#I fucking love doing physical crafts

[gottaarc]

I made 1 (ONE) thing with my sewing machine and guys. Guys the sheer serotonin coursing through my veins right now.

[definitelynotshouting]

been getting really into scrapbooking recently so here's a little thing i made a few days ago for @rebelpeas incredible novella, The End of All Things, which i actually got to edit for xem!!

Lyrics at the top left are from City and Colour's song of the same name, because it fits perfectly and i have been rotating it in my brain on repeat for a solid week now<3 also please behold my gay bird scissors they are everything. to me<3

[rosedosed]

I love you books that are aware that they’re books. I love you books that demand an active participatory reader approach. I love you books that force the reader to remember that it is not its job to teach you how to read it. I love you uninviting literature. I love you books that hate being read. I love you books that reject the notion of what a book should be. I love you books that use every single aspect of itself to communicate the message at the center of the narrative even if its alienating and strange I loooooove youuuu

[subaru-meteorlight]

.

[romantically-yours]

I desire romantically doing makeup with somebody

[urbanfiltered]

being in ur 20s be like

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

out of pure curiosity, how the hell does soap use mer reader as a sex toy👺

and I love reading about the mer au pls give us more

rants are fine, we accept them wholeheartedly🫶

right, purely out of curiosity ;) consider this a follow-up to Soap chasing you down and indulging his baser instincts with you.

Soap is fascinated with your hands. the strange little suction pads on your palms. the way you groom his scales, the way they feel on his skin. how do they work?

he begins to develop a healthy curiosity about how they might feel elsewhere.

Soap asks you not at all casually how thoroughly you clean the other mer. or yourself—do you skim over the more sensitive parts of your own anatomy? he's eager to know. his filthy mind cycles through image after image of teaching you how shark mer like to be touched.

or, fuck, of you showing him what makes you feel good.

you notice as you groom him how he pays such close attention. the muscles in his lower stomach twitch when you brush your hands over the front of his tail.

seeing him that way rouses your curiosity, too. maybe he's right. maybe you do need to clean him more thoroughly.

⬇ nsfw, monster dicks, merman sex under the cut ⬇

you run your hands up and down his members (two, remember), disguising your perverse interest as innocent dedication to your craft. you're just doing your job, right? you’re certainly not getting anything out of this. not at all. no thoughts in your sweet head.

still. you’re not as smart as you think you are if you believe this ends any other way than him fucking you like a fleshlight.

it takes so little effort for him to wrap his hands around your hips and maneuver you where he wants you. he brushes his thumbs over the sensitive notch at the front of your tail, the subtle slit becoming more flushed the more arousal floods your body. his eyes zero in.

handling you like the sex toy you are, he pulls you closer and nudges himself in. you squeak, feeling the stretch--but you're not worried about taking all of him. you were built to service big mer. of course you can take it <3

you're happy to let him use you and he’s starving to finally take what he wants. he moves you up and down on one of his cocks. the other rubs over that sensitive region, scraping the outside of your pussy until you’re speaking in tongues.

you’re dizzy, not only caught up in the physical sensation, but also the oxytocin-laced high of how much pleasure you’re giving him. how much he wants this from you.

he watches where your bodies connect--the way you grip him--and then the way your eyes droop with drunken pleasure.

you're so rapturously happy with how much he likes this. how valuable you are right now--it's intoxicating. and the way he praises you--not with words, but implicitly, with the way he groans and his hands tighten, the way he squeezes you bruisingly hard and spills his spend into your body.

you're fulfilling your purpose this way.

...

more mer au /more Soap / masterlist tag

[lassieposting]

Been thinking a lot lately about romanced Astarion post-spawn ending.

Because like. The Funnest™ thing about cptsd is how much of it gets delayed. When you're trapped in a lengthy, ongoing traumatic situation, you do not have the ability to process and start healing your mental wounds. Your brain and body go into survival mode, and all that matters in the moment is that you somehow cope with the horrors. He wouldn't have been able to even begin dealing with the physical, mental and emotional toll of two hundred years of torture, brutalization and dehumanization while he was under Cazador's control; he is in constant danger, surrounded by sharks in the water, and survival means not letting them smell blood. He can't afford to fall apart, to show weakness. He is shockingly functional and competent in-game, partly because he has to be to work as a game character, but also partly because...it do be like that, to some degree. When death, for whatever reason, is not an option, you just have to shut down and keep going. People adapt in order to survive, and when we learn that showing an "injury" (physical or psychological) only gets us punished, we learn to hide it.

Early-game Astarion is terrified - of Cazador, of Godey, of being hunted down by his siblings, of being staked or sold off at the first opportunity by Tav and the other companions, of turning into a mindflayer, of another painful transformation, of losing himself when he's only just regained his autonomy after two centuries, of what Cazador will do to him if he ever finds him - the man is overwhelmed by fear. He's on thin ice as a vampire, and he's not going to give them any more reason to want him gone. Survival instinct is still in control, and in this new situation, crafting some fragile safety for himself means not only selling his body for protection, but also being useful. Clear-headed. Good in a fight.

Endgame Astarion finds himself in a completely different situation. The time-sensitive overarching threats - Cazador and impending ceremorphosis - have been dealt with. He has a loving, supportive partner he's really starting to feel safe with - Tav/Durge has proved that they're on his side, that their affection is genuine, that they don't just want him for the one thing he's been told he's good for. They've told him they're going to help him find a workaround for his sun allergy. He's getting fed regularly. He has time to stop, and breathe, and just. Recuperate.

For the first time in 200 years, he is safe.

And it will probably take a while to catch up, during which time he will seem to be coping really well, but at some point, his brain is going to realise that he's safe, and it's going to finally start processing the sheer fucking horror he's been through. Since I haven't seen anyone talking about this particular fun aspect of cptsd, allow me to offer u some thoughts on issues Astarion and Tav might end up dealing with in the months/years postgame, during the

✨ Delayed Trauma Response ✨

Memory Gaps: Astarion realising, as he opens up to Tav, that there are entire years or decades of his life from which he has only a handful of memories. Great big blank stretches where he has no idea where he was, who he was with, what was happening to him. Some of the gaps cover years at a time where he was so dissociated and shut down that he just didn't retain any memories of what was going on around him. Some are shorter periods of particularly horrific torture that his brain has deliberately blocked out to protect him.

Recovered Memories: At some point, years into the future when he's done A Lot of healing, he might find that every now and then, a fragment of those lost memories will unexpectedly come back to him. He'll catch a particular scent on the breeze, or overhear a specific phrase in the street, or cross paths with someone whose face is oddly familiar, and he'll get a glimpse of an acute horror he'd filed neatly away where it couldn't hurt him anymore. He very rarely remembers all the context to those flashes of his past. He might recall that he was punished, but not what he was punished for, or he might remember words spoken by a greedy conquest, but be unable to recall the man's face.

