#one shot ish

[amorhedera6]

harry’s love language is acts of service and gift giving. he’ll express how much he cares for ron and hermione by doing anything he can for them, getting them thjngs with his inheritance. it was all he knew as a child, doing things for other people, so he shows his love by doing things for the people he cares about.

hermione’s love language is quality time. she’ll often ask harry to body double her in the libarary, or sit with a book in the common room while ron and harry talk between the two of them. they offer for her to join, but she likes just sitting with them while they talk to each other. choosing to being around the people she loves is how she shows she loves them.

ron’s love language is physical touch. he grew up in such a big, busy house with all the older brothers in the world, there’s no way he isn’t quick to use his physical before his words. he gives the best hugs in the world, second only to possibly hagrid’s. he’ll have an arm around harry’s shoulder when they’re just sitting next to each other, lay his head on hermione’s lap to bother her while she’s studying. he’s incredibly tactile.

it was hard for harry to get used to that, being comfortable with another person in his space, even if it was ron. in his life, that usually has meant he was about to get himself beat up and/or thrown into a cupboard. but with time, he adjusted to it, as did hermione. the two of them became more tactile, and harry finds himself hugging, laying on, and holding his friends very quickly in his first year. it quickly becomes habit, and harry wouldn’t have it any other way.

this is different.

harry’s been receiving letters from sirius for the past year or so, but actually being in the same house as him is entirely different. it’s fantastic, but it’s also hard. because sirius’ love language is words of affirmation, and he keeps telling harry all these big things that he doesn’t usually hear. he knows that ron and hermione love him, even if they don’t say it, and he knows they know he loves them. they only really say it after a near-death experience, so a few times a year. sirius has said it to harry more times in the week he’s been staying at grimmauld place than ron has said it to harry ever.

harry’s trying to adaot but being comfortable hearing things like that after so long is harder than getting used to someone hugging you a lot. he’s trying his best, but he feels so weird about it that he asks lupin (who keeps insisting harry call him remus, so he’s working on that too) about it.

remus seems suprised when harry brings it up, but his face melts into a sad understanding as he goes on. when he’s done, remus gives him a bittersweet smile and tells him “sirius didn’t used to be like this. he was a lot like you, grew up without hearing it, and it wasn’t easy for him to grow like that. your father was always telling us all how much he loved us, all of that. it was hard for sirius. he liked to show his affection through buying things for us, he had endless money, and just leaving it where we could find it but refusing to admit it was from him. but when he left this place, moved in with your dad, he started just telling his affections from the rooftops. constantly taking about it, saying his love, everything. i think sirius sees you struggle with it, and wants to help you the same way james helped him.”

remus’ love language is acts of service, just like harry’s. things like this, helping him navigate his emotions, helps so much. the two often have talks like this which help harry feel supported by his former teacher. because ron has rubbed off on him quite a bit, harry hugs remus. when he thanks him, remus squeezes him tightly. remus is crying when he pulls away, and harry asks why. remus shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and says “you hug like your mother.”

[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.”

[heartlogan]

crawling in circles

✮— logan x f!mutant!reader (au of wolverine goes to hell)

✮— summary: you go through hell for logan

✮— a/n: i read half of the graphic novel wolverine goes to hell, and in combination with an idea that the wonderful @captain-tch gave me for a mutation, i came up with this

✮— warnings: reader’s mutation is to do w necromancy / similar to it. she can bring people back to life & potentially control them, reanimating dead bodies, communicating with spirits / souls, DEATH, hell (literally), canon-typical violence, blood, religious images (literally including hell, demons, etc), probably weird pov shifts, a mixture of graphic novel elements & my own, not technically hugh’s wolverine, kind of ambiguous past relationship w logan, not proofread

MASTERLIST

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

No matter how many times you traipsed your way through this place, it never got any easier. The weight never went away, always staying pressed on your shoulders, making you drag your feet behind you. This place was made for suffering, and you weren’t immune to it.

Even though this was your gift, your soul had come far too close to being trapped in hell more than once.

It was for balance, you supposed. The universe couldn’t allow you to simply traverse through hell and pull souls out without some risk of consequences. Bringing people back had to be difficult, had to come with some amount of challenge. Especially because it was more permanent than your ability to reanimate bodies.

Cheating death was a risky business, that was for sure.

Everything in this place was made to keep you here. From the literal demons, to the walls and ground that ensnared tortured souls, each being was here to make you suffer alongside them. Nobody was supposed to leave hell.

But still, here you were, not for the first time. Fighting against the way the screams made you want to curl up into a ball on the ground, against the way the air seemed to burn down your lungs, slowing you.

Your own sins lingered down here, flashing at the edges of your vision, taunting you. You had learned long ago not to try looking for them, because it was a slippery slope. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard. Being here made you want to face them, made you want to prove that you were good, somehow, despite knowing that you weren’t. You had done terrible, awful things, and one day, you’d end up here permanently. There was no denying it. The proof lingered in your periphery.

Honestly, you dreaded the day. But you were lucky in some ways, as you’d be able to prepare yourself for what was to come, which most others couldn’t.

Even thinking of these things distracted you, made you stray from your path. Luckily, you caught yourself before you got too far, and hurried to correct your course. It was far too easy to get lost down here, to let the laughter pull you from your path.

You focused on your mission. Find Logan, and guide him back to the real world. It shouldn’t have been as difficult as your other missions to this place, seeing as he wasn’t actually dead. His soul was lost, displaced by a demon who wore his skin. You could help with both of those things, but only if you found him.

Unfortunately, you had a good guess as to where he would be. And you didn’t like it.

It wasn’t every day that souls were brought here while still alive, so you imagined the leader of this world had something to do with it. He must’ve had some kind of fascination with the infamous Wolverine, as so many tyrants did. And from everything you knew about Logan, there was plenty of things down here they could use against him.

You knew his history, despite how much he had once tried to hide it. To hide from it, really. There would be hundreds, if not thousands, of souls down here hellbent on getting revenge against the mutant.

Suddenly, you heard a yell, one that reverberated the floor below you. Or at least, it felt that way.

It wasn’t hard to find where it had come from, and you leant over a cliff edge to witness someone from Logan’s past standing before him, speaking gravely to the man as the devil himself brandishing the soulcutter. Logan looked exhausted already, and you knew he hadn’t technically been in here for very long, but you imagined it felt like years to him.

Hell’s very own leader stood over him, ugly face pulled into something that almost resembled a triumphant smile. It sent a chill down your spine, but you were used to it. It happened every time you saw that beast. Despite knowing his reign on the throne was precarious at best, it didn’t stop the shiver of fear that he caused. Logan was far braver than you.

“Nail our friend to the wall. Let him think things over for, say, a few thousand years.”

You watched two of the demons carry Logan away, and swore under your breath. This would take longer than you’d have liked.

”Hey,” A voice called to your right, and your head snapped towards it. It was a man you vaguely recognised. He had begged you to take him back with you more than once. “I know a shortcut.” He told you, face creased with something that almost resembled hope.

“Show me.” You told him, voice rough, throat rubbed raw from the air that you were forced to breathe.

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

Seeing him in pain was never easy for you, but it had been all Logan had known for so long. This… this was on another level.

Nailed to a cross, an X, ironically. He looked drained. Your eyebrows creased, pity and sorrow threatening to consume you. You reminded yourself of who he was, what he had done, and why you were here before you got too caught up in him again.

“Logan.”

His head lolled upwards, glazed eyes struggling to focus. He looked even more defeated at your appearance, somehow, as he murmured your name with a kind of resigned tone.

You rushed to him, Puck lingering behind you, and your hands were holding his face tenderly before you could even think to stop them. His eyebrows furrowed, and he tried to pull his jaw from your palms. “No, no more tricks. Ain’t fallin’ for it anymore.”

“I’m not a trick, Logan.” You told him quietly, feeling your emotions swell in your chest. Anger, sadness, pity, resentment, and lingering somewhere underneath, love.

“You’re…” He paused, his eyes focusing slightly as he shook his head. “No, no, you—you died?” The dried blood on his wrists flakes off, replaced with fresh droplets when he pulls slightly against his restraints.

