#rainbows pottery studio

[dailychrisevans]

CHRIS EVANS Announcing fundraising winner Rainbows Pottery Studio’s IG

[falloutwitch2004]

Frank Castle x Reader who's an aspiring artist Headcanons

TW: i don't think there's any, maybe cursing, but that's to be expected

○ Frank keeps everything you make. Without a doubt. Hell, he'll even frame it. "No, Frankie, it's not that good." You'll say, or, "I didn't quite get the shadows right." And he'll have this shit eating grin on his face and say, "Nah, sweetheart, it's perfect."

○ you signed up for a late night ceramics class. He'll drop you off and pick you up because there was no way he was letting you get yourself home late at night. You'll hop up in the passenger seat of his truck with dried clay coating your jeans. "I know, I'm a mess." You'll say before he has the chance to speak. "A beautiful mess." Frank will reply, sometimes followed by "my mess."

○ your back will be sore from being bent over the pottery wheel for the length of your class, so Frank is more than happy to give you a much needed back rub. "That feel good, babydoll?" He'll ask. "Yeah Frankie, that feels great." You'll answer.

○ he'll be away for a while on one of his many 'trips' when you turn the apartment into your personal art studio. He'll come back to find plastic over the furniture and you repainting a wall. Your paint covered overalls now had splotches of the off-white color of the wall along with every color of the rainbow. This was nothing new though, since Frank had become used to how wild your art could get. "Sorry, the abstract piece I was working on got kind of everywhere." You said. "Can't have the landlord fussing about it."

○ Frank will sometimes find you wearing one of his black t-shirts that were littered with bullet holes or knife slashes he'd been meaning to toss out, now decorated with splootches and splotches of various colors of paint as the fabring hung loosely on your frame.

[keithsandwich]

More Than That

Pairing: Keith/OC (Maeve)

Word Count: ~2.5k

Rating: Mature

Tags: Modern AU, Pre-Relationship, Pining, Massage, Accidental Boner, Love Confessions, Nudity, Dorks in Love, Fluff, Kiss.

Summary: Keith finds himself ready to get a massage, but the massage therapist is the woman he has feelings about.

Notes: Based on this post. No beta, so please, be nice! If you see any errors, let me know!

He opened his eyes to see a white wooden ceiling with a basket pendant light. The light was off. There was no need for it when the sun shined brightly through the open window. Sunbeams hit the little prisms hanging next to the flowy curtains, casting little particles of rainbow around the room. And the room, as it slowly unfolded to his perception, was a very simple and small one, with a light-colored tapestry hanging from the wall across the window. There was a vintage counter with many drawers. Above it were some little amber glass bottles, plants, candles, and sticks of incense burning — their smoke spiraling beautifully in the air and spreading a sandalwood and jasmine scent. The sound of a gentle running water complemented the scenery nicely.

Keith was so relaxed laying down in the middle of the room that he felt like he had woken up to a dream. 

A door opened and closed behind his head, and another mix of aromas joined the already delicious scent symphony. Bergamot, rosemary and basil in a coconut base. It was cozy. Before Keith could close his eyes and let himself sink in that comfort, a soft, hushed voice made his eyes snap open and his heart race inside his chest.

“Told you I wouldn't take long.”

Maeve appeared in his field of vision, beaming brighter than the sun and holding a small pottery bowl. She walked across the room, and as Keith followed her with his gaze, a sudden realization made his breathing falter and the palms of his hands sweat coldly.

He was naked.

Well, almost. There was a towel wrapped around his hips, and he prayed he was wearing his boxers underneath it. He wished he could check, but that would be too weird. Now that his other self had got him into that situation, Keith had to go along with it somehow. 

He tried to rationalize it. Maeve offered massage therapy along with other forms of natural healing in her studio. He was most likely in a room at the back, ready to receive one after he scheduled it behind his back. He probably knew Keith would have a panic attack about it, and was enjoying watching the whole situation.

His chest was moving erratically and tensely as he struggled to breathe, knowing that the woman he had been daydreaming about was getting ready to touch his body with her bare hands. 

“You know, being so tense is a little counterproductive here,” Maeve said with a soft laugh while tying her hair up in a messy bun. “Relax. I promise I won't hurt you.”

“I-I’m so sorry, I… I've never had a massage before…” he lied. Keith had had massages before when he suffered a muscle strain. It was very different then, however. Not being in love with the massage therapist made the whole experience much easier.

“First of all, you have to breathe.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath herself, moving her hands up and down in front of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled. Maeve looked so cute he simply couldn't close his eyes and mimic her. Keith had to watch her soft movements, her pursed lips, her kindness overflowing in every gesture. 

It was almost unbearable. He wished he could run away so he didn't have to hide how much he wanted to kiss her.

“Are you feeling better now? Or do you need a few more minutes?” 

Maeve had grinned beautifully when she opened her eyes. There was no way Keith would ever be ready for this, but he knew he would be wasting her time if he kept stalling her. Maybe closing his eyes and breathing could indeed be helpful.

“I'm sorry I'm taking so much of your time. Go ahead, I… I think I can relax more during the massage, I mean… that's part of the benefits, right?”

Keith laid his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. He could still feel the warmth of her smile in her voice.

“You'll see there's nothing to be scared of. Soon you're gonna get all comfy, I'm sure of it,” Maeve sounded quieter and quieter as she spoke, until her voice vanished and only the running water remained. 

She touched his right foot first, delicately, but not so light it would tickle him. Still, he shivered. It was her touch, after all, spreading that fragrant oil on his skin and working on it with undivided attention. Maeve applied the right amount of pressure on the sole and made circular motions on each toe. Keith bit the inside of his cheek to try to prevent any weird sound from coming out. 

There should be a way to go through it without doing anything inappropriate. Maeve was a professional massage therapist, touching him professionally. No matter how he felt about her, his first priority was to respect her. 

Maeve… a profissional. 

Maybe he should focus only on the later part. With closed eyes, Keith could pretend it was someone else giving him a massage, anyone else. Just a… random therapist.

A therapist that didn't have the best smile, one that highlighted the cute little freckles spreaded all over their cheeks and their nose. A smile that reached gorgeous green eyes; eyes that mesmerized him. Eyes that made him captive, and Keith had to watch himself not to stare at them for too long.

But when he did, Maeve would giggle, blush, tug her hair behind her ear and look away with that smile on her face.

No, she wasn't the person who was now massaging his calves with firm, yet delicate hands, no. He tried to visualize again that faceless therapist. A person without a name that tasted so sweet on his tongue whenever he said it out loud. Maeve, Mae, may I make you mine? Mine, mine, my, Maeve. 

His cheeks tingled and burned. He felt so pathetic.

Keith took a deep breath and tried to concentrate again.

Those hands sliding up to his thighs belonged to someone else. Someone whose hair didn't smell like a mix of tropical, aphrodisiac flowers. That scent that whenever blew his way aroused instincts Keith wasn't even aware he had within himself. His body would tremble as he struggled to control the need to take each lock of Maeve's hair, each braid, and devotedly kiss it. He would press his lips together while resisting the urge to pull her silky strands aside and nuzzle against the back of her neck, where that scent was probably stronger.

And he would almost cry when thinking of it alone, yearning to discover what other aromas were hidden in Maeve’s body.

Keith felt the touch going up towards his covered hips, fingers that would slip underneath the towel, but graciously turn around his hip bones and make their way down without the slightest of the brushes against his… pelvis. He clenched his fists; wishes too dirty to admit filling his mind. 

Once, when they were working together in his lab after hours, they accidentally bumped into each other. Maeve had been washing some beakers when Keith tried to reach for a flask on the shelf above the sink, being careful not to touch her. “Excuse me,” he had murmured softly, keeping a safe distance while stretching his arms out over her. She was so small next to him, it shouldn't be a problem. Still, he had to stand on his tiptoes to get the flask he wanted while maintaining the space between them. That's when Maeve turned around unexpectedly, as if she hadn't heard or felt his presence behind her, causing him to lose his balance. Keith was able to hold the edge of the sink in time to prevent a fall, but in this, he ended up pressing her body against his for a brief, shocked moment, when they looked at each other's eyes awkwardly before he moved away, apologizing like never before.

Those few seconds were enough to etch the memory of her frame on his flesh. Her heat, her breath, all the curves and soft parts. The way her lips parted only slightly, as if she was about to say something. Keith could have so easily slid his tongue between them, claimed her taste, and made Maeve his. But it only happened in his fantasies later while remembering this moment, again and again. Each time making him feel dirtier, more perverted, more unworthy of her trust.

And it was very, very inconvenient remembering all of this now, as her hands were on his body. Except… they weren't.

Keith almost froze in fear, but he had to open his eyes to see what happened. And when he did, he found Maeve staring at the towel on his hips. And the towel on his hips had that shameful, disgusting, completely inappropriate volume he tried so hard to avoid, but his mind tricked him. She suddenly moved her startled gaze from that part to his eyes, her cheeks bright red. 

“I'm sorry!” they said in unison. 

Keith sat straight so quickly he felt dizzy, and Maeve shook her head and touched his shoulders, intending to make him lay back down again on the massage table.