Dissociation: Tav knows going into this relationship that Astarion has basically made an art out of dissociating during sex. They also know, from their shared encounter with the drow twins, that he's not great at enforcing his own boundaries - he'll always say he'll speak up and back out if he stops having fun, but in practice he rarely does; he's not used to having the option of saying no to his partner, and being punished if he tries. So they know there's going to be some practice and experimentation and negotiation necessary there, to figure out the rough limits of his comfort zone. But once he starts really processing, there may be days where he just checks out completely. Tav will touch his shoulder, and he'll startle and apologise - "Terribly sorry, darling, I was miles away for a moment there." And Tav will gently point out that he's been sat in the same spot vacantly staring into the middle distance for hours. They've been checking in on him occasionally and this is the first time he's responded. It's unsettling, to say the least.

Lost Time: Astarion was very young when he was turned, physically mature but emotionally juvenile. He was basically an overgrown teenager, in the phase of life where elves are just starting to learn who they are and what they want, and figure out their place in the world. But he never got to do that, because he spent his formative young adult years in a world where everyone became an abuser, where his only means of surviving was to smile and charm and obey while even his basic human dignity was stripped away. He learned that communication is based on manipulation. He learned that the powerful can do whatever they like to the weak. He learned an incredibly toxic, abusive way of life, and that was his family dynamic, his everyday life, for as long as he can remember. Now that he's free and safe, he's realising that the world doesn't actually work that way and that he's now far behind even shorter-lived races in social/emotional development. He's grieving for the person he could've been. He's grieving for the life he could've lived. He's grieving for all the years he already lost, and the ones he'll lose in the future as he flounders to catch up. A decent chunk of his life was stolen from him, and that's time he will never get back.

Flashbacks & Night Terrors: Specifically the kind where your brain convinces you that an injury you had a long time ago is actually an injury you have (or are receiving) right now. There are nights where he'll wake Tav in a panic, because his back feels like it's on fire, he can feel every freshly-carved wound dripping blood and he's in so much pain he doesn't know what else to do. If Tav looks, they see nothing out of the ordinary - old, long-healed scars, same as always. But the pain and the fear and the distress are all very real to him, and all they can do is try to comfort him, cover his back with cool damp cloths or healing salves, remind him he's safe now and they're not leaving him.

Boundary Shifting: Sometimes, Tav can come up and hug him from behind, and he'll melt into them a little bit and go all soft and happy. Other times, he might flinch away or go rigid at the same gesture. A lot of the time, it really depends on how he's feeling on the day, but at least a little bit of it is deliberate - he's pushing to find the limit of just how much autonomy Tav is willing to give him. He wants to know at what point they'll stop respecting his "no". Will they accept it if he doesn't want a hug? If he wants to sleep in his own room tonight? At what point will understanding turn to anger at being rejected? From the drow twins four/fivesome, we also know he's got a tendency to push his own boundaries, and jump into things he's actually not ready for, and Tav would be the one holding his hand through the fallout as he tries to figure out what his own boundaries even are.

Frustration! So, so much frustration. He wants to be Over It already. He wants to move past everything that ever happened to him and never think about it again. He hates that Cazador still has a grip on him, even in death - he doesn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction of dwelling on all his punishments, his cruelties. Sometimes, that frustration is going to explode outwards at Tav - he'll get angry at them for coddling him, or find something small to start a fight over, or he'll set an unreasonable boundary and try to defend it because he's still learning what healthy boundaries look like. Sometimes, it will implode inwards, and that won't be about Tav at all, but they'll get the brunt of it all the same - it might come out as self-loathing or self-punishment, and he'll react by doing something stupid, like trying to drive them away, because having a secure, relatively healthy relationship is terrifying and the instinct is to destroy it before Tav can. There will be yelling and angry tears and deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms, and they'd have to work through that. Trauma is ugly, and Astarion is right at the beginning of a very long journey towards healing.

Abandonment Issues: Astarion wants the relationship to be one between equals, but he's kind of got Tav on a pedestal all the same. They saved him. They helped him get rid of Cazador for good. They chose him and love him despite a wealth of better (in his eyes) options, and all his baggage. They stayed with him even when he has very little to offer them. We know his vanity and obnoxious self-absorption is a fragile attempt to obscure the fact that his self-esteem is in the dirt and he has virtually no self-worth, and there are a couple of occasions in-game where it becomes clear that he's afraid of losing the one person who somehow considers him lovable. After seeing Sebastian and all the other conquests, he begs Tav not to hate him, saying that he did what he had to. If he has a rival for Tav's affections, and Tav informs him that they broke up with the rival to be with Astarion, he's shocked and the first thing out of his mouth is, "You ended things with them for me? Why?" And if Durge tries to break up with him for his own safety, his facade drops and he immediately asks if he did something wrong. So while he's not afraid to argue with Tav, if something happens - like an angry outburst - that upsets or angers them, and he thinks he's at risk of losing that one steady, stable person in his life, he might well cling and overcompensate to try and repair what he thinks is a fracture in their relationship. He'll fawn or beg or crawl into Tav's bed to "apologise" and "make it up to them" because, well, very occasionally it worked on Cazador. With patience and good communication and lots of repeatedly driving the lesson home to overcome 200 years of education to the contrary, he will eventually start to believe that "I'm really pissed off at you right now," does not equate to, "You are the worst mistake I've ever made and I am leaving you."

Panic Attacks: I feel like honestly he'd get some symptoms of these on a fairly regular basis, but he's never been given any option other than just trying to power through them. He's used to realising he's shaking, he's used to feeling like he's watching himself from outside his body, or like he can't breathe even though he doesn't need to. He's very familiar with the sickening fear in his gut, so intense it makes his head spin. He's not used to being comforted or reassured about them - he thinks they're normal. Tav disagrees.

Anyway, cptsd is messy and complicated and often looks very different from person to person so these will not represent everyone's but these are just some ideas for what the ongoing recovery process might make them work through, based on the aspects I'm most familiar with.

Projecting? Who's projecting? I'm not projecting. Shut up.

[muletia]

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader

summary: optimus handles the "would you still love me if i was a worm?" question a little too well

cw: fluff, optimus is fucking obsessed with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 545

"Optimus?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Behemoth stopped working on his datapad, giving you his full attention. His private quarters were dimly lit, except for the soft blue glow of his patient optics, illuminating your figure, comfortably seated on his desk. Wrapped in a blanket and lying on the cozy couch that Optimus had personally brought in for you, you felt safe.

"Yes, my dearest?"

You couldn't quite explain what compelled you to speak the words that began to slip from your lips. Perhaps you just needed some validation in that moment, or maybe you were feeling a little down and wanted a mood boost. Whatever it was, it took over.

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"

"What is a 'worm'?"

