#dirty ish

[1800titz]

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

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

WC: 6.6K

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

Clay is innately erotic. 

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

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

It’s a cute shop. 

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

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

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

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

“Hello.”

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

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

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

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

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

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

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

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N swallows.

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

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

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

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

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

This is The Turning Point. 

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

But then it clicked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you. What now?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ruporas]

only human

[ID: Two page comic in color of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The first page has a black background and the upper half, behind the panels, is splattered with stylized red blood, scattered bullets, and lifeless hands. In the first panel, it focuses on Vash's boots, showing him stepping through the panel and into the bloody scene. The second panel shows his bloody footprints and the third panel shows his face, his down-turned eyes looking downwards. It's a neutral, vague expression with confliction. At the bottom of the page, the back of Wolfwood's head and shoulder is seen, blood dirtying the white color of his shirt and side of his face. Vash's hand reaches out to him from the right side of the page.

The second page shows the entire scene in full, half the page in light and the other in solid black. At the center, Vash leans down onto his knees as he wraps his arms around Wolfwood's shoulders into a hug. Wolfwood's back is turned away from the viewer, his left arm holds onto his bloodied punisher and his right hand sits on his lap. Light casts from the left side of the page, showing the bloodied surrounding, but the held up punisher casts a shadow on the both of them, shielding them from the light. END ID]

#vashwood #vash the stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #trigun #trigun maximum #tw blood #<-- should i add that to the original post... if it's effective? #anyway this was a direct sequel to the previous post... i had a lot of thoughts when i drew it but my brain is failing me rn #something something about being granted that bit of mundanity and then running into some situation that whiplashes u back into the identity #u were built and trained to be. that at the end of the day its not possible to just be without dirtying your hands again #he's used to it but ww will forever be someone too kind too tender hearted to really be eased out of the cold lifestyle he's forced to live #and i personally dont think trimax vash could look at wolfwood with disdain or disappointment when catching him after the fact #he knows where wolfwood's heart lies he's seen the way wolfwood killed to protect and he thanked him for it too. i think him understanding #ww deeper in that way would just make his heart wretch so all he can offer is a comfort and arms to return to. #to reassure that he can still be loved even with the blood on his hands #i also think i drew an illustration when i first got into trigun depicting this same ish message.... #i'm just very particular about this Subject. i need ww to be loved i need him to be reassured even if he'll still refuse to believe he's #worthy of it like AUGHHH. ok. #ruporas art

[artiststarme]

His whole life, Steve had been waiting for a reason. The fight with Byers hadn’t been enough nor had the loss of Tommy and Carol. Nancy’s cheating and the humiliation he felt almost did it but not quite. The first run in with the Upside Down, the second, the beating from hell, not getting into college, disappointing his parents, the Russians, losing Hopper, none of it was enough.

But losing Max and Eddie was. It felt like Steve had lost his tether. His new friend, his potential for more, was gone. Max, the random girl that had grown to be the snarky little sister he’d always needed, was gone. After that, his ever-there backup plan started feeling a little bit less like a backup. As soon as the Buckley parents decided to move away with a reluctant Robin in tow, Steve was done.

He slunk away from everyone, hiding from their gazes and escaping in their grief. He didn’t need their scrutiny or worse, their fake concern. He didn’t have any affairs to put in order, no one would notice anything amiss anyways. Steve always existed in the background, until he didn’t. He slipped under the water of his pool one night and for once, he didn’t feel turmoil. Even as his lungs ran out of air and every cell in his body screamed for air, Steve only felt calm. And soon, he felt nothing at all.

#it takes weeks for anyone to find Steve sunk at the bottom of the dirty pool #when his parents see him they ignore him and simply continue packing their things #it takes even longer for anyone to care #but by then it can’t affect him because Steve is long gone #stranger things #steddie #ish #ficlet #steve harrington #robin buckley #very angsty-you’ve been warned #warning: suicide

[avephelis]

THRASHING TYKE (fairy/dragon) and IRON ROVER (normal/ghost)

so, as some of you may recall (since i asked for your input), i've been designing paradox fakemon !! i really like when new forms are given to middle-stage or under-utilised pokemon, so togetic and furfrou were easy choices.