Despite yourself, you smiled gently at him. “I didn’t die. You know my powers, don’t you?” You asked, rhetorically really, but he stuttered out an affirmative answer anyway. “I’ve come to get you, Logan. With a little help.” You added, nodding your head towards where Puck was watching the two of you with a rapt interest. He glanced away quickly as though he hadn’t just been staring, before he trained his gaze on Logan.

“Gotta say, old man, you’ve looked better.” Puck greets, barely giving Logan the chance to simply utter his name, let alone form a response. “Listen to me, Logan, all hell is watching you right now. You wanna get out of here, you wanna help me, help Mariko, then you have to keep fighting.”

Logan’s face turns away from him, and you fight the urge to hold him in your palms once more.

“He’s right. Every demon down here is waiting to make a move for the throne. Every time you defy the big man, the whole place gets a little closer to bubbling over.” You explain, having learnt the politics of this place from your many journeys here.

Puck turns to walk away, but looks back with a grave expression. “I’ll do what I can to help you. Just don’t let him break you, Logan.”

It doesn’t take long for the wounds on him to heal, though it would be far faster in the real world. He slumps against you for a moment, and it’s lucky that you’re stronger in here than you are up above. But then you realise that he isn’t as heavy as you’re used to. He must have reverted back to his form before the Weapon X procedure, before the adamantium. It only convinces you further that he isn’t the weapon he believes himself to be. After all, this is his very soul, revealing his true nature to you.

You let him lean on you as you follow Puck from a distance, carrying half of his weight for him. Despite the lack of metal skeleton, it isn’t easy. He’s made of muscle, even here. But you manage, reminding yourself that if he had only allowed you to help him like this in the real world, the two of you could’ve survived. You decide to savour it, despite the situation.

“Why are you here?” He asks you, seemingly having regained some strength, but still leaning on you nonetheless. You think that it’s so you can’t see his face, can’t see some kind of vulnerability.

Your hand around him squeezes gently. “Because the world isn’t done with you yet, Logan. Not by a long shot. We need you.”

“But you… you always told me that coming here to bring a soul back was wrong.” He murmurs, recalling the topic that had been the subject of so many arguments you had had with the man. It had been a source of contention within your relationship. Or, one of.

“You’re not dead.” You state simply, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t really encapsulate the real reason you’re here. Because the truth is, even if he was, you’d probably be here regardless. Carrying his weight, pulling him away from an eternity of torture and suffering. Using your power to bring him back.

He huffs out a breath. “S’pose not.”

“If I’m gonna try and take both of you, we’re gonna need to distract the big guy. Tip the scales of this place.” You say after a few moments of silence, your eyes focusing in on Puck’s distant soul. You can’t see the man himself, but his soul glitters in the distance, catching your eye and reminding you of his presence, of his desire to escape this place.

“So, we’re goin’ to start a revolution… in hell?” He asked, almost disbelieving, but he knew better than to be surprised by you, at this point.

“Hell yeah.” You responded, snickering to yourself, savouring the way Logan huffed a laugh through his nose.

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

The revolution had taken place, and the multitude of demons populating the realm were all grappling for the power left over. There was no clear winner, not yet, and you counted on it staying that way for as long as possible in order for you all to escape with your souls intact.

“This way.” You said urgently, diverting Logan and Puck from where they had been sprinting towards the towering walls that surrounded the realm. You went to the left, sticking close to the wall, until you found a certain cell. It was an old woman, who had been in hell for far longer than you, or even Logan, had been alive. She had become familiar to you, by now. “Now climb.” You said, using the window to her tiny cage as a foothold, making your way up the wall.

“Quickly!” Puck urged, trailing behind you and Logan, anxiously looking back.

“Don’t look back. Don’t let them grab you.” You told the two of them, grasping a chunk of the squishy wall in one hand and pulling yourself up, narrowly avoiding the hand that reached for you as you did. “It’s not much further!”

Logan slashed away three arms that were trying to grasp onto him, still managing to stay right on your six, whilst Puck lagged below, still looking back every few seconds, as if expecting a demon to come and pull him from the wall. The ground was far away by this point, so much so that looking down would’ve made you dizzy.

The limbs still grappled uselessly from their prisons, a chorus of voices singing out prayers and begs for the three of you to help them, or to stay. “Hey!” Puck called out suddenly, eyes wide as you looked back once, only to watch him get pulled from the wall.

“No! No escape from the pit!” The voice that the arm belonged to said, scratchy and old and full of resentment.

“Puck!” Logan called after him, reaching a hand down towards him to no avail, he was already falling.

“Logan! Keep going!” Were the last words either of you heard from the man, his voice becoming quieter as he neared the ground. It was so far away that you couldn’t see it through the darkness that surrounded this place.

The two of you had no choice but to keep climbing, until you suddenly stopped.

Logan could only watch with some confusion as you plunged your hand into a section of the wall and pulled, until a gap started to open up. It leaked light, a thing that was so rare in this place that all of the arms reaching for the two of you shied away. Even Logan felt himself flinch at the sight, his eyes squinting, but adjusting quickly as the gap opened wide enough for you to climb into.

He lingered outside as you pushed the walls, fighting the very matter of hell until Logan could just about squeeze into the gap. To his surprise, it opened up into a barren landscape, filled with a bright light.

It made Logan realise that he had never seen this perspective of your power. He had never been on the receiving end of it, had never had you guide him through hell to somewhere else, somewhere better. The glow that surrounded you made you appear as angelic, though he had never found any kind of faith within him. He’s pretty sure that this image could change that.

But then he notices it, the downside.

His eyes zero in on the way the skin of your hands cracks, tips of your fingers charred as though burnt by the very walls of hell. Your jaw clenches, teeth grinding together as you pushed the opening back together. As soon as it got near enough, the wall simply sewed itself together, like the passageway had never been there.

In the light, it only looked worse for you.

You were clearly in pain, the expression on your face reminiscent of the one that you’d held when Logan had left you behind. For a moment, your eyes were unfocused, gazing at something beyond him. But then you snapped back, your attention suddenly razor-sharp.

“C’mon. We have to keep moving.” You told him simply, before marching across the barren land. Logan had no choice but to follow in your confident footsteps.

It felt as though the two of you had been walking for hours, though your steps hadn’t faltered once. He trailed behind you like some kind of lost puppy, his eyes rarely straying from your form. He didn’t want to get lost in here, and he certainly didn’t want to lose you. But you might’ve known something that Logan didn’t, considering the fact that you had never looked back towards him.

“Okay, Logan, it’s time.” You said as you slowed to a stop, though he couldn’t figure out why. There was no landmark, no anything. It was no different to the landscape the two of you had been traipsing through for the past however long.

But there was a kind of finality in your expression.

“Wait. Now just hang on a second,” Logan said, a note of pleading in his tone. His expression just barely betrayed the desperation he felt. You said nothing, only quirking a brow at him. “Why?” He asked, his brows furrowing slightly as he looked at you, eyes haunted by his past. By your shared past, too.

“I already told you—”

“No, no, there has to be something else. Some other reason for you doing this. You told me you wouldn’t ever do this again. So whether I’m alive or dead, what does it matter?” He asked pleadingly, his voice strained. The skin of his neck was pulled taut over the veins there, and you could see the signs of him getting worked up. He didn’t understand. He didn’t believe in anyone doing anything without an agenda, without some hidden motivation.

And the longer you looked at him, the clearer it became. He was still stuck in the past that the two of you had shared.

The past where he had left you behind, where he had told you that no matter how much you loved him, or he loved you, it would never be enough. He couldn’t see past the expression on your face that day, the way everything about you just dropped as though he had tossed some invisible weight at you.

Logan had broken your heart, that was true, but it didn’t change anything.

“It matters because I love you. And even if that’s not enough for you, it is for me.” You admitted, the words said gently, though they clearly packed a punch to him.

The infamous Wolverine didn’t know kindness, or unconditional love. It wasn’t something that had ever existed to him, not really. Everybody who came to him wanted something, whether it was disguised as kindness, or not. Even the X-Men only approached him because he was an asset, and though love had bloomed there, it didn’t change how the roots were laid.