Embarrassment washed over you. You shouldn't have said anything (even if part of you was curious to see how he would respond).

It didn’t help that he was staring at you with those big, puppy-like optics, patiently waiting for an explanation. Oh God, he took it completely seriously. It shouldn’t have surprised you, knowing who you were dealing with, but this wasn’t the kind of question to take seriously. You would've been thrilled if he just said a simple "yes."

You cleared your throat.

"Ermm, well, you know..."

He absorbed every word like a sponge, analyzing, debating within himself to find the right response, unaware of your sudden awkwardness. He didn’t consider your question childish; he wanted to give you an honest answer that reflected his feelings.

After several seconds of silence (though to you it felt like hours), his mouth moved, and the reply that came out was one you never expected.

"I would build you a large garden with the richest soil in the universe, decorate it with your favorite flowers and plants, so you could enjoy the view before you when you decide to leave your shelter. I would visit you at every free moment, sharing updates about life, discussing human craft that recently captivated me. At night, I would carefully lift you onto my servo, so we could gaze at the radiance of the night sky together. I would treat you as my equal, with unchanged gentleness, affection, and devotion, admiring your beauty beyond your physical form, speaking to your soul. And just as I do now, I would be devoted to you, ready to answer your every cry, gesture, and request, overjoyed simply by being able to help. I would love you as a worm, a plant, a stick, or a stone, nurturing my love for you until my final days, faithful only to you."

The look of astonishment on your face made him a little concerned.

"[Your name], is everything alright? Did I say something inappropriate?"

"Wow..." not the most eloquent response, but your brain was too fried to come up with anything better. You blinked a few times to regain your composure, but it didn’t stop the blush from spreading across your face. "That was... beautiful. No, really, I didn’t expect such a powerful answer."

Optimus surprised you again by sending a gentle smile your way, softening the metal contours of his face. And then, whether consciously or not, he fired a return shot.

"And would you still love me if I was a worm?"

[rosy-crow]

The thing I would say is commonly misunderstood the most about Sephiroth is his reaction to discovering that he was “created.”

People get baffled by the Nibelheim Incident and say, “I guess finding out you were an experiment would be upsetting, but why would that fill him with so much rage that he started killing humans and wanting to destroy the entire planet?”

But it’s more like….no, imagine you were born inherently different from everyone else. Forget the extra tragic background stuff that some of us know for a moment. Just take that basic idea about being “born special.”

You are distinctly isolate. It’s in your literal DNA. You are physically and biologically “other” your entire life. Not with a disorder or deformity, but with some completely unique and separate make-up as a living being.

And you don’t like it. You don’t like being special and different. It’s a type of different that can be utilized because it manifests in unnatural, destructive power. Your physical strength and endurance are beyond human and are most suited to war and bloodshed. This strips you of the ability to assimilate into the world. It makes you fit best as a weapon.

You don’t get a family, home, or sense of secure, ordinary life. You don’t get to connect with the planet. You live in a completely different world from everyone else and look out at them through glass and steel.

Sure, they idolize you. Cool. They worship the physical otherness that you were born with. They admire your godly strength, they fawn over your looks, they obsess over your presence, blah blah. But it’s all distant noise to you. There’s no fulfillment in it. You don’t want praise and worship from behind glass and steel, you want something or someone to connect to.

You want your mother — because SHE would give you love, safety, acceptance, and humanity. You could feel human if you could run into the arms of the human that birthed you. The existence of your mother is proof that you are human for the time being. You need her so much.

But none of this is given to you and even though you look for answers, they somehow evade you for your entire life.

MEANWHILE, the only ones to steer and guide you are the company that brought you up and at least gave you a place to reside, a place to find purpose. In your mind, since you were born special, maybe this company is a type of salvation, even if you don’t like everything they do or…..anything about them at all, actually.

But hey! They still guide your power and strength. They still give you something to hang onto. They don’t attack you for being special, they just steer you to employ your abilities and that’s SOMETHING to hold onto. It’s a place where you can assimilate and be accepted in some way. Even if it hurts you. You OWE them.

Now cut to Nibelheim. You uncover it all. Every. Single. Lie. And lies on top of lies. What you discover isn’t even the full truth, but you THINK it is. You think you’ve just finally found out all the answers!

And it starts with your birth. Turns out you were created. You’re not human at all. You were created from the remains of an ancient being that was dug up from the earth and labeled as a separate species by humanity. It’s even dubbed a monster by some, and boy…does it sure look like one.

All of those differences you grew up with, all of those feelings of otherness, all of those fucking isolate traits that FORCED you to live in a cold, different world and that conveniently suited the needs of the greedy, corporate businessmen that raised you were produced and crafted by them.

Your “special existence” that took away every chance at normal, human life was not something you were born with and had no control over. It was literally the result of horrible, unethical experimentation. All of your years of trying to accept it and just do your job are now pointless. It’s like a robot discovering it never had any autonomy or soul because it was always a product made with false ideas about itself.

And to make things worse? Your mother is the other victim of the company that created you. They had her all along, trapped inside an experimental hellscape and hooked up to tubes and wires. Treated like a revered object the same way you were. She’s not human either. That means she’s the only one that can be one with you and understand you. Or so you believe.

All those years you spent separated from her, trying to make peace with what you thought was a natural difference in your DNA…all of it was meaningless because you were being lied to, controlled, used, and treated like the creation you were from the start. You were being kept from your mother and even told she was dead.

Of course you would break.

This is just the core of Sephiroth’s story and I’m not even mentioning all of the additional horror that goes into his life, but this alone would make anyone enraged beyond reason. It would send anyone into deep despair.

Sephiroth only climbed out of that pitch black despair by using hatred, rage, and the drive to return to his mother. He reshapes his entire person to embrace the monster Shinra created. He embraced what he believed they made him to be without his consent, and turned his back on the “others” besides himself and his mother.

[nerdy-novelist017]

Denim (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader Smut)

Heyyyy, remember when i did that little poll forever ago and the majority of you guys wanted me to turn the ending into smut? Well, here it is 🤗 I just pray nobody who knows me IRL will read this, but i hope all of YOU guys enjoy this! 🫶

Benny x Bunny Masterlist

Word Count- 2.1k+

Summary- He nearly groaned at the sight of you, all sweet in your soft satin slip with his rough denim jacket dwarfing your small figure.

18+ Minors please do not interact!

******

Benny took a long, slow drag of his cigarette as he watched you from his place on the bed bend over to grab your slip dress from the floor. The trail of clothes leading into his bedroom were the result of his desires and fervor manifested by returning home to your sweet smile. After a particularly rough day with some new members joining the Vandals, his frustrations built and threatened to crack his carefully crafted persona of calm, his entire ride back home was filled with nothing but the dirty thoughts he had of bending you over the kitchen counter and releasing his anger. But upon entering his house, his senses were overwhelmed by the smell of something sweet baking in the oven. He found you standing at the kitchen island, adorning a flour-covered apron overtop one of your pretty little sundresses. You held a spatula in one hand, stirring it into the bowl of what Benny could only assume was batter, and the other was holding open a cookbook on the countertop, finger lightly tracing the words as you mouthed the instructions softly. 