thought it'd be fun to imply togetic took a while to get airborne, so thrashing tyke ended up being sort of an inversion of usual togetic qualities! and iron rover is, of course, inspired by laika (hence the ghost typing).

anyway, pretty happy with them for a first go at fakemon rendering 👍👍

#avepharts #fakemon #pokemon #paradox pokemon #paradox fakemon #togetic #furfrou #if i did it again i'd probably stand by changing togetic's legs to be more raptor-ish (like the rex sketch i showed) #but that's more a personal taste thing than it not fitting existing design conventions #and fun fact togetic IS one of my fav mid stage evolutions and ive always really liked furfrou too (and wish it didn't get done so dirty) #actually more rambling i imagine iron rover would bounce around like it's in zero g and thrashing tyke would have one of those like #cartoonish flintstones runs

[falconfate]

Hello ranger’s apprentice fandom can we talk real quick about the stupidest thing Flanagan ever wrote

It’s about the bows. Yanno, the rangers’ Iconique™️ main weapon. That one. You know the one.

Flanagan. Flanagan why are your rangers using longbows.

“uh well recurve arrows drop faster” BUT DO THEY. FLANAGAN. DO THEY.

the answer is no they don’t. Compared to a MODERN, COMPOUND (aka cheating) bow, yes, but compared to a longbow? Y’know, what the rangers use in canon? Yeah no a recurve actually has a FLATTER trajectory. It drops LATER.

This from an article comparing the two:

“Both a longbow and a recurve bow, when equipped with the right arrow and broadhead combination, are capable of taking down big game animals. Afterall, hunters have been doing it for centuries with both types of bows.

However, generally speaking and all things equal, a recurve bow will offer more arrow speed, creating a flatter flight trajectory and retain more kinetic energy at impact.

The archers draw length, along with the weight of the arrow also affect speed and kinetic energy. However, the curved design of the limbs on a recurve adds to its output of force.”

It doesn’t actually mention ANY distance in range! And this is from a resource for bow hunting, which, presumably, WOULD CARE ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING!

Okay so that’s just. That’s just the first thing.

The MAIN thing is that even accounting for “hur dur recurves drop faster” LONGBOWS ARE STILL THE STUPID OPTION.

Longbows, particularly and especially ENGLISH longbows, are—as their name suggests—very long. English longbows in particular are often as tall or taller than their wielder even while strung, but especially when unstrung. An unstrung longbow is a very long and expensive stick, one that will GLADLY entangle itself in nearby trees, other people’s clothes, and any doorway you’re passing through.

And yes, there are shorter longbows, but at that point if you’re shortening your longbow, just get a goddamn recurve. And Flanagan makes a point to compare his rangers’ bows to the Very Long English Longbow.

Oh, do you know how the Very Long English Longbow was mostly historically militarily used? BY ON-FOOT ARCHER UNITS. Do you know what they’re TERRIBLE for? MOUNTED ARCHERY.

Trust me. Go look up right now “mounted archery longbow.” You’ll find MAYBE one or two pictures of some guy on a horse struggling with a big stick; mostly you will actually see either mounted archers with RECURVES, or comparisons of Roman longbow archers to Mongolian horse archers (which are neat, can’t lie, I love comparing archery styles like that).

Anyway. Why are longbows terrible for mounted archery? Because they’re so damn long. Think about it: imagine you’re on a horse. You’re straddling a beast that can think for itself and moves at your command, but ultimately independently of you; if you’re both well-trained enough, you’re barely paying attention to your horse except to give it commands. And you have a bow in your hands. If your target is close enough to you that you know, from years of shooting experience, you will need to actually angle your bow down to hit it because of your equine height advantage, guess what? If you have a longbow, YOU CAN’T! YOUR HORSE IS IN THE WAY BECAUSE YOUR BOW IS TOO LONG! Worse, it’s probably going to get in the general area of your horse’s shoulder or legs, aka moving parts, which WILL injure your horse AND your bow and leave you fresh out of both a getaway vehicle and a ranged weapon. It’s stupid. Don’t do it.

A recurve, on the other hand, is short. It was literally made for horse archers. You have SO much range of motion with a recurve on horseback; and if you’re REALLY good, you know how to give yourself even more, with techniques like Jamarkee, a Turkish technique where you LITERALLY CAN AIM BACKWARDS.

