#the glaze will be much more vibrant when fired

[existentialcrisistime]

Had a very normal pottery painting session today lads o:) Turns out the blobs are very fun/instinctive to paint with goopy pottery glaze

[sleekervae]

New York Romantic .1

Masterlist

pairing: Tom Blyth x ballerina!oc

summary: a young actor moves across the hall from an aspiring ballerina. (college au kinda)

word count: 1562

a/n: i've had this idea knocking around in my brain for a few days and finally got to penning it down -- enjoy!

August 2016

The sun stretched its golden rays across the morning sky in New York City, the last embrace of summer's fading heat lingered in the air. The city bustled under a whispering breeze that carried the promise of change, as tree leaves, once adorned in vibrant green, began their slow transformation into a canvas of crimson and gold. Amidst the streets, a serene anticipation filled the air, capturing the essence of a city transitioning as the summer activities came to a close and the kids were dreading the return to school.

The wheels on Tom's luggage clacked against the cracks and bumps in the concrete sidewalk, bleary and tired eyes scanning between his phone and the address placards on the various condos. He knew he should've taken a cab, but the bus was so much cheaper and Google indicated it was only a five minute walk to his new living quarters anyway.

He finally stopped in front of a brick building, the address placard worn and rusted from the elements but the numbers matched up with that on his itinerary. The other cue that gave it away was the variety of art pieces in windows and hung over bannisters and fire escapes. Tom lugged his bag up the three stone steps and ducked inside.

The lobby was pale, dingy and in dire need of a fresh coat of paint; not to mention the air held hints of mothballs and burnt microwaved popcorn. An older woman was sat behind a desk, reclined in her chair while glazed eyes were focused on her computer screen. Tom approached slowly, hoping his smile could cover the exhaustion hiding in his face.

"Hello,"

The woman's eyes were the last to focus when she turned her head, blinking over her glasses and a warm smile graced her face, "Oh, hello! You must be... erm..." she suddenly grabbed a clipboard and scanned the tiny text, "... Jacob Nielson?" she spoke in the classic Brooklyn accent with exaggerated vowels and nasally undertones.

"No," he shook his head politely, "My name's Tom. Blyth," he replied.

She scanned her list with her pen, gasping aloud when she found his name, "I see, now! Very nice to meet you, my name's Doris -- I'm the super here. You're my renter from London, right?"

"Yeah. Well -- Yorkshire specifically,"

"I didn't do so well in geography, honey. Have mercy," Doris replied as she stood up, heading for the wall of cubbies behind her, "So tell me, which insane asylum are you checking into?"

" -- Excuse me?"

"What school are you attending?" she asked again, her fingers flourishing across the cubbies.

Tom nodded, "I'm starting at Julliard next week. I'm an actor," he replied.

Doris scoffed, "Yeah? You and everybody's dog, honey," she pulled a key from a specific slot and returned to the desk, "But you got a nice face, maybe you'll luck out,"

Tom wasn't sure whether or not he should've taken that as a compliment, so he simply smiled back and accepted the key, "Um, thank you,"

"You're on floor three, room 14. Your roommate should already be moved in, he can give you a tour of the place," she explained, "If you need anything, leaky faucets fixed and whatnot just come down and see me,"

"Thank you, Doris," he took his bag and started for the elevator on the right of the room, but Doris called out to him again.

"Hold on, handsome! Elevator's broke! Hasn't worked since Giuliani was mayor," she pointed to the left, "Stairs are over there,"

Tom huffed under his breath; he was tired and the last thing he wanted was to lug his suitcase up three flights of stairs. Nevertheless, he gave Doris one more polite grin as he started for the staircase.

The sun cast stark patterns across the stairs, the skewed silhouettes of the window panes interrupted by Tom's own shadow as he made his trek up. He hadn't at first registered the thundering of footsteps above him until a group of kids rushed passed him.

"C'mon! We're gonna miss the bus!" The stairwell was relatively narrow, arms and bodies knocking into Tom until he nearly slipped and his grip loosened on his suitcase. The suitcase went tumbling down the stairs, smacking hard against the opposing wall and the latches burst open. His belongings spilled everywhere.

Tom grumbled to himself, trekking down the stairs again to clean up the mess. One of the kids however hung back, trailing behind her group but she'd witnessed Tom's misfortune. She double backed up the stairs, staring in astonishment at the clothes and knick knacks, then at him.

"Jesus, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

Tom was crouched over the ground when he looked up, coming face-to-face with the concerned expression of a young brunette. She was lean and petite, dressed down in denim shorts and black tank top. Her converse had two different coloured laces, one red and one yellow. He found that peculiar.

"I'm alright," Tom assured her, "If this is the worst thing that happens to me today, then it's not such a bad day, right?" he tried to laugh it off.

The girl simpered, "Sure," nevertheless she crouched down to help him. One of her friends called out from below.

"Noelle! C'mon! We're gonna miss the bus!" she shouted.

The girl -- Noelle -- shouted back, "Go ahead, Bianca! I'll catch up with you guys!"

"But the movie starts in an hour! It's take forty five minutes from here, man!"

"It's twenty minutes of previews, anyways!" she turned back to Tom, her cheeks tinting bashfully, "Sorry about that,"

"Don't worry. You should go with your friends, I'll be fine," he replied.

Noelle scoffed, "Can I trust you with a secret?"

"Sure,"

"I hate horror movies,"

Tom smiled, "And lemme' guess: they're going to see a horror movie?"

"Don't Breathe. Some kids break into a blind guy's house and he ends up killing them all and quite frankly -- I can go my whole life without more nightmares," she replied, a coy smile playing at her lips.

"Don't half blame you. I'm not the biggest fan, myself," he said, "Do you live here?"

"Yep. That nutcase shouting at me was my roommate," she replied, "Sorry, I didn't get your name,"

"Tom,"

"Very nice to meet you. I wish it was under better circumstances," she chuckled back.

"Don't worry about it -- Noelle," he grinned.

She helped him clean up and pack his things, leading him back upstairs to his room. He assured her he could manage but Noelle insisted, saying it was the least she could do for his trouble.

"Room 14?" she cocked a brow when he told her, the corners of her lips pulling back to bare her clenched teeth.

"Yeah. What's wrong?" Tom asked apprehensively, "I don't have a serial killer for a roommate, right?"

Noelle shook her head, "No, no, you get Sunny. And he's just like his name -- absolute sunshine human being,"

"... I sense there's a 'but' coming," he trailed.

"He's a scholarship violinist, he's brilliant. And he's so brilliant because he practices at all hours of the night," she explained, "... All hours. You might wanna invest in some noise cancelling ear plugs,"

Tom nodded, relieved that at least his new roomie didn't sound like a dickhead, "Thanks for the advice,"

They stopped in front of the door, a worn brass 14 glinting subtly in the light. Tom fished out the key from his pocket, "I guess this is me,"

"Oh, damn," Noelle huffed, glancing at the door across from them, "You get the insane neighbours,"

His eyes flitted between her and the door, "... Whatcha' mean by that?"

Noelle pulled a key from her pocket, "Well, they're dancers for one. So they're always playing music, talking shit, burning their instant noodles because they're half-daft," with that she shoved the key into the lock and twisted, and sure enough the door opened.

Tom glanced at her, sheer amusement crossing over his face. He simpered under his breath, "You're my half-daft dancer neighbour who burns her instant noodles?"

"Unfortunately for you," she confirmed, half smirking.

"And how does one burn their instant noodles?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it," she closed and locked the door again, "But I'll let you get settled in. If you need anything at all, you can just pop over,"

"Thank you, Noelle," he smiled, "And thanks again for --" he stopped suddenly when he heard a faint violin melody from the other side of his door. It was a beautiful melody nonetheless, and it had him intrigued, "I suppose that's my roommate?"

Noelle nodded back, "Yep. I promise you, he's a sweetheart," she started walking backwards towards the stairwell, "I'm sorry again about earlier,"

"Don't give it a second thought. Have fun at your movie," he replied.

She giggled sardonically, "Oh trust me, I'll have a blast. I'll see you around, Tom,"

Tom gave her a small wave, watching her until she disappeared around the corner, could hear her shoes squeaking as she trotted down the stairs. He couldn't deny he found her quite a looker, a small part of him giddy with excitement at the prospect of getting to know his new neighbour. The violin melody continued to play on the other side of the door, and taking a deep breath for confidence, he pushed the key into the lock and opened the door...

[k00294033]

Movement

Ceramics workshop Glazing 26th of February 2024

Today I attended the second ceramics workshop which focused on the decoration and glazing of the bisque-fired pieces from the previous workshop.

I found that all my pieces had come out of the kiln in good shape, a few of the ones I had joined with slip had cracked a bit but I didn't think it affected the piece too much.

We began with a demo of how to apply the underglazes well and after that, it was pretty much getting to work. For the colour scheme of my aerodynamic organic shapes, I decided I wanted to keep it vibrant, so I kept to a bright blue, red, and yellow palette. My plan for these, when they are fired, is to have them move and create aerodynamic movement, so I felt keeping a striking colour palette would work well with these pieces. I really like how they came out and I look forward to when they are glazed.

For my more textured pieces, I felt a more free-handed approach would suit the work. I would just use a bit of underglaze and then use water to let the colour settle into the lines and details.

I feel this worked particularly well on the pieces with the black underglaze, as it gave it the worn mechanic feel which then loops back to the aerodynamic movement.

[schwartz6930]

The Timeless Elegance of Porcelain Dishes: A Complete Guide

Porcelain dishes have been a staple of fine dining and home decor for centuries. Not only are they beautiful to look at, but they are also incredibly durable and can last for years with proper care. Porcelain dishes can be a great addition to any home, adding a touch of sophistication and class to any kitchen. Whether you’re looking for a set of fine china or a more casual set of everyday dishes, porcelain is a great choice.

History of Porcelain Dishes

Porcelain has been around for centuries and was first developed in China during the Tang dynasty (618-907 A.D.). The Chinese called it “white gold” due to its rarity and beauty. As the popularity of porcelain grew, it spread to other countries, such as Japan, Europe, and the United States. Today, porcelain dishes are still a popular choice for those who appreciate their timeless beauty and durability.

Porcelain Manufacturing Process

Porcelain is made from clay, feldspar, and quartz. The clay is mixed with water and shaped into molds that are then fired in kilns at temperatures of up to 2000°F. This process sets the clay, allowing the creation of intricate designs. Once the design has been created, it is glazed and fired again to seal the design and make it durable. The glazing process can also be used to create a variety of colors, from plain white to more vibrant shades.

Types of Porcelain Dishes

There are a few different types of porcelain dishes. The most common is bone china, which is made from bone ash, clay, and quartz. This type of porcelain is strong and durable, making it perfect for everyday use. Fine china is another type of porcelain, but it is much more delicate and should be used for special occasions. Finally, there is porcelain-enameled ware, which has a glossy finish and is usually found in the form of cookware.

Care and Maintenance of Porcelain Dishes

It’s important to take proper care of porcelain dishes to ensure that they last for years to come. Porcelain can be easily scratched and chipped, so it’s important to use a soft cloth and mild detergent when washing them. It’s also important to avoid using harsh chemicals, abrasive cleaners, or scourers, as these can damage the surface. Finally, it’s best to avoid putting them in the dishwasher, as the harsh detergents and high temperatures can cause damage.

References

porcelain dishes

Conclusion

Porcelain dishes are a timeless choice that can add a touch of elegance to any home. Not only are they beautiful to look at, but they are also incredibly durable and can last for years. With proper

[fanaura]

eye-opening part 3 ≋ ▫ᵒᴼᵒ▫▫·(nsfw)

part 1

part 2

neteyam x omaticayan!reader - in neteyam's POV

synopsis: neteyam and y/n's tension finally come to a head

content warnings: explicit sexual content, loving neteyam putting her pleasure over himself, characters are aged up ofc, roughly 1.2k words

The kiss roused something in me. My mind rushed and my stomach was bouncing around inside me, making me feel sick with excitement The feeling of her bottom teeth slightly grazing my lip. It was desperate, yearning. Slow. So painfully slow and so electrifyingly good. It was waves crashing down in a storm, a blazing fire burning through my viens, warming my body and gnawing at my conciousness. I was more awake than I had ever been.

Her fingers were in my hair, her lips on mine. My tongue pressed at her sealed lips, asking for permission like someone knocking on a door, asking to be let in. The moan she let out when she opened for me made my arms around her waist tighten in response. I groaned. I was afraid to let go. Afraid that if I let up even marginally, she would slip away in an instant, leaving my soul empty like a home destroyed.

We ended up kneeling on the soft ground, both of us trembling in restraint. We were chained by ourselves, by each other, not wanting to rush it. I put both my hands on the hollow of her neck and pulled back. Her eyes were glazed with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I gulped, mouth so dry, wanting her lips back on mine.

“Are you… sure?” I asked, chest heaving. My arms and shoulders were tense, trying to distract myself from the hardness that was forming below. I wanted to - no, had to - know she wanted it as much I did. And god- I wanted it so bad it hurt. She gave me a soft smile that I was everything I needed to know, confirming it with a breathless “yes. I’m sure.” I dipped my head, placing tentative kisses along her neck and collarbone, not really knowing what I was doing, but from the purrs and hums coming from y/n’s beautiful mouth, I guessed I wasn’t doing too bad a job.

With my hand on the small of her back, I guided her down so she was lying on the ground, making sure she was comfortable as I planted my arms on either side of her, trailing kisses down her body. I rose up a little bit, slowly untying the cloth covering her breasts, chucking it away lightly. She slightly arched her back off the ground, she was so breathtaking I was dizzy. I kissed her again, this time leaving kisses all the way down her body until I reached her loincloth. I looked up at her from my position, a silent question in my eyes. She nodded, and the small piece of fabric was gone in a second.

I needed to take a second. Just to look at her. I couldn’t believe she was real. I am convinced Eywa has sculpted every aspect about her to be perfect. Not just to me, but to anyone and everyone that is blessed to be near her. Her slender naked body shone in the vibrant light of the flora and fauna, and I couldn’t help but feel like she was letting me in on a secret, a piece of information she kept that only I was now allowed to know. It is new to both of us, this moment we share, the things we feel. It feels right. It feels like… home.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All week, you were all that filled my mind,” I said, my mouth to her dripping pussy. My first instinct is to lick all of her juices up, to lick her clean. It seems right, so I do exactly that.