“Hi, honey!” You greeted him with that smile that just seemed to melt away all his aggressions. “I’m baking a pie for tomorrow. I’ve never tried this recipe so I’m making my failsafe too, just in case.”

You were referring to another Vandals meeting happening tomorrow evening. A sickeningly sweet warmth bloomed in his chest and he knew he couldn’t fuck you there like what he’d planned. No, you were so thoughtful and kind. He wanted to make love to you, to show you that he loved you. That’s what you deserved. 

“God, you’re beautiful," he said as he watched the slip fall over your shoulders, gracefully laying over your body like water running over stones, covering your figure down to your mid thigh. 

He leaned his upper half against the headboard, one arm propped behind his head, the sheets pulled noncommittally over his bare hips. From the bed, he could see the blush tinge your nose and cheeks. He loved that he still had that effect on you, it filled him with a sense of pride that his words (among other things) could still garner a physical reaction from you. 

You grinned at him sheepishly. “That’s what I think about you.”

Benny had never been with a woman that called him beautiful before you. Sure, he’d been complimented many times, but called beautiful? That was something only you have ever told him. You found a lot of things beautiful, constantly pointing out flowers on the side of the highway or sunsets on the horizon. He loved seeing the world through your eyes. Sure, he appreciated the sunsets sometimes or your new dresses, but he only found them beautiful when you were on the back of his bike to enjoy the sunset, only thought the flowers were pretty when you placed them in your hair. Beauty was only a concept when you were involved. 

He watched as you began picking up the rest of your clothes, gathering everything in your arms, but then something caught your eye. Discarding the rest of your clothes on the foot of the bed, you bent, giving Benny a generous view of your chest before retrieving the item that gave you pause. 

He glanced down at it in your hands. His Vandals jacket. He quirked a brow as your gaze fluttered back up to his, a flirtatious glint in your eye. You turn from him and move to stand in front of the mirror above the desk. He watches intently as you slowly spin the jacket and bring it around behind you, sliding each hand through at a time before shrugging it over your shoulder. It was several sizes too big on you. Your fingertips barely grazed the ends of each sleeve and the hem of the denim covered your butt. You swiped at your hair trapped beneath the collar as you studied yourself in the reflection. 

You’re eyes locked with him in the mirror and you smiled. “You reckon I could be a Vandal?”

He nearly groaned at the sight of you, all sweet in your soft satin slip with his rough denim jacket dwarfing your small figure. “Bunny, I reckon you could take over that whole damn club tomorrow if you walked in wearing that.”

Your giggle sent a jolt through his stomach and he felt himself grinning like an idiot as he watched you turn from the mirror and do a spin for him. You were just too damn cute. 

“Now, you’re official,” he teased, blowing out a trail of smoke from between his lips, eyes unable to look away from you as you moved back to the bedside. 

“Not quite.” You fixed him with a mischievous look as you crawled onto the bed slowly, sliding a leg over his hips so that you were straddling his lap. “I still need something to ride.”

He smudged the rest of his cigarette out in the ashtray before his hands found the soft flesh of your bare thighs. You planted your palms over his chest and the sensation burned straight through to his heart. He leaned up to capture your lips. “I think I have something you could take for a spin.” 

He swallowed your moan, hands kneading up to your hips where he helped position you over himself. You had never been the one on top before, and your heart pounded at the intimidating idea. But because Benny always seemed to read your thoughts, he said, “It’s okay, baby. Just go slow.” 

Benny’s hands on thighs tightened, helping to guide himself to your entrance and you released a breathy moan of satisfaction when you felt his cock sink into you. He clenched his jaw tightly when you began to move slowly, hesitantly, his rough fingers tracing your soft skin with an almost reverent touch. “Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head momentarily as you rode him.

Though he wanted to remain locked onto you, his eyes couldn’t help but roam over every curve of your beautiful body, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. He marveled at how easily you brought him to his knees, at how you seemed to just control his every thought. When he came home to you standing in the kitchen, so innocent and unassuming, all the day’s frustrations and worries just melted away. You had the power to do that. And now, with you rocking above him, your eyes locked onto his, he felt that very same sensation of awe wash over him again. How did he ever get so lucky?

“You feel so good, Bunny,” he moaned as his head fell back against the pillow, his heart pounding in his ears. “Just–just like that.”

He took one of your hands in his, bringing it up to his face and planting kisses to your palm. With every movement you made, his thoughts spiraled further, his mind becoming hazy. Mine, the word echoed in his head as a fierce and possessive need that both terrified and thrilled him. He had never thought he’d want something so badly in his life, never thought he’d care so much. But here you were, in his bed, in his life, and he was utterly lost in you. Every kiss he pressed to your skin, every touch was a promise – a promise to do anything he could to keep you, to make you happy, to be worthy of you. 

At his praise, you felt confidence bubble within you, and you picked up the pace, driven by the need to please him, your hips grinding into his with a friction that sent electricity straight into your core. The sound of your shared breaths, the squeak of the bed springs both filled the room in a sweet symphony that drove you to the very edge. 

Your name slipped from his lips in a broken, needy sound that made your heart skip a beat. You could feel him straining beneath you, his muscles taut with desire. You leaned forward, your hair falling into a curtain around his face as you pressed a kiss to his jaw, watching as his eyes darkened with fervor, his control slipping. 

His hand slid up your back, beneath the Vandals jacket, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss that made your head spin. He kissed you like he couldn’t get enough of you, like he was starving for you, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that sent waves of heat through your entire body. 

And in typical Benny fashion, he couldn’t relinquish control for long. Without breaking the kiss, he rolled you both over, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that caused you to squeal lightly. Not of fear, there was never fear with Benny. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving down to your neck as his hand cupped your breast through your thin nightgown.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice clouded by a possessive rasp as his hand gripped the bare flesh of your thigh, positioning it higher onto his own hip. You responded instantly, wrapping yourself tighter against him. “Every inch of you.”

 Unable to speak, you nodded, your hands moving up to grip his shoulders as he entered you with deep, powerful thrusts that made you cry out in ecstasy. Benny didn’t hold back – he couldn’t – his movements were rough and demanding as he took you, each plunge sending a shockwave through you, a white blinding sensation behind your eyes. The intensity of it was overwhelming, your senses filled with nothing but him – his touch, his scent, the way he filled you completely. 

“Benny, please,” you whimpered, your words almost incoherent as your pleasure built to a peak. 

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath tickling against your overstimulated flesh as his hand came up to interlock with your own, pinning it beside your head. He groaned, “I’ve got you, Bunny . . . I’ve got you.” 