“Maeve, I'm so sorry, this is so disrespectful of me to… to… you know, ah,” he babbled. His mind was so hazy he had to rub his temples to try to think straight. His stomach was churning. “You must think I'm a creep, but I didn't mean… it… I don't want anything weird, I just…”

“Keith…” Maeve said his name patiently a few times until he finally let her talk. And she did, still holding his shoulders and looking into his eyes so sweetly it only made everything worse. “Relax, this is normal. This is absolutely normal, you don't have to feel so bad about it. It's just a physiological reaction, you know that, don't you?” She smiled reassuringly and slowly moved towards the door, making soothing hand gestures. “Try to breathe, I'm gonna bring you a glass of water. Hold on. Don't go anywhere.”

Maeve left the room gesturing the whole time. Keith could tell she was worried about him. She was way too good to him, much more than he deserved. His chest was hurting with guilt. He knew the right thing to do was to get away from her, don't contact her again until those feelings vanished and he was able to behave appropriately with her — like a friend. Just a friend.

Or not. Maybe never seeing her again was the only option. Keith would never be able to be just friends with her, and Maeve deserved so much more than a failure like him in her life.

He sighed heavily and lifted up the towel to check the situation down there. Boxers on, excitement down. Feeling gloomy like that was useful for at least one thing. 

“Here we go!” Maeve got back with a glass of water and her typical warm smile gracing her face. Keith accepted the glass without thinking while she leaned against the counter in front of him. “Are you feeling better now? Just say the word and we'll continue.”

“Maeve… Sorry, I don't think I can,” he said, looking down at the water. “I'm sorry for wasting your time, but I did something unforgivable. You shouldn't be so nice to me, that… That wasn't just a physiological reaction,” Keith admitted. He had to. He should do at least one right thing to her. 

“What do you mean?” Her smile was fading, but it was still there, weak and confused. “You didn't do anything wrong, it was just your body, that's okay…”

“It's not just my body.” Keith felt his throat getting dry, so he took a sip of water. He could feel her puzzled stare on him, but needed that moment before continuing. “Mae… sorry, Maeve. I can't get a massage from you because I want you. I have feelings… For you.”

“Keith…” She placed her hands over his that were still around the glass. He looked at the delicate fingers she must've washed to take out the excess of oil before pouring him water, but they were still soft and fragrant, and they enveloped him in warmth. He didn't know why she was touching him like this, not after his confession. “Do you know why I've apologized to you too?” Keith couldn't remember her apologizing, all he thought about was his own shame. Her face flushed and she continued before he could express his confusion. “Because I was staring at you inappropriately. I… I have been interested in you for a long time now, but I thought…”

“Interested in me?” he interrupted her, making Maeve look at him with eyes that begged him not to make her explain any further. “It’s just… You know that I'm a loser…”

It was her time to interrupt him, but not with words. Maeve leaned forward and planted a kiss on the corner of his lips. Keith could feel the softness of her mouth, the closeness of her gesture as she pressed her nose against his cheek, and her eyelashes fluttering ever-so-slightly as she closed her eyes. The air coming out of her lungs gently filled his own. It made his heart race madly, coursing so much life through his veins he could just burst in joy. He smiled. The tension left his body and he tilted his head towards her kiss with a need that was much sweeter than the ravenous desires he had for her.

For Maeve deserved nothing but sweetness. Even if she wanted him too, he would do it the right way, accepting the love she was giving without being greedy. Keith could only be grateful. The most beautiful woman in the world had just kissed him.

It felt like paradise.

Maeve looked into his eyes after pulling back from the kiss and then lowered her stare sheepishly. She took the cup of glass from his hands and put it on the counter slowly, as if she was still in a daze herself. 

“I think you're right, I can't give you a massage right now, it wouldn't be profissional of me,” Maeve said with a small laugh. Keith couldn't stop smiling, even if he tried. Taking all the steps that would hopefully lead them to share a real intimacy would be better than pretending he was just a patient, and she was just a massage therapist. They were more than that. She had just confirmed it, and he hadn't felt that happy in a long, long time. “I'm gonna brew us some tea while you dress. We can… Just sit down and have some tea together.” 

“We can…” he echoed her words, too enthralled with what just happened that he couldn't say anything else. Keith couldn't even move for a moment after she left the room to give him privacy to dress. The scent of the oil they shared, the touch of her hands and lips, her breath, her care — it all lingered and embraced him in a way that left him full of love and frightened at the same time. What if it all went away the moment he left the room?

What if Maeve changed her mind?

Maybe being in love was a pleasure and an agony, but this is where he was right now. And Keith would not run away.

.

.

.

Tag list: @bicayaya @olivermorningstar @queengiuliettafirstlady

[bun-lapin]

TWST Mementos HC: Octavinelle

A/N: Headcanons I have for what kind of memento/object of sentimental value the characters from Twisted Wonderland would give you to symbolize your special relationship. This time it's about Octavinelle!

Azul: An expensive, one of a kind teapot and cup that he bought from a master pottery studio. It's a deep blue color decorated with lines of gold in a kintsugi style. He has a matching tea cup and will often bring new tea blends for you to try together.

Jade: A large terrarium he made for you containing soft moss, some ferns, and a few tiny mushrooms. The inside is decorated with beautiful shells and crystals placed carefully in the moss. At night, the mushrooms give off a gentle glow and make the shells and crystals sparkle with light. Whenever Jade visits you, he'll check on the terrarium and offer advice for its care.

Floyd: A candy jar he decorated with googly eyes and a smile made from glued on seashells. The jar itself is made of a beautiful glass with a rainbow sheen. Floyd likes to call the jar "Mr. Candy". When he notices the candy in the jar is getting low, he'll yell "Time to feed Mr. Candy~!" and then dump all the candy he's currently carrying into the jar.

[bigboxcar]

Mugshot Monday - "Double Rainbow Bloom Mug" by Amy Brummond at Pine Zen Pottery with Up North Tea by Well Rooted Teas

Happy Labor Day for those who celebrate!

I'm so happy to have this mug--it made me smile as I enjoyed some afternoon tea on this hot sunny day in Minneapolis.

I've been following Amy Brummond at @PineZenPottery on Instagram for years and have always wanted to buy one of her mugs.

This weekend I got my chance when I met Amy in-person for the first time at her studio in Anoka, MN.

The first thing I noticed after arriving was all the awesome pine trees that her house and studio are nestled within. It's gorgeous and so peaceful. "Pine Zen" is a perfect name for her space.

There are 2 kinds of Double Rainbow Bloom mugs--this one is an "outie" where the stamper design sits on the surface of the clay. The "innie" is the same design, but the stamp imprints into the clay.

Both designs are so gooooood.

If you're looking to buy one of Amy's pots, you'll want to check out Amy's shop sale set for September 8 at 8pm CT. She'll have about 100 pieces for sale including lots of different mugs. 🤩

Amy added a small packet of some delicious tea with my purchase. Well Rooted Teas is a local Minneapolis tea maker offering hand-crafted teas with herbs from local organic farmers combined with wildcrafted native botanicals. It's really really good.

Cheers! 😀 Summer is officially over, y'all!

See also my 700+ photos from the Mugshot Monday project here: www.MugshotMonday.com – Every Mug Has A Story

[capoteera]

it’s long but here is a list of everyone so far involved in the PR/fake marriage since 2024.

2024’s list of everyone involved in this PR:

Chris

Alba

Family and friends

Dodger

CAA

UTA

RDJ

Susan D

Scarlett

Jeremy

Chris H

Seb

Jinx

Audi

Marvel

Ryan R

Comic Cons

Film Festivals

People

Just Jared

the State of Massachusetts

Suki Waterhouse

Robert Pattinson

Pap photographer

Wedding planners

Violinist

Florist

Lisbon Venue

Architects

Photographers

random fans especially the one that held onto a picture outside an apartment in PT for 2 yrs

Restaurants for lying about dates

Boston Bar sighting guy for lying (sorry about the abuse from a certain blog)

Cartier

VF

The GG

GQ

The blogs used to leak info (apparently)

Rainbow Pottery

A Carpenter (just making a living)

Work colleagues

Sullivan Theatre

Hollywood

The US government (they must have done something)

Bermuda

United/Delta airlines

Finland

Real Estate agents

flight trackers

Stalkers

Bakery

Designers - Miu Miu etc.

Rolex

Broadway

Celine Song

Honey Don’t

CAA finance

Megan

Sloane

Narrative

3 Arts

The Strike (for making Chris sign on for another year)

IG

Cosmopolitan

Disney

WDW

Cape Cod

Apple

Amazon

Condé Nast

Only Murders in the Building (or any tv show that mentions PT)

Netflix

Julia Van Zeller Palha

Certain dates in the month

Rockefeller Centre

Random Extra from Bulgaria

A24

Mother Mary

Borderline

CYT

family using the locals

Greece crew member

Hyatt

Movie set trailers

Paul B

Mark R

Don C

Danai G

Greek airport worker

Stephen Colbert & Rescue Dogs

SMA

Red One promotion team

Cast and crew of Voltron

Crew members from Sacrifice

All blogs PR or Real as they are all plants

Amazon for announcing their cast for a movie over a couple of drop days

Only in Boston for arranging a lookalike competition

Tropical bar Santorini - holding onto wrap party photo for a week

WDW employees

Random people at WDW

2025 list:

Disney employees (not Rogers)

Random park visitor

WDW

JJ

Oprah

TikTok

CAA Portuguese studio

Portuguese Film Industry

the Sun

Australia

Mackie

Seb

Captain America movie

Thunderbolts

Cast of Voltron

an Australian wildlife park

God

Voltron offical fan page

Amazon including the studio and marketplace

Founder of CAA (who hasn’t being with CAA since 1995)

Interviewers who ask about Chris and his wife

At this stage I will also add the elevator as it seems to be the place to take PR pics

[georgiapeach30513]

Rainbow pottery studio posted about Zendaya stopping by. Is that the same place that Chris did the raffle with?