“Is this okay?” I asked, continuing my work while grabbing her thighs and putting them over my shoulders, settling down into a comfortable position.

“ohmy- Neteyam,” she moans, her hands diving into my hair and gripping the braids.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then” I chuckled, continuing to work my tongue on the outer of her sex, dragging long swipes down her centre, then smaller ones.

I experiment. I decide that the way my girl jerks and trembles when I play with the small bud at the apex of her thighs is a good thing, so I continue to work with that, sucking it into my mouth and swirling circles around it, watching for her reaction. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she cried out. I smirked in growing confidence.

Her moans are like music to my ears, I can’t get enough. I palm one of her breasts in my right hand, her nipple peaked and hard against it. I move the same hand to where my tongue is, except I use my index finger to enter the wet hole at my face. Her gasp is loud, and becomes a moan directly after. Good, I was worried I was I was hurting her. Her hips undulate, rocking back and forth as I move my fingers inside of her and used my tongue on her clit, begging - demanding - more.

I speed up. More and more by the second, causing my girl to yelp and bite her own hand, to which I grab and pull away. “Don’t hold back, let me hear it,” her face was knotted together pleasure taking over her features as I kept going. She bit her bottom lip, hard, before crying out her satisfaction, choking and gasping on her own gratification.

“That’s it, you’re so wet. Only for me.”

“Shut up,” she huffed in gasping breaths, her whole body tense, grip locked in my hair. The small hurt sent pleasure to the already rock hard bulge under my loincloth, throbbing. The muscles in her neck strained as she scratched her nails down my back.

“F-faster,” she stuttered, her stomach convulsing. I went as fast as I could, pumping in and out of her with my fingers, tongue working in tandem.

“Neteyam!!” she yelped, shaking as she reached the pinnacle of pleasure, reaching her high. I slowed down, lapping up every bit of liquid she gave me, desperate for her, for anything she was willing to give me.

She lay there, panting, and I forced myself to move away from her swollen pussy, coming up so I was eye-level with her face. I kissed her, long and deep, while she still shivered underneath me. She watched me, her eyes still hazy with lingering desire.

“Neteyam. I want you,” She whispered in my ear, kissing my jaw, the crook of my neck, my damp chest.

I grinned, “slow down, my girl. I am yours and you are mine. We have all the time in the world,” I lightly brushed my lips against hers, feeling her cool breath, her face glowing like our moons in eclipse.

“I see you,” she said quiety. My heart ached with all the love in her voice, at how much she cared.

“I see you,” I replied. I was a full troph of water, overflowing with the affection I had felt for so long, that was always there, in the background, persisting around me and my soul like a promise.

We were made for each other. My home, my solace, my release in amongst the madness. Nothing and no one could get in between us. Not now, not ever.

taglist: @fluloa @slxttedjakesullyenthusiast @s1enn409

[mhysa-leesi]

𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝑅𝒾𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐻𝑜𝑜𝒹

Pairing: Dark Alpha!Bucky Barnes 𝒳 (femme) Omega!Reader 🐺. 

Summary: “To keep your small village protected from would-be attackers, presented Omegas must be sacrificed to the mysterious Alpha in the woods.” 

Word Count: 3,514

TW‼: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Smut, Hunting/Stalking, A/B/O Themes, Forced Bonding, Loss of Virginity, Strong Language, and Mentions of Blood and Human Sacrifice. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼ 

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption--you and only you are. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

AN Cont.: If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION. 

A cold wind blew in from the north, making the trees rustle like living things. It was growing colder with every passing day as winter began its arrival. Yule had transformed the fiery hues of autumn twilight to sparkled, frosted mornings and bitter winds. You went to the window. A fine glimmer of glossy frost formed intricate swirls on the glass, as sparkling snow softened the outside world into one flurry. 

You looked on as the pale, cold light of winter moonrise illuminated your village as the townsfolk worked under the stars to prepare for the Winter Solstice. You couldn’t help but frown as you watched them place green garland on the fringes of rooftops, and light candles that led into the dark forest, in the shape of carved wolves. This time last winter, you were home with your family; sitting fireside as you and your younger siblings drank sweetened milk and almond honeyed toast. Life had been colorful, full of vibrant greens, warm reds, and soft dusky blues. Now, it was nothing but a black and white night of frost that crawled along the dark outline of barren trees and twig branches. Snowflakes swirled down gently in the ghostly moonlight, and iced shadows crept along the December ground. 

“(Y/N)?” a small voice called out from behind. 

You turned as Gervaise came to stand next to you, peering out at the snowfall that drifted against the window. Gervaise had been your closest friend since childhood, she had been a plump girl in her youth, but now she was the most beautiful woman in your village. She had long legs that complemented her slender figure, golden hair that shone under sunlight, and azure eyes as blue and clear as the sky itself. 

She shivered against the winter-cold that seeped into your bones as she neared the frosted windowpane, “Aren’t you cold?” she asked. 

You scoffed, “Warmer than I would be out there.” 

Truth be told, you were burning from the inside out. A sheen sweat had started to form between your breasts and all of your folds and creases. Gervaise scooted closer and you unthinkingly flinched away, her heat was rolling off of her in waves and the strong scent of her made you lightheaded as tangs of jasmine, rose, and orange blossom overwhelmed your senses. 

You moved away as you looked into the room you were being kept in. Women close in age all slept soundly with soft snores, their heated scents interlacing with one another to form a jumbled mess of musk, amber, bergamot, and warm sugar. It was a synchronous heat amongst the presented Omegas in preparations for the village’s annual sacrificial solstice to the White Wolf. 

Gervaise nudged your shoulder teasingly, “It won’t be so bad tomorrow, (Y/N),” she tried. 

You rolled your eyes, “We’re being sacrificed, Gervaise! How can it not be so bad?”

Her small smile fell as the weighted truth of your words settled on her shoulders, “I’m sorry… I was just trying to make light of it all.” 

“I know,” you sighed, “You can’t make light of this, there’s too much darkness.” 

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You awoke hours later to the soft murmurs of falling tears as mothers dressed their daughters in traditional white hoods. White, the color of purity, innocence. You scoffed--the virgin’s color. Your own mother came to your bedside, a hood in hand and an expectant look in her eyes. You rubbed your cold feet together and reluctantly dressed. 

“It’s not as bad as it seems, my love,” she spoke as she combed your hair. 

You looked at the other Omegas in the room, most of whom you’ve grown up with. Idony, Meliora, and Sabine. You teared. You and your siblings used to play with Sabine as children. Idony taught you to weave dolls out of straw and vines. And you and Meliora would harvest wild strawberries together in early summer after long hours at the lake. The thought of never seeing either of them after today was heart-wrenching. 

Your mother placed the hood over your head and tucked away stray hairs behind your ears as she took one last, tearful, look at you. She placed a gentle kiss on your forehead and took your hands in hers, pressing a small vial against your palms. 

“Put this on once you’re away from the others,” she whispered against your hair, “It’ll hide your scent for a short time, then make your way across the stream, you’ll be safe there until the ceremony is over.” 

Before you could ask more, the village mayor entered and ordered you and the other Omegas out into the square. The ceremony had officially begun. 

Gervaise squeezed your hand as the mayor lit the great Yule log, the candles sculpted as white wolves. You looked around; Idony was pale in the face, Meliora shed silent tears as she held her hands in prayer, and Sabine’s chest rose and fell in shallow, frightened breaths. You held the vial tight in your hand as you stood stoic; though your pounding heart told another story. 

The bells of the church began to toll as midnight quickly approached. The first toll the mayor led you all down the candlelit path that led into the mouth of the forest, the second toll you and the other Omegas were left alone as the full moon shone down on you from above, the third toll was followed by an echoed howl and the beats of your feet as you all ran through the thicket. 

You ran and ran until it was only you, the full moon, and the trees. You stopped to rest against a frosted tree, your lungs burned with biting ice as you panted; your breaths coming out as vapored clouds that wisped around your head. You quickly took the vial and rubbed the liquid over your scent glands. The synthetic scent of cracked pepper, spiced ginger, decayed pear, and rotting leaves all toiled together to mask your natural, sweet and warm odor. You took a moment to calm your beating heart and collect your thoughts before bolting through the treeline. You needed to find Gervaise before the perfume wore off. 

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Bucky watched from the shadows as he tracked a pretty, golden-haired Omega. Her scent wasn’t unpleasant, but it didn’t ignite a fire deep within his groin, either. He followed the floral scent trail of this next best woman as she wandered aimlessly through the dense grove of pine. The woman’s face was rosy and tear-stained as the cold bit her cheeks and nose. It was pathetic, really. How she sniffled and hiccupped as she held herself against the winter winds or when she tripped and slipped over iced snowdrifts. Bucky was about to make his move when a sweet scent, carried on an icy breeze, caught his attention. The blood in his veins burst into flames as a deep desire awoke in him. Primal lust took over as he abandoned his former prey to hunt for the next. He bounded through the woods, ducking under long branches, and leaping across overgrown oak roots. It was the wildness of it that sent Bucky into a feral frenzy, in all of his years protecting this paltry village, he’d never scented anything as sweet and enthralling as this. Spun sugar, vanilla bean, patchouli, and white pumpkin with caramel glaze. His teeth ached as he took in the sweetness of your scent. 

When Bucky finally found you, you were breathless and flushed with heat. Your hand on your stomach as a wave of tightness in your belly coiled and coiled. He scented the air, then. Groaning as he caught wind of your musky-sweet tang. The front of his buckskin breeches tightened uncomfortably as his rut took hold of his body. He wanted you, so he’d have you. 

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You whimpered as your cramps inflamed your insides. You were on fire, despite the bitter winter cold. You shed your wolf pelt that hung over your shoulders and loosened the front laces of your bodice, as you slumped against the nearest tree and focused on slowing your racing heart. The faster you calmed down, the faster you’d be able to find Gervaise and get across that damned stream to safety. 

Just as your heart began to slow, a heady scent brought on iced winds set it back into panicked motion. An amber woody fragrance, with nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood ensnared your forebrain. You were frozen, scared like a hunted doe as you took in the masculine scent that seemed to scream “Alpha”. 

Bucky watched as you looked around, trying to pinpoint his hiding spot. His heart skipped a beat in excitement as you took off into the thicket, leaving your pelt behind on the snowy ground. He chased you, then. Too focused on the hunt to worry about cornering you, too focused on you. He’d chase you down until you fainted from exhaustion if he had to. 

You were faster than he expected, more agile and hellbent on escaping him than you had appeared to be. He felt an odd sense of pride as he watched you nimbly dodge and duck under and over every branch and uprooted oak that came into your way. But Bucky had the advantage, this was his territory, not yours. He knew his hunting grounds, not you. So when you came to a skidded stop at a broken bridge, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. But what did surprise him was the little snarl that left you before you broke away from him once more. 

You ran and ran until your feet were numb with cold and your lungs frosted over with every breath you took. He was close, too close, and you were forced to abandon the plan on crossing the stream to safety. Gods--you didn’t even know where you were anymore. You could be going in circles and you’d be none the wiser, everything looked the same in this untouched part of the wood. You berated yourself for straying from the path, now you were lost, alone, and being hunted. You began to cry as you thought of your fate, you didn’t want to be sacrificed, you just wanted to go home back to your family. Back to your life. 

You were ready to give up, your feet were tired, legs weakened, and your chest burned from the cold. You fell to your knees and looked up to the full moon, exhaustion taking over your thoughts. You were desperate and didn’t have the energy to be surprised at yourself when you began to pray to the moon above. 

“Gods above… Please, please, let me live and I’ll devote myself to you. My heart, mind, soul, and body, please,” you prayed. 

Just as you were about to laugh at yourself for your foolishness, a flickering candlelight in the nearby distance caught your eye. You mindlessly followed the light that pierced through the dense darkness of night, like a moth to a flame. As you got closer, you saw the lantern-light belonged to a small cottage fringed with winterberries and garland. You were uplifted as you believed the gods had answered your prayer. Without a second thought, your feet began to move on their own through the snow as you raced toward the home. You knocked once, then twice, then thrice. When there was no answer, you apologized to whatever being had heard you pray, before turning the brass doorknob and welcoming yourself inside. 

The warmth of a crackling fire embraced you posthaste as you closed the door behind you. You made your way to the fireplace, rubbing your hands over the flame as you warmed yourself. The house was eerily silent as you looked around. You saw the carved candles from your village on the mantelpiece, vases of starry blue, pale pink, and white glory of the snow, and bright yellow winter jasmine were placed on the tabletops, and garland with holly flowers was wrapped around the railing of a small staircase that led upstairs. You made your way up the stairs as curiosity led you on. You called out for the owner of the home once again as you reached the top, but to no avail; the house was empty. 

You crept along the creaking floorboards into a small room, illuminated by a single lantern with frosted glass windows. You explored the room. There was a bed, with an oak headboard, and thick, grey, and brown wolf and bear pelts. You sat down on the edge of the bed with a soft bounce as you rested your tired feet. Ahead of you was a wooden chest with intricate images of Yule logs, goats, and boars. Something deep within your gut urges you to go to it, to open it, and look upon its secrets; but the feeling made you uneasy, it made you afraid of what you'd find. 

But you knew better than to ignore your gut, so you went to it, opened it, and looked upon its secrets. You nearly screamed as you pulled forth white hood, after white hood, after white hood. Your hands shook as you emptied the chest, white hoods covered the ground like the snow outside. There were more hoods than you could count, most of them much older than you. You sobbed as you slammed the chest shut, too focused on the white hoods before you to notice the slithering notes of amber, nutmeg, vanilla, and sandalwood that now threatened to constrict, and swallow you whole. 

Your body sensed him before your mind did, your hairs stood on end, and your core tightened with primal, animalistic want. You only recognized his imposing presence after it was too late. Your throat dried as you slowly turned around to face the Alpha from the woods. He stood in the doorway, shirtless and steaming, as his heat fought against the cold of winter. To say he was big, would be an understatement. He was wordless as he strode toward you with an urgency driven by desire. You shuffled away, sobbing as he quickly crawled atop of you, trapping you beneath him. You fought against him, slapping and scratching his chest and face as he buried his face in your neck. Deeply inhaling your sickly sweet scent. 