His words were a promise, and they filled you with a warmth that went beyond physicality. And when the wave finally crashed over you, it was all-consuming, your body tightening against his as a cry escaped your lips. Benny wasn’t far behind you, his own release hitting like a storm, and he groaned against your skin, his body shuddering from the force of it. Your vision blurred with euphoria but you grasped onto the way he said your name so softly. 

Benny lowered onto his elbows, laying his upper body slack against yours as his labored breaths filled your ringing ears, his heart pounding against your own chest. For a few moments, you both lay there, each coming down off your passionate high, his hand still tightly wrapped around your own. He pressed a kiss against your temple as he whispered, “You’re everything to me, Bunny. Everything.”

You smiled as you brought your hands up to run through his hair. Benny rarely ever expressed his love in words. I love you, was not an expression he often used. Instead, he found other ways to emphasize his affections. They never ceased to fill you with a sense of belonging that you’ve never felt before. 

As the heat began to cool between you, he eventually pulled out, leaning up onto his elbows again, to gaze down at you with a lazy smile playing on his face. He brushed a strand of your hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek in a gentle caress. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, Bunny.”

You shot him a teasing grin. “Maybe I have some idea.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before he rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you along with him so that you were draped across his chest. You rested your head there, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat as your breathing slowed. 

After a few moments, Benny spoke up again, his low voice cutting through the comfortable silence. “How about we make a deal?”

You tilted your head up at him, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of a deal?”

His hand slipped beneath the denim jacket again to trace circles along your back as he mused, “Whenever you’re feelin’ low or like you’re not enough . . . you come to me, and I’ll remind you how wrong you are.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his words. He knew you struggled with confidence and to hear him wanting to actively help you in whatever way he could . . . well, it just made you love him all that much more. It was impossible not to fall in love with him every day when he said such things to you, when he made you feel like the most precious thing in his world. “And what about you? What if you need reminding?”

His eyes softened as they fluttered over your features. “Then I’ll come to you. You’re the only one who makes me feel like more than I am.” 

You leaned up, pressing a kiss to his lips, slow and sweet, sealing the promise. “Deal.”

You pulled back, a hint of mischief gleaming in your eyes, and you asked, “Do I have to wear the jacket though?”

He grinned, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you into him even closer. “Definitely.”

-Tag List-

@elizabeth916 @imusicaddict @jaiuneamesolitaiire @dudii4love @ironmooncat @beebeechaos @astrogrande @pearlparty @themorriganisamonster @sillylittlethrowaway @ughdontbeboring @penwieldingdreamer @charmingballoon @eugene-emt-roe @sunnbib @semperamans @groovyangelkisses @killerqueenfan @cynic-spirit @pomtherine @tranquilty @m00npjm @justsomewritingblog @thepassionatereader @rebecca-hvnstn @nethanybear @dreamlandcreations @buckysteveloki-me @simsiddy @zablife @sansaorgana @autumnleaves1991-blog @butler-trouble @lindszeppelin @wavyjassy @real-lana-del-rey @xcallmetaniax @lovenewfandoms @youngestxhearts @abaker74 @ateliefloresdaprimavera @thefallofthedamned @hottpinkpenguinreads @nctma15 @vendylewin @capswife @alexa4040 @pearlstiare @sweetestrose569 @18lkpeters @mrsalwayswrite

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 8

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

so anyway rio could have stepped in at any moment and ejected billy into oblivion / prevented agatha from getting a full recharge. but did she? no, no she didn't. this is absolutely a fucked up game they're playing instead of talking about their feelings. rio tried to talk and agatha rejected her (almost) every time, so theatrics and blood it is! god it sucks so much that this stupid flirt/hurt/posture/dance is the only way agatha allows them to communicate.

agatha's smirk! she's like, now you're gonna get it! now I'm gonna fuck you up!!! rio has been throwing her around like a rag doll, but now that she has her powers back agatha can finally put allllll her shields up and do a little show of her own.

when it comes to agatha everything is about being in control of the narrative, being the one who hurts rather than being hurt, never showing any weakness or vulnerability. she was awfully vulnerable without her powers and that has allowed rio to creep in closer, something that agatha had managed to escape for so long. it's no coincidence that she chooses this appearance, the same one she chose when going face to face with wanda. this is what she was trying to look like with her purple coat too: the formidable, merciless witch. it's an armor she clings to, a mask to feel powerful that won't ever show the mess she's hiding underneath. this is what agatha chooses to look like when she's scared.

rio: fuck off you little meddling twink the adults are talking

agatha: mwhahahah I'm such a big scary villain just lemme check if billy's okay real quick.

actually let me gush for a second about agatha's greenhouse being full of herbs and potions! her witchy basement disappeared because she had built it with a magical illusion, but in here she's been totally experimenting with physical craft (neeeerd).

billy's like, are those two fuckers honestly actually flirting right now

CHILDREN I swear to god

LEAVE MY INFURIATINGLY STUPID EVIL MOM ALONE!!!

poor rio. just her luck that when she finally gets to corner agatha a baby maximoff comes into the picture. I love my perfect mama's boy.

the bittersweet look she gives billy. she's truly having a lot of firsts, now she finally admits that all her dancing/fighting with rio is futile, it's just for show and it won't ever truly solve anything. what is she even doing, involving billy? billy who's still so earnest, so eager to help.

I SEE YOU JAC SCHAEFFER! I SEE YOUR EVIL WAYS! I SEE YOU CREATING THESE SILLY LITTLE SHOWS SO YOU CAN EXPLORE THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF LOSS AND GRIEF AND OUR OWN MORTALITY!!!!

but she's being 100% genuine here???

okay, no, this is still agatha we're talking about.

she's being aT LEAST 80% GENUINE! she's having a moment of clarity, she's contemplating the true awfulness that would be sacrificing billy on the altar of her own fucked up issues. the mask has slipped and the real agatha is peeking through, swords in her heart and all.

her parting words to billy: you are not bad. the same words she wanted to imprint on him when they had their first mask off conversation. don't let people cast you as a villain, like they did with me.

Neither are you, says Billy.

You're the only one who thinks so.

The thing is, being so hated, doing all the fucked up things she does, really hurts agatha. It's no justification whatsoever, doesn't make her any less of a villain. she goes out of her way to be misunderstood, to never show any weakness, to selfishly rationalize all the horror she inflicts, because the alternative is opening up to more potential hurt, and she's been hurt too fucking much in the past. and the more she pushes people away, the lonelier she is. it's a vicious circle.

three people loved her despite it all: rio, and she ran away from her when things got too overwhelming. nicky, and that's a whole other mess that I'll get into next episode.

and now billy loves her, and she craves that love just as much as she wants to run away from it. she'll hurt billy to protect herself, she'll hurt him first because she's afraid that he eventually will leave or die or get mad and will hurt her. because right now? she's feeling so much love for billy, and that's terrifying to her. the more she loves, the more she opens up to heartbreak.

both gorgeous shots

billy: I'm not that nice.

also billy:

then she got an idea. an awful idea. agatha got a wonderful, awful idea.

oh this is perfect, isn't it, agatha? you somehow convinced the boy to turn himself in! if he goes through with it, rio has promised to leave you alone! you'll be free to crawl back to your dark dark corner and accumulate bodies and power like the old miserable smaug you are!

you can see agatha's survival instinct kick into high gear. this is how she has survived so long. this is what she does.