For your viewing enjoyment, Serena Lynn of Texas demonstrating Jamarkee:

Yes, that’s real! This type of draw style is INCREDIBLY versatile: you can shoot backwards on horseback, straight down from a parapet or sally port without exposing yourself as a target, or from low to the ground to keep stealthy without banging your bow against the ground. And, while I’m sure you could attempt it with a longbow, I wouldn’t recommend it: a recurve’s smaller size makes it far more maneuverable up and over your head to actually get it into position for a Jamarkee shot.

A recurve just makes so much more SENSE. It’s not a baby bow! It’s not the longbow’s lesser cousin! It’s a COMPLETELY different instrument made to be used in a completely different context! For the rangers of Araluen, who put soooo much stock in being stealthy and their strong bonds with their horses, a recurve is the perfect fit! It’s small and easily transportable, it’s more maneuverable in combat and especially on horseback, it offers more power than a longbow of the same draw weight—really, truly, the only advantage in this case that a longbow has over the recurve is that longbows are quicker and easier to make. But we KNOW the rangers don’t care about that, their KNIVES use a forging technique (folding) that takes several times as long as standard Araluen forging practices at the time!

Okay.

Okay I think I’m done. For now.

#to be VERY clear. I Am Not An Actual Expert. #i AM however drawing from my own experience and research #and literally i can find Zero literature about recurve arrow flights dropping faster than longbows #all i could find was that recurve range is worse compared to compound bows #which. OBVIOUSLY. compound bows CHEAT. #(said lovingly. ish. if you use a compound more power to you but also It’s Doing All The Work For You.) #this article was literally all i could find from a couple hours’ search comparing recurves and longbows #anyway recurves are cool. flanagan why did you do recurves so dirty. #for that matter why are all your women blonde. #(i’m not including brotherband here sorry) #(but also why did it take a spinoff series for him to create a named female character that wasn’t a blonde) #(flanagan explain) #god these books have so many problems. truly this is my ‘i could fix him’ #thank you flanagan for getting me into this special interest. now Tell Me Why You Did It Wrong. #rangers apprentice #anyway if you REALLY want to read about some bangin historical horse archers #look up the parthians :) #specifically how they fucking Decimated an entire roman contingent :) #crassus getting absolutely demolished by mounted archer parthians is definitely my favorite bit of roman trivia

[ive-fallen-and-i-cannot-get-up]

some expanse sketches i did instead of writing the 4 essays i have that are due on monday 🙃

#some of these are better than others #i kinda did anna clarissa and elvi dirty :/ #not intentional i love them #especially elvi #also idk why i went so hard when i drew fred #no complaints tho it turned out great #currently working on an ashford study #so that will be soon #ish #the expanse #clarissa mao #anna volovodov #julie mao #elvi okoye #fred johnson #cotyar ghazi #camina drummer #anderson dawes #praxideke meng

[alphashley14]

“…Were we ever so young?”

Scooby Doo! Mystery Incorporated Season 2, Episode 7, ‘The Gathering Gloom’

#Actual footage of depressed sad old man being depressed and sad #Jk - he’s canonically 37-38-ish years old #(Fr real the character designers did him AND Brad so dirty on that front) #(Got em looking like a 50 year old entering a midlife crisis) #(Meanwhile Cassidy and Judy be looking like a couple of goddesses in their prime) #(like wtf) #Unrelated: Child Ricky was the cutest #protect him at all costs #scooby doo mystery incorporated #sdmi #mr. e #ricky owens #Professor Pericles #scooby doo #original mystery incorporated #child Ricky Owens #kid Ricky Owens

[capricious-bastard13]

I've watched Jack's (Jacksepticeye's) playthrough of MyHouse.Wad, and at first, because I only heard of Doom and never played it, I let it play in the background. Until Jack's voice starts reading the attached letter to the game.