Sounds like it. But I don’t follow them.

[sidewayspeace444]

Did you see the IG post Rainbows Pottery Studio made regarding the wedding? Talk about cringe 🤮 I think they’ve been sniffing too many pottery fumes if they think what we’ve seen over the past year is a “magical love”.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CxGhEr8Oyd3/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Someone should add HITTY to the S because that’s how it looks

[erindrewpotter]

Rainbow blessings on my workspace 🌈

Find me on Instagram: sketchingerin

Etsy: HandsInTheDirt

[giverobinagfbrigade]

What if Steve took up pottery after everything.

He’s spent 4 years destroying things, tearing things apart with his hands and once it’s all over he wants to turn those same hands to something positive. To turn them to making something instead of pulling it apart. He cycles through hobbies, sketching making his hand cramp and the constant re-drawing tearing holes in the paper, the permanence of paint on canvas to terrifying and embroidery causing an ache in his eyes with it’s miniature stitches. All until he reaches pottery, it never make his hands cramp or his eyes ache and he could work the clay and re make the pots over and over, shaping and reshaping until it was just right.

So it sticks. At first he used the wheel in the studio at the school but with gentle encouragement from the party and Joyce he buys a second hand potters wheel and a small kiln from a house clearance. He sets them up in a corner of the garage furtherest from the house and late at night or rather, early in the morning he sits and works the cool clay over with his hands, the hands responsible for so much destruction, until it’s pliable. He takes it and forms it into whatever shape he can feel it trying to be. Over the weeks he creates many items, pots, jugs, mugs, cups, plates, bowls, dishes, stands and occasionally, when the spin of the wheel isn’t what he needs he sculpts tiny creatures and people with his fingers.

The first of these creations are plain and rough to the touch, unable to be washed as they were left unglazed. When Steve realised that you can’t use an unglazed mug for actual mug things, he purchased glazed, at first just clear and 5 colours, black, white, red, yellow and blue, but slowly he expands his collection, amassing all manner of different colours and finishes.

After the first couple of months practice, when the cups are even and the lids fit their pots, Steve begins to make things to give to the people he holds dear.

The first gift he makes is for Robin. It’s a little bird on a ships wheel, painted onto a mug, it’s slightly wonky and the paint is a little wobbly but it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She cries when it’s first handed to her and she treats it like the smallest breeze will break it. But she still drinks her coffee from it every morning and cleans it the moment she’s done, lest the drink stain the glaze.

The second is for Dustin. This is a little jar, with a tiny cats head sculpted onto the lid. Painted with little scribbles of equations and formula, planks constant painted slightly thicker than the rest. Dustin hugs Steve so hard it makes his bones creak when it’s handed to him and he holds it in his palms like it might disappear in smoke if he lets it go.

Third is for El, he throws her a plate and spends hours painstakingly glazing the sunset from hopper’s cabin onto it. It’s a little thicker than it probably should be but it might not shatter so sharply if it ever breaks that way. She hugs it to her chest like a teddy and kisses Steve’s cheek. She tells him she loves it, and he knows she isn’t lying.

Number four is given to Erica. Unlike the others this one wasn’t thrown it was sculpted by hand, smoothed and stretched until the clay formed a tiny horse. He paints it the colours of the rainbow and places the fires piece into a tiny box. Erica sniffles when she opens it but she still calls him dickweed when she thanks him. He knows she adores it when he sees her wearing it on a chain like a necklace three days later.

Five is for max. This one the result of hours of research. Steve first throws a mug, then with the help of Robin and 2 books on braille he adds tiny lumps of clay to write two phases on the mug accompanied by their English written counterparts. First is “Max’s mug touch at your own risk “ the second is “ handle “ followed by an arrow in the opposite direction of the handle. Even through her heavy glasses he can see her tear up, but before he can reach out to hug her she reads the handle sign and cracks up, laughing so hard the tears track down her face anyway when she realises the arrow is misleading. The thick black lines of the writing a stark enough contrast against the white mug that she can see there’s writing rather than just feel it.

It’s a little while between the faith and sixth pieces but it makes it even better when it’s finally handed over after the end of season game. The sixth piece is for Lucas. It’s a little person holding a ball aloft like the Statue of Liberty, standing atop a goblet style cup that Steve took an age to throw quite right. Lucas tackles him to the floor and says it’s the best trophy he’s ever won. He sheds a couple tears when he reads the inscription on the bottom plaque.

Number seven is gifted to will, technically it’s two pieces. Created after hearing him talk of the perils of painting and drinking after hellfire one night. Two cups, different in size and shape as well as design, both painted a beautiful gradient, one of purple to green and the other blue to gold, with the purple and green with “paint water”written in curling letters across it and the blue and gold with “drinking water” in the same letters. Will thanks him sincerely and hugs him for far longer than normal. A week later he hands Steve an envelope containing a painting of a knight that looks suspiciously like him wielding a familiar bat like club. Steve is the one crying this time.

The eighth piece is given to Johnathan. It’s another piece shaped without the help of the wheel. This time a pipe, glazed in shining oxides and bright colours, painted over in tiny white stars. Few words are exchanged when it’s handed to him but even when struck speechless Johnathan finds a way to communicate his gratitude, holding open his arms to Steve. When he gets his words back, Jon invites him to christen the pipe, Steve politely declines. He’s sure the pipe receives much use.

Nine is handed gingerly to Hopper, a near perfect plate with “best dad I’ve ever had” painted i swirling letters across it, coloured a beautiful red. Hop clears his throat, tells him it’s beautiful then hugs him with almost too much force, cracking a joint in Steve’s back which sends them both chuckling. It’s on display in the cabin the next morning.

The tenth is presented to Mike. A small box which seems to confuse the boy until he opens it to find a version of his character laying inside. He stares down at it for a few moments, mouth open like he’s not sure what to say. Then very tentatively he wraps his arms around Steve in the first hug he’s ever given him. He speaks, a little muffled my Steve’s shirt “ You really are amazing Steve. “ . Steve pats the kids hair and beams.

Piece eleven is given to Joyce. It’s the biggest piece he’s made yet. A large round thrown plant pot, made in lovely terracotta clay he found specifically for this. Made after Joyce confessed she’d been trying out gardening. She kisses him on both temples and both cheeks and tells him she wouldn’t mind a third son. Steve cries again this time.

The twelfth is given to Nancy. It’s another hand sculpted piece, this time a beautiful pen holder, painted a soft pink and decorated with gold filigree work. He wrapped it in pink tissue and places it gently in her hand, Nancy is so quiet Steve starts to panic but as he opens his mouth she drags him into a rib creaking hug. “Oh Steve it’s beautiful.” He just smiles and tells her this way she’ll always know where she put it when inspiration strikes. She squeezes him a little tighter.

The penultimate piece is given to Wayne Munson. With everything that’s happened, and the slowly growing relationship between Steve and his nephew, Wayne is almost his second adoptive father. Steve takes a little while deliberating on what to give Wayne, a mug for certain but he wasn’t sure what to decorate it with. But after being startled awake for the third night in a row the idea finally seemed to materialise. When Steve handed him the finished mug a week later he clapped him on the shoulder, placed the mug on the table and wrapped him in a hug. He called Steve son and this time they both shed some tears. The next time Steve entered the house the “ best uncle in law “ mug was proudly displayed with the rest

The final piece, well pieces, were given to Eddie. It was a slowly growing collection, crafted over the course of several months. The first of these was a simple cup, painted a marbled red and metallic black courtesy of Steve experimenting with oxides. The second a mug proudly displaying the words “fuck Mordor” in beautiful curling script across one side and a painted mountain the other, created just after he and Eddie began reading the series together, taking it in turns to read a character aloud. The third and final piece was far more sentimental a small replica of a human heart, created after much study of library references, painted to look like a sunrise. This he placed into a little box with a note reading “ to my sunshine, you’ll always carry my heart with you .“. Steve placed these three together in a bag, each wrapped in tissue. He took them with him on a quiet Tuesday night on a visit to Eddie. And with shaking hands he held the bag out towards him. Eddie took it, looking perplexed until he opened the first wrapper, revealing the mug. Eddie had watched all the others slowly be gifted pieces of Steve’s pottery, even his uncle, and wondered if and what he would receive. He held the mug reverently in cupped hands, “ Oh Stevie, it’s beautiful-“. Steve only smiled, biting his lip and gesturing back to the bag. Carefully Eddie removed the second gift, the cup. Holding it just as carefully as the first, stroking over the surface with his thumbs, before placing them both and the bag down onto the table and holding Steve’s face in his hands. “ There’s one more. “ Steve smiled at him “ I need to kiss you till you can’t see straight first.” Steve only laughed and leaned in, meeting Eddie halfway. It was a soft kiss, full of unspoken affection, and when the two separated he gestured back at the bag. Eddie smiled and shook his head before taking the last piece out of the bag. Slowly he began to unwrap the tissue, then he opened the box. He went dead still, exhaling a shaking breath “ Oh sunshine -“ he reached out to cup Steve’s cheek with one hand, cradling the tiny ceramic heart with the other, “ that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” Steve beamed “ It’s a human heart baby, it’s not exactly cute.” Eddie shook his head “Oh it’s plenty cute, you made it it’s gotta be.” He paused “ I love it. Nearly, nearly as much as I love you. “. “Yeah?” Steve bit his lower lip, smiling. “ Oh definitely honey, I love you so much.” And if that same heart had a permanent home in a picture frame above eddies bed next to the note it came with, then no one mentioned it.