“I wonder if you taste as sweet as you smell, ‘Mega,” he said as he nipped the lobe of your ear. 

Your heart dropped as he ripped at your bodice like an animal, tossing the ruined fabric aside as he bared your breasts to the air. The Alpha brushed his lips against your neck, your jaw, and mouth as he tasted you. You had never been kissed before, the feeling of it all was foreign as you felt his tongue explore your mouth. You squirmed as he palmed your breast, his thumb flicking and pinching over your sensitive nipple. Bucky let out a low snarl of disapproval as you tried to wriggle away from him, and when you ignored his warning, he bit down on your nipple. You yelped and beat against his back, clawing and punching as you flailed and thrashed. In your struggle you managed to slip out from underneath his body. Then, it was a desperate fight of him dragging you by your ankles, and you kicking wildly and blindly. With luck you landed a strong kick to his face that bloodied his nose. You ran, then. Practically flying down the flight of stairs as you made a beeline for the front door--to your freedom. You felt the cold snow on your toes as one foot met the icy ground, but the other foot was caught. 

You fell on your face as Bucky dragged you back into his house. Blood stained his face and a dangerous fire was reflected in his blue eyes. He took you by your neck and forced you down onto the staircase, entrapping you under his weight. Your legs kicked out as he forced himself between your thighs, he snarled again, keeping a tight grip on the back of your neck. He ripped away the remaining pieces of your clothes, ridding you of the white garments, of your innocence, your purity.

He lifted your hips and placed a strong hand on your back, forcing you into an arch. You yipped as you felt a wet warmth lick up your sex. You tried to curl away, but his grip on you was strong and firm. A heat bloomed within your gut as Bucky dipped his tongue between your wet folds, fucking you with his hot tongue. Your brain hazed over as he stroked and rubbed your sweet spot of concentrated pleasure with his thumb. He was devouring you, and you felt your resolve melt away with every delicious flick and swipe of his tongue. You moaned and allowed yourself to arch into his mouth, desperately seeking more pleasure. You ground your cunt on his face and moaned at the feeling of him tightly gripping your hips as he gave you what you wanted--needed. 

You clawed at the stairs beneath you as your voice grew shrill, the coil in your belly was beginning to unravel with every lick. Bucky felt you stiffen as he brought you to the edge of your pleasure, he sank his tongue deep inside you until he finally felt you shudder hard against him. You cried out as you came on his tongue, pure white fire ignited in your veins, consuming your thoughts, and burning away any fight you had left. The aftershocks of your pleasure left you shaking and wanting. 

Without warning, Bucky buried his thick length in you with one hard stroke; mercilessly tearing through your untouched barrier. For a moment there was only a burning pain as he forced himself deeper. He pulled out a few inches, and then slammed back into you. Again and again. The Alpha above you howled with pleasure as he rutted into you hard and fast. You looked over your shoulder and moaned as you watched his narrow hips thrust against you. His eyes met yours and he bared his teeth as he indulged in his animalistic pleasure. With your mouth agape you felt another spark of pleasure ignite within you, you cried out for him, then, begging him to stoke the fire that threatened to burn, to consume you. 

Your scents bled together, creating the beginning knot of your bond; his sandalwood and vanilla notes, duetting your patchouli and caramel glaze in perfect harmony. You whined as he pulled out of you, leaving you empty and clenching. He flipped you onto your back, spreading your weak legs wide as he entered you once more. He reached places that had you blaspheming as you chanted his title like a prayer. 

Alpha, Alpha, Alpha… 

He added fuel to your evergrowing fire as he reached down to your bundle of nerves, rubbing firm circles as he fucked into your wet cunt. He kissed you again, your lips following his lead as he claimed your mouth with his tongue. You moaned as you tasted yourself on him. His lips trailed down your jaw, peppering wet kisses down your body until he reached the scent gland on your neck. He scented you, then. A low growl left his chest as the base of his cock swelled, your pussy constricting in turn. Your howling moans clashed in dissonance as he pushed you over the edge into white-hot pleasure. Bucky thrusted into you, harder, faster, as his pleasure grew and grew until it finally exploded. As his warmth flooded you another sensation sent your senses into hyperdrive--his teeth sinking into your neck. Your arms and legs instinctively wrapped around him as he bonded you, marking you as his. 

You murmured incoherently as your bodies locked together, you were so full of him that you could focus on nothing, but the feel of him locked inside you. Your head lolled to the side as your exhaustion set in, your bones felt heavy as sleep lulled you. You were vaguely aware of the man atop of you, too drunk on mated pleasure to fully acknowledge how his eyes began to once again devour your body. 

He kissed your wound, breathing you in as he did, “What’s your name, Omega?”

“(Y/N),” you rasped. 

“Bucky,” 

As you sobered, the weight of your situation became clearer. All of those white hoods, all of those Omegas that never returned home… Your breathing picked up as panic sparked like lightning in your veins. You shoved on Bucky’s chest as you started to wiggle out from him, tugging on his knot. He snarled and snapped at you and you flinched as unshed tears glossed your eyes. 

“Don’t hurt me, please,” you whimpered, “Please, I–I don’t want to die.” 

“I’m not going to kill you, I’m going to keep you,” 

Keep you? You trembled, “What about all of the other Omegas? What happened to them?” 

He cupped your face and traced the bridge of your nose, then the cupid’s bow of your lips, “Them I killed,” he whispered with a ghost of a smile. 

[diabolicjoy]

Do you have any tips to get into ceramics? I've been thinking of trying it but I have no idea where to start and some guides are so overwhelming :( Like what clay & paint do you use? Do you need a special surface or other materials for it? (If it's alright to ask! No presh to answer btw)

Your works are so lovely, I'm always looking forward to what you make next! 💗

hi beloved. my first advice usually is to find a pottery studio where you can take classes... a teacher’s guidance + every material you need available to you will make things way easier for you in the beginning. but assuming that you’re trying to learn by yourself at home because you can’t take classes right now for your own reasons... i’ll try to give you the most basic guide on ceramics here, hopefully it will clear a few questions you might have? btw i feel the need to point out that i only started making ceramics less than a year ago, so there’s still a looooot that i don’t know yet. technicalities like firing & glazes i’m a bit ignorant of, so i won’t be covering much of that :s again, this is very basic! i’m simplifying it just to help you feel less overwhelmed c: <3

1. ok first thing first, you asked about the surface. at home i placed a sheet of unvarnished wood over my table & that’s where i do all my pottery work. of course there are many other options, you can read more about this topic here

2. there’s a few different options for clay, differents colors & types that you might like more. it’s explained perfectly on this video :^) i personally use white stoneware.

3. you need to wedge your clay!!! this is crucial. do it on the surface you picked from #1. here’s a very good tutorial.

4. ok now you can build whatever you want!

• you take your clay (you can use a wire to cut it from the big block of clay), wedge it, & start your work. i always have a small bucket of water & a small sponge with me when i’m working. use a humid sponge to smooth the clay if needed.

• i usually leave it at a shelf to dry a bit for a day or two, then it’s a bit more hard & you can’t make many changes (as in, adding new stuff to it) but it’s a good moment to carve it a bit more if necessary & smooth it out with the humid sponge. sculpt the little details etc. i recommend buying a tool set like this, it’ll make your job easier for this part

5. firing. like a said before i’m still not very familiar with the technicalities since i don’t own a kiln & my teachers are the ones handling that part :p but what you need to know is that your piece will need to be fired twice in order to become actual ceramic. your clay needs to be dry to go into the kiln. the first firing is called bisque. after that, you need to glaze your piece & then fire it a second time. the glaze will basically turn you work glass-like & food safe. here’s a very informative guide on firing <-

6. there’s are many (many!!) different colors & types of glaze. you can go to the amaco website & look at their charts just so you can have an idea. you can use either colored glazes or a transparent one. underglazes are used to ‘draw’ on & decorate you work. i personally use underglaze to paint before bisque firing bc i feel like the colors looks less faded that way. after bisque, i simply retouch little areas if necessary before applying the transparent glaze over it. you can use the underglaze only after bisque as well. there’s also a bunch of underglaze transfer sheets on etsy that looks super cool & fun to try! one thing you’ll notice about both glazes & underglazes is that the colors do not look nearly the same before & after firing. the colors look rather dull & opaque, but they’ll be vibrant after firing. it’s my favorite surprise heh

ok i think that’s it! this is obviously super SUPER basic, there’s so much little details that you’ll eventually learn but i just wanted to help you situate yourself a bit because i understand how overwhelming it can be when you’re learning something from scratch & alone. my tip is: join facebook groups for pottery, there are SO many & people are always happy to help if you have any questions. i also recommend that you go buy your materials in person if possible instead of online, surely the worker helping you will be able to guide you better on the many products that are out there & answer the questions you might have about it. & about the kiln, most pottery studios offer their kiln for people that aren’t students. the one i go to price it based on the total weight of the pieces i bring.

hopefully that was helpful! 🥰🙏

[pityroadart]

What are the most important colours in a watercolour case? (Feel free to infodump beyond this question, please)

Hello, that all depends on your subject matter and how you like to paint! Are you going to be painting portraits so need some easy ways to mix a wide range of skin tones? Are you a landscape painter who enjoys having a few convenience greens and browns on their palette? Do you like your paints to granulate, or be easily liftable, or be excellent at glazing/staining? And when will you be using the palette - is it a small travel-sized one where you've got to be quite economical with the paints you choose, or is it a larger palette for use at the studio or at home? Is lightfastness a concern for you?

When I'm building a palette though, I base it around a split-primary palette — so a warm and cool version of each colour. This plus at least one earth colour (burnt sienna or burnt umber) and one convenience neutral (paynes gray or neutral tint) are probably the most important things to have in your watercolour collection in my opinion, especially if you're wanting to focus on colour mixing!

So my basic 8-colour palette would be something like:

cool (greenish) yellow: maybe hansa yellow light, or if like me you're not a big fan of regular yellows, a PY129 (often called green gold or rich green gold) is almost green in masstone but diluted to a lovely and functional cool yellow

warm (orangey) yellow: my favourite would be a quinacridone gold hue - either Schmincke (PR101 + PY150) or Daniel Smith or Roman Szmal (both PY150 + PO48) since they're a slightly earthier but vibrant orangey-yellow, but any warm yellow will do! Other common alternatives are new gamboge, hansa yellow medium, etc

warm (orangey) red: my absolute favourite currently is a PR255 (Daniel Smith pyrrol scarlet or Schmincke vermillion), but other common alternatives include cadmium red light (or cad red light hue), or any slightly orange-leaning red you can get your hands on

cool (purpley) red: a common choice here is a quinacridone rose PR122 or PV19, particularly if you'd be doing botanical painting, but my favourite is a PR254 pyrrol red - a postbox or fire engine red, so not particularly cool, but I really enjoy it with the quin gold in skintone mixes. Another option could be to have a middle red such as this AND a cool pinky-red on your palette.

warm (purpley) blue: the obvious choice for this one is an ultramarine PB29, a colour I think pretty much every watercolourist owns. This is a granulating pigment, but some brands such as Schmincke also offer a less-granulating version (Schmincke ultramarine finest) if you're wanting a smoother colour, or a French ultramarine for heavy granulation. I have both on my palette for different purposes.

cool (greenish) blue: the most common choice is a phthalo blue green shade PB15:3, but I much prefer the slightly cooler phthalo turquoise PB16 (Schmincke helio turquoise) - partly because I enjoy the colour and partly because it neutralises with my warm red PR255 beautifully. If you've gone for a cadmium red light as your warm red, try a cerulean as your cool blue to neutralise and match the cadmium's softness.

brown earth colour: I use this to neutralise with ultramarine and make a beautiful soft black, so my choice would be burnt umber, but burnt sienna works just as well (and is possibly more versatile)! Try and get either of these as a PBr7 pigment if you haven't already, as they tend to have the richest colours and cleanest mixes. Other options could be a quinacridone burnt orange PO48 (which I also have on my palette) , or an Indian/Venetian/English Red PR101, but see which neutralises best with your warm blue. A brown earth is also very useful for mixing darker skin tones, so bear that in mind when choosing.

neutral colour: this is a convenience (multiple-pigment, ready mixed) dark neutral colour that can be used to darken other mixes and in place of black. It's also great for monochromatic studies! Sure you can mix your own with ultramarine and burnt sienna/umber, but I get through a Lot of it so it makes sense for me to have a ready mixed version. Common options are paynes grey (a blue-leaning dark grey), or neutral tint (more neutral of course), but on my main palette I just mixed ultramarine finest and burnt umber together in one well to get my own custom mix. A thing to decide here is if you'd like your neutral dark colour to granulate or not!

These are my personal palette essentials, but everyone is different, so the best thing is to test things out and see what works.

Other resources:

I have a short (but continually growing) YouTube playlist on palette building that could be useful too, and Kim Crick has a great feature on essential colours on her pigment database here which I find very useful.

I hope this is of at least a little use!

[introloves]

— demon! satori + corruption + extreme sacrilege + back shots + hair pulling + overstimulation + creampie + f! reader

— wc; 1k

“i saw you crying in the chapel”

he thinks you’re beautiful.

morning light breaking into a hundred peices against your skin, catching in your hair- running down with each drop.

it’s the smell of you that brings him out, the sweetness of your tears falling against the floor.

he walks toward you, soft footfalls echoing into the cold and empty chapel.

“its a shame, isnt it?” he calls to you, watching your head lift from the safety of your hands, peering at him with wide and glossy eyes. he can see the remnants of your pain, of your despair- of all the unanswered prayers leaking down your palms, running down your arms and face.

