hawks gone. His gaze darted up, but they were already gone and so was the lost princess's crown.
"Can't you picture me in a castle of my own? Cause I certainly can." The trio sprinted away from the castle, Dabi ignoring Hawks with a roll of his eyes as Twice switched back and forth between approval and disapproval. "All the things we've seen and it's only eight in the morning! Gentlemen, this is a very big day!" 
"Would you shut up already!"
"Yeah, shut up, Hawks! No! Be louder!"
"Ugh…"
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103 notes · View notes
dragonairstim · 7 years
Photo
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overwatch - roadhog stimboard
dont delete caption ★ sources under cut
1 http://gooeychewy.tumblr.com/post/161298060123/
2 https://stimmystuffs.tumblr.com/post/154263030024
3 http://sloime.tumblr.com/post/138047533035/
4 https://heavymetalstims.tumblr.com/post/162092936320/
5 ★
6 https://stimmystuffs.tumblr.com/post/155457465834
7 https://fuckyeastims.tumblr.com/post/161045309821/
8 http://sensorywitch.tumblr.com/post/160033630764
9 http://bumblebeesticker.tumblr.com/post/154426612735/
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we're still here, I think... but I'm literally so bad at thinking of any prompts,,, uhm, Hotch and Reid visiting a pottery course because Penelope gave them a voucher as a wedding gift? the tenderness of tying a tie? Reid getting lost in the supermarket and Jack and Hotch trying to find him? Jack stealing auntie Pen's nail polish and making both Aarons and Spencer's nails? Honestly, go buckwild, I'd read anything from you. Although now I'm growing attached to the pottery idea.
Okay, I KNOW this has been sitting in my ask box for about a million years, but I’m trying to get back into writing and get some of my asks out and about into the world <3.
--
There was something about Spencer’s ties that made them go crooked. Nobody had quite been able to put their finger on it. Derek had thought it was the fact that he messed with it throughout the day, twirling it around his fingers, tugging on it, twisting it all around. It simply couldn’t be that, though, because even before he could really startup with his fidgeting, his tie was always, always crooked.
JJ thought that maybe it was the kind of tie that he wore. So, she got him a new one, a very nice-looking purple tie with little black and gray stripes. It seemed, apparently, that that wasn’t the issue, because he walked into work with the same old crooked tie the very next morning, much to her dismay.
“What if,” Aaron had suggested one morning as Spencer stood in front of the mirror, half asleep and buttoning his shirt, “I tie your tie for you today.”
“I know how to tie a tie,” he had muttered, sort of dejected and irritated in the way that Spencer was before his coffee kicked in for the morning.
“I’m not saying you don’t.” He stepped up behind him and grabbed his hands in his own. “It’s just a suggestion.”
Spencer could feel the rumble of his voice from where his chest was pressed to his back. It was wearing down his resolve. He was sure that Aaron knew that. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t move.
“I’ve tried using different knots. It’ll just be crooked. It’s got to have something to do with my neck or the shirts I wear or... something.”
“But what if I just try it, huh? Humor me.”
Spencer made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat before sort of backing down. It wasn’t as though it was going to hurt anything. Except maybe his pride if the tie came out straight.
Aaron pressed a kiss to his shoulder before he got to work. He carefully smoothed his hands down the fabric of the tie, smoothing it out before he started to tie it.
Aaron’s hands were steady, the way he moved confident and gentle, all at the same time. It was one of the things that Spencer loved most about him. The way that he could be the same old Hotch, commanding and confident in everything that he did. But then there were the unmistakable bits of Aaron that were there too. The parts only he and Jack got to see.
The way that he was humming in his ear quietly, the way that his hands were warm, the crinkles by the sides of his eyes from where he was smiling, the furrowed lines from frowning seemingly melting away as he did.
When he let his hands drop to his sides, Spencer looked at the two of them in the mirror. And he laughed.
“What’s so funny.”
“It’s crooked!”
Aaron scoffed. “You are cursed.”
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fearfulkittenwrites · 4 years
Text
Gala and “I’m allergic to bullshit.”
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Word count: 2244
Link for it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180371
Notes: Hey! This was beta'd by @3ambird​ , who is an amazing sweetheart and improves evertything they touch. Thank you for the help!
Galas were never fun. Bruce had hated them as a kid, and hated them as teen, and he hates them as an adult. Still, he has to maintain appearances, so he always attends. And as his family grew, his kids were forced to attend as well.
Dick Grayson was particularly good at socializing. After he moved past his teenage rage, of course. He used to get in passive aggressive arguments with the rich CEOs and company owners all the time. He still does, but at least now he was good at it to the point where it almost couldn’t be recognized as an argument, instead of jumping on the necks of greedy millionaires that bought land out of poor people.
That was an interesting headline.
Jason sucked at galas. Soon enough, he figured out that if he started enough awkward conversations, people wouldn’t want to talk to him anymore. Especially the creepy single older women, pinching his cheeks and squeezing his biceps.
“Say, Claire, what’s your opinion on the alarming rate at which the bees are disappearing? They say that’s because of all the chemicals we put in our food.” He’d smile, carefully holding his glass. Bruce would struggle to hide his gasp, because Jason, that’s the owner of the highest earning pesticides company in the country.
“Well, Roger, I’m certain that the legalization of abortions would be a great thing, considering that now your mistresses won’t have to be sent overseas to terminate the unwanted preganancies you give them, right?” He’d say, and Bruce would nearly have a heart attack, because Jason, that’s the president of Gotham’s conservative party.
“Oh, you see, Sandra, I think that gay marriage should not only be legalized, but encouraged. If straight couples were to cease existing, then no more children would be born, and honestly, no one needs any more of those snotty gremlins running around, ruining perfectly good tapestry.” And Bruce would faint, because Jason, for God’s sake, that is the leader of the Gotham’s Motherhood Association.
Tim wasn’t all that bad. He could be social with a little effort, and he was far more used to galas than any of the other family members, having grown up attending them. Of course, all of that was only valid when he wasn’t sleep deprived, which, considering all he had on his plate, was roughly 32% of the time. When he was running on three hours of sleep and seven cups of caffeine a day, trying to finish a project, run his share of the Wayne Enterprises, and manage school work, he became a bit more irritable and impatient. And extremely impulsive. Which is mainly why Bruce asked Dick to stand by his brother through most of the night.
“We both know you’re his impulse control, Dick.” He said, adjusting his oldest son’s tie “Remember what happened the last time he was left unattended for fifteen minutes?”