So this, you, seemed impossible.

He had always believed you were too good to be true. Even when he argued with you, disagreed on the uses of your powers, he was always conscious that you deserved more than what he could give you. Just look at what had been awaiting him in hell — every bad thing he had ever done was in one place.

But then… you came anyway. You came, and you travelled through the ranks of every life he had ever taken, you looked his sins in the eyes and you didn’t blink.

You pulled him out anyway. Why? For love?

“I broke your heart. I left you.” Logan stated blankly, staring at you incredulously, as though he was waiting for you to realise that these things were true, and send him back to hell.

“And yet the demon who possessed your body came to kill me. Which means you, in some capacity, loved me.” You responded, smiling at him with pity crowding the creases of your face. A part of you was expecting him to deny that, but he didn’t.

Logan shook his head. “I… I have always loved you. I just refused to ruin you, to cover you in the blood I got on my hands.”

“I would’ve taken it, Logan. I would’ve let it all stain before I washed you away.” You told him sadly, your chest aching with every word you get out. If only he would have had this conversation all that time ago, if only he would’ve realised that you didn’t care about stains, or him ruining you. You would’ve been happy, so long as you had him.

But it was too late now.

“Come on,” Logan stared at your outstretched hand as you spoke, unable to bring himself to meet your empathetic gaze. “We’re out of time.”

He grasped your hand with his own, despite the flecks of blood that were still tacky on his skin.

[sionnaach]

“The universe is trying to fuck with me, and I refuse to engage!”

Woe, Russian Doll Solangelo au be upon ye ft near breaking point med student Will and nihilistic tattoo artist Nico

[headphonegrl]

Truthfully, Jude never thought that much about love before you. He was only presented with it through romantic comedies or the literature he was forced to read in school, stories all neat and wrapped up in a bow without all the in-between moments. Though when he and love were properly acquainted he found that those were the best parts; not the sobs of declaration or the meticulously planned grand gestures, but the bits that are usually perceived as unimportant or mundane that now feel nothing but intimate.

The habit he has of trying to catch your attention from across a busy room. Sticking his tongue out and smiling ear to ear when you return the gesture, like you’re both naughty kids communicating across a classroom. Pursing his lips together as if he’s blowing a kiss and feigning rejection when you don’t follow it with the obligatory catching motion. Making himself go cross-eyed even though it gives him a headache to see you giggle discreetly into the palm of your hand.

How when he peels the skin off an orange with his fingernails and splits it in two, he always gives you the bigger half. Even though he does the opposite with everyone else, and denies all accountability when they point it out. How usually he’d fight to get the last bite of cake but now he leaves it neatly in the middle of the plate just for you. Even if it’s his favourite, even if he wants it so desperately his stomach gurgles.

All the voice notes you send where he rapidly clicks on the ‘keep’ button before it disappears forever. The comfort of having all your mini ramblings right in his pocket, like his own little podcast that makes his heart swell. He listens to your five-minute reenactment of your trip to the coffee shop as he falls asleep with his cheek squished against the pillow. On the way to training he puts his earphones in and hears you try to explain the book you just finished in one sitting.

That when you're both standing outside in the cold with your breath making clouds of condensation in front of you, he’ll without fail sacrifice his warmth for your cold hands. Lifting his arm up so you can bury them deep into his coat pockets, amongst the loose chain and crumpled up receipts. Blowing hot air onto your fingers and rubbing his palms over the back of your hands over and over like you would with two sticks to start a fire, until your bottom lips stops shivering and you break out into a smile. 

Jude doesn’t understand why everyone is wasting their time talking about proposals with a hundred red roses when getting the giggles while you brush your teeth together is right there. He believes that there should be entire film scenes dedicated to that moment when your leg knocks against his underneath the table. Entire book chapters written about what it feels like to rest his temple against the side of your shoulder. He thinks maybe then he would've thought about love a lot more, maybe even all the time. 

[zeonomicon]

I gotta ask: I've been craving G1 Soundeave having his buttons played with, either SFW or NSFW, I just *shakes fist* I need them to be pressed. Soundwave my beloved <333

Wonderful ask, I see you are a fellow person of culture. Shout out to Soundwave, gotta be one of my favourite stim toys.

Since the pairing wasn't specified, I went with a Cybertronian reader.

Answer under the cut, mostly SFW but suggestive.

G1 Soundwave x Cybertronian!Reader

It was nice to have moments like this with just the two of you, when Soundwave had a chance to take a break from his multifarious duties keeping the ship running and neither of you were being roped into the latest of Megatron's grand plans to take down the Autobots once and for all. You were reclined on the berth with the TIC in your lap, playing some pre-war song he'd kept in his databanks while you caught up on a holonovel you'd become engrossed in. You hadn't been paying much attention to the lyrics, captivated by the story unfolding in your datapad, but as a few lines caught your attention you decided to play it back to hear the last verse again. You snaked your arm around Soundwave's waist, feeling for the raised surfaces of his buttons, and Soundwave stiffened a bit; you supposed in surprise. You pressed his stop button, then your digits found the narrow-angled edge of his rewind button and you held it down for a few seconds before pressing play. Each button lit up energon magenta when you pressed it. Soundwave's buttons were quite satisfying to press, offering a little resistance and making a pleasing click once activated.

Soundwave's servo had gripped your knee while you fiddled with his buttons, but now he laid himself against you with his backstrut to your chassis and his helm on your shoulder, leaving not much room for you to pick up your datapad and read again. You didn't mind, content to enjoy your lover's music for a little while. You moved your servo, intending to set your datapad aside, but he placed his own servo over it quickly. Curious. Experimentally, you stroked his play button with one digit, feeling the texture of the raised symbol, and then slowly applied pressure, holding it just before its active position. Soundwave's cooling fans clicked on.

Emboldened, you held down the rewind and fast forward buttons at the same time, causing the music to stutter and skip before smoothing back out as Soundwave corrected the contradicting inputs internally. He pushed up into your touch keenly. You pressed all of his buttons at once, then alternated quickly switching between each of them in random order, deriving equal gratification from the sheer fun of playing with him as from the way Soundwave arched and shifted in your hold, vents growing shallow.

You pressed the record button and moved in close to him, winding your arms about his chassis and running your digits up the smooth glass. Soundwave let out a whine filled with static when your digits left his buttons, but then you found the eject button on his shoulder and his visor brightened in anticipation. You splayed your servo over his chest compartment and pushed, the spring mechanism attempting to propel the tape deck open only to be met with resistance. He pressed himself even more firmly back against you to give it room to open, but you pushed it shut with a click, holding the button down. Soundwave's visor flickered. "Release it."

"Or what?" You massaged his compartment, pushing hard with your thumb just above his lower hinge to keep it closed, your digits stretching to mess with the buttons on his abdomen again, playing back Soundwave's melodious sighs and the hum of cooling fans.

"Or Soundwave: Will press your buttons."

[rolandkaros]

forever hilarious to me that tennis is promoted as this prestigious highbrow big-brain sport when most tennis fans these days are like. yeah this is my favorite player. yeah i don't know why they're like that. yes they are stupid. no i will not choose somebody else.