//AN : Okay if you made it this far holy shit thank you, I apologise for the gifts being cheesey as fuck or kinda shitty but I tried. This was born after watching the great pottery throw down with my parents.

[allthingskakashi]

• Forelsket •

[ Kakashi x Reader]

Fluff Prompt: “I like the way your hands fit in mine”

Tags : Fluff, Hokage Kakashi, Potter/Artist! Reader 

Words : 1.4k 

A/n : Okay soooo here it is, my first fanfic after over a year, i am so nervous about this and hate it vehemently to be perfectly honest, but it has been so long and i really wanted to post something. I’ve been struggling with writing a lot lately and am finding it super difficult to finish anything i am starting because nothing seems to be working out the way i wish it would but anyhoo...i managed to finish this so....here it goes.  Any criticism is completely welcome, i’m very very rusty so i am fully prepared for this to flop. The anon who had requested it probably is not even here anymore, and i am so sorry it took me a year to finally get to writing this lmfao. Okay that’s it. Hope it doesn’t disappoint too much. Thank you so much for reading!! ily <3 

Kakashi had never seen so many pots in his life.

Nor had he ever seen you, in your faded blue overalls, hair stuck to your face and strewn about in every direction, with mud in places of your body mud should never be.

His gaze danced along the ceiling-high shelves, with queues of vases, pots, and bowls of varying shapes and colour stacked in neat rows. The amusement in his half lidded eyes wasn’t concealed.

“So this is what you do”, he stated, his voice taking the tone of a little boy seeing a rainbow for the first time.

“This is what I do”, you repeated. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

When you’d mentioned to Kakashi, the Rokudaime, that he could stop by at your studio sometime to watch you at work—which, despite your multiple protests, he seemed really insistent on doing, you hadn’t thought that he’d turn up at your door, apron in hand, at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday morning.

Especially after that night.

And yet, here he was.

“Well...” Kakashi muttered sheepishly, “I had some time to kill.”

“And....what’s the apron for?”

“I thought I could help you”, he stated, as if him being in your studio in the middle of the day, after that night , offering to assist you in pottery—something you were pretty sure the Copy Ninja had never done before, was the most natural thing in the world.

“Help me...you”, you registered his words, raising an eyebrow at his lean, tall figure that was watching you with a kind of confidence you could not even hope to feign.

“Help you, me, yes“, Kakashi replied with the same nonchalance with which he’d walked in.

You exhaled.

“Right...Okay.”

Rubbing your hands on the pockets of your overall, you watched Kakashi slip the apron in over his head. It had the Konoha Medical Department’s emblem embroidered on the breast pocket—he must have borrowed it from the Laboratory.

You wanted to laugh.

He seemed to have put a fair bit of thought into this.

And well, it was not like you hadn’t been driving yourself crazy for the past few days either...

**

That night had been like any other, with you and Kakashi walking back to your respective homes, engaged in amiable chatter. 

It had rained copious amounts the day before in Konoha, and every step of the cemented road was littered in large puddles of water.

There had been a particularly large one at the lane right across from yours, and Kakashi had taken your hand in his—a completely ordinary gesture for a man of his heart, to help you cross—a gesture that he’d have made for any layperson, be it a child or the elderly, friend or stranger in passing. You knew that. 

And yet, despite the normalcy of the gesture, despite the sheer predictability of it...you’d found yourself buckling at the knees at his touch, the sensation of Kakashi’s hand gently, but firmly gripping yours transcending beyond just your palms.

You couldn’t help but marvel at how natural it felt for your hand to be in his, how completely, devastatingly painful it felt to realise that it would only last mere seconds.

You’d wished there would be more puddles, wished you’d fall into one if that is what it took, and that’s when it happened. The words rolling off your tongue before you had any way of halting them. “I like the way your hands fit in mine”.

The words had been clear, despite how much you wished they had carried even a hint of ambivalence in them. But they were clear, and so was the intent of their speaker.

Of course, Kakashi had masterfully shrouded his surprise, and of course, you’d changed your verses immediately, shifting the conversation to the following day’s forecast before hastening your pace with incoherent mumbles of being late for something, but no amount of escaping, digressing, talking about the weather and pretending like you had said something else could alter that event.

The words were out there. You’d heard it with your own two ears.

What followed the events of that day was of course, complete and unadulterated avoidance. There was no way you could show face before him anymore, but with him being the Hokage, that posed a few complications. He was everywhere.

And so you’d started coming in for work at the crack of dawn to avoid having to work late, you’d gone to markets miles away from your neighbourhood to buy a packet of ramen, you’d taken dingy alleys and unlit lanes to travel home—all to avoid coming face to face with Kakashi.

And you’d succeeded.

Until today.

Because here he stood now, in your small studio, the Rokudaime—in all his glory, wearing the Konoha Medical Department’s apron that he borrowed so he could come help you in the middle of the day on a Wednesday—with a glint of eagerness in his eyes that made your stomach flip within your belly.

“Well?”, Kakashi’s voice tugged at you come out of your stupor. “What should I do?”

You looked around yourself, wrecking your mind to come up with something you could ask him to do that would suit his stature, and his dexterity—or lack thereof, in this regard.

“Um...” you fumbled, watching him eye the abandoned mould on the wheel in front of you which you’d been working on since morning.  “I guess you could...help me make this vase for a wedding order I received yesterday”, you said, eyes avoiding his.

He beamed at the invitation.

“As you say”, he replied with a....(was a tease in his tone?)...as he took his place on a stool behind the pottery wheel.

The absurdity of the scene in front of you made you fall short of words.

Kakashi’s expectant eyes waited.  

You reached for another stool, placing it opposite Kakashi before sitting down facing him, already feeling his eyes on you.

“Okay so um...you just...place your hands on the mould, and do this...” you explained, moving your hands in sync with the wheel as you shaped the clay into curves and bulges, building it into the form of an amphora.

Kakashi’s dark eyes stared in awe, watching in marvel as you let the familiar feel of clay take your mind away from the unfamiliarity—but not adversely so, of Kakashi being so close to your, watching you, your feet almost touching.

“Can I try?”, his voice broke through your concentration.

You let the wheel come to a slowly dwindling spin, before retracting your hands from the piece. Kakashi brought his forward, pressing his palms onto each side of the vase, touching it as if it were the wings of a butterfly.

He looked up at you for reassurance. “Yes, that’s it”, you mumbled, watching Kakashi’s masterful hands moulding your piece with the same diligence and skillfulness of a seasoned potter.

“Wait, hold on” you scrambled, leaning ahead to wrap your hands on his as he fumbled to bring the mould to a narrow concave at the top, his hands faltering, but gaze as steady as ever.

It took a few seconds for you to come to the realisation that your hands were on Kakashi’s, the mud from your palms staining the back of his hands in slimy brown goo.

But by the way that his eyes softened on yours...he didn’t seem to mind.

You continued in silence, the soft whining sound of the wheel the only noise between you, keeping you apart and yet somehow binding you together.

The vase was beginning to take form, growing from between Kakashi’s hands...and yours. The outcome was turning out impeccable, not a curve out of proportion, not an inch of jagged surface.

You willed yourself into meeting his gaze.

A crease made its way onto the smooth black stretch of his mask.

“What?”, you asked, your voice soft, expectant. Like you wished he would say something, grant legitimacy to this moment, let you know that his lingering gazes were not a mirage of your own creation.

“I like the way your hands fit in mine.”

Something red and burning crept up your neck.

The vase was done.

You’d always had a custom of naming your creations. Attributing each piece with a name granted them a kind of sentiment that you hoped to invoke in all those who appreciated and purchased your work.

Sometimes it was difficult, assigning a name that befits a piece. But this one...you knew what this one would be. You’d learnt the word in a book.

Forelsket / Norwegian (n.)

The euphoric experience of falling in love for the first time.

Your eyes met Kakashi’s, gleeful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, before erupting into a wide, beaming, infectious grin.

[tomhollandnet]

rainbowspottery: Spider-Man swung into RAINBOWS 🌈 Pottery Studio last weekend with his beautiful leading lady, Zendaya. What a pleasure it was to see the mega-stars enjoy the experience of RAINBOWS while in Boston shooting a movie.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Darker Shadows

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): A Court of Thorns and Roses Series/Azriel

Rating: PG-11/T-

Original Idea: Nothing in particular. Finished the first 4 books. Dunno if I can stand Nesta long enough to read ACOSF, so I wrote this with no information from ACOSF. Have fun.

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) Whaaaaa...? I break my ongoing hiatus for this? Yep. I did. I hope a few more one-shots join this one, but I am making no promises. This one just came to me for about an hour so surprise! Happy August.