“they never answer.”

even he sounds sad, a stark contrast to the way his lips have curled into a small smile. you might think it’s for comfort, but it’s mocking. silently challenging a higher power to stop him from taking you.

and of course, they won’t.

the words have died in your mouth long ago- nothing tumbles from your lips as he nears, not with the way he leans down and offers you a hand, despite the pain and desperation still pooled in every crease of your palm.

head tilted down to offer a sense of comfort, letting you know he wasnt there to hurt you, lulling you into a false sense of security. it didnt seem to take much to convince you, he supposes its why he liked picking the ones on the cusp of hopelessness.

hands meet and you dont catch the way his already vibrant hair seems to catch every refraction of light pouring through the stained glass.

there’s a smell of smoke permeating the air, it’s faint, but it makes you want more- gentle tugging brings you close to him.

with glazed eyes, you look up at him, captivated in how beautiful the color is. you don’t see or hear his lips move as he recites scripture over and over. looking down at you still caught in the same stupefied manner- lust and hunger lurking behind his actions.

“ye shall overthrow their altars.” he prays all the while releasing your hand, capturing your chin instead- tipping your head up to look at the concaved ceiling.

“and break their pillars.” his hand crawls up your neck, curling around your pulse points, tips of his fingers finding purchase in the hook of your jaw.

“and burn their groves with fire.” the gentle lull of his voice keeps you silent and still, even as he squeezes. even as he leans down and clasps his lips around your throat, a tongue much too thin and wet to be considered normal laving up, up and up.

the taste of him is heavy, something like ash and it nearly burns, it’s pure heat being exhaled into your lungs and it makes you dizzy.

gentle and shaky hands come up to hold onto his shoulders, a contrast to how he takes your mouth. pure lust and want make you crumble against him, eyes closed in the feeling of something wet swiping against your lips.

it’s not a tongue, not a tongue by human standards, but it doesn’t scare you, not even when he curls it into your waiting mouth, swiping against your teeth.

you’re good, he thinks as you’re pulling him in closer. not afraid, unwavering as he tugs your body against his.

an unholy being like him shakes as you cry out a plea- turning to him in solace. it’s what he feeds off, makes his skin tingle, fire inside him stroked as you settle your hips against his own.

“give me your name.” he whispers, pulling away from the sweetness of your mouth.

“y/n.” it’s uttered almost too easily, he knows you know there’s something off about him, but you still give it to him.

it makes him tip his head back. the moment you speak your name- he moans out into the chapel- it seems to vibrate off the walls, deepening as it echoes, all before it returns back to your ears in the form of a growl. he whispers your name again and again, the hands holding onto your thighs sink in deeper each time.

he brings you down, palms roaming up your legs, up your side- to rest at either sides of your neck once more.

“what would you give me, if i could take all your pain away?” satori breathes onto your lips, slithering his ‘tongue’ up the trail of still wet tears, cold atop the warmth of your cheeks.

his eyes widen slightly when you turn around silently, untangling yourself from his being, pushing the sweet little sunday dress up and over the curve of you, leaning over to rest your palms against the cold and ungiving wood of a pew.

he cant think of the last time he was ever rendered speechless or surprised, to think a little, broken, soft human like you was the one to stop all thoughts makes him shiver, head tipping back to chuckle freely.

it doesnt take long for him to sink into you, hand clasping up to entangle long fingers in your hair, pulling you up to hear him- words branded onto your naked skin with each thrust. nails scrape the lacquer off the wood, held tightly in your hands as he takes you.

you’ve never felt this good, there’s pure pleasure crawling up your back, traveling along your spine and down each limb. screams leave your drooling mouth freely, hoping, wanting someone to come see what this... man is doing to you.

he fucks the wetness out of you, splattering it against his feet, it runs down your legs and your orgasm brings more tears- the smell of it twisting in with the cum still pouring out of your battered pussy. he brings you to a point of overstimulation that might be too much, body slumping against his hold, kept upright by only the entanglement of his fingers in your tresses and the hold planted firmly onto your neck.

he starts the prayer once more, wanting to see the verse through- he thinks the words are real pretty, likes the way he can feel the eyes of holy beings drill into the back of his head while he takes you.

“ye shall hew down the graven images of their gods.” satori pants directly into your ear, not stopping despite the way you thrash against him, this was the price you had to pay- a small exchange of your own essence in order for him to truly heal you.

how could anyone think that a being of pure carnal lust- born from sin couldn’t do a better job of repairing the soul of a dirty and inherently sinful human?

he would take it- take you and break you down, orgasm by orgasm, bring you on the cusp of unconsciousness- before truly mending the pain and hurt.

he begins the tugging of your hair once more, moving your head to look directly ahead- blurry eyes focus on the sad image of a cross.

“and destroy the names of them out of that place.” he finishes, pushing into you with the final thrust, cumming inside you with a ferocity that has it squirt from where you’re connected.

it joins your own, puddles of it coagulating in clumps as it drops down from your cunt.

“say my name-” satori whispers, and despite not uttering it once, you know it.

“satori.” it leaves you with ease, it sounds like honey and it rumbles in the walls around you.

his body shakes behind you, and you whimper with the way his hold tightens.

“you’re mine.” he barks, hysterical and loud, facing directly at the altar- smiling wickedly when the chapel seems to bend, twist, and shake... all before settling back down.

you sound so sweet, crying out his name in reverence, seeking the warmth of his being- the warmth he could provide.

claiming you, keeping your soul in his filthy hands was the best thing he’s done in a while, and all because:

“he saw you crying in the chapel.”

[void-adjacent-particles]

Content warnings: Death, gore, fire mentions, scars, murder, violence.

Totems of Undying are strange things. They’re warm, and will pulse in time to the heartbeat of whatever is holding them, emerald eyes glimmering even in the pure dark of the void’s absence of light. While Totems are made of gold, there is no malleability, they are as solid as bedrock. The emeralds and gold and magic have solidified into one unchangeable object until its use, and then it is gone.

They leave their mark on whatever uses them. For some this could be a prize, another thing to be proud of, because they survived the unsurvivable only through their own wits and forethought. To others it is a mark of shame, for ever having been in such a position to lose their life, even if it is only one of three.

On a specific server, there are those who have need for Totems in their long pasts, who have used them right before our eyes, and those who will surely use them in the future.

Technoblade was one such person to use one before our eyes. We saw him dragged from his home to a farce of a trial, facing justice on rigged scales for grievous cries nonetheless as he was pushed into a cage. The fall of the anvil, the crushing, crunching of a body that never seemed fragile until now when everyone witnessed its end. Then the sparkling cloud of green and yellow, bones clicking back in jigsaw puzzle pieces, the knitting of muscle and tendon and skin, and there is only a moment of paralyzing death before his heart skips a beat and he lives again. This is the prestige of his trick, no turn to raise suspense, and a pledge everyone who knew his name already was aware of, a promise and threat all in one that he always delivered on. Technoblade never dies, and he lives right now to kill again. Later he will be in his quaint cottage in the merciless tundra, and his own reflection will glitter strangely back at him, forcing him to examine himself instead of resting and trying to forget the lingering aches. He will stare as the night sky leaves the window more a mirror, lantern lights low, but the flashes catch his eyes anyway. His tusks, once white and bone, now seem to be fully made of gold. He taps one with his hoof, and feels the pressure reverberating subtly down into his jaws, as real as before. With a shrug, he moves his hoof away, only to watch as pink fur and skin split against the now razor sharp point of his tusks. Those tusks will remain as gilded as any enchanted apple, and as sharp as any netherite sword, until one day he will fail his audience, his pledge a battle cry he brings to one or more of his graves.

Quackity would covet a Totem in all of his paranoia, his fear of death and pain and losing even more than he already has. If he died, be it by pickaxe or nuke or strangling, desperate hands, the Totem would bring him back all the same. And all of his scars would ache in their newfound golden hue, shining and standing out even more as a testament to his inability to protect himself or what he loves. The scars would hurt, old and new, in warning of dangers to come. It only partly calms his paranoia, the fear ever present and simmering in the background of his mind, waiting to boil over and burn him.

When Tubbo or Tommy use their Totems of Undying they will appear unharmed. It is not until they bruise that it becomes obvious. A small bump against the corner of furniture, a tumble while out exploring the wild, a sharp elbow to the face, the blunt side of a weapon, they bruise the skin, blossoming into purples and dark indigos. They fade far too quickly, as if someone splashed healing potions on them. Yet then they stay at that disquieting green and yellow stage, where the next day it could appear as if they were never there, but they stay, shimmering slightly in the wrong lighting, still hurting as much as if they were fresh even weeks later. Only fading when forgotten about, and they have wonder if the bruise was ever there. If only they had Totems when they died before. Tubbo’s face would be a mess of bruised gold that would seep into the skin until only pink scar tissue remained, a starburst remnant of a festival’s fireworks, but he would still be alive, gasping for air and hunched over in that box, on that stage, but alive. Tommy would have handprint bruises around his neck, across the break in his nose, the imprint of a fist against his cheek that had whipped his head back too far, his neck slamming at the worst angle against the harsh obsidian walls. But he would have been alive, clawing his way back into life, latching his own hands around his killer’s throat, finishing the job, doing what should have been done instead of daring to imprison a dream.

George passes out if he uses a Totem. Instead of the rush of adrenaline, of life that floods the system of whatever uses one, it overwhelms to the point of just unconsciousness as his body repairs itself, fueled only by magic until his heart begins pumping and his lungs begin breathing again. Later when he wakes, maybe with cracked sunglasses, anyone who’s looking properly will see the dark bags under his eyes, a sheen of gold overlaying the dark purple of sleeplessness. When he sleeps it will be deeper, without dreams. Alarms and shaking won’t wake him. Nights will be sleepless as he examines the bags under his eyes, fretting over the burnt orange of the gold deepening, digging into his skin, around his eyes. He will continue to sleep, but days will pass, and when he wakes he wonders if next time he will simply be unlucky and sleep forever.

If Dream uses a Totem of Undying it will shatter him. He will feel every bone shake themselves into dust and back again, a glimpse of what everyone eventually returns to. His spine will burn with pain, arcing upwards to the base of his skull, spreading outwards like a deep set rot that always goes unnoticed until it is far too late and the structure crumbles. His mask shatters, likely from the final strike that killed him, but maybe just from his fall to the ground, a person one moment and a corpse the next, until the Totem brings him back. Gold lines every crack in the porcelain of his mask, across the monochrome of the glaze burned into it, bisecting an eye, a smile, a face. The green of him becomes so much more vibrant, deadly, similar to prey animals that evolve into their bright colors to indicate they are poisonous, saying if you kill me, I take you down with me.

If Niki ever uses a Totem, it would burn. She would feel it burning, more than the all encompassing pain of whatever killed her. Bright, sparking pain would race down her body, through every nerve, every blood vessel, until it was all she knew for that brief suspended moment on the precipice between life and death. She would grit her teeth through the pain, eyes narrowed as she reeled back from the magical force, only to march onward in doing whatever was necessary to achieve her goal. Later she would be looking at her hands, washing off blood real or metaphorical, and see that instead of chipping nail polish in whatever color of her choice, instead her nails would be intact, a brilliant gold. Nails that would make her appear vain, still absorbed with one final thing, or simply clinging to it. Nails that would sharpen into what some might call claws, digging into the fine wooden handles of her weapons, scoring lines that would never go away, even if the nails would upon her death.

If Hannah ever uses a Totem of Undying it will react strangely to her innate magic. Plants die off, withering away, leaving just the roots, the basis of their whole survival, to lie in wait underground until the rain falls again and the sun shines again. Any of her wounds will bloom with roses, the flowers ragged, shaped like bloodstains, but every leaf and petal will be edged with gold. The greenery of her roses’ vines will brighten and soak up sunshine more than ever, revitalizing her until her heart aches with it, until she finally lets fate claim the life stolen from it.

If Puffy ever uses a Totem of Undying, she wouldn’t notice side effects at first, aside from the usual anguish and pain from having died. The likely conflicts she had thrown herself into out of duty would capture her attention anyway, away from examining herself for any lingering problems. It wouldn’t be a problem anyway, not until she looked in the mirror and saw that all of her greying hairs from stress became gold, her mass of curls even heavier, no lock of hair without its reminder, its own thread of gold to weave into thick hair. Later, in a moment of true rest, when someone runs their hands through her hair, braiding it or simply trying to calm her, they would find that every golden thread burns and tries to tie itself around their hands, keeping them there, keeping them at her side where they could be safe.

If Antfrost or Fundy ever use a Totem, it settles on their skin like a weighted blanket, forcing their muscles to accommodate, forcing them to make room in their lives for the extra chance they stole. Later, when they rest, so much more tired with their aching bodies, they will curl up in the sunshine wherever they feel safest. When the sunlight catches just right, beige or burnt orange fur glimmers like a pelt of gold. Any breeze would be unable to rustle fur, their bodies motionless and unmovable as any statue, their breathing far shallower and subtler than ever before. If one wasn’t watching close enough, they’d assume there was a corpse just curled in the sunlight, begging for a final bit of warmth before letting go. They will start awake from nightmares with a hiss, and stretch out in the dying light to go pretend like they don’t feel that extra life weighing on them.

Phil only has one life to lose, and so he holds Totems close to his heart, always just one movement away from being clutched as the lifelines they are. When he’s killed holding one, wings splayed, feathers falling from the force of his death, mouth open and choking on last breaths, his death will hurt.  It will always hurt, the moment stretching through his lived centuries and snapping back into the present, so much life to flash before his eyes that they are rendered sightless and glassy, death clouding them greedily. Flashes of gold and emerald green dance on the sheen of inky feathers and glossy eyes as dead as a doll’s. When he lives again, his wings will no longer be the cape of shadows, the midnight extensions of self that they once were. His secondary feathers will be golden now, shining in the sun, always growing back that same shade. Those gilded feathers will just be another thing his murder of crows hoards, another shiny object, but to Phil it will be a permanent reminder of how he has always only had one life, and how fleeting it is.

If Wilbur got his hands on a Totem, he would never let it go. To die again and again and again, to suffer through the agony of an eternal listless limbo, to suffer again as he is replaced by a mockery of himself… he could not stand for it. So he never lets go of the Totem in hand, his thumb worrying over the facets of its emerald eyes when he thinks, nails breaking against the rigid golden effigy. There are many reasons he would die, several from his own actions, as it was before. If he did die, he would wake choking on blood and tears, hacking and wheezing and lacking all the grace and charm he once had. It wouldn’t be until he coughed once again into his hands that he would see his blood, no longer a dull red, now glimmering and golden. And he laughs, as he now resembles a god in all but the immortality, his blood turned to ichor in its molten sunlight, its deep dark shades of beauty and riches, and he keeps choking on his blood as the Totem works still to restore a body dead for the fourth time.