[dance-like-an-idiot]

t4t whizzvin/dykesettos my children...

i have come bearing gifts...

set around thrill of first love where marvin isn't quite sure about his gender and accidentally asks whizzer (his girlfriend(?) who keeps telling him that she isn't a girl all that much) about it while they're both shit faced

1.1k words, whizzer's pov, whizzer uses all (mostly he/they in this one shot) and marv uses he/him (for now)

if you want more of this au check out the full plot i wrote!

under the cut is my writing screenshotted, then written out :3 enjoy!! (and reblog with your thoughts mayhaps?)

whizzer knows they're far too drunk when marvin asks them "what is it like to be transgender?"

whizzer, utterly baffled, sputters out a laugh that catapults her forward on the couch and he nearly hits his head on the coffee table because of their newfound drunken power. he laughs for far too long and laughs directly into the floor and their weight is slowly falling off the couch with every new laugh that racks her. "oh marv," he starts with a giggle. "i just hallucinated the funniest thing."

she keeps laughing and marvin teasingly punches their side —marvin's drunken power pushing him off the couch, whizzer was barely on it anyways— whizzer starts laughing even harder when his ass hits the ground and marvin's cute but upset pout doesn't alleviate it. "was that a hallucination?" he says with pretty, even while narrowed, eyes. he huffs from the couch and crosses his arms. "answer my question."

whizzer stops their laughs and has to physically steady himself for a moment while she tries to remember what he asked in the first place. something out of character, but funny, but something whizzer knows about... oh shit right. oh. oh. okay. yeah. thats pretty out of character from a transphobe, however charming this one is.

he blinks a few times as they leave their thoughts and he looks up to marvin. he meets his gaze and starts crawling back to her place on the couch, slightly dazed from the weight and firm reality of that question. they don't get up on the couch though, it's too far away and her (his) body seems too heavy for that right now. unfortunately marvin still sits on the couch a few feet opposite to him, and whizzer sits in front of him. it's a very familiar position, but surprisingly his mind doesn't wander. "um," he starts lamely. "bad." yeah, thats an understatement. "yeah." they nod their head, agreeing with himself. "yeah.”

marvin frowns and slides himself off the couch to sit next to whizzer. he pokes their arm and scoots incredibly close. he wraps his arms around whizzer's shoulders and drapes his legs across whizzer's lap. it feels like every part of their bodies touch, to whizzer's drunk, touch-starved delight. god, very, very drunk then. "tell me more, asshole." and whizzer's thoughts are snapped closed.

he pouts, facing marvin again. and well, he doesn't want to think about their gender or... anything at all actually. so he kisses him, attempting to shut their mind up.

marvin drunkenly reciprocates and it gets very heated very fast and once marvin starts unbuttoning his shirt the very idea of having boobs, cleavage, breasts, curves, bullshit on his body seems very revolting and he pushes marvin off very fast. "no. not now." he says and rebuttons the single button marvin undid on his shirt.

"why?" he asks. whizzer wraps his arms around his chest and subconsciously squeezes because marvin is so fucking smug its clear he thinks he's found something, and honestly, upsettingly, he has. he's impossible. and a bitch. and hot. ugh.

whizzer groans and flops their face into marvins open lap, squishing their breasts and all thoughts of them. "my boobs are revolting right now.” he drags his arms out from under him, if he's talking about it he'll be comfortable damnit. “sometimes it's fine, the days i don't wear my hair up or actually put on makeup. but its usually just when i look hot that i like my boobs.” whizzer stops themselves, but doesn't think, only talks. “i wish my chest was flat cause it doesn't look like me. especially when my hair is up and i wear your shitty masculine-full-of-urine clothes. cause i look and feel like a man then.

“i wish i was. but also not, like not a man man. dammit i wish i had a dick! a flat chest! god it would be so nice. i wish i could look like a man to justify feeling like a man. i feel like i'm just imagining it sometimes, cause i know tomorrow i’m not gonna feel like a man anymore. tomorrow i very well may love my boobs and pussy and have my hair down and go full glam.” whizzer takes a heavy breath, somehow sober enough to not speak his next thoughts; “am i a fake?” maybe. maybe she is.

they sniff back their tears and its the only sound in the room. the two of them just sit there, whizzer face down in marvin's lap for –surprisingly for them– non sexual purposes, and marvin…

marvin slowly relaxes and his hands caress whizzer's tense shoulders. it feels so fully like permission that he relaxes too, and keeps talking. “i wish i didn't always have to pass in order to not get punched whenever i go out. i wish i could go out into the world with a packer under a skirt, and my hair up, the hot makeup i can do so i look facially like a guy, a bubblegum pink polo and my goddamn leather jacket. i wish i could feel like myself, to everyone, without having to look over my back so i don't get hospitalized.

“i love looking like both of them so much, its so fucking cool and nice i’m too drunk to describe it right what the fuck…” whizzer trailed off in his endless ramble. he shifts his head to the side so their cheek was pressed against marvins ankle. "what was i saying...?"

"a lot," marvin responds with a light chuckle and whizzer just now notices that his hands have stilled. his hands climb up his back and he slowly starts to pet whizzer's hair. whizzer melts into him with ease, though marvin starts to melt too, entranced by whizzer's increasingly heavy breaths. whizzer notices marvin's legs part minutely, and marvin's arms feel heavy on them and they hear a soft groan from the coffee table.

he really is relaxing, then. good. these moments are rare, and lovely and seconds later whizzer can't say he's surprised when marvin's hands tense suddenly. "baby..." marvin starts but stops himself. that pet name is definitely surprising. good surprising. wonderful, but surprising.

whizzer turns around fully. his head is seated in marvin's lap still and he makes eye contact with marvin's tense face that is inches above the coffee table. he must have been resting on it.

marvin's face moves above him and calloused hands comb back into his hair, soft, slow, and only once. his thumbs brush softly through his undercut and whizzer is so content with this gesture that they don't even think about the face he makes, with their eyes shuddering shut. but it makes marvin speak again, quietly; "you're so handsome."

thats. thats a surprise.

whizzer doesn't know how or when but he's suddenly and passionately kissing marvin. he's so struck with joy from this person he loves (oh, sober him would never admit that) that he returns that joy in the way he knows best. because he may not understand this euphoria, or marvin's actions, but he understands sex pretty well.

when whizzer feels up marvin’s chest and the other man winces, he wishes one day he'll understand marvin better.

[brokendreamscreation-moved]

For those that ship Chaz x Striker, here’s your love child~

[e-vay]

Bubbles and Blush

[A/N: I've been drawing a lot of non-Sonamy-related content lately, but I desperately needed my fix so I wrote this spicy fluff whenever I had any free time (灬♥ω♥灬);;;;;;; I hope you enjoy. This story is also on AO3 if you prefer to read there.] [Summary: Happily reunited after a week apart, Amy devises a delicious strategy to help Sonic overcome his fear of water. Rated T]

Sonic zipped through the forest as quickly as possible, darting and weaving through the trees while careful not to drop the bag he was carrying over his shoulder. The familiar spring breeze of his hometown was refreshing on his fur. He had spent the last week away, sprinting from country to country with no real plan but following wherever his feet took him and to see what new adventures were in store for him. The trip left him feeling reenergized. Now his only concern was hoping Amy would be home once he got there. 

The two had finally become an item months ago and he was still pleasantly surprised at how natural it all felt. To be fair, the pair had already been acting like they were more than friends for a long time, anyway. For years he loved fighting alongside her and lived to make her laugh. Now he had the added benefit of getting to kiss her anytime he wanted. And Chaos, did he want to kiss her now. The thought sent a rush of butterflies through his stomach and he couldn’t help a smile from forming on his lips.

The blue hero picked up his pace even more. He loved the freedom he still enjoyed to be able to run as carelessly as the wind, but if he was honest, he found himself missing Amy and longing to come back home to her. It seemed everything he came across on this particular trip reminded him of her. Thus, he ended up with this tote bag full of souvenirs and treats he thought she’d like. 

Finally, Amy’s house was in sight. He dug his heels into the ground so he could make a screeching halt, stopping just at her bedroom window. He adjusted the tote on his shoulder once more before using both hands to pry open the window and swung one leg over the sill to climb in.

“Yo Aaaames ♪!” Sonic called out in a melodic tune. “You home?”

“Sonic! You’re back!” Amy shouted excitedly from another room. The sound of pure joy coming from her voice made Sonic’s heart flutter. She made him feel like the center of the universe without even trying. He hoped he could make her feel just as appreciated, especially with this surprise he planned for her. He finished jumping in through the window and closed it behind him. 