“He got into an argument with a young Creationist and dunked his own head in an ice bowl after screaming ‘Fuck God! I can hear colors and dinosaurs rule!’” Dick sighed, “Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Cass despised them, but Bruce insisted she should attend anyway. More often than not, she’d just stay at the table, tasting as many appetizers as the waiters would bring her, and shooting murderous looks at anyone who sneered at her. Bruce was relieved that at least she wasn’t cracking any bones.
Damian was... Better than Jason and worse than Dick. He had an unamused expression through most of the event, and would unceremoniously swat away any hands that tried to pinch his cheeks. Other than that, he wasn’t much trouble. The real trouble were galas all Wayne kids attended. The five of them could cause enough trouble when they were apart, together they were the embodiment of chaos.
And this was supposed to be a calm, slightly boring family evening. It really was.
But Bruce just had to bring all five of them.
Everything had to go just right. As they walked in through the red carpet, the media was eating up the image of the six Waynes dressed formally; Each of them had a tie color matching their hero uniform (a cheeky thing they enjoyed doing to play with the theorists minds), Dick had a dark blue one, Tim and Jason slightly varying tones of red, Damian had a green one and Bruce had a black one. Cass wore a long black dress that sparkled when it was hit by the light in just the right way.
The first sign was the reporter, who, while aggressively pointing a microphone in their faces, asked pushy questions about relationships and the like, nothing out of the ordinary, until he shoved it in Cass’ face and asked her if she could even speak. Jason almost broke the man’s nose. Bruce silently thanked God for Dick, who stepped in front of the man before that happened.
“Try some shit like that again pal, you’ll hear from our lawyers.” He led his sister inside, a protective hand on her back.
They calmed down. And Bruce still had hopes that this would be a quiet evening.
Looking back at it, he doesn’t know why.
Because as Dick and Cass were at the bar, ordering drinks, a woman stood next to them, trying to make small talk. Neither of them seemed too interested in her; she is a hassle at every gala, making weird advances on all of the boys. Today, however, she was a little more tipsy, and Bruce couldn’t quite make out what exactly the conversation was about, but Dick was clearly uncomfortable and Cass was fuming. The woman kept grabbing at him, sliding her hands over his tie, squeezing his arms. And then she squeezed his ass, and it took Cass less than a second to break her nose.
If they were any other family, Cass would have been thrown out of the party, but they were the Waynes, and you do not throw a Wayne out of a party. If she punched a middle-aged woman, then she punched a middle-aged woman. Bring her a glass of water and some ice for her injured hand.
Of course, it didn’t end there.
Bruce was still surprised he didn’t have gray hairs yet.
Because Damian had discovered and made friends with a stray cat in the garden, and Jason had a laser pointer, because of course Jason had a laser pointer, and the cat ended up knocking down not one, not two, but three expensive pieces of pottery, shattering them on the gravel floor. And when the house owner saw the damage, he turned pale and had to hold back his tears. Jason laughed.
“-tt-.” Damian stated, adjusting his suit “You owe that cat a favour,those vases ruined the garden’s aesthetic. Regardless, I’m sure father will be more than happy to compensate you for the damages.”
He walked back to the party slowly, passing by the man who would need some time to make it back.
Once Jason broke him the news, Bruce thought (and hoped) that that would be it.
But no, the night was young, and there was so much time left and the batsibilings for sure wouldn’t waste it.
The previous statement about sleep deprived Tim?
Well.
Tonight, he had to pick a fight with an essential-oil-loving, antivax mother. Simply because he liked to torture himself. And because nobody realised he was alone until Bruce spotted him in the crowd, eye twitching as a woman rambled about all the heavy metals and chemicals that vaccines had in them. He thought about getting to him, but he knew it was too late. There was no going back now.
“Well, you see Karen,” He started.
“Uuum, my name’s Patricia.” She interrupted.
“I’m a billionaire’s heir, I don’t give a shit.” He said “Anyways. As I was saying, the thing is, I’d rather take the chance of being injecting myself with mercury than, oh, I don’t know, get meningitis and fucking die?”
The circle went quiet. Another woman, wanting to dissipate the tension, tried to restart the conversation.
“I-I mean, I don’t understand why can’t they make something safer, right? Like, when we used to throw those smallpox parties, why won’t they make something that works like that? So that we can build a natural immunity instead of all of those chemicals.” She laughed awkwardly.
Tim slapped his own face so hard that it attracted a lot of eyes.
“How. Do. You. Think. Vaccines. Work. Susan?”
“M-my name is Mary.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” He answered. And just in time, Dick swooped in.
“Hey, Timmy!” He greeted “Can I borrow this guy for a second?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he guided Tim out to the garden.
“Fucking idiots.” He muttered “I don’t know how they have so much money. They’re all fucking idiots, Dick. I’m surrounded by dumbasses.”
“There, there.” He said “Okay, we’re far enough.” He looked around “Go ahead.”
And Tim let out the most horrendous, rage filled scream any of those guests had ever heard. Because of course they heard it. Bruce sighed and shrunk on his chair.
“Better?” Dick asked as he finished, patting his back.
“So much.” Tim answered.
“You should’ve slept a little before this.”
“No way. I’m totally fine.” He answered “I had three cans of monster before we left, so I feel great.” Dick raised an eyebrow, worried.
“Whatever you say, buddy.” He led him back inside, tidying up his brother’s hair “Just... No more picking fights with moms tonight, okay?”
And Bruce thought that was enough. Bruce was certain that this would be the last incident.
But his kids just loved proving him wrong.
He thought that the best strategy would be to ask them to stick together, so that Dick’s responsibility and social skills would keep his feral siblings under control. He should’ve known it would backfire.
The last he checked, they were making small talk with some CEOs on the edge of the room, away from the dance floor. Jason, Cass and Damian seemed completely bored, Tim was clenching his jaw for some reason, and Dick tried his best to look polished and polite.
“So, I heard that Wayne Enterprises have a new project?” One of them asked, chest so projected forwards it looked like it was about to explode.
“Yes. Yes we do.” Dick said, smiling politely “We’re opening up a refugee housing program.”
“Oh, so that’s what those buildings are for?”
“Yes, exactly!” He exclaimed, opening his arms in a seemingly natural manner “We are building apartments to shelter them. It’s nothing fancy, but we can charge a cheaper rent than most, and not charge at all for the first six months, giving them a chance to properly establish themselves here.”
“Well, I must say,” Puffed up chest guy stated, “I can’t see why not to give them to good old Americans instead. There’s a lot of homeless people nowadays, you see.” He leaned forward as he talked.