^^^^^ 

“Darker Shadows”

Azriel said nothing as he slipped through the door to our apartment, quiet and soft as the shadows surrounding him. I watched from the sitting room adjacent to the foyer. He must have known I was there—the shadows must have informed him—but he didn’t so much as look at me. Just rested his forehead on the door and sighed.

“Long day?” I asked.

He blinked his eyes open and turned. “Incredibly,” he replied.

I patted the sofa next to me, indicating he come sit.

Azriel’s shadows seemed to grow more numerous around him as he crossed to me. I realized why as his leathers thumped to the floor in his wake, leaving him in a light undershirt and undershorts.

No matter how long we lived together, he was always so modest.

Part of me wondered if it was more insecurity than modesty; but I would never invade his privacy that much to ask. He’d tell me when he was comfortable.

He hit the sofa cushion next to me hard. His wings barely missed getting caught behind him. Ever the precise, too. One arm and one wing wrapped over my shoulders. He was warm, even if his underclothes were cold from his sweat. I snuggled into his side. We both stared at the fire for a while.

“Did you eat up at the House?” I asked.

The shadows shrouding him retreated a little, going back to their usual shades. He glanced at me with those sharp hazel eyes before returning his gaze to the fire. “Yes. Rhys and Feyre were hosting a dinner for the Palace governors. A private celebration of rebuilding the city so quickly before the grand, public celebration in three days.”

I snorted. “Bet they loved that,” I said sarcastically. Among the family, it was well-known that Rhys and Feyre both hated formal parties and dinners with a fiery passion.

A glimmer of amusement joined the reflection of the flames in Azriel’s eyes. “Oh, they slipped out an hour in. I heard them in the library… having fun amongst the stacks. I left them to it and didn’t interrupt.”

I couldn’t stop the laughter that burst from my throat, but clamped it down hard to not disturb the neighbors.

Azriel held me tighter. “Would have been more enjoyable if you were there,” he said. His voice was soft, almost as though he didn’t actually want to admit it.

Reaching up, I cupped the side of his face. “Sorry I couldn’t go. I’d have liked to have been there.” I gestured to my wrapped leg. “I just don’t think I could handle a party today. If Rhysand had decided to host it three days from now with the rest of the celebrations, I would have been able to make it.” I made a face. “Sorry I missed it.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

I reached around his wing to the end table, picking up my glass and handing it to him. He downed the rest and handed it back to me. I chuckled and set the glass on the coffee table instead.

After shuddering at the freezing chill of the water from my glass, Azriel turned to me. “How’s the pain?”

I shrugged. “Better than it was,” I said.

“At least you’re healing quickly.”

“Mmhmm.”

“How did you spend your night?”

I waved a vague hand to the small pile of books on the coffee table. “Just decided to read a little.”

“A little?” Azriel quoted. “You read five novels in four hours.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t finish them all. When I got bored I’d switch between them.”

“None of them holding your attention?”

“Not like they used to. Not since—”

The War with Hybern. Azriel knew. We all broke in some way over the course of it. I hadn’t had the attention span I used to since.

Azriel smiled at me. “Bathe, then bed?”

“Sounds great,” I replied.

He scooped me into his lap and stood up. I yelped at the sensation. My bad leg dangled looser than my good leg. My yelp earned me a twitched smile from my spymaster.

He carried me into the bathing room and sat me on the edge of the tub before turning it on. As it began to warm up and fill, he helped me unwrap my splint and undress. I returned the favor as best I could.

We bathed quickly and then got in our sleep clothes after drying off. After carrying me to bed, Azriel poked the point of my ear. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

I smiled, never able to contain my affection. “Sleep well,” I replied.

He doused the faelights and climbed under the covers.

We snuggled against each other. One of his wings draped over the both of us, keeping us warmer than the covers could. That warmth, his scent… it helped lull me to sleep. I could fall fast asleep on stone if Azriel was beside me.

—

Azriel watched his own scarred hand brush her nightshirt away from the skin of her back, revealing two sharp scars and an elaborate tattoo. Another rare Illyrian/High Fae hybrid, she’d been born with wings. Unlike Rhys, who could summon and desummon his wings at will, hers had been permanent.

Until her High Fae mother ordered her wings removed when she was still a child. Barely more than a toddler.

Azriel hadn’t met her until Rhys disappeared Under the Mountain. She’d been fifty-seven-years-old at the time. He’d seen her in the Rainbow, in one of the pottery studios, on a hot summer day. Her clothing revealed her back. The deep, disgustingly neat scars that made it clear how her wings had been taken from her, and the deep blue-black ink covering most of the exposed skin. She’d told him once she got it to both hide and show off the scars. When he’d asked why, she’d simply replied, “I’m stronger than the people who tried to hurt me.”

She hadn’t told him it was her mother—who’d wanted her to be a normal High Fae—for another decade.

He hadn’t been in love with her at the time. But during those fifty years everyone was stuck in Velaris, they became good friends. Azriel found her company much more peaceful than the other members of the Inner Circle. He loved them all—his family—but there was no harm, or shame, in being around someone who was quiet.

Then, a human girl broke Tamlin’s curse and Amarantha was dead. The High Lords and the members of their courts were released from Under the Mountain. And Rhys came home. And Azriel was both busier and freer than ever to spend time with his new friend.

He’d been so quietly pining for Morrigan for so long that, at first, he hadn’t realized the subject of his affections had changed.

During that final battle, when Prythian’s forces were spread so thin and even every reinforcement that came didn’t seem to make a dent… she’d taken a hit. A bad slash across the lower back.

And Azriel had seen red. His powers had already been mostly used up, his Siphons dim, and his wings badly injured.

But he’d gone to rescue her anyway.

His wings had screamed at him the entire flight back to a healer’s tent and then back to the battle. But during those moments, as she bled in his arms, he knew his feelings had transcended just friendship. “If we get out of this alive,” he’d said, “I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

She’d hummed, her side vibrating against his torso. “Mmm… dinner sounds nice. Afterwards, I can buy dessert.”

“We’ll see,” Azriel had said, smiling.

After they’d both healed and returned to Velaris, they’d done just that.

They’d been together ever since.

Azriel smiled at the memories.

—

“You’re staring,” I said quietly. His staring and touching had woken me.

“You’re incredible,” Azriel replied. “Have I told you that?”

“Today? No. This week? Many times.”

A soft chuckle. “So long as you know it.”

I rolled over so I was facing him. With his wing bent over both of us, I felt like I was in a sheet fort.

His eyes harbored a small glint in the half-light. I stared at him. “What is it?” His question was gentle.

I shrugged, feeling my scars pulling on my skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you,” he said.

“Charmer,” I teased.

That earned me a chuckle. Though his smile dropped after a moment. “Does it bother you?” He asked.

“What?”

“That you can’t fly?”

My humor disappeared. The phantom wings I still felt sometimes shivered in the back of my mind. “Sort of,” I replied. “I’d only barely taught myself how when Mother forced me to get them removed. It’s hard to miss what I didn’t really know. But I remember the wind over my scalp. My entire body fighting desperately to keep me aloft. I loved it. But now… now I get to fly with you and remember what it felt like. It’s not quite the same, but it’s enough for me.”

Azriel kissed my forehead. “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“It’s okay. Any extra time I get to spend with you is worth it,” I replied with a smile.

[chrisevansluv]

Check out this tiktok account, made in earlier December, 4 TikToks about the owner of Rainbow Pottery harassing this girl⬇️

https://vm.tiktok.com/TTPdhSMX3R/

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

The tiktok owner did create an official complaint with the BBB 12/9⬇️

https://www.bbb.org/us/ma/boston/profile/home-furnishings/rainbows-pottery-studio-llc-0021-512636

💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

Also for shits and giggles the owners Allison Nichols Carroll was on the reality show big brother around 2008, season 9⬇️

https://bigbrother.fandom.com/wiki/Allison_Nichols

.

[too-old-4-toys]

Ayme’s Collection

Stones dream of shapes they might become. The sculptor has but to listen.   -Thurin-Jon

Ayme Peterson was born to paint, but her mother’s ill-advised stance on vaccinations took that away. Struck blind because of the measles and having to learn everything again, she’ll find joy once more for art in clay.

Meet Outfit

Ayme’s meet outfit will consist of a striped rainbow long sleeved shirt, cute denim overalls as well as white trainers splattered in many colors and small “invisible” white socks. 

Her hair will be in a series of long voluminous “messy” red curls which kind overwhelm her (think Disney’s Brave), she comes with a hair clip in the shape of a rainbow. Her eyes will be milky (brown) white.

Meet Accessories

Ayme’s meet accessories will include a fully white cane (the kind with the ball on the end) and a set of raised and colorful stickers to stick to her cane. As well as this, it will also include a colour splashed backpack, a paintbrush shaped pendant and a paintbrush and pallet.

School Outfit

For this outfit, (since she attends a private school for the blind) Ayme will wear a school uniform which resembles a “catholic” school uniform. A brown blazer, a plaid pleated skirt and black dress shoes with white socks. A touch of flair in the form of a rainbow headband with a colorful bird on it.

School Accessories

A copy of Ayme’s art book as well as a braille book (actually works and inside lists the alphabet in braille so you can learn along with Ayme!). Also a blank braille book with a (to her scale) braille slate set (probably blunt and non-functioning) which Ayme uses to “make” her own notes in said book (learning how to in her story at her school).