“Is there such a thing as a Best-Boyfriend-in-the-World Award?” he asked, marching comically through Amy’s bedroom towards the direction of her voice. “‘Cuz if there is, I’m about to win it!” He only managed a brief glimpse of Amy’s face before he swiftly spun on his heel with his back towards her. Crap! He was so busy bragging about his romantic gesture that he didn’t even realize he was following the sound of her voice to her en suite. Amy had called out to him while she was enjoying a bubble bath. Luckily – or not so luckily – he caught himself fast enough that he didn’t see anything. Sure he had seen her naked already, but he figured he probably oughtn’t look without her permission…

“Sorry! I didn’t realize…” he muttered, his cheeks growing warm and his fur starting to stand on end.

Amy laughed from behind him, “You can look, Mr. Chivalry.”

Well, if she insisted.

Just as suddenly as he had turned away from her, Sonic spun back around eagerly. He barked out a laugh at the unexpected sight. Enormous mountains of foamy bubbles were towering from the ivory tub, completely overtaking Amy so only her head was visible. She had her pink quills pulled back into a messy bun. Even if it wasn’t what he was hoping to see, she was so damn cute that he didn’t feel disappointed.

From the mass of bubbles, Amy reached out her hand with her fingers splayed. Sonic hurried over and laced his fingers with hers before kneeling down on the tile floor. “I missed you,” she smiled, leaning forward. His lips met hers for a tender, longing kiss. He started to pull away, but Amy abruptly wrapped her other arm around his neck and yanked him back towards her for more, devouring him hungrily. Despite the unpleasant feeling of being splashed with water from her fast movement, Sonic grinned against her lips. Amy was so assertive and unapologetic about what she wanted. Her passion was just one of the many things he loved about her. 

The bubblegum-colored goddess only broke her lips free from his so she could pepper more kisses across his muzzle, snout and forehead. Sonic laughed happily at the attack and only when she finally paused to catch her breath did he place a gloved hand on her cheek. “I missed ya, too,” he whispered.

“So,” Amy kissed his palm before folding her arms on the edge of the tub and rested her chin on her forearms. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, “What’s this about a ‘best-boyfriend’ award I owe you?”

Sonic chuckled mischievously, repositioning himself on the floor to sit more comfortably. He removed the tote from his arm and placed it in his lap. He cleared his throat and put on his best ‘game-show host’ voice. “One of the perks of dating the fastest thing alive is you get the finest delicacies the planet has to offer delivered fresh to your door! Behold -” He reached into the bag and pulled out a colorful bouquet of skewered candied fruits, carefully protected in plastic wrap. With his other hand he pulled out a small box covered in ornate packaging. “Mooncakes and tanghulu from Chun-nan.” Amy squealed with delight and grasped for the treats but Sonic pulled them just out of reach, setting them carefully on the ground. “But wait, there’s more!”

Two more packages were drawn from the bag and he opened one ceremoniously, revealing an array of flaky pastries. “Every flavor baklava Shamar had to offer-” he glanced inside the box and grimaced, realizing some of the desserts had been crushed and mangled on his run. He closed the container quickly and set it aside, murmuring in a rushed tone: “SonicTheHedgehogWillNotBeHeldResponsibleForDamagedOrDestroyedGoodsDuringTheShipmentOfYourPackages.”

Amy laughed as he fished out another item from the tote. He held up a plastic container with what was once a beautiful pastry dusted in sugar and covered in layers of cream and fruits. Jostling around in the bag had made it not nearly as elegant as it was when he first bought it, but it was still prettier than anything he usually ate. “Last but not least, all the way from Spagonia! This… thing!”

“Mille-feuille!” Amy exclaimed.

“Gesundheit,” Sonic quipped.

“No,” Amy giggled. “That’s what that’s called: ‘mille-feuille.’ Oh it’s one of my favorites! How’d you know?”

“Hahaha, ohhh Ames,” Sonic closed his eyes and shook his head as if it were foolish of her to ask. “I had absolutely no idea.” Amy burst out into a fit of laughter at his honest response. “But–” he added with a grin, “–it looked super fancy so I figured you’d like it.”

Amy sprang up and leaned forward to kiss Sonic once more. “Are you kidding? I love it, I love all of it! This is an incredible surprise. Thank you!”

“Ahh it’s nothing,” Sonic waved his hand dismissively, hoping to hide his blush. He didn’t consider himself much of a romantic but these kinds of reactions he got out of Amy were the best. “So are ya hungry? I was thinking we could have lunch, maybe even try some of these swanky things,” he gestured at the tower of goodies.

The pink hedgehog pouted and sank into the tub dramatically until she was almost completely hidden in the mass of bubbles. A soft whine came from the mountain of foam.

“What?” Sonic chuckled.

“I really want to, but I just got in here. Can we have lunch after I’m finished?” Amy pleaded.

“Of course!” Sonic assured her, standing up from the floor and collecting the pile of treats to stash in the kitchen. “You relax. I can entertain myself.” He made it just beyond the threshold of the en suite when he heard Amy’s voice call out in song.

“Orrrr~” the mischievous tone in her voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He slowly looked over his shoulder and saw her head poking out from the mass of bubbles once again. She had a deliciously playful look in her eyes that made his breath catch in his throat. “You could join me,” she suggested.

“In there?!” Sonic asked incredulously. He set the boxes on a nearby dresser and came back to the bathroom, leaning on the doorway. “Nuh-uh, I don’t think so.”

Amy rested her forearms on the edge of the tub again, her tone unamused. “You’ve been running all around the world for the last week. When’s the last time you bathed?”

Sonic crossed his arms as he racked his brain. He was a lot better about grooming more frequently now that he had a lady to impress, but come to think of it he had been pretty busy this week. “It… rained?” he suggested, hoping that answer was good enough.

“Ugh!” Amy responded in disgust, scooping up a handful of bubbles and tossing it at him.

“If you were suggesting I shower with ya, I’d be all for it!” he shouted. He gestured gingerly at the tub. “But a bath? All that … water.” He shuddered.

Amy clasped her hands together. “What better way to face your fears? You really should try to get acclimated to water one of these days so why not start by having a bath with me? I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Quite the opposite, actually…” She released her hands and walked her fingers along the edge of the tub. “I’ll scrub every. last. inch.”

Sonic’s fur pricked up again, his cheeks flushed. Damn, this woman knew how to rile him up. He pushed himself off the door frame and began pacing back and forth, chewing his bottom lip as he weighed his options. He truly hated water more than anything in the world. It wasn’t just a silly little dislike for it; it genuinely terrified him. The thought of him sinking helplessly, his lungs filling up… And it would take way less water than was in that tub to do the trick!

But on the other hand…

The cold shiver in his spine was quickly replaced by a warm burning in his belly. He really missed Amy this week. And with how closely they’d be pressed up against each other in the tub, he could show her just how much he missed her… Sonic bit his cheek to try and stop the leering smile that was creeping up his muzzle, but it couldn’t be helped. 

“Is there even room in that thing for the both of us?” he groaned, one last attempt to win this battle of logic.

“♪ You’d better hope not ♪” Amy sang. She pressed her tongue to one of her canines, accentuating her impish grin before slinking down into the bubble bath until she was no longer visible.

“Ah hell,” Sonic cursed in defeat. He quickly yanked off his gloves and kicked off his shoes and socks before making his way to the tub. Clutching onto both edges of the basin, he took several rapid, shallow breaths before stepping one paw into the water. He instantly recoiled and clamped his eyes shut, immediately regretting his decision.

He heard the water splashing around and suddenly warm, wet hands tenderly grasped his hips. He jolted in surprise. “I’ve got you,” Amy reassured him. There wasn’t a hint of judgment in her sweet voice, which helped make him feel a little less stupid. She kissed him so softly it made his heart hurt. “And you’ve got this. Just follow me,” she kissed him again and again, each time pulling a little further away so he’d have to lower himself more and more to reach her mouth. Once he was fully submerged in the bath, Amy held him tightly to her and licked his lips as a reward, soliciting a shaky sigh. He was trembling and struggling to breathe, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the terror of the water or the exhilaration of feeling Amy’s bare body against his. He wanted more than anything to just go at her, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t let go of the edge of the tub to keep himself from sinking. Just being in her embrace would have to be enough, he guessed. 

Sonic slid his hands along the rim of the bathtub until his forearms were on either side of Amy’s neck. He slowly opened his eyes, sucking in air through his teeth. “So, uh… How were things while I was gone?” 