Damian perked his head up, but didn’t say anything. Cass and Jason seemed to be listening. Tim’s left eye twitched.
“Actually,” Tim started “The company has very stable, successful projects to help the homeless.”
“I’m familiar with those, yes.” He arrogantly dismissed the teen “But, you see, I just can’t understand why not open the housing to tax paying Americans instead of some...”
“Potential terrorists?” Damian suggested, arms crossed, scowl on his face.
“...Foreigners.” He completed.
“Well, since you ask, we are currently planning on the possibility of eventually opening vague apartments to Americans too.” Dick answered, swirling the liquid in his glass around “But the priority now really are the refugees.”
“I don’t see why can’t we prioritize our own people.” He insisted “I’m simply concerned for the well being of our poorest patriots.”
Dick blinked.
And here’s why Bruce should have known it would backfire.
Because, yes, Dick was able to cool them down...
But they were able to fire him up.
And so, like the charismatic man he was, he covered his nose a little, rubbing at the end, and faked a loud sneeze.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” He started “You see, I have this strange condition.” Dick stared at the man in the eye, the guy who had bought an old building people were squatting at, just to demolish it and doom them to the streets with no care or compensation, and, knowing this and so much more, said “I’m allergic to bullshit.”
And his siblings went feral again.
Tim and Jason screamed an ‘Oooooooooh!’, Damian pointed at the man and laughed loudly, and Cass snorted, covering her mouth in surprise.
Dick didn’t break eye contact as he drank the last of his champagne.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” He said “I have to go look for better company.” Dick left the empty glass at the nearest table and adjusted his suit, smiling “Have a nice evening.”
As he walked away, the gang followed close behind, all of them very excited about how Dick, the composed, calm, cool, polite and polished Dick Grayson-Wayne, had just burned a millionaire in front of his economic allies. As the party reached Bruce, the man once again seemed to sink into his chair. Dick sat next to him, radiating confidence and charm.
“Do I wanna know?” The man asked.
“No,” Dick answered, grinning but not looking at the man “No you don’t.”
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oscar-fairchild · 3 years
Text
P r  i   s    m
Sorry they’re all different sizes! I couldn’t get the formatting on tumblr to work so I took screenshots lol. The typed words/image description is under the cut!
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Red broken softly through the tainted morning light, seeping into the room like diamonds with their throats cut from ear to ear, spraying a glistening crown across the dingy bedroom wall like someone was still there to see it. Sticky fabric overflows into a splattering waterfall that runs down a crevice in the hardwood as if the surface-tension riverbed had only been dry for a season. The oversaturated silence pulls time from the walls and the window and the Bedspread Ocean and the little buttons on the back of her dress until only frost remains to carry her to the last syllable of recorded time and beyond to where this half-shattered spectacle doesn’t matter so much anymore.
Orange screams burst forth and flicker over my eyes long before my ears can hear them. The parched air like desert sand smothers my lips, cascading down my face rubbed raw from nightmares come to life all over again— crackle crackle crackle and the begging gets louder until I can feel the heat licking my own cheeks, not searing but dripping lucky me but this crusted salt mask can’t keep it out, the hazy gray smoke twirling up like a dancer in a perfect pirouette (she’s always a beautiful dancer, you know) and my soul is in the sky with her, twisting through the sunrise too gentle and gloriously pure for the sickening moment the torn morning goes silent.
Yellow flowers run like smooth silk across the hills that hold my soul in their hands, cradled deep among the stems that snap softly as I walk toward her— goddess of spring called again into the cold. again and again and again and again and— A sun-kissed breeze lifts the hair on her forehead and does nothing to warm her hands, bright fuchsia nail polish wrapped around daffodils, like they could save her bright fuchsia nail polish wrapped around the steering wheel, like it could save her but nothing ever can, this time and all the times before. I grip her stiff cardboard fingers and I promise next time next time next time I won’t let you go. The hills that hold her soul in their hands whisper softly over us, like they understand our bodies are our gardens and hers belongs to them now, wrapped up in delicate lace petals and a piece of me. Take good care of her, until time brings us crashing together again.
Green like her eyes, sparkling with the light of a thousand galaxies that spin into infinite time and drench me in Heaven itself. Liquefied jewels of her breath brush past my fingertips, hopes making my cosmic heart pound with fierce determination, keeping me going through the sour agony of fighting and     overheating my soul that comes from the dust of hers. awake, dear heart full of molten life, as it all begins again, rebirth into a two-faced world of pain overheating my soul that comes from the dust of his; keeping me going through the sour agony of fighting and making my cosmic heart pound with fierce determination. Liquefied jewels of his breath brush past my fingertips, hopes that spin into infinite time and drench me in Heaven itself, green like his eyes, sparkling with the light of a thousand galaxies.
Blue crashing together again in a swirl of bubbly brilliance, buffeting me with a war-torn tide of needles and tears. The fire inside my chest rages through the tips of my fingers that claw like broken mirrors toward something, anything. he’s here he’ll help me he’s calling my name he’s screaming, muffled he’s fading away. The crushing vise gets tighter until I snap with his name on my lips and cut him out in little stars of living memory that float slowly away into his heart, I hope— we are a thousand shattered pictures glued together with next time, next time.
Indigo morning goes silent as the soft sunrise pours down from the horizon like thick paint coming to coat me from the inside out. The viscous moonlight sludges down to greet us, the world a snow globe of fading starlight, a dreamspace that runs through our fingers like sugar-coated snow, and I can feel in my bones that it’s time. I think he feels it too. Our hands strangle the blood from our fingers and run run we can make it but the sky is getting thinner, dripping down in watery grey custard that explodes over our heads into a riot of beautiful veins like cracked pottery made whole. My body is fretted with golden fire the instant his hand slips from my grasp, a firefly flitting alone in a torrent that seems to whisper his name in electric sparks and shock my lips into a silent burning so like the one before that I can nearly taste the smoke on my tongue.
Violet doesn’t matter so much anymore when the swollen blotches spilling down arms, legs, face of gold-leaf glass are a façade to hide with sweeps of delicate destruction the fragmented life inside. I pool to the surface in a rushing gasp of gravity, I sink to the bottom of my organic ocean like an ancient relic of kings left adrift until sand has worn the truth away. He frames himself above me in a golden halo of promises—the earth sings when he touches it and my heart joins in for the chorus of interwoven rivers that meet in the prism at the end of the universe’s beginning.