Fancy Outfit

For a art showing of her sculpture she makes close to the end of her story, Ayme wears a pale pink tulle dress with a rainbow “belt” in the middle and pale pink ballerina style shoes. In her hair she’ll wear two pale pink hair clips. 

Sleepwear

Ayme’s sleepwear is a colour splashed oversized t-shirt dress with short sleeves, on the breast it says “Live Love Art”. Under it are small matching colour pants. It also includes small pink bedroom sandals.

Pet

Ayme has a pet turtle which she named Pollock (after the artist). The turtle is small but to scale and it includes a realistic mini diorama of what a real tank a turtle should be living in.

Big Ticket Item

A art studio with a pottery wheel and mini canvases. The wheel actually moves, a few canvases are included which already have her art from the story but the other’s are blank. It also includes one of her sculptures (the one she goes to a show for). 

Notes

Oh my god I can’t believe people liked Ayme so much they wanted a collection! This is my first attempt and it’s probably horrid but I hope you like it!

[rosalynbair]

Painted Skin | AO3 | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Words: 6124

Warnings: this is smut, so uhhhh yeah. NSFW. Friends to lovers, art student//university au. fluff????  // I’ve been working on this on and off for a month so i’m glad this is finally finished. Aka here’s something that isn’t angst for the first time in a while. Also a huge thank you to @galaxygarbage for hyping this fic because it wouldn’t be done without her.

Ochre and gold leaves with fading and curling tips littered the worn cobblestone of the walkway that wound through the campus buildings of the near-ancient university that was home to so many people.

The late autumn air nipped at the skin of your legs, reminding you that you really should not have worn a skirt so close to winter. The thin olive coloured suede clings to your thighs, the skin rubbing together in anger as your strides were kept short as to not pop the buttons that ran up the front and held the skirt together around your body.

Wind whistles between the old buildings, the leaves whirling in cyclones on the ground until they were crunching under your shoes with each step.

Much like the others on the campus so late in the afternoon, you were huddled within a jacket that wasn't quite weather appropriate, hands shoved into the pockets while your chin was tucked into the neckline of the jacket.

The sun was no longer in the sky, fading into the horizon behind the skyline of buildings and trees to left of you, casting a hazy auburn glow over the campus.

Your classes had been specifically chosen by you for the later hours of the day, allowing you to keep your job at the chain coffee shop near your off-campus housing. The morning rush shift was the only reason you were able to complete a full fine arts degree at a university such as yours. It helped pay rent and was enough to begin to pay back the student loans that would be in your life until you were forty.

One of your timetable classmates held the door open for you, watching you jog awkwardly up the worn steps that so many had tripped on during rushed runs to late classes. You utter a soft thank you as you slow to a walk once in the heated building.

The boy - who you had never bothered to learn the name of - walked beside you, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone where multiple messages came in to what you assumed to be the timetable group chat that you had long since muted in hopes to keep your sanity.

The pale and yellow lit halls were quiet at this time of day, some of the studios had their doors opened to reveal lone students staying later than their classes required or ones who had booked the studios to themselves for guaranteed privacy to practice their craft.

One girl waves at you when you glance into the room on your way by, the room casting a white glow into the hallway from a lamp facing the black paper with a model standing in front of it. You return the gesture with a smile, finally releasing your hands from your pockets to adjust the old yellow backpack that hung from your shoulders.

The wooden and once gorgeously carved stairs you climb are rickety and creak with each step you take. Each step is painted and covered in varnish, all thirty six steps representing a year of graduates. Pretty and faded vines twirl up the railing that your fingers ran along as you reached the second floor.

It sounded like a hoard of elephants running through the building when more than two people walked along the upstairs hallway, their footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell and through to the first floor.

You drop one strap of your backpack off of your shoulder, holding the remaining one as you walk into the room that was somehow considered a classroom.

Portrait covered walls with barely any space left to hang anything, a row of racks that held drying canvases and a low built in shelf on the back wall with an array of pottery and clay sculptures.

Already there were a few students milling around the room, preparing their canvases around a stool near the front of the room where the windows were covered by large blackout curtains.

There was a black sheet resting on the floor, splayed out and taped at the corners with electrical tape until there were no noticeable wrinkles in the fabric under the lights.

A brown stool rested in the middle of the sheet, standing out with it's faded wood that had been sanded smooth recently in hopes to reduce the risk of splinters for the models.

A light was already positioned to the left side, a thin film of foggy white in front of it to diffuse the harsh LED that rested in the stand. There was no backlighting or spotlight, the only source was the single fill light.

Your bag drops onto a chair close to the front, a rickety wooden easel already standing in front of it. It was covered in years of paint, years of failed and successful art that held the blood sweat and tears of previous students.

You walk to the back of the room, grabbing a canvas you had pre-painted white a few days prior at the end of your previous class you had in this room. You set the canvas on the easel, making sure it was in place before grabbing your small paint palette to get the colours you wanted.

"Do you know anything about our model today?" You ask a girl who was standing in front of the organized closet of hanging paint.

Each tube of paint had a little piece of paper beneath it with the swatch of paint and the colour number written on it, organized in a rainbow covering the full three walls.

"He's caucasian with dark hair." She says with a smile, squeezing a little bit of rust brown onto her pallet. "I think he's a student here, but Larson didn't want to say anything else about him."

You nod, looking around at the colours and trying to find some form of pallett that would mix well together for a portrait. "Thanks." You say, finding yourself being drawn to the more monochromatic scheme.

You mix colours on your pallett, an array of beiges and whites, greys and blacks. You took a mental list of the colours you had used, in case you needed to come back for more during the class. When there was a blur of colours taking up most of the space on the clear, plastic surface, you move out of the closet and move towards your canvas once more, eyes catching the dark hair and stark white robe of the model speaking to your professor.

It was only after you had sat down and set your pallet aside that you began to listen to the baritone of the man who would soon be bared before you. Ben Solo.

You should have recognized his lean calves and the dark mop a top his head, or the thin scar that wound up the back of his left ankle, or even just the way he was leaning against the doorframe as if this room was his. As if his presence was the only one that mattered out of the multiple people milling around and preparing themselves for the next two hours.

As the clock reached the top of the hour with a soft tick, Larson looked at her wrist watch before cutting off her sentence to Ben. With a quick word, she steps around him as he turns and pushes himself off of the wall. His smile is quick to his face, his lips crooked and the corners of his eyes lined with crows feet when he spots you.

You return it, although you have an accusing glint to your eye. Ben and you had been friends since your second year when you had shared a general psychology class to fill in that extra Gen-ed timeslot. Two years now, two years of flirting and almost kisses, almost romantic touches.

The timing had never been right, an almost brush of the lips during an emotional breakdown the night before an exam or the gentle squeeze of a hand as he ranted about something his father had said over the phone. Relationships cycled through almost perfectly to clash with any opportunity of finally taking that small step to being together. To admitting defeat and giving into the emotions felt for each other that you both were so quick to deny the existence of.

Flirting was the only thing that satisfied the want of something more, and you feel a small hint of surprise that he hadn’t boasted and bragged about being nude in front of you for class. That you would forever have a signed painting of him naked. It was such a Ben Solo thing to do, but he hadn't. You didn’t even know he knew where this building was on campus.

“I think this is all who is coming today.” Larson says, scratching lines across the names of students who had failed to show up for class. “So we’ll being now, Angela can you close the door?”

The red and orange haired girl stood from her station and slipped past Ben to close the door, pulling the blind down to cover the window and hide the room from any curious peepers that may be interested in looking in. When she sits again, Larson gestures to Ben.

“This is Ben Solo, a fourth year music business student who has been modelling since his first semester here at the university.” She says with a fond smile on her face. “Ben has graciously given up his free time this evening to sit on a stool for you for the next two hours. Please be respectful and remember that this is a professional environment.”

She steps to the side, turning to walk over to the large oak desk that sat in the corner. Behind it on the wall is an array of light switches that never seem to work or be in the right order. Even with the small laminated labels on them, it was hard to figure out which set of lights in the room they matched with. With a few quick flips of each switch, the lights were finally off, leaving the room in darkness other than the bright light coming from the lamp to the side of the stool.

Your eyes find Ben’s figure to the side, the glow of the diffused lamp illuminating his back as he removed the cotton robe. His back was muscular, the planes of his shoulder blades casting shadows across his back as his muscles rippled with movement. The dark shadows that moved along his body as he turned to face you and your peers.

The robe was hanging on an old coat hook behind the sheet that acted as the back wall, barely hidden. No one’s eyes were anywhere other than on Ben, his somehow lean yet broad shoulders and narrow hips taking up everyone’s immediate thoughts.

You drag your eyes away from him when he flashes you another fleeting smile, reaching up to run his fingers through his thick hair. On your canvas, you mark a quick line to reference where the light source was coming from for future reference when you looked back on this for your exam questions.

You look back up to see Ben situating himself on the stool, his right leg being brought up to rest his heel on the edge of the seat. The left leg moved to the side, toes bent to keep him steady. His eyes are open as he positions himself, right knee covering part of his shoulder from view. He holds your gaze as he brings his elbow up to rest on his knee, fingers carding through his hair until his temple rested on the heel of his hand.

His left forearm rested on his thigh, hand laying limp between his legs. When he was finally situated, your eyes rake over his full figure, unable to resist holding them level with his hand and penis between his legs. Although flaccid, he was everything you had thought he would be. Ben definitely lived up to expectations, and you’re not surprised that he had rarely been single in the two years you had been friends with him.