When Ranboo uses a Totem of Undying the magic will seep into his skin, counteracting strangely with his biology, trying to strengthen him, trying to mark him however it can. So the short black velvet of fur he received from enderman genetics will spread, the skin and fur stronger, in hopes of protecting him. It seeps like ink, a slow spread that burns as if trails of water settled on his skin. It hurts, and he hides for days, coming out with his green eye just a bit brighter, black crawling up the white side of his jaw like an outstretched hand. His own hand will reach out, and under the white skin on his forearm will be golden veins, burning with life stolen from a Totem. He forgets using Totems every time he does, the experience is so jarring and intense as it changes the fiber of his being, as with every use he appears more enderman than whatever else he is. One day, far in the future when he goes by another name, he will look in the mirror and see two emerald green eyes, his entire body the black void of fur his endermen kin have. 

Foolish is a being whose entire being had always been defined by death. Once, it was the carnage, the lives lost in droves, sent into Her embrace prematurely in their violent ends. Then Foolish changed and became a Totem of Undying himself, a god now more mortal than even he knew by resisting his domain. When he died the denial was almost too much to bear, the Egg trying to worm its way into his mind when it realized this weakness, a grief for what he lost. If he dies again, he will likely have a Totem in hand, maybe even one of his children, held close as he fears an end, selfishly cannibalizing the life force of one of his own in order to extend his last two lives. There will be no markings from the Totem. He is already one of them, eyes of gemstone and skin of metal, created and made of that space between life and death, the lull after a last heartbeat when the next is expected, the resting note in the song of life that he has conducted himself, has cut short himself, destroying all in his path without a single goal in mind in his times as a Totem of Death. There is no scar or blood or feathers or bruise to mark him, because he is a Totem. A Totem given sentience and life, given free will and thought, but at the end of the day a living doll, and the now lifeless, apathetically terrified look in Foolish’s emerald eyes is enough to show just what measures he took in order to survive another death.

[devilrainbunnie]

.- anthurium -.

X/2/3

shigaraki x reader

a/n: kind of an au, first piece! hope you guys like, i was feeling angsty. part two maybe?

CW: anxiety warning, cheating, manipulation, reader is depressed, sexual themes and description of sexual themes. minors DNI.

—

“for the millionth time, nothing is going on!” he snapped, rolling his eyes as he shuffled in his chair. fingers carefully laced around the hand held device. the vermillion eyes were full of fire, a fire that burned in agitation. towards you. he dared not to look into yours, for that would be almost like he was admitting to the accusations.

“then why do you smell like perfume that isn’t mine? why are you gone hours at a time without ever going to a meeting? why can’t you even do as little as look at me? why do you—“ your voice began to shake, feeling your fingers tremble with the hem of your shirt.

“you’re being paranoid, quit projecting your fucking insecurities on to me y/n. this conversation is over, now fuck off and let me relax.” he snarled, shifting his body away from your stance. he continued to play on his device, paying no mind to the girl with a river of tears pouring from her eyes.

you knew how it would end, and it always consisted of him leaving for the rest of the day. coming home the next morning, sometimes not even bothering to shower. you weren’t stupid. you could see the love bites on his scarred neck, his swollen lips, the way his sea foam colored locks were in a tangled bunch, he reeked of expensive perfume... you’d even found hair strands that weren’t either of yours. you knew, he knew that you knew, but he didn’t care that you knew.

it’s been going on since tomura was declared leader, king of this new group— the paranormal liberation front. since then, he’s put himself on such a high pedestal and his eyes began to wander. it wasn’t too noticeable at first, you thought you were just being insecure. because your boyfriend of over a year was beginning to spend less and less time with you. for the first time since you both got intimate, he stopped sleeping with you in your shared bed regularly. his often touch starved nature of wanting to be held and hold you constantly, began to stop. after a while, he wouldn’t so much as ruffle your hair anymore, or touch your back as he walked past. he stopped smiling at you.

he stopped loving you.

you noticed a specific girl with him from time to time, she was so different from you. outwardly sexy, confident, and most of all, she had him. she had beautiful emerald eyes, and dashing natural red hair. her figure was unbeatable. someone who would’ve been regularly out of his league, just due to her status, and often snobby nature. deep down, you knew that’s probably why he felt so enticed. she was unattainable. just like you had been to him once. he was always one to strive for the best, you guessed that meant lovers too.

you almost felt bad for him, considering the knowledge you had about her... she did this a lot. fucked around with higher ups as a way to gain better status, be placed in a higher rank, and get special privileges bother plf members wouldn’t originally receive. you’d heard this from dabi, she apparently tried to do the same thing to him, but he said, he “had better standards than that”.

you chuckled at dabi’s comment, you were the only one in the league he treated like a genuine friend. thankfully he could always make you crack a smile or two.

then like usual, the sadness came back.

there you were, alone in your shared apartment inside of the plf building. you sat at the edge of the windowsill in the living room, the lights were off. nothing but the distance sound of owls, wind, and branches to be heard. the moons glow to illuminate the scenery just a touch. your e/c eyes red, and glistened with the aftermath of an overbearing storm of a meltdown. your cheeks still burning, lips chapped and your hands doing anything else but standing still. since it got bad a few weeks ago with him, this is all you’ve been able to do. cry. let out your loud sobs all day, and whenever tomura was due to return, you’d go back to the way he preferred you. quiet, distant, and minding your business.

even with your quirk, your depression had led to all of the plants in each room to wilt. it’s almost poetic how accurate that displayed to your feelings— and of course, tomura didn’t even notice them.

anytime you did anything, it agitated him. there was no use in speaking, unless he was the one to initiate it. asking you what you made him for dinner, asking if you’ve seen a certain item of his, or asking you to do something for him, like stitch his tethered hoodie. sometimes telling you that he was annoyed with you being around dabi.

you began to nibble on your bottom lip again, trying to stop the fresh new wave of tears that threatened to spill. you promised yourself to not cry anymore, stop it. you stood from your spot, adjusting the simple outfit you wore. just usual long sleeve and leggings. using your sleeves to dry your face from the evidence of your overwhelming sadness. deciding that you should just take a shower, get ready for bed, and sleep. what else was there to do anyhow?

you soon felt refreshed, your heart still aches but the overwhelming pain subsided. you rested your head against the familiar scented cotton pillow case and grabbed his pillow. holding it close to your chest.

this is all i really have left of him now... wow.

—

the next day was seemingly uneventful. with a rare spotting of tomura coming in, showering, getting dressed, eating, and leaving once again. he paid you no mind the entire time. just simply glazing over your figure as you sat in different spots within the hour or two he was there. there were no words to he spoken. he didn’t even greet you when coming in. he just walked in the bedroom, rummaged around. looked at you as you were just waking up, and went about his business.

the pain settled in even more. every day it hit harder, and harder, but today, you were numb. the tears you held were all gone. you couldn’t cry, you couldn’t aimlessly sob. nothing. the core of you was empty.

“how much longer can i take of this...” you whispered to yourself tucking your knees to your chest. arms protectively wrapped around yourself.

you looked over to the once beautiful anthurium, it was completely wilted. the vibrant red petals were beginning to fall off. that plant was the one you connected the most with, it had a piece of your soul with it at this point. it would’ve been an easy fix to keep it from dying. one touch, and it would be right back to normal.

would the flower remember it’s neglect? the times you slacked on giving it water and proper daylight? would it simply forgive so easily just by your touch? can you forgive him, just by his touch?

“i don’t know.”

—

days had passed, he hadn’t come by since that night to your knowledge. sometimes you stepped out for a bit, just to clear your mind. you began to grow anxious, something was wrong. definitely wrong. you needed to know, to have some closure. every minute that passed seemed to crush you, it felt as if the world was ending.

against your better judgement, you got dressed. fixed your hair, and shakily tried to calm yourself down as you looked in the mirror. overanalyzing every single detail about your appearance, you looked like hell.

you were planning to go searching for tomura around the building. maybe even ask dabi if he had seen him. you stepped into your converse, taking deep breaths as you prepared yourself to find whatever might lie ahead. the feeling in your stomach didn’t stop churning.

one touch can’t fix it.

he won’t fix it.

he doesn’t want you.

you hugged the jacket tighter to your frame, feeling clammy and weak in the knees as you began to search around. he wasn’t anywhere you were looking, you checked everywhere you usually found him. you came across dabi before stepping into the elevator. he seemed concerned, he grabbed your shoulder before you walked away.

“y/n?” he quietly asked. his tone laced with anxiety.

“o-oh, hey.” your trembling form turned to face him. “long time no see.”

“what the fuck is going on?”

“it’s nothing, don’t worry about it—“

“don’t lie to me.” he cut you off, his voice laced with venom. he was always like a big brother figure to you, always protective and so easy to catch on. “what’s going on y/n? do i have to kill that creepy little fucking gremlin?” he snarled.

“n-no! no! it’s fine, really. i’m just uh, trying to find him that’s all.” you said sincerely. your voice wavering the entire way, stepping away from his hold on you.

“y/n don’t walk away from me, talk to me about this. you look like shit.” he called after you.

“i’m sorry.” you said in a voice so small he barely was able to grasp it. dabi just stared at you with disbelief, and anger.

—

then came the room you dreaded most. subconsciously you wanted to search it last, due to fear of what you might see.

you knew he was cheating, but you were in denial until you could see it.

you were about to give up and go back to your room before you heard a specific sound. coming from the office tomura used most often, but wasn’t always in. the way the table sounded against the wall and hardwood of the floors made your body tense, the breathless panting, the high pitched moaning... and worst of all, the sound of tomura groaning in pleasure. did your ears deceive you? bile threatened to shoot from your stomach. you eased open the office door, to a sight you wish you never saw. there was tomura, thrusting into the girl you feared and envied most. he was lost in lust, suckling, kissing, and grabbing every part of her flesh that was visible. like he used to do to you.

used to.

you stood there in horror, feeling like everything was crumbling before you. he didn’t even notice your peering eyes staring right into the depths of his soul, and hers. his groans got louder, he muttered something he hadn’t told you in such a long time. it made you want to scream so loud that your lungs bled.

“f-fuck, i— love you.”

you shakily slammed the door behind you. hard, and heavy breaths struggling to be let out, as you ran to the elevator. smashing the buttons to go back to your room. tears streaming down your face once again, you let out hushed cries, trying to regain your composure. as you ran to your room. it happened all in a daze, you loudly cried as you packed some of your things into a backpack, hating that things still smelled like him. you sobbed finding old polaroids if each other. deciding to throw the stack at the wall above the bed.

once you had everything ready, you realized something. you were still wearing a necklace he gave you a bit ago. it was a small anthurium made of ruby. you held the delicate item in your hands, debating what to do with it. the burden of owning it haunting you much more than letting it go, so that’s what you did. you placed the necklace on the counter. grabbing the notepad that was usually on the counter as well to write a quick note on top for him to find. your eyes flooded over the room, drinking it in as much as you could before leaving. all of the memories, decorating it with tomura, having sex for the first time on the bed, the first time he came home like he often did now... you felt a sob threatening to release again as you recounted the memory.

lastly you dropped the key next to the necklace, never to be seen again.

you exited the building with little hassle, tears still free falling across your face like usual. the hood of your jacket was up to conceal yourself, you wanted to leave without a trace. luckily it was late enough to do so, the only person who spotted you was spinner. for some reason he was alone by himself outside. he seemed concerned about your disheveled and unfamiliar appearance. but he didn’t utter a word to you, letting you walk out before him. you wondered what he thought of your pathetic sobbing form pacing out of the entrance.

you barely had a plan, a place to go for that matter. all that mattered now, was you.

you need to let go.

he can’t fix it this time.

don’t let him fix it this time, y/n.

>>>

tomura arrived to the apartment hours after you had left, he wasn’t expecting anything but a nice hot shower and a warm bed to sleep in. his body was sore from the steamy evening he spent with the red head. she really rocked his shit, he chuckled at the thought of her.

he didn’t bother to look around the main room, before heading straight into the bedroom. the light was on, which wasn’t that unusual. what was unusual though, was the mess around the room. the closets were wide open, pieces of film thrown all over the bed, and floor. at first he was mad, barging into the bathroom to yell at you. flipping on the light, to see nothing. you weren’t in the bathroom, or bedroom.

“y/n why did you leave everything such a mess? why did you throw pictures everywhere? what the fuck is going on?!” he called out to you. annoyed. like usual. he walked out of the bedroom, noticing finally, you weren’t here. “y/n.” he spoke sternly.

he walked cautiously around the space, looming over every detail, not able to make out your form anywhere. he remained calm but he was a bit worried, you were acting super unstable lately. though he’d never let you know that. he seemingly searched everywhere in depth, before he noticed some items on top of the island counter. switching on the light switch to get a better look. his heart sunk.

the necklace he gave you.

the beautiful ruby anthurium he gave you.

the one you wore every day since.

the one he gave to you as a promise to his love, the love he promised to be undying.

“fuck...”

along with the key to the apartment.

the one you both shared.

he noticed the note, it was written in your handwriting.

‘i hope you love her as honestly as you once loved me. i left everything behind i never want to see again. i won’t be ratting you out and i won’t be returning to you.

good bye, thanks for the memories.

y/n.’

[studioahead]

Studio Spotlight: Heath Ceramics

Heath Ceramics needs no introduction, but we'll give one anyway. The pioneering ceramics company was founded in 1948 by Edith and Brian Heath in Sausalito. Edith's handmade, small batch tableware gained widespread praise for its durability and characteristic glazing—soon becoming iconic and collectable. In 2003, another husband and wife duo, Cathy Bailey and Robin Petravic, bought the company and revitalized it for the twenty-first century, continuing the local and personalized tradition started by Edith. We spoke with Cathy Bailey and Tung Chiang, the ceramicist responsible for Heath's extraordinary Design Series.