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rw-deactivated · 3 years
Text
The Girl and Her Shadow — a Blood and Ravens story
Genre: Dark fantasy
Word Count: 935
Warnings: None (let me know if I missed anything)
A/N: I decided to post more of what I'm writing after occasionally disappearing for days or so. Some of the stories may not be that good but those would not be the final versions yet :D
General writing taglist (ask to be + or - ): @euphoniouspandemonium
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The girl once had a shadow, and it followed her everywhere but the darkness. But the world was bleak and gloomy, and the shadow left her in the midst of cold and hunger. The girl hated her shadow as she grew up sheltered by the dead and her tenacity to escape the desolate land. At last, she reached the end of the world where trees grow and creatures live in freedom. She blended in her new environment, rubbing her gray skin with soil as to imitate the people living in the prosperous land. Festivities were held everyday: people dance and sing, pleasuring themselves with the abundance denied from the girl's land. But the girl joined the celebration each day until it became her validation to belong. She made friends, and lived a stable life as a potter.
All the while, her shadow followed her as the darkness against all the light in the world. When the girl saw her shadow once more, she drew battled against it until darkness blanketed the sky.
She saw it in lamplights and campfires, and it made her mad with hopeless endeavors to annihilate it. The girl distinguished all the sources of light in her house, blocked her fireplace with an old door, and shattered all her lamplights to drive the shadow away from her. She lived in darkness once again but now, she didn't need her shadow anymore.
But her isolation can go no further. Her pots were disfigured from being crafted without light, her food was always cold, and blankets won't suffice enough warmth for the coming winter.
When she decided to emerge from the darkness, her shadow became detached. It followed her in alleys, and sat away from her when her friends came over. The shadow was lonely and amorphous against a corner, just watching.
But she took no notice and considered its detachment as a blessing, a way to live normally, for all the people that dwell in this bright world had no shadow to carry. None of them has ever had a shadow friend or a shadow foe. The girl had always considered it as being fortunate.
One day, a merchant took interest with the disfigured pots she made during her isolation. She failed to notice that her pots had formed into abstract figures that depicted various images from different angles. The merchant observed the sculpture to be a dancing woman, the other merchant who passed by saw waves crashing against mountains. The girl only smiled because she could see neither but a mass of clay.
She went to her workshop, shut the windows and turned off all the lights to make those sculptures again. The merchant was so enthusiastic that he commissioned the girl to make more. Since she saw no art from her creations, she continued aimlessly, letting her fingers decide what the clay would shape.
She made twenty overnight, and the merchant's fascination increased, remarking that the figures became more elaborate than the previous ones.
And so the girl created more until she became known to merchants and marketplaces.
One night as she was working, a voice spoke her name. But she did not stop from running her fingers over the wet clay for she could not see where the voice came from. It seemed as though it came from everywhere and all at once spoke to her.
“What are you?” she whispered.
The room fell silent until it responded in an orneiric voice, “I'm you.”
The girl knew at once that the shadow came back to perturb her life.
“Go away,” she threatened with seething anger. “I don't need you. I never did.”
“That's a lie.” Dreamy. Dangerous. The shadow was beside her. The girl felt it in her fingers, cold like a blade, waiting to cut her.
But instead, the girl felt the shadow within her fingers, aimlessly shaping a figure that would soon fascinate the masses.
“I never left,” it said as the pottery wheel ceased. “I never forgot.”
-
The girl knew the shadow was beside her as she laid in bed, consumed by her musings, by the things she missed and misunderstood. The shadow never left. Never forget. It was there on the gray, bleak land, invisible but present, the presence the girl had unconsciously ignored because she stopped believing. In exchange, she did nothing but damage and abandoned it for the sake of belonging into the world that wasn't made for her. She peeled away the soil from her skin, polished his gray complexion in the mirror, and began freeing herself. All along, the shadow was with her.
When she set off to sell her remaining creations, the people were astonished to see a shadow following her. In their eyes, it was filthy and grim, a mark of a sinner and his impurity.
The crowd erupted with questions but one hang suspended in the air, “What happened to you?”
“I was born like this,” replied the girl.
They journeyed back to the path they took, and found the desolate land, as bleak as the day they left it.
She discovered the power of being alone but she would not trade it for the joy of having her shadow. The girl and the shadow ruled the place, and as a greeting, the ravens cawed at them and infested the gray sky.
No sooner civilization of their own clawed from the graves, and the undead corpses of those who died in the bombing rose again. The girl and her shadow became the ruler of wastelands and catastrophes. And the civilization they rebirth rejoice and honor them to no end.
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1800titz · 2 months
Text
18+
potteryinstructor!Harry who has bulging arms covered in ink, and a fun little, red-tinted pearl earring dangling from one ear, and dried clay over his lengthy fingers all the way up to his forearms.
He owns the unit below his apartment, but instead of a restaurant or a bar the staircase from his front door leads down to a pottery shop. It’s tucked away in a busy plaza downtown and when he washes his hands in one of those big utility sinks in the back the muck rinses away to reveal red polish decorating his nails.
The first time Y/N meets him she’s just wandered into the store alone — it’s 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 to admire the variety of little statues adorning the shelving, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and some lopsided efforts that probably deserve one of those meme you trieded stickers. She’s just about to head out, but then a very, very — ludicrously, practically — handsome man steps out from some room in the back, bi’s and tri’s working with rigid muscle as he wipes his hands off into a navy little rag. His skin is tanned and clean but streaks of dry clay still coat his white graphic tee. The gray staining on white feels sort of like a sin, but something about his nonchalant nature in the way that he regards her gives her the impression that he doesn’t really give a fuck.
potteryinstructor!Harry who convinces Y/N to hop on the wheel for a lesson because he's bored, and she's pretty, and no one's come in for the last two hours, and he's just been messing with clay. Who tells her, “Take your bracelet off for me,” in this totally innocuous manner, solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry, but the way he tacks on the for me in combination with his sexy, sexy, sexy demeanor has this warmth blooming in Y/N’s chest.
potteryinstructor!Harry whose jade irises bounce from the lump of clay as he cups over her palms with his own warm grip and works it into a shapely cylinder to her own concentrated expression.
potteryinstructor!Harry who manspreads on the little stool across from her and explains the different stages of pottery making, who laughs softly when he stands up and turns away for a second and the cylinder Y/N’s cradled starts to wobble and collapse, who helps her by pressing his much larger hands back over her own and sculpting it back up into something more even.
potteryinstructor!Harry who makes charismatic small talk — who the fuck can manage to make small talk charismatic? — cheek propped in his hand behind the counter as he watches her shape the clay.
potteryinstructor!Harry who doesn’t disrupt Y/N’s work as she carves swirls into the clay after its torched despite the fact that the shop has been closed for half an hour.
potteryinstructor!Harry who does great work with his hands on a wheel and possibly even greater work with his fingertips roaming between her sticky thighs. Who sinks the digits into her and thumbs over her clit. Who licks a stripe from the outer border of her collarbone all the way to her ear, nipping back down over her jugular.
potteryinstructor!Harry who bends her in half and grapples over the back of her left hip with his right hand as he tucks his cock into her, whose red-lacquered fingertips scratch at her scalp when he bunches her hair, when he tugs on it as he twists her head to the side to share a sloppy, open mouthed kiss, licking into her mouth. Who switches positions and sits back in a chair and coaxes her until she’s leant back with her palms propped over the sturdy muscles of his thighs, who cradles over her throat with ring-covered digits and seemingly effortlessly ruts up into her, brows pinched and strawberry mouth parted in ecstasy.
potteryinstructor!Harry, potteryinstructor!Harry, potteryinstructor!Harry.