My thought immediately went, "This is something, and I feel like I'll like this something." I rewind it and watched it from the very start to the end. But I felt it wasn't all that it was, I bounced from his to the comments, explaining the game and all being recommended to play it for yourself. I don't have the resources to do so, so when I saw a comment about a video explaining it, I looked it up. The video lays out the house and the different ways you can go from point a to point b. I've seen Power Pak's after watching Jack's playthrough. And just now, I've watched Pyrocynical's video and theory on it.

There's two that stood out to me, near the end; he lays out the theories and practically dismisses the queer interpretations of it. Until now, I've always been in the camp of "Thomas and Steve were a couple, but due to the time period, or their families, they kept it hidden." When watching Pyro's video, I started realising, why were there pills on the bathroom floor, why the crib, the ring? And I felt like Pyro was nearly there, he was so close to putting it together.

But he dismisses Thomas perhaps being trans or that Steve and Thomas are gay--calls a "fat stretch" and "Level difficulty: Medium" respectively.

I've prefaced all this, because as someone who's transmasc, it felt invalidating. For months I've seen this game--although I never played it and only watched it--as a queer story of grief and loss, of processing that loss, of going through stages of denial, of reliving memories, of just wanting to reach an end where you feel at peace, of looking back on that journey and thinking to yourself that you've made it--past the hardships to a place where you can feel at peace again.

MyHouse.wad being as ambiguous as it is but leaving all these little tidbits is as when it comes to art, hard to piece together. But hearing about how there's also a trans interpretation of made me perk up, thinking, "oh, it's going to be talked about in detail," only to be disappointed.

So, despite being that MyHouse.wad has probably had this interpretation ("tHeOrY") put up already, I still felt compelled to write my own view on it using the pieces that I know of--but, there might be details that I describe vaguely because I don't remember them all that much.

We get tiny little small glimpses of Thomas through Steve's entries, of introduction we get along with the link to download it. And even just from the descriptions of the items in the game like the ring, the die, and whatnot. And the first thought is, "oh, they're gay, but they're not out," which is a sad thought, yes. But I held that interpretation close to me. It's a journey of Steve trying to get through his grief, of plunging in to his thoughts, dismantled and breaking apart as they are. The rawness of everything, of how for him, it probably felt so fresh still and this game, of going through their mod map is his way of processing--never mind how it consumed him, as he said.

And what I consider to be the best ending; the real beach, with a heart on the sand, initials--"S and A, forever". Who's 'A'? Isn't it supposed to be 'T' for Thomas?

I've seen how 'A' could be for "Allord", Thomas' last name, and at the time, yeah, maybe it is A for Allord. But what if it isn't? What if 'A' is the deadname--using that initial, despite it being a deadname, was probably used to protect them, protect him-Thomas. To be seen a heteronormative couple to get away from the hate, the stares, the animosity.

What about the excerpt of their death? Thomas' photo clearly being of a man? Well, that's just it. It's an indication of how the family has accepted Thomas for who he is and to honor him properly, used what a photo of what he looks like now, of who he really is. Proudly too, showing him as Thomas Allord, age 35, in the newspapers. This is their son, brother, and husband.

This is certainly something that will be labeled as a "fat stretch". The crib, then? The pills? And the bloodied bathroom? Perhaps, Thomas had gotten pregnant, experienced a miscarriage in the airport bathroom and had to be rushed to the hospital. As Steve puts in the description of the baby bottle; "It wasn't meant to be." And as he writes in his journal entry, he had a dream, a baby crying in the attic, in the crib, a still born baby.

Perhaps, Thomas was ready to carry the baby--their baby and due to complications, what happened, happened. They'd already bought the crib, but put it away, and we see, maybe both of them had hope that they still had a chance, clinging on.

"If Steve and Thomas are together as you say, then why does Steve refer to Thomas as "my friend" or "my childhood friend"?" Living through life closeted brings habits, unfortunately.

I've grown up without realising that I'm trans, and it was only the past few years where I've realised that the gender I was given and raised to be, isn't who I am. Despite my family knowing, they still call me with feminine pronouns, I get referred to as "sister", or "she/her" a lot of the times. And it's become the biggest norm for me that they just fly by my head without even noticing it, without getting the chance to say "that's not my pronouns".