Amy rested her head against the back of his hands behind her. “Oh, you know, the ‘yoozh’,” she replied casually. She started gently massaging her fingers into his back and sides, working the soapy bath water into his navy fur. Sonic’s rigid body relaxed ever so slightly, relishing in the feeling. “Actually,” she continued, “‘He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named’ did not bring his A-Game this week. The battles were so pathetic they’re not even worth mentioning!” 

Sonic chuckled in admiration. Here this woman was, describing duels with one of the most formidable villains of their time as if it were as inconvenient and mundane as taking out the trash. “I really did find my perfect match,” he said aloud without realizing.

The admission made Amy’s cheeks turn bright red and for the first time in their encounter, she became bashful. “Oh,” she whispered sheepishly, trying not to call him out on his statement but secretly screaming with joy on the inside. Her claws dragged from his back around to his front and began scrubbing his chest fur. She cleared her throat to keep her voice from wavering, “You mentioned you made it to Shamar. I have good memories there.” A smile formed as she recalled a scene from what seemed like a lifetime ago: a handsome blue hedgehog agreeing to a date with her. “Tell me about all the trouble you got into this week!”

“Oh man, you have no idea!” Sonic beamed, launching into a drawn-out story of all his latest antics. Amy’s plan worked. He got so caught up in relaying all the details of his recent travels that she could feel the tension easing up in his muscles and the fear of the bath water drifting from his mind. She politely nodded while he spoke, making sure to interject a slew of questions throughout to keep him yapping. But Sonic was known for running his mouth, so that was plenty easy to do! There were just a few instances where Amy would scratch and knead particularly sensitive areas and his sentences would trail off into pleasurable murmurs but as soon as her hands worked their way elsewhere his narrative picked up where he left off. She secretly reveled in the delectable wickedness she felt having this power over him.

After some time, Amy reached outside of the tub to grab a bottle of shampoo. She began lathering the soap into Sonic’s quills and the sensation turned him into putty in her hands. He closed his eyes and sank into her, practically purring at her touch. Amy giggled at his incoherent speech and leaned in to whisper in his ear, pinning his face to her bosom. “What’s that?” she teased. “I can’t understand you.” 

He nuzzled into her soft chest and absentmindedly slipped his hands from the rim of the basin down Amy’s back. The feel of his fingers firmly raking down her flesh made her gasp but she promptly held her breath to not break his comfortable trance. She focused on grooming his scalp, trying to suppress the fire rising inside her. “This… feels… amazing…” he moaned. The rhythmic pressure Sonic was applying to the sensitive dimples in her lower back was making it difficult to focus. She decided she’d better wrap this bath up fast so they could move on to another form of quality time together.

“You love me, right?” she panted. 

“Oh yeah,” Sonic sighed dreamily into her bosom. 

“And you know I love you, right?”

Sonic’s brows furrowed, sensing the trepidation in Amy’s voice. He was slower to answer this time. “…Yyyeah…”

“And you trust me?”

His eyes shot open, suddenly very aware of how submerged he was in the bath water.

“Amy.”

She hugged him close to her, hoping to ease his worries with her feminine curves. “You’re not going to like this part but I promise it’ll be over before you know it!”

“WhA-?!” Sonic yelped when, in an impressive display of speed and strength, Amy used a reversal to flip them around, laying Sonic down with his back to the floor of the tub and she straddled on top of him. He clenched his eyes shut and held his breath in the panic of being shoved mostly underwater, though his face and ears were plenty safe from being submerged. His hands immediately left her and braced the edges of the tub again. 

She reached under him to release the drain then turned the water spout on to rinse him with fresh water. “You need to breathe,” Amy encouraged empathetically.

“Mm-mmm!” he grunted in objection. He’d be shaking his head aggressively if he wasn’t at risk of waterboarding himself!

She carefully combed her fingers through his quills under the running water. “Baby, you’re gonna pass out if you don’t breathe,” she reminded him. “Just focus on me, okay?”

Hesitantly, Sonic opened his eyes just enough to glare at Amy. She scoffed at his obstinance but quickly corrected her tone to be reassuring once again. “Good...” She honestly was very proud of him for doing all this for her. “Now breathe with me.” Amy used one hand to demonstrate the cadence of her breath, inhaling and exhaling in a deep, slow rhythm. Her other hand continued rinsing and smoothing his fur hurriedly.

Sonic exhaled forcibly in frustration, but his gaze did shift from glaring at her to following the waving of her hand. It took a few stuttering attempts, but eventually, he was able to sync his lungs with hers.

Why the hell did I agree to this? he thought to himself, sulking. Well, he knew why. But he was still annoyed! Sure, parts of it… most of it… was good. Really damn good. And maybe with practice, I coulda gotten the hang of baths… But now this?! She’s pinned me down, just one false move away from drowning me, and she expects me to relax? ‘Focus on me,’ she says, HA! Looking at her never calms me down anyway… It only ever… gets me… riled up…

Amy leaned over him once more, turning off the faucet. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She was grinning proudly when she leaned back, but her cocky expression was quickly replaced with concern when she noticed how rough and heavy Sonic was panting. Oh no, maybe it was that difficult for him after all.

Just as she was about to apologize, his eyes darted up to meet hers and the intensity of his stare made her entire body quiver. “Ah,” she gasped in realization. Her eyelids fluttered as she felt a noticeable shift happening to him from beneath her. She licked her lips and cleared her throat to try and compose herself.

“Mmmaybe,” Amy muttered, “...we should… finish this conversation in the other room?” Her fingertips trailed down Sonic’s heaving chest and traced the muscles in his abdomen. “Unless of course you’re too hungry?” She winced at the suggestion of putting this on pause, but she remembered they were supposed to be having lunch right now.

In one fell swoop Sonic had lifted them both up out of the now empty bath. His arms were wrapped under her rear for support and pinned her hips so tightly to his. They each moaned as he kissed her ravenously. “I’m starving,” he growled into her lips before sprinting into the bedroom.

[haladriel]

Galadriel stumbles from the boathouse, sorrow speared deep into her heart.

She has wounded him greatly, her friend. The hurt in Elrond's eyes as he bid her leave ran deep. But it pains her equally so that he should hold her closest truth in his gentlest of hands, and find her lacking. Like Nenya on her centre finger her heart weighs heavy, bearing the twin loss of a beloved friendship and of a— her—

Halbrand.

Simply Halbrand.

Lost to her forever, for he was never hers.

Only the great foe’s. His servant.

She hisses and wipes angrily at her tears as she passes the tree line. Why will this torment not leave her? Her chest is cavernous, cut and opened as it has been ever since Halbrand seemed to change before her very eyes. As his visage grew eternal. His laughing eyes cruel.

A sob forces itself from her.

Elrond has forsaken her, but really, she does not blame him. She asked for his help, but he has been wounded too many times to offer her his grace now. He acted in her interests, believing her unwell, and she has repaid him thus. She loathes that she has added to his sorrow.

The snap of heather and whisper of leaf that normally comfort her so grate like a sanding stone. She thumbs her ring in frantic brushes as she flees ever deeper into the forest. Returning to her escort in this state would cause concern. Talk.

Nothing has felt quite right among the elves since she returned from Eregion, troubled and regretful, and without the Man quickly and mercilessly rumoured to be her lover. For which other mortal Man would she ride day and night for the elven healers to save?

No, she will let herself flee.

This fresh devastation shall be kept private.

Hand on fallen bough she falls to the woodland floor, folding in two over her trembling knees. Her breaths rip themselves from her.

It is justifiable, Elrond’s reaction. Abhorrent, that she should feel something… intimate, for the dark lor— for—

She should be abhorred. She should abhor herself. And she does.

But it tears her very soul apart.

She lets out a throated cry into her cloak.

A whisper over her silver ring, warmth against chill—

A soft pressure as his lips meet Nenya— the power inside her shudders—

‘Galadriel.’

Her jagged breath catches on the feel of his lips around her name like lamb’s wool.

It is wrong, their bond. As wrong as the existence of orcs. Bound from the skeins of their fëa in a moment of madness, of deceit.