BILLY'S FACE. I got to laugh a bit, sorry kid.

rio shaking her head both in triumph and exasperation. of course you betrayed the kid, agatha you piece of shit. rio didn't expect any less from you.

and she can't even look at him, the coward.

but I thought we were having a moment??

he went ahead and made a grand gesture without being ready to actually sacrifice himself whatsoever, and now he's going "mom??? come back and pick me up, I'm scared??" it's like agatha is kicking a puppy.

the slow, dramatic turn. the evil grinchy grin. this is the most egregious example yet of agatha putting her mask on, and we have all the context to understand exactly what she's doing and to see what's going on both on the surface and inside her wretched little soul. she's not cruel and uncaring, that's play acting - she's actually small and scared and a coward. she's once again running away screaming, rationalizing it as a smart choice and breaking her own heart in the process.

so I know billy's telepathic line was added in post because disney execs feared audiences wouldn't buy agatha turning around on her own. what absolute buffoonery, such massive disregard for your viewers' intelligence.

...on the other hand. billy full on misreading the situation and trying to fix things that are beyond him, only to accidentally hit the target? somehow fixing a delicate fragile problem by hitting it with a hammer? totally on brand for him.

is this how nicky died? it kind of is. she did choose her own fear over nicky's well being, despite loving him so so much.

whether you choose jac's version or disney's version, here's what happens next: agatha stops in her tracks. her stupid grin fades away, and she clutches her chest. she finally did it, she told a lie too big. her poor heart, already bleeding from all the swords stuck in it, simply cannot take one more stab. sure she's all about self-preservation, but at this point she's damned either way: she either goes out saving billy or she's killed by her own regrets and sorrow.

she turns around. she runs. not to billy. to rio.

going back to what my mother jac schaeffer (whom I love more than jesus or pizza) said: this is not agatha enacting a grand plan, she's not taking a ~calculated risk like she'll tell billy later, the fucking liar that she is. sure, she had a vague hope of turning into a ghost, but she didn't know for sure. this is agatha's emotions taking over her brain - like they tend to - and forcing her to use what are probably her final moments on earth to TAKE WHAT SHE'S BEEN CRAVING ALL ALONG

agatha grabs rio's face and SMASHES their mouths together. FULL ON proceeds to EAT HER FACE she wants her so much. rio is shocked for a moment and then closes her eyes and gives in completely. and you can see the poison taking over because this idiot - this gorgeous, tragic dork - has decided to kill herself by absorbing rio's powers - but this is not going to be a mere 'peck of Death', no sir, that's not what it's called! agatha is gonna SNOG Death, she's gonna TONGUE that immortal being, she's GETTING ALLLLL HER MONEY'S WORTH. dear lord the HUNGER and YEARNING and DESPERATION on her face.

and I love that she's taller here. they're basically the same height so who's taller depends on the shoes they're wearing, but I love love love that agatha gets to engulf her for once. agatha taking control, rio giving herself up completely

what? you thought that now that magic has been absorbed THE KISS would be over???? well THINK AGAIN. because now we're going to switch angles, we're going to linger, we're going to make it look like almost gratuitous fan service, oh yes we are!!!

I truly don't know what to say. I would like to thank jac of course, and kathryn hahn and aubrey plaza for MAKING THE FUCK OUT and exchanging so much spit on camera like the true professionals they are. thank you writers room, thank you to all the crew who had to listen to the ungodly noises these two were undoubtedly making. thank you gandja monteiro for directing this. I'm going to even thank the lighting department for making it thunder so we can (more or less) see what's going on. this was truly a group effort. well done you all!

and they keep kissing until the very last available moment, and rio doesn't know how to let her go

but this is so on brand for agatha. you know if rio was in her place she'd try to be as gentle as possible to ease agatha's grief. agatha literally went for the most dramatic, most over-the-top, most emotionally devastating way to go. this was supposed to be rio's big moment! and what does agatha do? she makes it all about herself. again. should be the other way around, but once again rio gives, agatha takes. you just gotta laugh at this point.

Death looks on stone faced as her love turns back to nature and balance is restored. she wraps herself in her cloack and tries very, very hard not to cry.

agatha really went and made rio kill her, didn't she? rio, who isn't ALLOWED TO. these two are soooo wrong and so toxic for each other and yet they love each other so freaking much, I truly cannot get enough of them.

go to episode 8 part 9

[takes1]

HI I LOVE UR WRITING

can i req a fic for iwa :000 maybe reader comes w him to the gym and he can clearly see her blushing at him workin out n his body 😔 the rest can be up to u :))

iwaizumi hajime x reader mutual gym thirst

hi!!! thank you so much!! really liked this idea :) i used his timeskip interest to help with some structure here, but i hope i got enough right!

warnings. sfw-ish, thirsty info. iwa's hot bod / charged staring / mutual crushing / questionable touching / will-they-won't-they kinda vibe / oikawa being a nuisance / oikawa moving things along / athletic!reader / injured!reader / 1.4k words haikyuu collection. more here! more links. my ao3. masterlist. requests open!

You never once thought of what your school gym's layout could really do for you before this afternoon.

There was absolutely no reason to, until a certain tall, dark, and handsome brute took a liking to the power rack in front of the treadmill you were tied to for the next half-hour.

Part of your training plan required 40 monotonous minutes of incline walking- so a longer variation of the tried-and-true 12-3-30 became your new ritual after your team's practice. Shin splits weren't going to go away on their own, after all.

So, you and your defective shins were already married to this spot. When he walked his beefy ass to a spot so ideal for watching, you couldn't help but feel a little creepy.

This light dusting of shame didn't stop your eyes from wandering, though. You were too tired from a long practice and longer physical therapy to truly keep your gaze glued to the numbers on the screen.

That near-pornographic muscle-tee he wore at least twice a week was in rotation today.

It was soaked through; light blue now dark, from the cardio that he just finished outside with his partner and current spotter.

"Come ooon, you can get that up," Oikawa smirked, knowing damn well he needed to help Iwa get the bar racked.

He laughed at his friend's shaky struggle, himself even surprised when the bar slammed against the metal holds.

"Fucking prick," Iwa grumbled with very little air in his lungs.