Studio AHEAD: How did you come to be in California, and how do you continue the unique Californian tradition that Edith Heath began with her use of local materials?

Cathy Bailey: I moved to San Francisco after spending about 5 years designing for Nike in Portland, Oregon. I moved south wanting to experience the city; the design culture and talent felt vibrant and I wanted to be a part of it. I followed my instinct and the sun in joining what was happening here. About 7 years after moving to San Francisco, my husband and I stumbled on the old Heath Factory in Sausalito. At that time Edith and her work continued on, but it felt like it had been overshadowed by the new, shiny things happening in the Bay Area. It felt as though it might be forgotten if someone didn’t inject new energy into the company and continue to shape it for the world we're now living in. What was apparent to us is that Edith’s approach to material-based design and local manufacturing was increasingly relevant.

Tung Chiang: I was born and raised in Hong Kong and worked in advertising for a decade. In 2000, I moved to Pasadena for the Art Center College of Design to study and begin my second career. I eventually landed an industrial design job in San Francisco, which eventually led me to working at Heath Ceramics in 2012. As my career has progressed through many fields, I am so grateful to spend time on clay as a creative medium. It feels personal to me, like an heirloom passed down directly from Edith. Using clay and design, Edith painted a lasting foundation for us. It is exciting to continue using that to create the future of craft and community that we care about.

SA: Tell us about what role chance and accident play in your design process.

TC: Clay and glaze have their own soul, you can guide them to create what you envision, but you can’t bend their will and who they are. Our works are often more chance and accident than calculation. No matter how much experience you have, opening the kiln and unloading works is always a surprise. Most often the best piece is created when fire, chemistry, atmosphere, environment, and intention all blend together.

CB: Like Tung mentioned, guiding clay and glaze in the studio is part of the business, we must be open to their nature. It is the same in developing products for production—the process may have some more rigidity but it’s crucial to leave room for variability and chance. This is what gives the objects soul and beauty. I think this is as important with the materials as it is with the people and the decisions in our business. So many of the wonderful parts of Heath have come out of noticing opportunities that came about by chance. Our Newsstand, our collaborations, and even the clay studio that Tung leads have come about by leaving room for chance and intuition.

SA:  What do you look for in the artists you choose to collaborate with?

CB: We collaborate with artists or designers that we’ve already developed a relationship with, we never collaborate just to collaborate. It’s always been about meeting someone who inspires us on several levels. Generally we are inspired by their work, their craft, and their philosophy, and we really enjoy spending time together. When this all aligns, usually there is a pretty obvious project idea that comes up. We also like to continue our work together for as long as we continue to have creative chemistry. We’ve developed many different iterations of etched patterns with Natalie Chanin over the years (Alabama Chanin), and we are now working on some new dinnerware with Commune Design who we worked with to design our LA store over 14 years ago.

StA: What really strikes us about the Design Series is how each year's theme relates to a larger issue. Forms of Care comes during a time that has been difficult for a lot of people. Last year's Pairs of Sound, whether intentional or not, could be read as commenting on quarantine, since the pieces come in pairs and the clay beads that rattle inside them can't be touched. How do you balance between telling a story through your ceramics while also creating something that people find beautiful and want to use?

TC: Since design series 5, The Animal Series, I realized the collection is about how I see the world as a designer/potter/artist. It is not about how I solve a general problem on design; instead, what I care about is what matters. How I live and love, and what is important to me becomes the source of inspiration. Ceramics design is often a simple design. A cup is a cup and a bowl is a bowl. I have no interest in changing them, yet if I feel something and can put it into the design, even if the design stays simple, the audience may be able to feel it, too.

SA: You worked in advertising before becoming a ceramacist. Has your former job had an influence on how you design?

TC: I consider myself very lucky to have started my career in advertising. It trained me in developing fresh ideas and clear perspectives, two important starting points in creative work. In a way, I believe craft without ideas and perspective becomes only a skill. What excites me now as a potter is to continuously combine ideas and skills together.

In advertising, we used a broad range of media to execute the idea. I think that helps me build confidence in any material. With clay and glaze, I am far from mastery, yet it is this room between familiarity and newness that excites me.

SA: We always ask for three Instagram accounts to follow.

CB & TC: @AlabamaChanin—we are long-time friends and collaborators with Natalie Chanin, the founder of Alabama Chanin, who was an early leader in the sustainable fashion movement and has always been deeply committed to traditional craft, the art of hand-stitching, and the advancement of a more sustainable textile industry. Her Instagram is a beautiful source of inspiration about all of the above and more...

@ido_yoshimoto—a woodworker from Inverness, CA.  I love his balance of work and love of nature. [longtime readers of this journal will know how much Studio AHEAD loves his work too!]

@janikasma—many of you also know my connection with Finland and Finnish design runs deep. Jani Kasma is a local collector and his collection of Finnish master design is out of this world. With his tasteful home and beautiful photography, it is my daily fix for good taste and design.

@misterngo—Mr Dung Ngo is the editor-in-chief of AUGUST Journal and publisher of August Editions. I follow him to see design and architecture around the world through his eyes

SA: What are some local culture spots you love?

CB & TC: Japonesque Gallery has been my favorite gallery since I moved to SF. Also Blunk Space [you can read our interview with J. B. Blunk’s daughter here]. And the Botanical Gardens at Berkeley. This is my favorite garden in the bay area.

Photos by Ekaterina Izmestieva

[oatmilkslytherin]

the one that got away (d.malfoy)

description: a friendly bet that turned into a dangerous spell gone too far. lovers ripped from one another, leaving draco to wonder if she’ll forever be the one that got away.

pairing: draco malfoy x anyhouse!reader

requested: yes / no

warnings: light cursing, blaise is the antagonist so i apologize to the blaise simps<33

a/n: i apologize for my absence !! writer’s block and mental health do be kicking ass right now<33 more parts for ruin me coming soon !! italicized parts are flashbacks ! also lmk if u want a part two hehe

taglist: @killiansawyer​ @potatothingsz​ 

draco’s pov: 

“no, darling,” i let out a light laugh at the flustered girl beside me, her eyebrows furrowed into a look of frustration. “you’ll want to use peppermint, not sage.”

y/n looked up at me from her parchment, her writing messy nearly indecipherable as she messily scrawled the potions ingredients for the elixir. her furrowed brows unwound themselves into a light smile, her stress dissolving as i wound my arms around her. 

she let out a sigh, letting herself nuzzle into my embrace. the fire in front of us flickered, dancing betwixt the wooden embers and ashes in the stone hearth. it was much too peaceful, but that’s what i loved most about it. about her. she was peace, even when i was chaos. 

“what would i do without you?” she mumbled into the skin of my neck, placing a light kiss against my collarbone. i smiled deeply, resting my cheek against the top of her head. we stayed like this for a while, taking in each other’s presence in front of the fireplace. i couldn’t even tell you what time it was now; i couldn’t care less, either. all i cared about in this moment was being with her. 

much to my dismay, the moment didn’t last forever. she untangled herself from my delicate hold, packing away her belongings as she yawned quietly into her hand. 

“i should get to bed,” she mumbled, rubbing the sleepiness out of her eyes. as much as i hated to see her go, i knew she was right. we had classes in the morning, and i wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if the next time i saw her, she had dark bags under her eyes and longing for sleep strewn across her face. i smiled fondly at her as she stood up from the couch. i stood up with her, taking her hands in mine and tugging her to face me. 

“i love you.” my voice was barely above a whisper, my own restlessness consuming my entirety. she smiled widely up at me; she told me countless times how much she loved to hear those three sweet words; how true they sounded coming from my lips. i would tell her time and time again if it meant i could see her smile just as she was in this moment. 

“i love you more,” she said through her bright smile. she stood up on the tips of her toes to capture my lips in a soft, breathless kiss. i couldn’t help but smile against her lips as i cupped her face, bringing her even closer to me. 

she left before i knew it; bidding me sweet ‘good nights’ and ‘sweet dreams’ before heading towards her own dorm. i was dumbfounded as i stood in the midst of the common room, my hands shoved deep in my pockets and i couldn’t help but smile widely even after she was gone. 

“and what’s a bloke like you done to get someone like that?” a voice behind me pushed me out of my deep thoughts and daydreams of her. startled, i looked to the source of the voice, my eyes immediately falling upon blaise. i couldn’t help but smirk slightly seeing the annoyance brushing upon his face. 

“it’s a miracle, i know. i don’t know what she sees in me, but merlin i’m thankful,” my smirk slowly turned into a smile as she began to consume my thoughts once more. blaise only rolled his eyes at my comment, scoffing and crossing his arms over his chest in defiance. 

“i bet you anything i’d having her falling over me in a heartbeat,” blaise retorted, his cocky attitude suddenly consuming his demeanor. i only furrowed my brows and gave him a half-hearted scoff. 

“right, mate; game on. we love each other,” i stated confidently. blaise’s smirk only deepened, nodding slightly in our verbal agreement.

“deal.”

i thought about that day more times than i could count. i thought about how i desperately wished to hold her longer, how i would’ve kissed her deeper, how i would’ve never agreed to blaise’s game if i knew it would end like this. my mistakes consumed me entirely, turning me into a hollow shell of someone i’ve never known. someone i never wanted to know.

it had been merely three months since she left. she left abruptly, without warning. she had broken up with me in the middle of the courtyard with the wind whipping around us in a winter daze. i remembered sobbing insufferably, begging her to stay with tears dripping to the corners of my mouth. all while she stood emotionlessly, blankly. it didn’t even seem like her; it seemed like a stranger was in my midst as she stood in front of me, turning my heart into minuscule fragments.

less than three days later, i spotted her walking around the corridors with blaise hanging off of her. her smile didn’t seem quite as bright, her eyes didn’t seem quite as vibrant. but when she caught glimpses of me softly crying at the sight of them together, she looked like she didn’t even know me at all. 

i became numb. i became inconsolable as i resided in the haven of my dorm room walls. the only person that ever came to see me was pansy, y/n’s best friend. i appreciated her company; she made me feel slightly less crazy when she told me how glazed over her eyes looked whenever she saw y/n. she told me how she never stuck around anyone besides blaise anymore; how she seemed to treat everyone besides him like a stranger now. 

it would’ve been comforting to hear if i hadn’t drowned myself in my own sorrows. hearing how she treated everyone else the same wasn’t relieving when i still loved her after all this time. theoretically speaking, i should hate her. i should curse her for breaking my heart so easily, for leaving me as if it was nothing. 

but i couldn’t. i couldn’t bring myself to hate anything about her. she was everything to me. and even if i was nothing to her now, it didn’t change a damn way about how i felt towards her. 

i stared up blankly at the ceiling in my dormitory, letting my eyes stare emotionlessly into the wood until they grew dry and red. the days grew longer as i spent the majority of my time in solitude. i longed for human interaction, laughter and happiness. but more than that, i longed for her. 

in the midst of my pathetic non-verbal drabbles, my door burst open with a fuming pansy storming inside. i sat up startled, watching her closely as she breathed heavily, her face flushed with anger and a questionable sadness as she slammed the door shut. i eyed her silently but curiously, wondering what had her so flustered in the first place.

“he put a spell on her,” she finally breathed out, wiping away a tear that fell down her cheek. my eyebrows furrowed as she muttered these words, my mouth falling open but my plethora of unanswered questions failing to fall out. 

“who?” was the only question i could muster. i couldn’t help but notice how hoarse and emotionless my voice sounded as i spoke. 

“that git zabini! he cursed y/n so she would break up with you and be with him. that foul twat has stolen my best friend so he can just get off!” pansy’s voice came out in a shrill yell. 

my heart dropped as she spoke. my mouth dried up suddenly and i couldn’t tell if my chest pounded with pure anger or sympathetic sadness. a dull ringing consumed my senses, filling my eardrums. i couldn’t even hear pansy’s rambling as i stood up and stormed past her. 

it was all his fault. a stupid bet that he had taken too far; a bet that ended with him living in a happy lie while i longed for some sense of her return to me. it burned within me, becoming more blatant with every step i took. i didn’t have a plan of where i was going or what i would say once i got there. all i knew was i needed to fix this; i could fix this. 

i was going to fix this.

[herbwicc]

American Beauty Berry

Connecting to the seasons as a green witch here in South Florida means you need to be extra attentive and connected, our changes are subtle (if not invisible) to most, but if you know where to look then you will find they're quite loud and exciting! And connecting to seasonal changes such as the Wheel of the Year will be SO much easier and more personal!

Here's the plant to which I've been practicing a connection this harvest season: American Beauty Berry (Callicarpa americana).

It'll flower in spring and summer, but by September/Fall you'll get these vibrant berries! The leaves also change color. Besides these pictures, you'll also be able to 100% recognize this berry by the smell. Crush one and sniff, it smells like strong perfume! A sort of floral-acidic smell that I looove.

Beauty Berry is unique and easy to identify. It can cause stomachache if eaten raw, so please don't (it doesn't taste good raw anyway, mealy and either tasteless or medicine-tasting).

Instead, it's often made into jam/jelly, sauce/syrup for glazing desserts, vinaigrette, and wine. When cooked in these ways, the taste is kind of like raspberry-elderberry-citrus!

Other historical uses: Leaves and branches were used to treat malarial fevers and rheumatism. The roots were used to treat dizziness, stomachaches and dysentery. Roots and berries were boiled and made into a drink to treat colic. Crushed leaves were rubbed on skin and placed under horse harnesses to repel mosquitoes. There are three chemicals in the leaves scientists are trying to replicate for mosquito repellent, claiming that it might be stronger than deet- callicarpenal is one of them, and it can repel fire ants and tics.

I made wonderful autumn beauty berry strudels for Mabon, they were so amazing!!

(I'll be creating a few posts with Florida witches in mind, showing our subtle changes in flora and fauna and where one could apply them to the wheel of the year, to help other Florida witches connect to our seasons. If you're interested, check out the tag #Florida Seasons, which I'll be using for future posts!)

[vendettaparker]

Where’s My Love: Chapter 2- A Second Chance [T.H]

Summary: Tom learns what it feels like to watch a flower die; though I suppose a heart that is broken is a heart that was loved. Harrison reminds everyone about the finality of death. 