But it exists. Across distance, through the unseen world. And Elrond does not know, cannot see, what she saw in their time together. Will not ever see. If he were to, might he know a quart of her pain.

Read more

— For the Peace of All (no archive warnings)

[honeylemonbutte]

Cautionary tale from When Life gives you Lemons @when-life-gives-you-lemonssss

Barlow I know you're 17/18 at the time but WHY!!!

More MC ramblings under the cut

OK, Elena is the MC I made for the parent path. She's gonna be the MC for the Barlow, Wyatt or other parent routes (ex w/ adoption???). My other MC (J.J) will be taking on the sibling + Fiffer and Monroe routes.

She has things together, but things always seem to go wrong when Barlow is involved.

For instance! When she looks good normally vs. when Barlow comes by randomly at night and she's in her Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack pajamas???

[gurugirl]

omg loved your blog. pls give me a lil spoiler of whats coming next

So... I've got a whole bunch of things coming. I looked through my drafts and documents and feel like this one is something I can share with you guys. I've got the story maybe halfway done and I've been working on it slowly for about 6 months. I don't know when I'll post it but you asked for a sneak peek for something so here's something to tide you over.

For context this is burlesque dancer!Y/n and rich CEO!Harry (this is a combination of requests I've received all in one story).

...

The sign read: 24-hour breakfast. $2.99 all-you-can-eat pancakes. The one she drove past every day.

She imagined slathering each stack with butter and syrup and surprising the staff when she went for seconds and thirds. Her stomach growled as she got into place behind the other girls and the music started. Bethany raised a brow at her when she heard it.

The routine was the same as the week before. They had a short break before they went back up and did another set. Y/n hadn’t been in such a good mood in weeks, knowing what was coming after the show. She was shaking with the anticipation of finally eating something of substance.

Like last week, the main dancers got to use the locker room first. Y/n and the others sat at the end of the bar and watched the guests leave as they chatted. They never got into anything too deep. Y/n wasn’t keen on telling the others about her situation. It was embarrassing. She was technically homeless and she was dirt broke. But Angelique had given them their checks and Y/n was more than happy to use it. She wouldn’t cash it that night because it was too late, but she planned on using her credit card to buy the $2.99 buffet pancakes. Maybe she’d splurge on eggs as well.

After showering and charging her phone she nearly skipped to her car. She parked strategically under a lamppost and noticed right away a man leaning on her front bumper.

“Excuse me?” She stopped halfway between the building and her car, ready to run back into the building if needed.

The man stood and she saw the chocolate curls of the British man she’d met the week before.

“Sorry! I thought I’d wait out here for you. I wanted to tell you that you did a great job in there,” he smiled kindly. That sweet smile, dimples and all.

Y/n let out the breath she’d been holding and finished walking toward her car. She figured she could trust Harry at this point.

“It’s okay. Just startled me a little to see someone leaning on my car. And, uh, thanks!”

She dug her keys out of her bag and walked next to Harry. He was taller than she thought. She hadn’t stood directly next to him before but now that he was only a few feet from her as she unlocked her car door she noticed it.

Harry pointed into her windshield, “I don’t mean to pry or anything, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but I noticed the blankets and pillows in the backseat. Is that… are you…?” Harry didn’t finish his sentence but Y/n knew what he was asking.

Normally she folded up the blankets and stuffed the pillows into the floorboards nicely but this morning she didn’t care. She’d been in such a good mood about the upcoming pancake dinner that she left it all strewn about.

She thought for a moment about how to answer. She looked down at her shoes and sighed, “Just temporary. It’s not a big deal,” she brushed it off.

Harry stayed quiet. But the longer he was silent the stranger it felt. Y/n looked back up at him and he was stoic. Deep in thought. Her stomach growled and she groaned. It was like if all the most embarrassing things in life could come out all at once in front of a handsome man it happened right then. She was hungry and homeless. That was the truth. And Harry was now aware of this fact.

Harry sighed and his face softened, “Look. I know it can get hard out here. But, let me buy you something to eat at least. I was hoping to chat with you anyway. Maybe we could just… I don’t know… get to know one another over a drink, or food. No pressure,” Harry was cautious. He knew he could be overstepping a little. But he probably felt it was necessary based on the circumstance he was now aware of.

Y/n shook her head, “That’s not necessary, Harry. I just got paid. I was going to buy myself something to eat. You really don’t need to…” The look on his face had her pausing her words. Harry’s brows were raised and the soft grin told her he wasn’t buying her I-don’t-need-your-help act.

“Fine. Then you buy yourself something to eat. Can I join you at least?”

And so that’s how she found herself at the dingy diner sitting across from Harry in a booth as she shoveled pancakes in her mouth. Harry ordered a coffee. Black.

Harry watched her for a bit as she scarfed down her first plate. Y/n tried to hold a conversation while eating but her body was on autopilot. She needed to eat. Harry could see that too.

When she finished the first plate she looked up at Harry. He was leaned back, comfortable in the booth with his arms crossed over his chest, an amused look on his face.

She licked her lips and sipped the orange juice before clearing her throat, “What?” She felt embarrassed. It was probably quite obvious to Harry what was going on.

“Nothing. Still hungry?” He smirked and leaned forward to the table, putting his forearms over the linoleum and clasped his hands together in front of him. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows again and Y/n could make out the dark tattoos that went up one arm.

She breathed out a laugh at the question. Without a doubt, she was still hungry. She nodded, “I am. Yes. Is it okay if I grab another plate? Do… uh, do you want anything other than coffee?”

Harry shook his head and kept his eyes on hers, “I’m fine. I’ve eaten today. Go and get another plate, love. I’ll be right here.”

Y/n brought back another stack of pancakes with a handful of margarine butter packets and went to work to make her second plate as sugary, fattening, and calorific as possible.

“So, where are you from, Y/n?” Harry took a sip of his coffee, and Y/n saw him wince. She doubted the coffee was any good. Especially black. It was probably old and bitter and room temperature. But she appreciated that he was sitting with her and trying to fill the void of loneliness. Though she would have been fine to sit and eat her pancakes in silence.

“Bible belt. Nowhere,” she kept her eyes on her meal, drizzling the maple-flavored syrup over the top.

Harry laughed, “I see. Okay. So, why are you here in Nevada? Big dreams of becoming a famous dancer?”

Y/n shoved a forkful into her mouth and shook her head, putting her finger up as she chewed. Another sip of her orange juice and she finally responded, “No. I needed a change of scenery. I am a dancer. Well, I have a bachelor’s in dance. I’m not a professional or anything. It was sort of a whim, but a good one. There was nothing keeping me back home. What about you Harry? Where are you from? How did you get here?” She tried to change the subject from herself to him.

She ate while Harry told her his story. He was born in Manchester and got a business degree in London and then moved to California when he was in his mid-twenties after being offered a job at a private equity firm.

After a couple of years at the firm he and a close friend of his decided on opening up their own business, a startup. Which turned out to be quite profitable early on. Harry was a managing partner and owner of a wealth management group specifically for entertainment companies. Like burlesque clubs. Like Haute Baude. The owner, Richard, hired Harry as his wealth management agent years ago and they grew close.

Y/n knew next to nothing about the finance world so she just nodded and hummed along, “Wow. So, you’re doing well. A successful businessman,” she smiled and licked her fork clean.

Harry chuckled and tilted his head to the side, “I guess so. You’re impressive too, you know. It was brave to come out here all by yourself.”

There was a bit of quiet after he spoke those words. Y/n smiled down at her empty plate and then looked up at Harry. His coffee cup was empty.

“And you’re cute,” Harry spoke the words quietly but he kept his eyes on hers.

Y/n set her fork down and kept her eyes on the handsome man, squinting at him in question. She didn’t know how to respond. He hadn’t really been flirting with her, that she could tell, but she was aware of the way he was looking at her. How when she’d take a bite he’d watch her lips move and he kept licking his own lips.

“Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” Harry said but he didn’t hide his smile well when he pulled his lips into his mouth, that reaction only drew his dimples in deeper and it made Y/n smile and laugh.