Is this a "weak" point of the "theory"? No, because I see it as valid. People who aren't out or don't have the chance to express who they are live day to day with being misgendered, seen as someone they're not. I don't want to say, "everybody experiences this" or that there are people who don't go through intense dysphoria that it becomes crippling; I'm just saying, that for me, this is how my day to day is today, what it's like--a sort of cynical indifference to it that boils beneath the surface of my skin.

Or, this is Steve's way to be ambiguous; Thomas was Steve's friend first before they reunited, gotten married, lived together, after all.

Maybe, he wanted to detach himself in his grief and longing. A way to protect himself from the immense loss he's going through and this is his way of doing that. By saying that Thomas was just a childhood friend, it probably eased the pain just a bit.

Or, Power Pak states in his video, isn't it strange how explicit names are never--if ever, rarely-- given. Thomas' name doesn't show up until February of 2023. Steve's name is never used. Maybe, Steve wasn't the one who wrote the journal; a third party who saw the effects of loss on Steve, instead?

In the newspaper clipping of Thomas' life, it's stated how he reconnected with his high school crush, got married and moved in with his partner. The ambiguity could mean that the family simply didn't want bigots to be bigots toward their loved one.

In Steve's clipping detailing his life, he also reconnected with his high school crush. "Soulmate", this person is described as. And like with Thomas', "partner" is used, rather something explicit like, "husband" or "wife."

Although, "wife" can't be correct either since Steve doesn't have a partner listed who outlived him, simply his family.

With MyHouse.wad being as up for interpretation as it is, there's ways of reading into things, one can take it however way they want to, where they want to.

And I, personally, like to think that Steve and Thomas are happy together, with their cat, cuddled up together in their home.

You picked up Die. "Roll for intercourse?"

I feel so helpless, like I can't do anything to bring him back. I feel so sad and it feels like my heart is heavy. I can't help but think about all of the fun times we had together growing up. All of our adventures, our secrets, and even our arguments. I miss him so much and I can't believe he's gone.

You picked up Ring. "I do."

I attended the funeral of my childhood friend, and I was overwhelmed with grief. As I looked around at everyone else in the room, I could feel the sadness in the air... I never imagined that I would be saying goodbye to my friend so soon.

You picked up Wine Bottle. "Drunk Buddy." You picked up a Bauble. "Christmas makes me happy."

Happy Valentines day to the only person I ever loved. For a short time, you brought a little happiness to this painful existence called life. I hope we can be together again one day.

You picked up Baby Bottle. "It wasn't meant to be." You picked up Pill Bottle. "Refill needed." You picked up Full Pill Bottle. "Feelin' fine."

You picked up Game Controller. "It's my turn."

Somewhere, in another dream, the version of myself that winked back is sitting on the real beach, happy and content, knowing life is finite, there is no afterlife, and happiness is found in the small things around us that we can control. Happiness has to be fought for.

#MyHouse.wad #My Writing #-ish? #If someone reads this please be nice I know I probably got somethings wrong #Or that this interpretation has already been talked about #I just wanted to make a sort of timeline ish interpretation thing so I can get my own thoughts in order #I also know nothing about the Doom community and I only know stuff about MyHouse.wad #Pyrocynical practically dismissing the queer reading and then finding MyHouse's developer's previous partner as if to say #“See guys?” feels quite dirty #in a sense where it just leaves a bad taste in the mouth #Of course MyHouse.wad's story is fiction #but intentionally going out of your way to show the developer's family like it's a Gotcha Moment #Pyro was so close to putting the pieces of a puzzle together but it's as if he's trying to cram in two already interconnected pieces #Into the wrong holes and going “It just won't fit!” #Thomas and Steve left things ambiguous because there are things that are probably just too private and simply only for them #I can't believe honestly how he went about Thomas being trans or how Steve and Thomas can't be gay #Only to talk about their matching obituaries for the next theory #Then adding in the whole "the developer based this mod on his relationship with his partner is just #Do you not know how to separate fact from fiction? Because of course MyHouse is going to be fiction? #If Steve really is dead then Veddge's introduction to the game and saying how his “childhood friend” has passed and implying that #Veddge /is/ Steve? Do you not see how strange that would be? Or does he think that someone from Steve's life is just going around #With his account acting as if they are Steve? #My head's starting to hurt from all this Pyro honestly the fuck lmao

[nowshesdoingitallthetime]

Boop boop

#kirke’s pet adventures #Sniff #I couldn’t not do it #(her nose is dirty ish because she scraped it against her cat carrier at the vet. it’s being monitored and cleaned so she’s fine!)