Word Count: 4.7k of pure pain 

Warnings: Angst (like the most i’ve ever written; which is saying something), mentions of sex, mentions of alcoholism, depression, cursing, character death, unhealthy grieving, grief in general, very very small mention of/hint to suicide (it’s extremely brief and you might even miss it, but it’s there)

a/n: i lowkey am kinda sorry about how sad this is. i’m just now realizing how sad this series is going to be as a whole (today i came up with a new plot idea and it made me cry just thinking about it so...), anyways, technically you could argue that this has a happy ending, so theres that to look forward to :) also you’re my best friend if you catch the WandaVision reference! reblogs, likes, and feedback is extremely appreciated! this series hasn’t been doing great in the notes department :( i’m still gonna write it obvi, but anything helps with the motivation, thanks <3 ps. thanatos is the god of death

Series Masterlist| Main Masterlist

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     “Tom,” You smiled up at your husband, eyes shining in the moonlight and heart swelling with love. “We should go home soon. There’s still more to be done tonight.” 

     Tom smirked and tilted your face up, capturing your soft lips in a heated kiss, tongue slipping in and clashing with yours. He pulled away after a while of savoring your taste, lips pink and swollen, “You’re right, darling. There’s still so much to do tonight.” Tom lips travelled further down to your jawline, where he kissed, nipped, and sucked, leaving a dark pink love bite. 

     You whimpered and tugged at his unruly curls, bringing his lips closer to your sweet spot. Tom chuckled and littered kisses and marks all up and down your collar bones. You brought his face up to yours and kissed him, practically shoving your mouth onto his in a clash of teeth and tongue. 

     Tom pulled away and groaned, “You’re gonna be the death of me, love.” His eyes darkened with arousal and you smirked, knowingly. 

     Your breathing slowed and you giggled, pushing him away gently, “Then we better get to it, lover.” 

     Tom stood up from where you were both lying, holding a hand out to help you up as well. You placed your hand in his and basked in the warmth of his touch. Something so simple as holding hands was enough to make you feel electric. Bursts of tingles and butterflies filled your body. You felt like you were on fire, burning up with the desire to feel him, touch him, and just love him.

     All the while, an evil in the form of Aristaeus watched from the shadows, his disdain growing for Tom by the minute. He watched as Tom held you close, as he seized every opportunity to kiss you. His hatred for the son of Apollo only deepened when he saw how your eyes shone and how your smiled grew in his presence. How perfect you looked and how all the intimacy and love you possessed was now only for Tom. You were only for Tom, and Aristaeus just couldn’t have that. 

     Watching Tom’s smile and listening to his care-free laugh, he knew that he needed to feel that. He needed the source of that type of happiness. 

     Aristaeus waited in the shadows for his moment to take what he wanted. Dagger clutched in his hand and blade sharpened, ready for use. The moment he saw you and Tom stand up and begin the journey back to your villa, he knew the time was now.  

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     With your hand clasped tightly in Tom’s, you began the trek back to the villa you’d purchased for the two of you. You swung your hands up with Tom’s as you both happily made your journey in comfortable silence. 

     You reveled in the way his hand felt in yours. Warm, encasing your entire being in warmth. It was so simple, just his hand clutching yours, holding your hand and your heart. There are only so many ways to describe love, and his hand in yours said more than any empty words could. 

    Your peacefulness was interrupted when you heard a shuffling in the wooded area you were walking through. The bush you were passing shook and soon Aristaeus launched out of it, dagger in hand, aimed at Tom. You screamed and Tom pushed you away to keep you away from the evading blow. 

     Tom dodged the attack, swiftly throwing a punch to the offender's jaw, momentarily stunning him. Tom grabbed your hand, and began running through the woods. You could hear the shouts and curses of Aristaeus behind you, quickly gaining speed on the gravelly road. 

     In an attempted detour, you ran through the thicket, hoping the thick mixture of branches and thorns would diverge the route of the crazed man chasing you. The thrones pricked at your skin and scratched up your face. Tom was no better, hand slowly loosening up on yours due to the pain of the thrones scrapping up his arms. 

     “Tom!” You yelped, tripping on a small log. The momentum of the fall ripping your hand from his, leaving his cold. Tom, stressed and frantic, kept running, unaware of the fact that you were no longer behind him. 

     “Come on (Y/N)! We’re almost home!” Tom yelled back, seeing the light of a clearing just up ahead. Tom jumped through the last few branches, breathing heavily once he reached the other side of the woods. He ended up in a meadow, close to your home. Tom turned around to hug you and make sure you were alright, but you were nowhere to be found. 

     “Love, we made it! Look, our villa’s right over ther—” Tom cut himself off, realizing he was now alone. 

     Tom began walking back into the woods, a sharp shot of anxiety ran up his spine. Why wouldn’t she follow me? He thought, is she hurt? Tom continued, his thought quickly being interrupted by a pained scream. 

     “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!?” Tom ran where he heard the scream and then the whimpers. His heart dropping to his stomach, bile rising. He finally found you, laid out in a pile of daisies, leg purple and bruised, small drops of blood coming from two puncture wounds in your leg. 

     It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened, and the snake slithering away from your limp body told Tom all he needed to know.  

Aristaeus had fled upon seeing you. He too knew, and he even saw with his own eyes, what had happened. The viper dug in deep and long, the poison immediately taking effect on you. 

     “(Y/N)? Fuck, darling?” Tom crouched down to your still body. He didn’t want to believe what he was seeing, he didn’t want to believe the pained look in your eyes, or the tears welled up in his. “It’s okay, love. You’re alright. Can you move? Can you get up? Please?”

     Tom did his best to help you up, but you were limp, no movement in your entire body, only your eyes showed the fear you were feeling. 

     “Tom,” you mumbled, tears streaming down your cheeks, “I-I can’t feel anything.” You cried softly, your face almost stoic from the poison coursing through your veins. 

     “No, no, darling. You can feel me, right?” Tom grabbed your limp hand and squeezed, expecting a squeeze in return. Yet nothing came, your hand remained cold and limp in his.

     You choked out a sob, “I can’t feel you.” Tears streamed down the side of your face, soaking the ground beneath your head, leaving small weeds in their wake. 

     Tom let out a painful whimper at your words. “Darling, it’s okay, we’re okay. Yeah? We’re gonna go home, and then you can lay down and get better, okay? I’ll bring you tea and flowers and Paddy will come over and play chess with you. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Tom’s tears soaked into your now cold skin, momentarily warming it. 

     “Yeah…” you mumbled softly, tears slowing and breath hitching. 

     “Yeah, and t-then Sam can come over and bring your favorite meal, o-or maybe a cake? And Harrison can work on your garden, so it won’t be limp when you get better. And I'll serenade you every night, even after you’re well, because I love you. And we’re gonna make it through this, just hold on.”

     His words faded in and out, beginning to sound muffled and underwater. Your head tilted to the side, clearly seeing the immeasurable pain etched onto his features. Tom caught your gaze and still, still tried to manage a small, hopeful smile. Deep down Tom knew this was pointless, he knew you wouldn’t ever make it home to see the villa, or the gift he left in the garden. The golden potted plant—an orchid—was now going to be a constant reminder to what he lost. But he could fake it, and fuck, he was going to fake it like it was real. 

     He would trick himself for the rest of his life until he truly believed you were okay. But he wouldn’t have to wait that long, because sitting there, holding your near lifeless body in his arms, he was ready to believe anything that even remotely implied you were okay. 

     Just past Tom you could see a figure watching you from the shadows. His suit was black and his white hair was gelled back. He stepped out of the shadows and tapped his foot impatiently, as if waiting for your time to be up. And then it hit you. You knew this man—or rather this god. 

     “Thanatos…” you whispered, eye’s finally glazing over with lifelessness. The now once bright and vibrant eyes, now dull and empty. A mere shell of what they once were. 

     “No, no, no!” Tom screamed, his painful wails being heard by the whole town. “No! (Y/N), come back! Please, please, please, please, please…” 

     You were now standing away, a lonely spectator to the happenings in the woods on this mortal realm. 

     “Come, child.” Thanatos held his hand out, ready to lead you away. 

     “But I never got to say goodbye.” Your eyes welled up with tears, seeing Tom frantically shake your body, trying to bring you back to life. “I never got to live my life with him.” 

     Thanatos gave your shoulder a comforting squeeze, “We must go now. Don’t worry, little one. You will see him again.” 

∘₊✧──────✧₊

      Tom didn’t move. He didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep. He wished he didn’t even breathe. He sat in the villa and stared at the now dying orchid, limp and sickly, in the golden pot. You never even got to see it, he thought, you would’ve loved it. 

     All of Tom’s thought’s surrounded you, and how he could no longer hold you. He felt so cold, he found no joy in things he used to. And all he wanted to do was cry. But he couldn’t. He’d cried himself dry over the past three days. Now all he felt was pain, and he couldn’t even ease it with tears. 

     “Tom,” Harrison snapped him out of his daze, pulling his gaze away from the dying orchid. “It’s time.” 

     Tom let out a breath, pained and labored. Today was the day. The day your body would be laid to rest. The day that you would truly be lost to him. 

     “Come on, everyone’s waiting for you.” 

     Tom groggily pulled himself from the bed. He dressed slowly and carefully, wanting to look his best for the last time he’d see you. Every intake of breath hurt his head, another painful reminder that he was here and you weren’t. He was alive, and you were gone. 

     The clearing that he once found solace in was cold. The flowers around him were limp and dying, and the world just looked gray. The color was gone from his eyes and all he could think was, it should’ve been me.

     Paddy hadn’t spoken a word since he heard of your death. He hardly even looked at Tom, every time he did the young boy would tear up and look away, too embarrassed of his tears to let them be seen. But in the dark, in the comfort of his bed, he cried for you. His first encounter with death, and it had to be you. His heart hurt more than his young mind could comprehend; he could hardly imagine what Tom was feeling. 

     Harry and Sam were numb. They hardly knew how to feel. They loved you like a sister but only knew you for a few months. Was it appropriate to mourn the loss of someone you only knew for a moment? Was it ignorant to fein a stoic exterior when your sister was gone? In the comfort of each other, the boys mourned. They cried a bit, but mostly tried their best to remember the good times. Harry remembered how you always backed him up in an argument, even against Tom, and how you always expressed how blessed you felt getting to know their family. Sam remembered how you always volunteered to be his test subject for his dishes. How you were always sweet, but honest. You fit so well into their lives, it was almost impossible to imagine you wouldn’t be in them anymore. 

     Harrison couldn’t believe it, or rather he didn’t want to. He held Tom close, and tried to convince him that everything was okay. He was the rock the group leaned on in any way they could. 

     He was a rock, and he was cracking. He found himself alone in clearing multiple times, watering the flowers, doing his best to keep them afloat, and yet they still withered away. He tried to feel you there, so he could tell Tom that maybe you weren’t truly gone, but all he felt was the absence of your presence. 

     Tom looked at the patch of dirt you laid under. He looked at it and all he felt was anger. Anger at Aristaeus for leading you to your death, anger at the viper that sealed your fate, anger at the gods for letting you be taken, and anger at himself for living through it. 

     The ceremony was short; just him and his brothers, gathered around a patch of dirt, crying. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     Everyone was forced to cope. They all had their tricks to make the pain ease. Paddy would play chess by himself, wishing you were there for him to beat, but mostly remembering how many times you praised his amazing chess skills and made him feel special. Harry and Sam took on the duty of attempting to fix your garden in the clearing. They took shifts watering the plants and picking out the weeds.

     Harrison smiled whenever he saw wild daisies. They always reminded him of you, partially for your pure innocence, but also because when you first met him, you gave him a flower crown made out of daisies. The crown was now limp and wilted, but he would treasure it until the day it withered away. 

     Tom suffered the most, though. He lost not only his soulmate, but his best friend. His coping consisted of copious amounts of alcohol to help him sleep, then he would see you in his dreams, and he’d have to drink more to stop from feeling the constant pit in his stomach growing with each baited breath. 

     “Tom, this isn’t healthy.” Harrison chided each time he walked into the murky depths of his bedroom; which was at least twice a day to check on the poor boy. 

     Harrison sat on Tom's bed as Tom laid on his stomach, facing away from him. Tom would grumble, then sniffle and completely ignore the presence of someone new in his room. The bed would be musty, his hair would be in knots, and his eyes would have a constant red rimmed appearance accentuated by the dark circles that resided underneath. 

     “Tom come on, let’s go for a walk. Sam and Harry fixed up the garden a bit; I think you’d like it.” Harrison shook Tom’s shoulder gently, prompting him to face the blonde. 

     “It won’t be the same.” Tom mumble, voice hoarse and wobbly.

     “I know, but they worked hard on it. They’re grieving too, y’know?” 

     “Of course I fucking know.” Tom snapped, swatting Harrison’s hand away, “You think I don’t know how much of an impact she had on all of us? You think I don’t hear Paddy crying at night when he thinks he’s alone, or the way he refuses to look at me?” 

     “Tom—”

     “You think I don’t know that this is my fault?” Tom sobbed, burning holes with his harsh gaze into Harrison. “I know, Haz. I know all too well how we’re all grieving.”

     Tom broke down, heaving and rambling about how it was his fault, about how helpless you looked, and how broken he was. All Harrison could do was listen. 

     “She died in my arms, Haz. S-she curled up and just… died.” Tom spoke barely above a whisper, his crying ruining his voice. “She looked so scared and I couldn't help her. I couldn’t save her.” 

     “I know.” Harrison was crying now too, tears falling from his diamond eyes. 

     “It was supposed to be me. The attacker was after me. I-I should’ve taken the hit, and then she’d be alive.” 

     “No, Tom. You don’t know that that would’ve saved her from this fate.” Harrison scolded Tom’s reckless words. “She could’ve died a day later, or minutes later. Life is not a guarantee. Tom.” 

     “At least we would’ve been together.” 

     Harrison frowned, “In the underworld? And what type of existence would that have been?” 

     Some turned away from Harrison, “One where we would at least have each other.” 