She shook her head and looked down. His eyes were getting to her. His intense gaze was alluring. Harry was charming and handsome. She didn’t know what his intentions were but he seemed nice at least.

When Harry remained quiet for a beat longer than was comfortable Y/n looked back up at him. She couldn’t help but smile back at his expression and she laughed, “It’s okay. You haven’t been obnoxious or anything. I just… I’m a mess and hearing that threw me off a bit.”

“What do you mean you’re a mess?” Harry asked.

“I mean, well, come on… you saw my car. And here I am buying $2.99 all-you-can-eat buffet pancakes at 2 am the moment I get a paycheck. I’m… down on my luck a little. But I think things are better now. For one, my tummy’s full,” Y/n smiled shyly. She hated that this successful man was privy to her misfortune, but he felt trustworthy.

Harry shook his head, “Not a mess. Just a victim of circumstance. Are you sleeping in your car tonight?” He raised his brows in question.

Y/n looked to the corner of the room and breathed out a huff of breath and pursed her lips as she nodded before looking back at Harry with a shrug, “Have nowhere else to go.”

[loveduckyxx]

izuku working late isn't unexpected. what was unexpected was the giant ass blanket fort in the middle of the living room. it was furnished with pillows, plushies, candles, and snacks. you turn on a movie and u guys sit together (so wholesome! 😁)... and then the power goes out in the apartment and you guys are left cuddling up against each other in the dark. izuku never realized how close you two were, and you're plush chest pressed up against his arm was making this situation really unfair. sure, you guys have been close together like this before, but the dim candle light casting over your skin made it hard for him to not blush (and just hard in general). you suggest playing a game in the meantime before you were cut off with him pressing his smooth lips against yours. you gasp and hit his thigh playfully once he pulls away, but that led you to feel how hard he was. he grins before he pulled you onto his lap and kissed you again. you could almost feel the desperation radiating from him. "Wanna take advantage of this- er- setting...?"

[partyhorn]

Old character from last year

[cult-of-the-eye]

So I had this idea that when Martin gets mad at someone, he represses it and ends up being even nicer to them. It ended up being slightly longer than I thought it would be lol.

Content warnings - slight mention of martin's mum being ill, mental health issues and the effects of trauma are explored, a lot of self-hatred and general angst but a hopeful ending, hurt/comfort's angsty cousin

Martin K Blackwood has never heralded himself to be the most sane of people. He has never been under any illusion as to the effect of his childhood (and...other...situations) on his psyche. He has been to therapy, albeit once, in a short-lived, hugely embarrassing attempt during secondary school, where he was gently informed that his particular set of problems required more qualified areas of intervention. In short, as many times that people have helpfully informed him of his "fucked up"-ness, he has always been the one who was most aware of it. As a method of self-soothing, he tells himself that all poets are tortured. It's just for him, the poetry came before the torture. These thoughts, musings, poetic substance or whatever else, came to him whilst making tea for his boss, Jonathan Sims, one cloud-soaked afternoon.

It wasn't as if he meant it. Making someone tea after they had borderline reduced them to tears wasn't a conscious decision. His feet just moved, as of their own accord, out of Jon's office, one before the other, his trainers making soft thuds against the carpeted floor. Towards the kitchen. And if he's in the kitchen, he might as well make tea. And if he's making tea, he might as well make some for Jon. He put extra care into this mug - if he poured the water with steady hands then maybe he wouldn't start to cry. It would be silly to cry, he decided. This was a realisation that came as he stood still next the counter, watching the tea steep. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own that he cited the case wrong, he should've known. He should've been better at pretending to have a Masters degree in Parapsychology. Serves him right for lying. How could anyone have blamed Jon for shouting? It must seem like he's being inadequate on purpose. Some cruel joke being played on only him. So of course, he shouted. And of course, Martin cried. He expected heaving sobs, thundering through his whole body, as large and foreboding as the sky outside. Instead, they were sharp, singular and furious. How could he have known that he'd get a phone call from the hospital in the middle of the night saying that things had gotten worse? How could he have known that the citing method had changed? How could he have known that he would be saddled with the most inconsiderate, frustrating, bastard of a-

"Martin?"

Luck, it seemed could be added to the list of things Martin had never heralded himself to have. He hoped to whatever was up there, that he'd be wrong, for once. But he knew better than to hope, so he quickly shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes and took a small breath.

"Um, hi Jon, I...I was just, uh..."

"Making tea?" He offered.

Maybe inconsiderate was a tad hasty of him. He looked terrible. There was no way around it. His perfectly corporate office wear looked like it had been slept in for multiple days, the collars no longer perfectly ironed and creases running down his sweater vest. There was no tie and his hair fell out of the pristine up-do that he was sure took him hours to get right every morning. His face was haggard but more open than he was used to. It unnerved him slightly, to see the sharpness of his features microwaved into an artificial softness. It wasn't something he deserved. He had a knack for looking gift horses in their mouths. After all, he had contributed to those sleepless nights, his actions had probably driven Jon's hands frustratedly through his hair. And yet he was standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

He cleared his throat. He opened his mouth. He closed it. He opened his mouth again. He closed his mouth again. Martin could almost see the synapses firing in his brain, tiny little fireworks connecting dot after dot, trying to construct the most appropriate sentence for the situation. It took a while, but he got there.

"Martin. I came here to inform you that there was an error in the system. The citation method that you had used was in fact, the correct one. You may continue using that and I will have no issue."

Each word arrived stilted. It was as if he had written it out for some AI helper to read out loud and then repeated it back to said robot. Martin didn't mind, exactly, he was too busy processing what had actually been said to care about how he had said it.

"Was that an apology?"

Jon's face shifted immeasurably. It took a few seconds of awkward silence for him to realise that he was blushing. Immediately, Martin took note of all the signs, knowing that now that he'd seen it, he would never want to miss it again. The tips of his ears turned pink and his mouth twitched, as if he was desperately keeping down a vomit of facial expressions. The solid rock of anger was deep inside Martin and thankfully stopped him from regretting anything he had said. His veins turned to gravel, as he clasped and unclasped his hands by his side.

"I believe so.", came the answer. It did nothing to liquify the solidity in his veins, so out came another sentence that he would lie awake thinking about at night.

"Can I have a proper one?"

"I don't know what you mean, Martin."

The tea was cold, anyway. He had nothing left to lose.

"I want an apology, Jon. I take all of your criticisms on stride, no matter how much I think about how you could've said it in a nicer way or how you don't do this with Tim or Sasha or how I've been working my ass off, this whole time. I'm sorry the archives are way more disorganised than you thought they'd be and I'm sorry you're struggling but you shouldn't take that out on me."

"I'm not struggling, Martin."

He barked out a laugh. "Of course that's the bit you focus on."

Finally, he seemed to have touched a nerve. Adrenaline pumped through him, making him feel nauseous. Every bone in his body told him to stop talking, shut his mouth and grovel. Fix this. The words had been projecting out of his mouth, wriggling like sickly, pale maggots, but part of him wanted to keep talking until he was empty. Until he had no more words to throw. But it was in Jon's nature to ruin his plans. Just like he had ruined his promotion by being an ass. Just like he had ruined his ability to hate him by being just the right amount of kind.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I really am."

Martin had once been told by a therapist that he was using the word "should" to beat himself up. This was the very same therapist that had declared her lack of qualification in the first session, so he dismissed it. He thought of her as the "shoulds" flooded into his brain. One stood out from the rest, unable to be sharpened into the weapon he wanted. It shouldn't have been enough. He should have pushed for more of an apology, he should've asked for more kindness, but the fact of the matter was that it was enough. It was Jon and he was apologising. He knew he was going to take it, no matter how this conversation had gone. He knew it from the very first time he laid a cup of tea on his desk and had been barely acknowledged.

"Thank you, Jon."

Maybe he should return to therapy. Maybe he was fucked up. Maybe he was no longer the only one who knew that. Jon awkwardly shuffled off, leaving rubble where there once was a jumper-clad man. Martin did the only thing he knew how to do. He clicked on the kettle, to make another cup of tea.