[jihyocentric]

i needed more domestic nahyo... same universe as this

cw: body image issues (?) just pregnancy stuff, nothing heavy

nayeon stands by the door frame, arms crossed as she watches jihyo getting ready.

"what are you so pretty for?" nayeon asks, taking jihyo's attention away from the mirror.

"i have to look pretty today," jihyo looks back at the mirror, searching for any mistakes she might have done while putting on makeup. "it's jisoo's first day in school. we need to look presentable."

nayeon walks closer, hands touching jihyo's hips, kissing her cheek as she hugged jihyo from behind.

"if presentable is the same as looking like a goddess, you're doing it right." nayeon stares at jihyo from head to toe through the mirror, sighing when she finishes inspecting her wife. "you're starting to look more like a milf."

jihyo laughs softly, resting back against nayeon's body. "thank you?"

"i mean it. you were already beautiful before, but after jisoo you became double the amount. should i be concerned?" nayeon pouts, holding jihyo tighter, making jihyo smile at her.

there was a time where jihyo felt insecure, in the past, during the pregnancy, because her body changed. while jihyo only saw flaws, such as stretch marks that never left after having jisoo, nayeon thought all of those things made her prettier. those were the results of having jisoo, and there was nothing about it that looked anything other than beautiful.

with time, nayeon managed to convince jihyo that the pregnancy didn't ruin her body and that she was the prettiest she had ever been. jihyo's body eventually went back to what it used to be, only that now her curves looked more defined, aside from the stretch marks. building back jihyo's confidence was the most difficult challenge they had, but now that she's got it back, nayeon feels conflicted.

"why would you be concerned?" jihyo turns around, the smile on her face nearly making nayeon forget what was talking about.

"because wherever i take you, people look at you. they stare. our baby on your lap makes them even more attentive! they stare even when i am around! your wife! the one who put a ring on your finger!" nayeon whines pitifully and jihyo breaks, laughing right at nayeon's face.

jihyo pulls away, fixing her dress, ready to take her baby to school and go to work after. "you shouldn't have gotten me pregnant so early if you didn't want me to be a young milf, nayeon. it's all on you." she says, leaving nayeon alone in the room.

nayeon follows jihyo, having no reason to be in their room anymore. "it was an accident!"

"you asked for jisoo." jihyo huffs, tired of nayeon pretending she didn't explicitly ask for a baby whenever she felt like messing around with her. "you made sure i would get pregnant, too. filled me so many times."

nayeon's face becomes red, embarrassed with the dirty talk at that early time in the day. "d-don't say stuff like that!"

jihyo laughs and nayeon follows her to the kitchen. they catch jisoo giving her fruits to the cat instead of eating them but pretend they didn't, letting it pass just because it was jisoo's first day at school. a special occasion.

"ready to go, soo?" jihyo brushes her hand over jisoo's hair, sighing when jisoo looks up and shakes her head, bottom lip sticking out, looking like she was about to cry. "what is it, baby? what's up this sad face, hm?"

"don't wanna go." jisoo says lowly, almost like a whisper. jihyo takes a chair and places it right next to jisoo, sitting on it and bringing jisoo to her lap.

"will you tell mommy why you don't want to go?" jihyo asks softly, caressing jisoo's cheek with her palm. nayeon sits where jisoo had been sitting, touching jisoo's knee to let her know she's there just like jihyo is.

jisoo takes time to answer. she might be better at communicating than other kids in her age, but she had a hard time talking about what frightened her. she still talked it out, because jihyo and nayeon raised her to talk about her problems so that they could work on them. jisoo just needed a little push for the most part.

"you can tell us everything, babygirl." nayeon pats jisoo's head tenderly, her voice calm and reassuring. "if you don't want to go, we can stay home. but we need to know why."