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gotham-ruaidh · 4 years
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Pas De Deux - A  Moodboard (Three Part) One-Shot (Part 2)
@iamnottrisha​ - thanks for organizing!
@taamagams - thanks for creating this beautiful moodboard!
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
She’d fretted all night.
 What to wear the next day.
 What the hell was going on between her and Jamie.
 How intense his eyes had been.
 How sweet the baklava had tasted when they shared it.
 The heat of the kiss on her cheek after he’d walked her home from Sahadi’s.
 Adso’s happy meows as he devoured Jamie’s leftover lamb.
 She could barely focus on her lessons that day – and the students certainly didn’t mind when she decided to show a National Geographic documentary about whale sharks. She watched it six times with her classes, hoping that the simple purple dress she’d found at the back of her closet would be good enough.
 They’d agreed to meet at four thirty – ninety minutes after classes ended.
 So just as Claire buttoned up her coat, Jamie knocked on the door of her office. He was dressed nicely – black pants, dark blue button-down shirt, gray peacoat draped over one arm.
 Claire smoothed invisible fuzz from her coat. “Hi,” she smiled.
 “Hi,” he smiled back. “You OK to take the subway for a bit?”
 She nodded, pulling her purse over her shoulder. “Lead the way.”
 He did – a quick walk to Atlantic Terminal, and then they waited for the 2 train on the Manhattan-bound platform.
 “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she teased.
 The train arrived, and he followed her into the car, taking a seat next to her. Boldly he took her hand.
 “We’ll be switching to the 1 at Times Square. Maybe that’s enough of a clue.”
 She squeezed his hand. “Well – in the interim, can you tell me about your family?”
 Through Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, he did. And she did.
 His stories about Greenpoint in the 1980s – the Polish restaurants, the longshoremen, the Saturday afternoons digging in the backyard for bottles and pottery shards discarded around the old turn-of-the-century outhouse.
 Her stories about Canada and Brazil and Tanzania and Australia, roaming the world with Uncle Lamb and his anthropology students.
 Their stories about living in New York, and their students, and how their beloved neighborhoods had shrunk with gentrification.
 At Times Square they exited the train and crossed the platform, still holding hands. As the 1 train approached they watched a man playing “Under The Boardwalk” on steel drums. Jamie drew Claire closer to his side.
 The 1 train they boarded was an older model – individual orange and yellow molded seats stacked against each other. Claire squeezed in between Jamie’s broad shoulders and the sticky metal wall.
 “Are you hungry?”
 She turned to look at him – noses inches apart. “I can always eat.”
 “No food rules I should be aware of?”
 She smiled. “No. Just good food.”
 He glanced out the window – the train rolled past the ceramic tiles of ships at Columbus Circle. “I know a good place. Nothing fancy.”
 Claire lay her hand on his knee. “I hope you know I don’t need anything fancy. You don’t need to woo me, Jamie.”
 He met her eyes then – firm and clear. “Yes I do, Claire.”
 She opened her mouth to reply – but the train jerked to a stop. Jamie stood. She grabbed his hand and followed him onto the platform at Lincoln Center. Marveling at the mosaics of musicians and acrobats and opera divas singing arias on the station walls.
 Five minutes later they were seated at a bustling restaurant, browsing a menu of American classics.
 “We’ve got plenty of time before the show,” Jamie said softly, reviewing the wine list.
 “Are you going to keep it a secret until we go across the street?” she teased.
 He looked up. “Let me just enjoy the fact that I can surprise you.”
 When the waiter arrived, she ordered a medium-rare cheeseburger and an Old Fashioned. Jamie smiled so broadly as he ordered a steak and a Manhattan.
 “No salad for you, Claire?”
 She rolled her eyes. “Rabbit food. In many of the places I lived with Uncle Lamb as a girl, if you couldn’t peel it or cook it, you couldn’t eat it.”
 “And you’ve kept those habits, even though you’ve been back in the U.S. for how many years now?”
 “Eleven.” She paused as the waiter returned with their drinks. “I never wanted to be one of those women who feel compelled to watch every single thing that they eat – to survive on green juice or whatever the hell they pay all that money for.”
 Jamie raised his glass. “To being independent-minded.”
 She clinked her glass against his. Sipped her drink.
 “I assume that doesn’t bother you, Jamie?”
 His brows creased. “What are you talking about?”
 She swallowed. “That I’m…different. That I have my own opinions.”
 “What? No, Claire.” He reached across the table and took her free hand. Caressing. “Don’t even think about that being something negative.”
 “And it doesn’t bother you that I’m divorced?”
 He set down his drink. “No. You can tell me whatever you want, Claire, whenever you feel comfortable, and I promise you it won’t bother me. It does bother me that whoever he was, he was stupid enough to not appreciate you in the way you deserve.”
 “But – ”
 “Are you trying to push me away, Claire? Because I hope you can tell that I’m trying very desperately to get to know you, and share my world with you. And I want desperately for you to do the same. However much of yourself you want to share with me, I’ll gladly take it.”
 She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what it is between us, Jamie. But I’m open to it. I’m open to you.”
 He released her hand. She heard his chair scraping against the floor – and then he gently took both of her hands. Her eyes flew open – seeing him kneel before her, in the crowded restaurant, not caring about the wait staff or the people gawking from neighboring tables.
 “My heart is open to yours, Claire. Please know that.”
 Tears slipped from her eyes. “I do,” she whispered.
 He squeezed her hands. Rose. Leaned over, breath hot against her cheek.
 “Good,” he whispered.