“You may begin, you have until nine to finish. As always the building it open until twelve without a building pass.” Larson tells you all, her voice now dropping to a hushed tone. “Please remember that phones and other devices are not allowed to be used during this time, if you need to use your phone, I ask that you leave the room and do what you need to in the hall. These portraits are due by the next class.”

The sound of near dry brushes running across canvases created a unrehearsed orchestra, your teacher switching on a soft mood playlist from her spotify on her laptop. The volume of music was quiet, the tone and bass of it almost non existent from the old desktop monitors built in speakers.

You moved your brush through the egg white colour, using it as a replacement of the pencils that weren’t allowed to be used. When there was a quick outline of Ben on your canvas, you rub the brush across a paper towel on your thigh before dipping it into one of the pink and white mixes.

His eyes were closed, his lips resting in an easy line. Relaxed, unfazed, as if he didn’t really notice anyone around him. Small beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and chest under the constant assault from the lamp.

As time passed, the beads turned into a film resting over his skin, his fingers flexing every now and then to give the stiff joints a break. You notice the muscles in his thighs tightening, occasionally twitching under the prolonged stillness.

You gave him no definitive features, you didn’t paint his eyes, giving quick outlines of shadows and highlights but letting his face fade into the shadow cast by his nose and hair. Soft rolls of his stomach lined with red and black, the navel that was higher up on his torso was followed by a thin line coarse hair before erupting into a sample patch surrounding his member.

Slightly off colour from the rest of his skin, his cock was tinted pink. Thin veins twisting their way around the spanse of muscle. He was impressive compared to anyone that had been on the stool before. You wonder, momentarily, if that was all there was and he showed, or if there was more. Your eyes can’t help but trace a vein that disappears under the pink tip.

When your eyes come off your canvas to return to Ben, his eyes are open. There’s the smallest hint of a smile on his lips when he catches your gaze again. It’s a gentle look, one of long time, comfortable lovers. You weren’t that. But you smile, a blush staining your cheeks as you return your eyes to the painting of him - but not before you see the smallest twitch of his cock between his legs.

Through the last thirty minutes of the class, you work on the smaller details. Lining the firm biceps and his crooked toes. You can’t control it as the brush returns to between his legs, a pale blue-beige coating the bristles as you blend in the veins. There was no reason for hyper realism, you were trying to keep it simple yet realistic, but with the now cleaned brush blending the colours across the painting, you feel a small sense of pride spread through your chest.

This was your best friend, and you hope you did his beauty justice.

Only the light at the back of the room is turned on, Larson not wanting to blind anyone with the flickering yellow fluorescents after so much time in the dark. Ben was slow to stand from the stool, taking his time to stretch out his stiff joints. Though he turned his back to face everyone, two perfectly perky globes of his ass giving everyone the image they would take home that night.

The robe slides around his back, covering him from view. He turns around again as he knots the sash around his waist, the two ends dangling and brushing his knee lightly.

“Thank you for being a subject again.” Larson says to Ben with a smile, shaking his hand when he comes over to her desk.

“Thank you for putting up with me again.” He replies smoothly, flashing the grin that had the entire volleyball team swooning at him.

His fingers wrap around a half empty plastic water bottle, the sound of it crinkling slightly echoing throughout the room. As people begin to disperse from the room once their brushes were clean and their canvases were set on a rack, you finally set your brush down into the small pot of water that rested against the easel.

Black paint stained the water, creating an even murkier grey cloud before you. You stand, stretching out and letting a chorus of pops release from your spine and shoulders. “You should really go see the chiropractor.” His voice wraps around you smoothly, like the sun after a cloudy day. “It’s free with your tuition.”

You smile, looking over your shoulder to see him standing behind you. “I have no time.” You reply, beginning to discard of what you hadn’t used for that portrait session.

“I’ll book you an appointment right after our next movie night.” Ben tells you, moving to grab the dirty water for you.

He walks with you to the back wall that held a paint covered sink, watching you clean your brushes delicately and with care.

“Your portrait looks nice.” He comments, glancing over to it.

“You’re only saying that because it’s of you.” You tease, grabbing a paper towel to dry off the bristles.

“Perhaps.” He chuckles, dumping the pot of water and rinsing it. “But you look like you took your time and paid attention to detail. I didn’t see anyone else with such a good interpretation of my cock. One guy just painted a black hole.”

“Ahh.” You coo. “The ultimate turn on. Don’t talk to me unless you have the biggest black hole on campus.”

Ben’s laugh is beautiful. It’s deep and melodic. If you ever lost him, it would be what you would miss the most. His gentle laugh that could make the sun shine again, the birds sing their sweet praises when they hear it, your heart fluttered whenever it graced your ears.

“Are you sticking around for a bit?” You ask, packing up your brushes and setting them into your bag with your clean pallet.

“I was going to take you out for burritos whenever you decide you’re finished for the night.” He responds, following you to where you walked to the work desk at the back.

“I’m just going to work on one of my other assignments for an hour or so, and then we can go get food.” You tell him, tugging out a sketchbook from the laptop pocket of your bag. “I have a granola bar if you need something to snack on until then.”

“I’m fine.” Ben tells you, sitting on the chair beside you. His legs are stretched out under the wood table, legs still bare to the cold air of the room. He leans his forearms on the table surface, laying his head on them with his face towards you.

Silence filled the air comfortably, Larson excusing herself and asking you to lock the door on your way out if you left before twelve. Your pencil on the rough paper was the only noise beside the steady breathing of the both of you. Occasionally, one of you would sigh, or Ben would have a drink of his water. When a slight shiver wracks his body, you look over from your concept drawing.

“Maybe you should put some clothes on Solo.” You say, seeing his lips tilt up into a teasing smile.

“Maybe we’ll finally get to third base.” You push at his shoulder with a laugh, though you can’t deny that the thought, and the look in his eyes is appealing.

You look away from him, cheeks rosy as you pick up the pencil you had set down on the table. From beside you, you could hear Ben adjusting on the chair from it’s small squealing and squeaks. From the corner of your eye, you can see his legs moving up onto the table, ankles crossed and the robe slowly sliding down his upper thighs.

His hand is heavy as it rests on your bare knee, his palm hot and clammy against your skin. Ben’s movements along your thigh are slow, barely there. Fingertips tracing outlines of small pictures or mindless designs.

He never moved passed the hemline of your skirt, though he leans closer to you and rests his forehead against your shoulder as his lips press against your bicep. You force the shiver away, though goosebumps raise up over your skin.

You try, try to ignore his advancements. To focus instead on the concept of a painting for your other class, but Ben Solo knows just how to steal your attention and your heart.

“I’ve always thought you were too beautiful to be real. You’re like a sculpture come to life, a goddess stepped out of a painting.” He’s quiet in his confession, sincere.

Your hand stills, pencil pausing mid stroke. You turn your head until you can see his blushing face, his lips pushed out into his signature pout. But he still looked sincere, looked as serious as he was about his feelings towards you.

The pencil is set down on top of the page, body turning to face him fully while your hand rested over top of his much larger on your thigh. You tilt your head in advance, adjusting your shoulder to bring his pouting lips closer to yours.

They’re as soft as you’ve always imagined them to be, it’s like pressing your face into a memory foam pillow. Your lips tilt upwards at the small whimper that bubbles up from his throat. His fingers tighten on your thigh before he twists his wrist to face his palm upwards.

He pulls his hand slowly out from under yours, letting the pads of his fingers trail along your palm and fingers before pressing your palms together and entwining your fingers. Your other hand is running across his shoulder to his jawline, you find your fingers twisting into the roots of his hair, the dark strands soft against your skin.

“Ben.” You mumble meekly, breathless against his lips.

His fingers tighten around yours, his eyes opening slowly to stare at you. You pull away as he pushes himself up, legs coming off of the table to plant his feet firmly on the floor. He hovered over you, your head tilting back to look up at him instead of down from where he had been resting against you.

Ben’s hands slid to hold your waist, tugging you to the edge of your seat and closer to his body. With slightly awkward coordination, he lifts you onto his lap as you use your left foot braced on the floor to swing your right leg over him. Your knees bend until you’re pressed firmly against his thighs, the expanse of muscle clenching beneath you for a moment before relaxing.

His skin against your fingertips is heated, radiating into your entire being until you were filled with warmth. Your hands trail up his arms, feeling the bulge of his forearms and biceps on their excursion upwards. His collarbones are prominent as you brush over them, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. You lean forward, your lips grazing his cheekbone for the shortest of moments that it takes for your fingers to find his hair.

Your palms rest on his cheeks, fingers curling to twist the hair and press into his scalp. A moan comes from Ben, crawling up from his chest at the massaging like motion you started as you move your lips downwards. Across the large nose with a pause to kiss the tip before dropping hesitantly to his lips.

They greeted you softly, stretching ever so slightly into a smile. His head tilting slightly so there was no accidental bumps of your noses. Saliva coated your lips as he deepened the kiss, pressing harder into you as he tilts his hips upwards until you were pressed tightly against his rock hard cock.

An unexpected whimper vibrates against his lips. Ben’s eyes open to look at you as he chuckles at you. The sound going straight down to your damp pussy and causing you to rock your hips downwards.