The dark tone on his tongue raised your brow. You looked at the ceiling with a big exhale to get the thoughts out of your head.

This crush was much more manageable when it was confined to passing glances in the hall.

He was panting as he sat up. You looked back down just in time to watch him remove his useless, sticky shirt.

Sure, the hip-deep slits down the sides didn't leave so much to the imagination, but this was still so much better.

You bit the inside of your cheek and squeezed your eyes shut to keep from making any ridiculous faces, but the image of his bouncy chest and twitchy, heavy biceps were burned into your eyelids.

They had to switch out the weight between turns, so when he took the side of the rack closest to you, you were able to stare at his working back muscles without any repercussions. It was akin to crashing ocean waves between his shoulder blades. He set a plate gently onto the floor.

His skin glistened in the moody lighting. The veins in forearms were plump with effort.

"You feeling okay, (Y/n)?"

Oikawa gave an all-too-knowing grin at you when you locked eyes with him.

Heat crept up your neck- as if you needed to feel any hotter- and horribly embarrassed, you couldn't craft a response to his smartass comment.

Thankfully, Iwa glanced back at your downcast expression and scoffed at his friend.

"They're out on injury right now. Chill out, dude," Iwa came to your rescue, thankfully mistaken to the nature of his remark.

Oikawa looked frustrated that his jab didn't land the way he wanted it to.

You stuck your tongue out at him when Iwa wasn't looking and got one right back.

Now that you were under suspicion, you had more motivation to not stare at him anymore. It just wasn't worth getting found out.

This aversion to looking in their direction allowed the more lively of the two to whisper something with a smirk without you catching him.

Only five minutes remained on your screen when Oikawa climbed up onto the treadmill next to yours, despite the four empty ones further away.

An eye roll. You swiped the sweat off of your face and flicked it at him.

He didn't even get the chance to say anything snarky before Iwa noticed his absence.

"Stop being an ass," He grumbled.

"I didn't say anything!"

He wiped down of the rest of the bench, grabbed his shirt, and stood between the two treadmills. He motioned between you.

"You're being obnoxious," Iwa asserted, "Go somewhere else."

He sure as Hell wasn't happy about it, but he gave in to his friend's wishes. This would be interesting enough without him needing to interfere-- he kept a watchful, cheeky eye on both of you from across the gym.

"So, they got you doin' this," He put his hand on the side of the machine, brow furrowed in concern, "God, isn't that a bit much?"

There was no way you could speak to him without ending this. You pressed stop on your workout, thankful to be done with a good enough excuse.

You set your hands on your hips and tried to get your breathing back to normal. Your shins were burning.

"I hope not," You shrugged and wiped the sweat off of your face with the collar of your shirt.

He rested the side of his face on his slick forearm and looked you up and down.

You tensed at the motion and looked to the side.

"Can I take a look?"

A strong twitch of embarrassed confusion on your face forced him to clarify immediately:

"Your legs- I mean," He laughed.

You knew he would assist the head PT every other day for injured student athletes that came through the training room. It was a way for him to get some experience in before he went for a degree.

It just so happened that it never aligned with your schedule, so even though he knew you had become a regular, he never got to assess you.

You tried not to limp on the way across the gym.

"Jesus..." He muttered as you sat your leg onto his lap, "Yeah, that's... fucked."

The little stretching corner was otherwise unoccupied, but you couldn't help but feel like your proximity was too much. Your head was craned around to make sure there were no teachers or staff around to yell at you- but flipped back around with small yelp at his hand.

You laughed and flinched away at his cold fingers, "Thanks."

He didn't react to you.

"I mean, like..."

Iwa was completely taken by how swollen your lower legs had gotten, he wasn't even finishing his sentences. His concentration was super cute. A little concerning, but cute.

He walked you through some new stretches that the head PT didn't care to show you; the more he informed you about the nature of your pain, the less you were trusting the old fellow that you had been seeing.

He supported you as you attempted a tough stretch and quickly reassured you to not push it. You let up as he suggested, hands trembling against his forearms.

"Juuust like that, yeah," He said gently next to your head.

Your face lit up and stopped, too embarrassed to keep this going. Maybe you did prefer that old, crusty, trained professional over him.

Concerned, he ducked to look at your expression, but you quickly evaded.

"Did that hurt too bad?" He asked.

You deliberated on lying but decided against it.

When you glanced back up at him and shook your head, he had a smile on his face that you couldn't quite rationalize.

The focus on 'strengthening' your shins seemed to Iwa like it was just making the issue worse. He recommended resting as much as possible.

His touch and his attentive gaze helped you manage the discomfort you felt going through the motions. He was always waiting for your reaction, gauging how he needed to shift you based on your facial expressions.

"Let me get you some ice," He snapped a couple times, deep in thought, "I wanna try that new wrap, too--,"

He jogged off into the clinic's room and flipped on the light.

In the mirror-wall you caught a glimpse of Oikawa at the free weights. He started blowing kisses in your direction and only stopped when Iwa hurried back out.

"Y'know, I can always make some extra time to check on this after practice."

Your expression softened.

Iwa knelt down next to you. He scanned the damage carefully before sitting, and took one leg into his lap again.

"I couldn't let you do that," You sighed and seethed at the contact.

There wasn't much more room to be gentle, so you just had to endure.

He layered everything slowly, firmly but not too tight, and would take the time to fix the stretchy tape if it got twisted. The actual therapist never spent this much time on you like this.

"Well," Iwa prodded at his finished work, "You can just... give me your number, and we can work something out?"

It may have been the ice, but the chills that ran up your spine were difficult to hide.

"Sure," You smiled.

It felt like you were agreeing to something a little less medical in nature.

He helped you to a stand and supported you for a few seconds too long.

"Sweet," Brushed off his lips in a consumed sigh.

masterlist.

requests/submissions: open

[ottosinventory]

The Prince pt.2

(Alastor x prince of hell! Reader)

Warnings: couple fight, kinda depression but nothing major, ehhh I think thats it.

Also Alastor might be a bit OOC but like who cares let me be delusional🫡

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been two months now since you and your dad visited your sisters hotel and you met Alastor.

Since then life has been amazing. You and Alastor continued to meet up in coffee shops and bars.

Of course you didn't tell your father since he would freak out.

However is has happened don more than one occasion that you spent the night in Alastors room at the hotel telling your father that you were just visiting Charlie.

Nothing happened of course since Alastor was asexual, and it took quite some time to get him comfortable with physical touch in general.

After he got used to it though it turned out he loved it. Only with you, but he loved it.

One of your favorite activities together is, in fact, cuddling.

Which you were doing right now as well you sitting in his lap in one of his arm chairs both of you reading books.

Alastor stopped reading for a second, and looked at you.

Since the meeting at the hotel a lot has happened. A lot that surprised even him. He has no idea he could get into e relationship let alone with someone as amazing as you.