"i'm scared." jisoo curls up in jihyo's lap.

nayeon exchanges glances with jihyo. "scared? scared of what, babygirl?"

jisoo doesn't reply this time, but jihyo knows it right away. "it's the kids, isn't it, baby? you're afraid of them?" jisoo nods, and jihyo sighs. "they must be scared too, you know? not every kid is brave enough to face school. it is scary to meet new people, but you have to try, baby. do you remember how mommy met mama?"

"auntie jeongyeon made you go out?" jisoo asks quietly. jihyo and nayeon laugh.

"not exactly. auntie jeongyeon set a date for us, and i was so scared of going to our date..." jihyo replies, with a smile on her face when she reminds of the day she met nayeon. "i tried to escape, cancel our date and stay home, but your auntie took mama to my house!"

nayeon's heart swell when she thinks about the time she met jihyo. she remembers eyeing her for a long time before gathering courage to talk to jihyo's only friend at the time and try to get a date with the girl she'd fallen for, despite never exchanging a single word with jihyo.

jisoo's eyes widen. "will mommy bring school here?"

"of course not, baby," jihyo laughs. "you can stay home. you don't have to go to school today, but you will have to go someday."

"if i were you, i would go today. you can make many friends on the first day," nayeon adds. "and your cousins will be there. they won't share the same class with you because they're older, but you will still get to see them."

"really?" jisoo gets interested when nayeon talks about her cousins. jeongyeon and momo's twins were the only kids jisoo had no problem talking to. nayeon nods. "i want to go."

jihyo lets out a relieved breath. it wasn't hard to deal with jisoo, perhaps she got lucky on her first child and the next one would be the opposite of jisoo, but jihyo still worries.

the ride to jisoo's school is filled with nayeon singing with their baby and jihyo focusing on the road. jihyo makes sure to get a picture with jisoo on her first day, before jisoo goes to class, wanting to keep that moment forever, because it was the day that her baby took a big step in her life.

it isn't until jisoo is already inside and they get back to the car that jihyo starts crying, hiding her face in nayeon's neck as she sobs. jihyo feels embarrassed about crying like that and truly expects nayeon to laugh, but she hears nayeon's breath faltering, as if she was holding back tears. nayeon was close to crying too, and the only thing she could do was give jihyo comfort.

"she's growing up so fast." nayeon says, swallowing thickly to hold back her cry.

"we're lame." jihyo sniffles. "we should be h-happy and proud, not crying in the car because our baby is growing up."

"i'm not crying." nayeon bites her lip. jihyo looks at her, watches as a single tear falls down on nayeon's cheek. "stop."

"it's okay, you can cry." jihyo hands nayeon a tissue. "i'll leave you at work and then get you when it's time to pick jisoo up."

nayeon answers with a hum, turning her face to the window as jihyo starts driving, letting more tears fall occasionally.

#drabble #nayeon #jihyo #nahyo #domestic!nahyo #sfw-ish #shortest dirty talk ever #non rq

[someone-you-do-not-know]

...

#This fandom really has changed since 2012-2014 ish #As in. #fuck #you guys have become purists who don't even look at what canon actually contains #Or alternatively when you look at canon you misinterpret it either to cutesy it or make Hima problematic #Without an ounce of understanding for his cultural background #This fandom has become such a snake pit #You're all just eating each other for whatever wrongdoing you can imagine someone else might have done #Stop sanitising everything you come into contact with #At the same time as you're smoothing out whatever you dislike you're also erasing the humour #This series always had dirty humour #If you can't live with that I'm going to gatekeep because then you don't actually like hetalia #I prefer the fandom of 2012-2014 where we casually made jokes about invading vital regions over this shit #where everyone badmouths each other over the most minor of offences #being silly #(I'm not but that's my archiving for personal stuff tag) #Personally I'm not fond of people joking about drugs but you don't see me stopping anyone joking about that or throwing a hissy fit

[manaosdeuwu]

does anyone know how to clean a clear phonecase?

#mine is so dirty rn ... its literally ruining the plastic of the phone #dont know if i can fix the back of my phone though 😭 #it has all these scratch like stains... #well this phone is like 5 years old so im not expecting it to be pipí cucú yknow? i just want the phonecase to be less dirty and brown-ish #nero habla

[deans-baby-momma]

Coming soon to Tumblr.