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bocceclub · 3 years
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📖 motherhood
📖 worms
I don’t have anything for worms (yet), but hoo boy for “motherhood” here’s one of my all-time favorite passages from Bitter Days:
Ithena’s quarters were just as austere as I remembered them: bare whitewashed walls, and a rug of woven rushes covering the stone floor, the only furniture her plain cot bed, a lit clay lamp on its tall stand, and a cedar chest with a round mirror of polished bronze hung above it. Two stools stood around a small table in the center of the room; she lighted on one like a falcon returning to its handler’s glove.
“Sit with me,” she said, gesturing to the other stool. I shook my head and remained standing, hands clasped behind my back in a soldier’s posture, despite how weak my knees felt. I was tired. Too tired to partake in her mind games.
“Sit,” she repeated, more forcefully, “so that I can have a proper look at you. Indulge the mother who has not seen her only child in nearly four years.”
I pressed my lips together but took a seat. She reached over the table and grasped my chin with a hand whose slenderness belied its vicelike strength, turning my face from one side to the other. Under her shrewd gaze I felt like a prize horse being sized up by a potential buyer. Let me get a look in his mouth; how are his teeth? I tried to imagine how I looked through her eyes—a prince disguised by stubble and sun-darkened skin and hair pulled back in a soldier’s topknot, face drawn and dusty from the long road, a son whose four years away from her had made him a stranger.
After what felt an eternity, she dropped her hand, something akin to sadness softening her stern face. I noticed for the first time the fine lines that had appeared around her eyes during my absence, and the hints of gray just beginning to show at her temples.
“You’ve grown to look so very much like your father,” she murmured.
I dropped my eyes, unable to respond. How did it feel to see your dead lover staring back at you from the face of your own child? And how was I to live with this knowledge, going through each day aware that the ghost of my father lingered on in my flesh and bones?
“Tell me, have you grown tired of playing the soldier yet?”
“No.”
“Gods, so you’ve inherited his obstinacy as well.” She pressed her knuckles against the lines of her cheekbones, as if to dispel a toothache.
After a moment she straightened in her seat, smoothing the grimace from her face, and reached forward to pour a cup of wine from the jug on the table and offer it to me wordlessly. I took it, and drained the cup in one draught, wishing the dark liquid could wash away the fear and pain and muted horror of the last few days as easily as it washed down my throat.
“If you had taken time to savor that,” Ithena said drily, “perhaps you would have noticed that it’s made from grapes instead of apples, unlike the usual islander swill.”
The flush I could feel creeping over my face was not just the fault of the wine-warmth blossoming in the pit of my stomach. “Imported?”
“From the Fruit Valley of Eshtar, yes. With piracy a growing problem in the strait, decent wine is an ever-scarcening luxury. As are any other Mysskaean goods.”
“Considering what I rode all this way to tell you of, I hardly think lack of grape-wine should be your and your court’s greatest concern right now.”
Ithena sighed, her long black lashes fluttering in irritation, and propped one hand under her chin. “Ithelrel—”
“My name is Tomrin,” I said without looking up, rolling the wine cup between my hands. With my thumbnail I traced the lines etched into the glazed pottery.
She snorted. “You may choose to go by a commoner’s name, and half-swallow your words when you speak, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand after drinking, but nothing you can do will negate your royal blood.”
The heat in my cheeks continued to rise. My eyes wandered the room of their own volition, as if seeking an escape from her relentless gaze, and lighted on a bare patch on the wall above the bed. A shudder ran through me. That space hadn’t been empty the last time I had been in this room, nearly four years ago.
The tapestry. She’d taken down my father’s tapestry, the one of the raven with its great wings spread, beak open in mid-cry, that his mother’s mother had woven and given the two of them on their wedding day. The tapestry I’d spent my childhood staring at in wonder, drinking in its tessellating patterns of blood-red and rich yellow and deepest indigo as my father told me the Thaish story of Ko the trickster, half-man and half-god, who’d been trapped in the form of a raven as punishment for stealing fire from the gods to give as a gift to humankind.
Hot anger roiled in my chest as I turned to meet my mother’s eyes. “You say this, and yet you have no problem denying my islander blood.”
“It is because I must,” she said in a hard voice. “Do you know how the Nimenai resent your very existence, how much they loathe the thought of a half-Thaish sitting on their throne? I raised you with your own good in mind, trying to shape you into as much a full-blooded Yianlai as I could. Letting you embrace your father’s people would have armed my family with too many ways to tear you apart.”
Despite my resolve I could not help but flinch in the face of her cruel honesty, the careless evocation of my father’s ghost putting a bitter taste on my tongue. She must have seen how sore a blow she had landed, for the severe line of her brow smoothed, and she reached her hand out to mine across the table. I didn’t move it away, but neither did I respond to the pressure of her fingers curling around mine. I simply sat, a dead weight in my stomach as I fought to keep my face a mask, fought to keep anything she might use against me from crossing it.
“Everything I did was to protect you,” I dimly heard her say. “I know you think me cold, unloving, but I had to become so to keep you safe. To be both Kair and mother to a halfblood is a difficult line to tread."
I regained enough control to retort between bared teeth, “Try being the halfblood.”
She withdrew her hand as if I had stung it.
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gvbejvmes · 3 years
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Drabble: The Present
Title: Fridays with CeCe Rating: PG-13 Characters: Gabriel James-Michaels, Bella James-Michaels, Constance James, Miss Alison, Andrew James, Maxxie Turner, Jonathan James-Michaels (mentioned), Velvet Starr (mentioned), Tommy “Kid” Kidderro (mentioned) Relationship: Implied Gabriel James-Michaels/Jonathan James-Michaels, Andrew James/Maxxie Turner, past Andrew James/Velvet Starr Warnings: Implied drug use and child endangerment, mentions of canon murder and incorrect medical diagnoses  Summary: Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services.
Twice a month Bella had a playdate at social services. She called it her ‘CeCe Day.’ He or Jay would take her down there, and she would bounce excitedly in their arms as she told them about all the things she wanted to do while she was there. It was always on a Friday, and it was always four hours in the morning. When they picked her up, she would either chatter on and on at 100mph about what she and her CeCe had done or she would be mopey because her CeCe showed up late or forgot about their playdate. Mostly she loved Playdate Days. Gabe, on the other hand, despised them.
While he and Johnny called them ‘Playdate Days,’ they’d never actually explained to Bella what they were. They would when she was older, but for now, she was too young to understand. All she knew was that her Mommy’s name was CeCe (well, Constance, but she chose to call her CeCe), and she had a standing playdate with her every other Friday. She never asked why it was always in the same room. And she never asked why Miss Alison, their caseworker, was always there. She only knew that she only got to see CeCe in a certain place at a certain time - the specifics didn’t bother her yet. Bella was three months old when Gabe got the call from social services asking if he could take custody of his granddaughter; she didn’t know any other life than this one.