“Fuck.” Ben hisses, his fingers curling into a claw against your hip. His short nails dig into your thin shirt, most liking leaving little crescent shape indents on your skin.

Short rolls of your hips pressed you against his dick, sliding back down the length before pushing yourself forwards and meeting his hips with yours. The knot of the robe’s sash pressed uncomfortably into your abdomen each time your hips met, but you pressed down harder, your skirt sliding up your thighs with each movement.

His hands slide down from your waist, pushing between your bodies for a moment to pop the snap buttons that held your skirt together around your body. The rectangular fabric fell away from you, the metal buttons clanging slightly against the floor. The seamless cotton underwear you wore was soft against his fingers, his fingertips dipping into the waistband and snapping it slightly.

You tug at his hair you held between your fingers, panting slightly as you feel him begin to untie the sash around his waist. As it released, the robe fell open, revealing him once more to your eyes. You pull away from his face, a small string of saliva connecting you.

Ben’s hands cup your hips, trailing upwards to push your shirt up with his hands. “So beautiful.” He mummers, any sign of his usual teasing behaviour was gone now, replaced now with the man who had been pining after you for most of his college career.

Your cheeks were rosy, the heat between you almost too unbearable. Sweat shined against his skin again, though there was no spotlight on him this time. His hair was wild as you pulled your fingers out of the tresses, trailing them down his cheeks and jaw.

You eyes don’t leave his as you seat yourself against his cock, rubbing his member against your now soaked underwear. His pupils are blown wide, lips parting to release his quick breaths.

“I feel like a fucking teenager.” Ben grumbles, holding your lower back to where it curves to your ass, his other hand grazing gently against your hip and abdomen.

“A teenager getting to third base.” You tease, his tang trails a little lower to push away the thin fabric that acted as the only barrier between you two.

His fingers are calloused, the rough skin dragging across the soft and moisturized skin of your cunt. One stripe downward with his forefinger until it passed over your opening before twisting his wrist to be able to pull it back upwards.

It stills at your swollen clit, barely moving over it as he rubs small circles against it. Shocks sent down your muscles made you curl your toes at the sensation where a small cramp in your foot formed before you tried to relax yourself again to let it dissipate.

Your thighs were tight as you tried to hold yourself still over Ben’s thighs, knees barely on the sides of the chair beside his legs. His finger moves downwards to catch the underside of your clit before dragging it up once more. You could feel your pussy clench at his movements, a whimper echoing throughout the quiet room as you silently beg for his cock to be in you.

“Use your words.” Ben taunts, pausing his ministrations with a smirk on his face. Despite his red and sweating skin, he now had the upper hand on your need.

“I want you to fuck me Ben Solo.” You beg, your hands falling to his broad shoulders and pushing the robe off of them. “Live up to your reputation and fuck me.”

A shiver wracks through Ben’s body, his hand pushing your underwear to the side and using the hand on your back to lower you down. Your hand reaches down to replace his, holding the underwear as his moved to push his dick away from his stomach and positioning it so your hot cunt could sink right down on it.

It was thick, you felt fuller than you ever had. You could feel the ridges and veins pressed against your walls, his tip pushing your cervix up to make room for him. Your eyes meet, his lips parted once more and his eyes hooded from the pleasure that was taking over his body.

“Fuck princess.” He grunts, his hand gliding up to grip your hip tightly. Your shirt was pushed up to the point of being a mock crop top, and as Ben began to guide your hips along his length, you tug the round neckline down until it cradled your breasts.

One more tug and your bra had joined it, leaving your peaked nipples taunting him as you arched your back until you could brace yourself against the table with the heels of your hands.

His mouth is hot around your nipple, teeth gentle as they graze against the hardened bud. His eyes hold yours as you rock your hips, never breaking the hold on each motion. Even when you move at a sudden jerking motion down onto him, his dark eyes hold yours. It was intimate. How public sex in your classroom could be more intimate than in your bed, you didn’t know.

He switches breasts, leaving the first wet and cold as he begins to suck roughly onto the nipple. The mix of nipple play and the thick cock between your legs had a familiar pressure building in your abdomen, tightening your muscles and sending waves of pleasure through your limbs.

“Be--en.” Your voice cracks, your pleasure just hitting the tip of the mountain. One more, just one more thrust and you would be gone.

Ben’s hand stills you, holding you down so you were perfectly seated on him. A whine of frustrated complaints assaults his ears, your hands pushing your body forward so you could cup his face again. The pressure you put into your fingertips against his temple and jaw let him know just how displeased you were, but that didn’t wipe the smug look off of his face.

“Not yet.” He says simply, his lips pressing against your shoulder before he adjusts. “I’ve waited two years to have sex with you, you’re not cumming that quickly.”

Another whine.

He lifts you right off of him, your legs shaky as you attempt to stand. His hands guide you to turn around, lowering your torso over the work table. The chair scrapes against the floor, the old wood creaking beneath him as he stands.

His hands slide up your thighs before reaching between them to push your stance apart. He’s quick to position himself and slip back into you, bottoming out once more. With the new angle, you can perfectly feel the gentle upwards curve of his dick, pushing your walls to accommodate him.

With two quick thrusts, you raise up onto your toes to try to be more at his level. The pleasure you feel vibrates throughout your entire body, his pace lazy but quick. Soft slaps of his hips meeting your ass and the quiet breathing filling the room. Gentle whimpers as his hand reaches around to brush over your clit a few times before pulling away once more.

His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you backwards until your back was arched and you were braced on your forearms.Your nails dig into the table, tits bouncing with each thrust he pushes into you.

He’s consistent with his pace, though good at changing it to fit a rhythm that brings you right to the brink of an orgasm once more. His pace slows as he feels you begin to clench tightly around him, your legs trembling against his.

Your mouth is open in a constant moan, eyes closed. The slight ache of your back was nothing to the pleasure you kept chasing, the one that Ben kept withholding from you.

One more time, he pulls out of you completely. You can feel a mix of his precum and your own building arousal dripping down your thighs.

“Turn around for me, princess.” Ben coos gently, though it was still an order. “Let me see that pretty face of yours when you cum.”

You push yourself up from the table, feeling slight relief in your spine from being able to straighten it again. You turn in his arms, leaning against him as you hold his forearms for support. He guides you to sit on the table, adjusting you as you once more lean against your forearms. His hands slide down your thighs, cupping the backs of your knees to pull you forward. Your knees rest on either side of his ribs, cunt facing upwards towards him.

Ben steps forward, leaning over you with one hand placed firmly beside your hip as he guides himself into your hot pussy again. His eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments to get used to the feeling of you around him once more.

The sound of skin against skin is loud, his breaths mingling with it easily. He looked like a greek sculpture above you, his eyes dark and his teeth bared as he watches you. His hair is damp with sweat, hanging in clumps where it didn’t stick to his forehead and cheeks.

His moans and grunts are heavenly, mixing with your soft whimpers and moans of his name beautifully. You can’t help but reach down to mix the sweat on your skin with the slick from your mixed arousals onto your clit.

You jerk upwards slightly as you work your neglected bud, sharp shocks of pleasure going straight to your abdomen and mixing with those of his cock hitting your cervix roughly repeatedly.

Each thrust, each moan from his lips sent you closer and closer to your peak once more. Silently, you beg that he’ll let you cum this time. Let you cum all over him. Your cheeks are hot, hotter when he leans forward and fans you with his panting breaths.

“Please.” You whisper, voice hoarse as you beg for your release.

He nods, holding your gaze again. He doesn’t break it as he leans forward to kiss you. His lips pressed hard against yours, his eyes never wavering as he watches your orgasm take over your body.

Your eyes flutter shut, mouth pulling away from his to release a moan of his name. The muscles in your abdomen are tight, legs wrapped firmly around him and holding him against you. His thrusts don’t stop, but they’re quicker and shorter as he begins to chase his own orgasm.

Yours doesn’t fade during his final moments, his thrusts keeping you bathing in the pleasure he had given you. His mouth drops to yours a final time as his body stills, muscles spasming through his orgasm.

Thick ropes of cum fill you to the brink, barely being contained in your cunt as it joins the sweat covering your inner thighs. He’s slow to pull out of you, easing himself out of your still-clenched pussy.

Ben blinks slowly, a small smile forming on his lips as he lets out a low chuckle as he takes you in. Your shirt was splotched with sweat, thighs a mess of his cum. Charcoal and paint decorated parts of your skin, the table having not been wiped down properly before he had set you on it.

“See?” He asks, his smile forming into a shit eating grin that could only be described as Ben Solo. “You’re as pretty as a picture, even prettier probably.”

Your already rosy cheeks heat up with a dark blush, eyes trailing after him while he grabs some of the paper towel off of the side counter.

He’s gentle as he wipes you down, using a damp paper towel to wipe the paint and black charcoal from your skin. He wipes between your legs, and then removes the sweat from your face and neck, making sure to get the back of your neck.

“Get dressed.” You mummer, pushing yourself up onto your weak legs to pick up your skirt. “I’m hungry, and you promised burritos.”

Tag list: @galaxygarbage @oh-adam @tonguepopperr @damagedren@big-saber-energy @just-another-starwars-fangirl @ayatimascd @ravenj84 @buckyslittlekitten @lumifuer @secretlygrantaire@sdavid09 @bellaren18 @lunavegasverse (I don’t have a taglist for Ben so I just used everyone from the Kylo and general taglist)

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