A/N: I'm trying my hand at a Sam Winchester centric fiction. The 3 part mini-series will be posted after Law & Love ends. Read on for a synopsis

Sam has been keeping a secret from Dean. For a while now - it’s killing him but he doesn’t know how to explain it to his older brother. How do you tell someone you’ve looked up to your whole life that you’ve finally found someone who gets you; who has the same sexual energy, desires and fetishes? And that she’s older than both of them. 

Dean would probably not bat an eye, even be proud of his little brother for a moment. Until he found out who Sam has been sneaking around with.

Send me an ask if you want tagged. My forevers will automatically be tagged.

@spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam  @sandlee44 @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @akshi8278 @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989

#sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural #smut #canon-ish #angst #dirty talk #talk of kinks and fetishes #a smidge of fluff

[romanceddawn]

concept that just occured to me: the slow puppification/sub-ification of jounouchi by yugi

it starts out by genuinely just caring for his friend and wanting to make sure jounouchi always eats and has someplace safe to go, so he's always inviting him over to eat dinner or lunch with them but sometimes its just the two of them together

jou hates not doing anything in return for the kindness though and always tries to do things around the house for him or help him out in some way while yugi's cooking or preparing food, so yugi jokes the food is his 'reward'. eventually, he notices just how happy and flustered jou gets from the concept and yugi's praises, which gives yugi the idea to do more

he starts exaggerating the praise a little, waiting a while for jou to get used to it before throwing some sly 'good boy's around and jou gets predictably flustered about these, but starts looking a little disappointed on the days yugi doesnt say it to him, so yugi ups his game a little to make him happy

he starts making the two of them a lot of finger food dinners in this time, something that he can pop up with after jounouchi helps him with something small and go "thank you jounouchi! you're such a good boy! here something to hold you over-" and feeds him bites of food like treats. jou realizes at some point this is not what Normal Friends do with each other but he loves it too much to care so he just happily eats from yugi's hand and will smile at him and say thank you like the good boy he is

yugi starts getting worse after this encouragement from jounouchi. he'll pet him while saying how fluffy jou is, he'll encourage jou to sit on the floor while yugi's on the couch to "fix their height difference", he'll make comments on how fun it would be to have matching collars, he'll make him do 'tricks' & say hes joking but feed him a treat, etc etc

then one day jou comes over when its just yugi home to find he made little cookies shaped like dog biscuits, and he goes on and on about how its a recipe safe for humans AND dogs, so they can both eat them! buuut if jounouchi wants one he'll have to show yugi what a cute pup he can be. hes so embarrassed but wants to be good for yugi, so he gets on his knees with his hands to the floor like a sitting dog, thinking that'd be enough but then yugi goes "okay, now speak!"

jou, shocked, is just like "uhhh, hello?"

"i said /speak/ puppy" and yugi just gives him this expectant look and smirk

jounouchi fights with himself for a full 5 minutes before barking for him finally and yugi calls him a good boy & feeds him the treat by hand, patting his hair and cooing over how cute he is as a puppy, saying he should just be yugi's perfect pup all the time!

jou finds he's not really opposed to that idea actually and if he starts wearing a matching collar with yugi and complains about his knees hurting more, well, their friends are just gonna pretend they dont notice but somehow arent surprised

#this is a crosspost from twitter but it was too good not to share here #altho i always feel weirder sharing my dirty/kink thoughts here lol #i guess its cuz my posts dont leave orbit much on twitter idk #but anyways hope someone else likes puppy play wish here cuz i love it #ask to tag #nsft #ish #katsuya jounouchi #yugi mutou #wishshipping #headcanons #devo speaks

[koraktor]

Juro (Hanno Koffler) gifset || m: Krabat (2008)

#he's growing on me :) #I appreciate the effort that went into the costumes/wigs/make-up in this movie #I REALLY DO #but they did everyone dirty with these yellow-ish fake teeth 😬 #krabat 2008 #juro #Hanno Koffler #gif #gifset #mine

[tallyhoot]

I spent 40 fucking minutes washing the dishes and now my hands don’t feel clean at all and I’ve washed them like five times with three different soaps and they still don’t feel clean enough.

#Eddie’s vents and rants #tw vent ish #My hands don’t normally feel this dirty :/