Around the beginning of the second month into your relationship you got into a fight.

You wanted him to drop the act and open up to you because if he doesn't this relationship will never work.

And obviously he didn't want to. He has spent years building up his very carefully crafted facade. And who knew if you would still love him.

After that argument you didn't see each other for a week. Which was hell for alastor. Yes, he lived there but being away from you showed him what it was like for other people.

The pain in his heart was something he has never felt before, perhaps when his mother died but that was so long ago he could barely remember.

He woke up with that blinding pain in his chest and he thought is was just a temporary thing, so he went along his day.

Only to notice that the pain did not lessen or go away. It was there constantly and got worst whenever someone mentioned you.

After 3 days spent like this he could take it no more he went to you fathers house and requested to see you.

He knew that Lucifer didn't know you guys were together but he didn't care at this point he needed to see you and frankly he refused to do it over a little buzzing box.

Your father was of course as confused as one can be. What the fuck was the radio demon doing here wanting to talk to you.

They were about to get into another fight when you turned up.

Alastor froze when he saw you.

You were, even nicely speaking, a mess. Your hair was not as well kept the sleepless nights could be seen in your eyes, and you were wearing your pjs, which was one of Alastors shirts, from the few he owned.

Alastors didn't even spare another glance at your father he pushed him out of the way took your hand and led you to your room where you guys talked things out.

He didn't open up fully, but he stopped grinning. Which was already a huge step for him.

He promised, though, to open up to you more and more he just needed time.

And you were ok with that.

After he finished his sentence you leaped into his arm and kissed him which he eagerly returned. Missing the feeling of your lips on his.

"Alastor?"

He was staring at you. For a long time now and you were getting worried.

"Are you ok?" You asked while cupping his cheek.

He took the hand that was on his cheek and kissed your palm that put that hand on his chest where his heart would be if he had one.

"Oh, I'm quite alright dear, just thinking." He answered than leaned in for a kiss.

Your lips met and this kiss was not quite like the others.

Alastor but all the feelings he couldn't say into that one kiss stealing your breath. You felt the things he was to closed off to share and you understood why it would take him time.

After you parted you gave him another quick kiss which made him chuckle.

"WHERE IS THAT RADIO DEMON SON OF A BITCH"

Oh, yeah when Alastor visited you, Lucifer found out about you two, and since than...well lets just say Alastor enjoys tempting him with it to no end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

YOU GUYS ASKED FOR A PART TWO, AND I DELIVERED😎

No cuz in all seriousness my hazbin fics have gotten so much love and I just wanna thank you guys so much😭🧡🧡

I hope you enjoyed your reading Ladies, gentleman and other, good afternoon good evening and good night.🦖🧡

[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.”

[shizuturnspages]

Hello, can I ask you for the headcannons of yandere Kinich and Sethos? (separately)

Of course!!!

I searched for some good pictures of them, but there aren't enough T^T

I don't know much about Sethos' character, but I tried my best to write his headcannons. Forgive me if they're inaccurate.

Anyways, here they are. Hope you enjoy <3

Yandere Kinich

❥ Kinich isn’t the loud, in-your-face type. He’s the silent, calculating motherfucker who keeps his obsession locked up tight behind that calm exterior. He’ll act all chill, but behind those eyes? He’s fucking burning with possessive desire. You won’t even know you’re trapped until it’s too late, because he’s got that smooth manipulation down to a fucking science.

❥ Kinich isn’t the type to make his presence obvious, but trust me, he’s always watching. Every move you make, every word you say—it’s all logged in his mind. He knows your habits better than you do, and he’ll use that knowledge to keep you in check. You think you’re doing something out of free will, but it’s all part of his plan. You’re playing his game, and he’s already won.

❥ Kinich is smooth as fuck with his words, always calm, always saying the right thing. He’ll comfort you, make you feel safe, but if anyone crosses him or tries to take you away? That calm turns to fucking ruthlessness. He’ll deal with threats swiftly, efficiently, and with no remorse. And the scariest part? He’ll make it seem like it was all for your benefit, like he’s protecting you from the world.

❥ This guy doesn’t need to be aggressive to control you. He’ll use that sharp mind of his to manipulate you into thinking you need him. Every conversation, every interaction is carefully crafted to pull you closer, make you more dependent on him. You’ll start to believe that he’s the only one who understands you, the only one who can keep you safe. It’s fucking terrifying how easily he’ll twist your mind without you even realizing it.

❥ Kinich won’t come off as possessive at first. No, he’s too smart for that shit. He’ll wrap his obsession in concern, in care. He’ll say he’s just looking out for you, that he wants what’s best for you. But underneath all that sweetness? He’s fucking claiming you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that’s yours. Your thoughts, your actions, your fucking soul—it all belongs to him. And the worst part? He’ll make you thank him for it.

Yandere Sethos

❥ Sethos is smooth as hell. He’s got that charm, that charisma that pulls you in like a moth to a flame. But underneath that charming innocent smile is a fucking storm of obsession. He’ll make you feel like the most important person in the world, but once you’re in his grasp? That charm turns into a weapon. He’ll use it to manipulate you, to keep you close, and to make sure you never, ever leave his side.

❥ Sethos doesn’t fuck around when it comes to control. He’ll make sure every aspect of your life revolves around him. You won’t even notice it at first—he’s too fucking smart for that. He’ll slowly weave himself into everything you do, until he’s the one pulling all the strings. You’ll feel like you can’t breathe without him, and that’s exactly how he wants it. Every move you make is under his watchful gaze, and good luck trying to slip away. You can’t escape the fucking web he’s spun around you.

❥ Sethos doesn’t just love—he consumes. His affection is all-encompassing, and he’ll make sure you know that you’re the center of his world. But here’s the fucking twist: his love is dangerous as hell. Anyone who gets too close to you? They’re fucking gone. He’ll smile through the bloodshed, making sure you know that no one is allowed to take his place by your side. His love comes with a body count, and he’s not afraid to add to it if anyone even thinks about touching you.

❥ You think you can run? Fucking think again. Sethos is relentless when it comes to keeping you close. He’s not just physically strong—he’s fucking brilliant. He’ll always be one step ahead, knowing your plans before you even make them. Try to leave him, and you’ll find every door closed, every path blocked. You’re not getting away, no matter how hard you try. And the worst part? He’ll make you feel like there’s no place safer than right by his side, even though he’s the danger you should be running from.

❥ To Sethos, his obsession isn’t just love—it’s fucking devotion. He’ll worship you in his own twisted way, making sure you know you’re his entire world. But that devotion comes with chains. You’ll never be free, because in his mind, you belong to him, completely. And he won’t let anyone, not even you, change that. His eyes will always be on you, filled with a fierce, terrifying love that burns hotter than anything you’ve ever experienced. You’re his, and he’ll make damn sure you never forget it.