Like most ‘Playdate Days,’ Gabe arrived a half hour early to pick Bella up. He didn’t know why he did it. Sometimes it was because he was already in the area and didn’t want to stray too far away. Other times it was because he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Today it was a combination of the two. He still needed to go to the art store to pick up a couple of brushes he had custom ordered, but something in his gut had told him to stop by the social services building first.
Instead of going in right away and sitting in the waiting room, he went around to the back of the building to the designated smoking area first - and that was when he saw her. 
Constance James was skinny in a way that didn’t look natural. She had definition around her collarbone and chest that reminded Gabe of bird bones. It was like her body didn’t know how to retain fat or muscle tissue on that part of her body. She almost looked concave, but Gabe wouldn’t go quite that far. Her skin didn’t sit quite right on her bones - like she’d lost weight too quickly and her skin tried to conform to her body, but failed. It didn’t hang, but it didn’t look entirely normal either.
Her long blonde hair was streaked with black dye and was pulled back into a severe ponytail at the crown of her head. A cigarette was dangling from her lips as she texted rapidly on her phone. Her nails were short, and the cuticles looked picked at. Chipped nail polish caught the sunlight as her fingers moved across the screen. 
She must have seen him approach because she suddenly groaned and put her phone away. “Did they call you?” She asked as she pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Her foot was pressed against the side of the building, which made Gabe think of a flamingo for some reason.
“Should they have called me, Connie?” He asked his daughter as he pulled out his own cigarette and lit up. He leaned against the wall near her, knowing better by now than to try to have direct eye contact with his estranged daughter.
She shrugged and took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked better than the last time he had seen her. A lot of the time she ducked out before Gabe could get a good look at her. Today she was wearing jeans that actually fit without falling off her hips, and a thick gray sweater that fell off her shoulder, but that looked like it was the style and not the size. She looked healthier than the last time he’d seen her. Of all the things to have inherited, she inherited her mother’s terrible parenting and her grandfather’s temper and addiction.
“I dunno. They always seem to call you when I fuck up.” She admitted. “Ari kicked me out of the room.”
That was going to be a fun conversation with the case worker. He nodded and took a drag, using the time to think about what to say to that. “She prefers being called Bella.” He finally settled on.
Connie finished her cigarette and dropped the butt onto the ground before pushing off the wall. “No, you prefer Bella. She’s three. She’ll answer to any name I call her.” And with that his daughter started walking back towards the street. “I’ll see you when I see you.”
He watched his daughter walk away before finishing his cigarette and sanitizing his hands. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but they both knew she wouldn’t listen.  Pushing all thoughts of his daughter away, he went inside to pick up Bella. And sure enough, as soon as he walked into the waiting room, the receptionist led him into a conference room to wait for the caseworker.
“Mr. James-Michaels.” Miss Alison greeted him.  And it was Miss Alison. He’d tried just calling her Alison once and she nearly bit his head off. His husband said it was a Child Services/Social Worker thing and to just roll with it. 
“Miss Alison.” He greeted in return, watching as she sat down at the table across from him. “I ran into Connie outside.”
The younger woman’s face paled. “Did she tell you what happened?” She pulled out her tablet and Gabe knew from experience that she was pulling up their file.
“Just that Bella threw her out of the room. And that she’s trying to make ‘Ari’ happen.”
Miss Alison sighed. “I put in a call to the judge. We may have to terminate her visitation for a couple of weeks.” It looked like she was looking for the best way to explain to Gabe what happened. Technically there was video footage, but Gabe hated watching it and Miss Alison knew that. 
“Miss James has once again refused to follow the rules of visitation. She was thirty minutes late, she insisted on referring to Bella as Ari, even after both myself and Bella asked her to refrain, and she once again told Bella she was going to buy a house and take her away from you. It was at that point that Bella screamed and asked her to go away. We escorted Miss James out immediately. It’s become very clear that the current arrangement is not conducive to Bella’s wellbeing. You and your husband will likely get a summons within the next week or so with a court date to meet with Judge Murphy again.”
Before Gabe could respond, there was a knock on the door, and one of the assistants popped their head into the room. “Sorry, Bella kept asking me to call you. When I let her know you were already here, she demanded to see you because and I quote ‘the connatution says so.’” And he looked like he was trying so hard not to laugh.
Gabe rolled his eyes. “That she definitely got from my husband.” He dug around in his satchel and pulled out a package of freeze dried apple slices and tossed them at the assistant before pulling off his beanie and tossing that to him as well. “Those should tide her over until I’m done in here.” He promised. “I have to go over my and my husband’s availability for the next couple of weeks with Miss Alison.” 
By the time Gabe finished his conversation and went to the other room to collect Bella, she was standing by the door, coat on and his beanie shoved down over her wild hair. “Took you long enough, GG.” She complained as he signed her out and carried her out of the building. “You dunno what I had to deal with today.”
His granddaughter was definitely three going on forty-seven.
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After going to pick up his custom brushes, they headed over to the Collective so they could drop them off in his studio and because there were some orders he apparently needed to authorize. As soon as they walked inside, Bella told him she wanted to watch ‘the spinning’. He had no idea what she was talking about, until they walked to the classroom and he saw Maxxie running his beginning pottery class. Bella scampered off to sit near Maxxie and watch him move his clay around. Somehow he had a feeling she was going to wind up covered in clay - again. Shaking his head, he walked out of the classroom to find Andrew James sitting at the reception desk.
His son was twenty-six years old and all dark hair and tan skin. There was something about his hair that reminded Gabe of how his hair had been when he was his age. It was long and hung in his eyes - all the damn time. He was broad-shouldered, but was constantly hunching in on himself. It was like he was trying to make himself smaller everywhere he went. If he had to describe his son in one word, it would be skittish. 
He spent years on medication he didn’t need after he claimed that he saw aliens take his aunt away. It wasn’t until he was older that he finally saw a therapist who saw his story for what it was: a way for his brain to comprehend a horrible thing he’d witnessed. Unfortunately by that time, he’d already spent years on medication he never needed and the side effects were irreversible. Thankfully the worst of it was memory loss and shaky hands.
“What are you doing working today?” He asked curiously as he gestured for his son to let him onto the computer. His son had been working at the Collective since he moved to New York. He’d made it clear he didn’t want any handouts, but he’d connected so well with the others at the Collective that it was strange to think about him working anywhere else. “I thought you refused to work on days Maxxie and Velvet were working.” 
He’d dated both Velvet and Maxxie and now tried to avoid both of them whenever he could. His relationship with Velvet hadn’t been all that serious. As soon as he found out Velvet slept in a coffin, he was out. Maxxie, on the other hand, had been very serious. They’d dated for six months, which was the longest he’d ever seen his friend in a relationship. It had ended badly, to say the very least. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened between them, but fire had been involved somehow. 
Drew made a face as he perched on the desk, shoulders hunched over and ankles crossed. “That’s not true.” He lied. “I traded shifts with Kid. He had his first GED prep class today.”
Gabe smiled at that. It had taken Tommy long enough. He pulled up the order he needed to review. There were still things he needed to do up in his office, but knowing that his son was working made him want to stay downstairs with him for as long as he could get away with it. 
“CJ texted me.” Drew said after a long moment. “She wanted me to talk some ‘sense’ into you.” 
He rolled his eyes. “And how’s that going for you?” While Connie didn’t talk to him, she still talked to her brother, but mostly only when she needed something. Drew, for his part, didn’t take sides. He loved his sister despite her faults, but he also knew how she was and what was best for his niece.
Before Drew could respond, Maxxie’s voice came from the classroom. “Pookie! Can you come get your little sister?! She’s throwing clay on the ground.” And nothing about that surprised him except for…
“Pookie?” He mouthed at his son, eyebrow raised. Maybe there was more to Drew working today than just taking Tommy’s shift.
His son blushed as he hopped off the desk. “That’s the part you’re focusing on? Not the fact that he keeps calling my niece my sister?” He grumbled out. “I’ll watch Bella; just go work.” He waved a hand in his dad’s direction. 
As his son disappeared into the classroom and he could hear Bella squealing in delight, he couldn’t help but to mouth out again: “Pookie?”
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🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️🖊️ one for every character :)
((Ohhh boyyyyyyyyyyyy~ Time to write~!
((Snow~ Snow is a character based off of one of my old classmates~! She had a personality pretty much the same as Poland from Hetalia. Loves the colour pink way too much, and confusing affff~~ She doesn't seem to represent that sort of personality in this reality though, instead she's very reserved and mostly trying to learn more about the Carouselian Monarchs~ She does happen to piss Shaymin off trying to do so. And well.. They argue.. My classmate and I used to argue and have a heck ton of debates on personalities and shiz- That's one of the reasons I Snow her role in this story~! Also Snow is a Snow-White Cougar Anthro~
((Koi~ Koi is also based on an Irl friend of mine~! She was one of my closest comrades~ This muse went through a wild ride in character designing alongside Shaymin and Crimson. Koi is an anthro breed of a White Serval and a Black and White Tabby Cat~! Her serval side mostly shows in her big ears, hyperness, and agility~ Well, she has agility, but she's pretty lazy- >.< Her role in the Carouselian Kingdom other than telling children wild stories, is basically calming Shaymin down when she goes on raging fits- Also, if even a hair hurts this child named Koi, Shaymin will probably go head over heels to stab it- Koi: :sniffles: Shaymin: Koi what's wrong? Koi: Oh nothing, It's just these onions- Shaymin: What the hell did you say to my friend you- Psyche: Shaymin, you're a Monarch for Carousel's sake, please-
((Venera~ I made Venera some long time agao, I think as a sort of happy comfort character for simply just joy. All Carouselians are all happy and sweet. But just Venera to me is like, "Venera is such a precious chubby bear that I wanna hug- She's just. Sweet~ I love her~"
((Alex~ Alex is also, based on my close Irl friend~! I haven't exactly polished her character's appearance/design, so it may or may not be going through some major changes. Alex's anthro breed is also going through some changes, but her base breed is a Grey Tiger~ This muse's role in the Kingdom is actually sort of based on reality, where my friend said she'd possibly be in the occupation of finance and stock market business.
((Psyche~ Based on another one of my comrades from the real world, she uh- She's actually a pretty wild mom- Tired af 24/7 but she's wild- Our chats are uhhhh- Hmm- Bizarre~? For someone younger than me- She knows way too much- In the Kingdom, she works in her Pottery Workshop 24/7 making whatever is ordered. She's sort of behind schedule- Sooo she works non-stop day and night trying to catch up but welp- She somehow just can't- And somehow we just can't force this tired soul to sleep-
((Nicholai~ I was so damn confused on how I was going to design this man- So confused- My brain said he must be hot or just simply adorable. And my hands just can't do "hot", so the boy simply just turned into a cute, curious, fluffy, Carouselian bear that mentors kids and makes weapons simply for the fun of it. This man is Peach's so screw off m8. Ngl though I'd probably steal him backk Loll~ Nicholai is the son of The General Advisor, Damien and an unknown Carouselian mother. Nicholai is tall, but somehow couldn't beat The Monarch's dangerously tall 6'4" height-
((V~ V is also- Based off my Irl friend, who pretty much has the same personality as Hanje Zoe from Attack on Titan(And she likes the character too)- She has this insane obsession with critters and if she could, she would most definitely get her snake to class. She literally has to pet fishes named Sawney and Bean, Irl. Also V never learns from books, she doesn't give to craps to read. It's "Watch and Learn" for her because no one ever says to "Read and Learn". V has probably poisoned herself at least more than 5 times because of this phrase she uses oh so often, “Move over, I’m an expert.”- V's breed is a mix of a Gray Caracal and a Common Lynx~
(Crimson~ Crimson, another one, based off my Irl friend sorta. Andddd she used to argue with Shaymin, way too much that they got into a physical fight. It's okay though, it was just a fight of skill and they were on training grounds anyway- Crimson lost- If any of youse were wondering- She's a short old man- Crimson is a mix-breed of a Black Panther and a Gray Eurasian Tiger~
((Arven~ I think I said a fact about Arven before, so here's a new one~ Arven makes his own flutes from the barks of old trees. At sometimes when he feels he's having difficulty, the precious Faun stops by the Blacksmith for help~ Also, like any other Faun, he has two horns. They're just hidden away in his floofy hair~ If you ask him about it, he'll probably say that he grew his hair to hide it because he didn't want to look intimidating to the Carouselian children~
((And lastlyyy Shaymin~ Shaymin does have her own Carousel to summon at times when needed, but as Monarch she is able to bring up many Carousels at a time. It's mostly used as a "Defensive Reflex", but no one knows since she does it a ton of times in her raging fits-
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