     Harrison softened his gaze and held Tom close before he could protest, “You still have us. I know it’s not what we want right now, but it’s what you need. You can’t go through this alone; I won’t let you.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     As the weeks went by, Tom’s grief continued to eat away at him. Try all he might, he could never escape you. You were in all of his favorite things. His lyre now laid dusty and cold next to his bed, it hadn’t been touched since your wedding night. 

     He held it together as long as he could, but it was too much. The pain ripped away at him and ate him up. One day he reached his breaking point. He needed you to come home. He needed you in his arms. Nothing in this mortal world could ever compare to your sweet kisses and loving praises. Nothing would ever satiate him again. 

     How could this have happened? How could the gods have cursed him this way. He was a good man, he did all that was expected of him. He went above and beyond for his community, for others. He helped find and procure the fleece that placed Jason rightfully on the throne of Iolcus in Thessaly. His music cured lost souls, helped them find solitude and comfort in his songs. He did everything right. And yet the gods mock and torture him by taking you away. Ripping his other half from him, stealing you. The only comfort in his otherwise lonesome life. There’s no need for old age, sickness, or murder to take him away now; his grief will surely get the job done. 

     “Tom,” Harrison, spoke softly, taking in the man who’s broken soul was starting to shine through to his exterior appearance. His hair matted, eyes red and puffy, knuckles bruised from letting his anger out on the pillars over his home. What was supposed to be your home. Now the clay brick home was cold, your presence no longer there to bring natural warmth. “Tom, come on. You have to keep going.” Harrison put a hand on his friend's shoulder, giving it a hearty squeeze. “She wouldn’t want this for you. She loved you.”

     “Then why was she taken from me?” Tom burst, hands flying to his hair, gripping his unruly curls. “Why would the gods allow this pain? I’ve done it all. I was so good, I-I did all that they asked of me.” 

     “Tom, please just come—” 

     “No! Harrison, don’t you see? I can’t move on! I can’t think about anything other than what was lost, what I lost. There must be a way to get her back. I’d do anything, just to hold her one more time. To love her, like it’s all I was put here on this Earth to do.” Tom pushed Harrison’s hand away. “Help me. Please, find a way.” 

     Harrison sighed sadly, rubbing his face with his hands. Tom, the most deserving person of his happy ending had it ripped from him, and there was nothing that could be done. Almost as if it was fate, there were no loopholes. Expect maybe—no. It was too risky. The god of the underworld was not a merciful man. 

     “Harrison? You have something?” Tom looked at his friend, a glint of barely visible hope in his eyes, the type that only the thought of you could bring. The look on Harrison’s face clearly showed that the gears in his head were turning. This look always brought about Harrison’s best ideas, or in this case, his only one. 

     “I— well, it’s not plausible.” Harrison debated. “You’d need your father’s help, and even so,” he whispered the last part “you’d need to go to the Underworld and bargain with Hades.”

     Tom looked at his friend in shock? How could this be the only plan he’s come up with? A plan that would surely get Tom killed, or worse, turned into a lost soul. “What? No, no— there has to be another way. There are other gods—more merciful— who would help us.”

     Harrison shook his head, “I’m sorry, Tom. But death? That’s final. The only god with the power to bring (Y/N) back is Hades. And he always has a price.” 

     Tom debated his options, one being the clear winner. He knew he couldn’t go on without you, he wasn’t strong enough. If he were less selfish then maybe he’d find a way to find joy again. But he needed you more than he needed the air in his lungs. He didn’t care if he was being selfish, trying to bring you back to a world that had just gotten used to life without you. He spent his whole life being selfless, helping others. It was time to get what he was due, what he was owed: His happy ending. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     Tom paced and pondered, his restless mind a futile assistance in this matter. His thoughts only focused on you and how to bring you home. In the beginning, he took into account all of the risks he’d be taking going to the underworld and bringing you back. He’d need to enlist the help of his father, to persuade Hades to listen to his pleas. He’d need to safely get in and out of the Underworld with you entow, and the hardest part of all; he’d need Hades permission for you to come home. 

     It was not that Hades was cruel or unjust; he was just simply too fair. Death is final and Hades followed that order to a tee. He scarcely made exceptions and when he did there was always a price that needed to be paid. Usually, that price was worth the life of the soul being returned, a hefty sum. 

     Tom hardly worked out the intricacies of his plan before Harrison caught him, bag packed and determination scrawled across his face. 

     “Tom, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harrison chided, standing in between Tom and the doorway. 

     “I’m getting her back, Haz. I need her home. You guys may be able to move on and be okay, but I can’t. She meant more to me than any of you will ever know.” 

     “You’re gonna get yourself killed, Tom.” Harrison spoke in a hushed whisper as to not alert the others to what was going on, “What happens then, huh? How do you think we will feel then? We already lost (Y/N), Tom; we can’t afford to lose you too.”

     Tom’s eyes glistened with frustration and unshed tears, “but I’m not complete without her…” he whispered, sniffling. “I have to do what I can.” 

     “No, Tom. I’ve let this go on long enough.” Harrison spoke sternly, “You have to move on. I’m sorry because I know it’s not fair. I know that this shouldn’t have happened. It broke all of us. But you need to come back to us, okay? You need to move on with your life. Paddy is thirteen, Tom. He has no father-figure, he needs you. Harry and Sam have been by your side since they were babies, they need you. And you're my best friend, I need you. You don’t get to walk out on us because of your pain, because we never walked out on you. We were hurting, yet we stayed by your side. You need to do the same for us.” Harrison gave Tom a tightlipped smile, “Please, Tom. Just try.”

     Tom had never seen such anguish in Harrison's eyes. He knew him and his brothers had also been struggling and he knew he was being selfish. He needed to do better. 

     “Okay,” Tom choked out, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I’ll try.” Tom placed his bag down on the floor and sat on the bed. He placed his face in his hands and sniffled out sobs. It was time for him to let you go. 

     Harrison left Tom alone in his dark room, shaking with anger. Once again the anger had returned, tenfold. Tom just wished he’d held your hand tighter, maybe then he’d be in your arms right now. Instead he was alone in his room, mind clouded with guilt and exhaustion. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     “Tom.” Your voice whispered in his ear, taunting him. Reminding him of what he lost. What he couldn’t save. The only one he couldn't save. The only one he needed to save. 

     “I’m right here, Tommy.” You never ceased. You constantly called to him as he tried his best to put his tortuous thoughts to rest. You stood over him, eyes wide in fear. You watched him, and you whispered. 

     “Tommy, why couldn’t you save me?” 

     You broke his heart all over again every night. 

     He sat up in his bed, body wet with sweat and eyes clouded with tears. 

     “(Y/N). Please, darling,” he begged, “I tried, please, I’m still trying.” You walked over and stood right above him, face inches apart. It was almost as if he could smell the sweet scent of flowers on you. The orchids and daisies you loved so much wafting over him, calming him. Until your cold, dead grip latched onto his shoulder. 

     “You failed, my love.” 

     Tom woke with a start, screaming and crying into the empty abyss of his room. You were nowhere to be found. He couldn’t take it anymore. He needed you back. You needed to come home and never leave his side ever again. If he had to spend one more day without you, he’d lose it. He’d become the monster he felt like on the inside. All the dark, twisty despair holed up in his heart would rush out in acts of unchecked rage and violence. He was never the villain, but he would be. 

     He couldn’t follow through with his promise to Harrison. He couldn't just move on and pretend that life made any sense without you, because it didn’t. Nothing made sense, and everything hurt. 

     Zeus created humans to have another half, and they would spend the rest of their lives if they had to, searching for it. You were Tom’s, and you were ripped away from him. That just won’t do. 

     He couldn’t spend another night lying awake, thoughts ripping apart his mind. He couldn’t sleep either, or else he’d see you. See what you’ve become. A ghost of happier times. A reminder of what never was and never will be. A figment of his ill fated mind. 

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

     The next morning, Paddy went into Tom’s room to bring him breakfast, as usual. It’s been months since he’s eaten with his brothers, and the new normal was one of them toughing it out and giving him his food in his room, then listening to his cries form outside the door for a moment, just to gauge if he was getting better; he never was. 

     Paddy was about to knock but paused before, gently pressing his ear up against the door. He didn’t hear crying like he usually did, he didn’t even hear sniffles.

     Paddy hesitantly opened the door, afraid of what he might find. The silence was all too scary for the young boy. Once the door was fully opened Paddy got a good look around, not seeing Tom anywhere. 

     Paddy dropped the bowl of food on the floor and ran for Harrison. 

     “Harrison! Harrison! Sam! Harry! Anyone!” Paddy yelled out, running around the garden looking for the boys. He slammed into Harrison, who was just on his way to the garden. 

     The force knocked the wind out of a crying Paddy and slammed him into the ground. 

     “Woah,” Harrison breathed out, bending down to help Paddy up. Paddy gasped to catch his breath and attempted to stop the tears. 

     “What happened, kid?” Harrison rubbed his bruised back, “Come on, Paddy, breathe.” 

     “G-Gone…” Paddy wheezed out, “Tom’s gone.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

tags and moots: @justapurrcat @itsapeterthing @peterbenjiparker @kelieah @portraitoforion @ptersmj @princessofguineapigs @cherrytholland @waitimcomingtoo @rosyparkers @iovebug @hollandcrush @celestialbarnes @blissfulparker @starktonyx @asonofpeter @keithseabrook27 @devildisguiseasangel @felicityparkers​ @selfcarecap​

[lazarus-harp]

replicated envies | | |

after the events of everlock, matthew wrestles with finding his footing. especially when it concerns a certain savant and an old flame of his

You're used to the topic of Joey being flung around the circle ; the savant's name ground out by people's clenched mouths like it's that hard for them to say. It bothers you little now that you've settled in, forever leaning forward in your seat as though ready to rush to the bathroom at any time. Everytime the topic is summoned, you keep quiet mostly. Not wanting to engage in idle gossip about a man you still see to this day. Didn't seem right to you. And you're certain if you did speak your heart on the subject, it would end with yelling and scornful looks aimed your way.

Basically, Joey Graceffa was ill-viewed by everyone here. You, the lonesome fan of his art, are forced into silence.

Well, that's exaggerating some. There's no pure hatred in anyone's eyes no matter how sharp their tones are. If you allow yourself to be sympathetic, you can understand they're all simply still hurt and need to direct that hurt onto a single party. But they don't mean it. You can see the blank looks in their eyes sometimes when they say something incredibly anger-fueled about the man. That's not hate. That's following a quiet rule these survivors made that you want no part of. Being isolated with Nikita was better than faking loathing for a man you felt nothing negative towards. This unity wasn't something you ever needed. So you refuse to fall into their clutches, remaining iron willed in the face of conforming creatures.

The only thing you noticed, amongst all the variety of survivors, was the man with glasses. How unlike the rest, he always said Joey's name with this echo of ache. It's always rubbing you the wrong way. The tenderness the man's tone holds as he gently pronounces every syllable of the name. That glazed over look in his vibrant eyes. It feels painstakingly familiar to how you whisper your friend's name and you think you can find more hatred towards that tone than you can find towards Joey.

You know what this is, the thing that makes Tyler say something as mundane as a name like that. A four letter word that's always weighed your small shoulders, made you want to crawl. Though as you judge the former thespian in your tense silence ; you can't bring yourself to connect the dots. Refuse to. What a heavy word it is. All it does is bleed into your entire body and dirty you with its very presence. You know the name, but you won't say it out loud. Even in the safety of your own rotted mind. A childish fear holds you back from lacing it into Tyler's feelings towards your friend. If you imply the word even in your thoughts, it'll be true. And you selfishly never want to be right on this because if you are, then that means Joey might feel the same way back. Which spells your ruination and everything after.

Aching affections were for you, not Tyler Oakley. Especially in the name of being enamored with a certain wayward savant. That was your duty to carry because you've always been smitten with the littlest of things. Strangers on the bus stop that smile at you because of curtsy, friends of friends - tenderness for humans was etched into the cavern of your heart. Drumming you into fever. It's your thing, not his. And you shouldn't feel envy clawing at your throat everytime you even glance at him, but you do. After all, you think, who else could ever love someone like Joey properly, except for you? Your friend isn't a monster but he's certainly not pure nor normal, and neither are you. Care comes easier with understanding and you have that ; could stroke the dull flames in Joey's stomach into a raging fire. Finger his hair in a way that smoothes it out into mock perfectionism. You could because you know better than most.

Love, that weapon of a word, is reserved for you ; Matthew Patrick. For detectives who've already figured it all out and know their destiny. Love is your blessing and your curse and what will destroy everyone you know from the inside out while it leaves you complete. Puppy love is what Tyler might hold for Joey, but oh, you've carried the torch for much longer now. There's nothing small or growing in your own love for your friend. It's just yours. And it's deeper than Tyler's. And that matters, somehow, in the grand scheme of this.

—

He approaches you after a session once. You're gathering your leather coat ( orange today, you yearn for Everlock harder in the fall ) and calling out to Nikita who rushes out the door, furious. She always is, yet she never lets you permanently steal her away from this ; a vicious cycle of hurting herself and you like you have to hurt. You're blindly following her until there's an "ahem.." Which makes you look back to investigate, a natural instinct at this point.

And there Tyler stands, awkward. He shuffles on his clumsy feet and smiles radiantly at you. Blinding. You blink through the rays of white and feel green at the fact you smile so crooked and he doesn't. Perfect despite the hauntings and his unrequited feelings--- seeming confident in himself though you can pick up his nervous ticks as he stands before you. Excellent performance.

"Hey there." Tyler vibrates cheerfully, clicking his tongue with his nerves before pushing on to the point. You know he doesn't want to waste time chatting you up. "I was wanting a second of your time, if you could spare it?"

So polite. You gnaw the inside of your already hurt cheek, your hesitance probing the other male to finally go, "Please, Matthew, it won't be long. I swear.."

You give in at the begging. Soft 'please's always get you in ways nothing else does. You wish Joey and Nikita would beg more often for you, though their cursed independence would never allow it.

After nodding and brief pleasantries, Tyler's able to walk back into the room with you following. Suddenly you feel uneasy. Privacy. You don't trust yourself alone with people often, always nervous about doing something foolish. Smartness was a skill you honed greatly, leaving you with the knowledge of the many things this could be about--- and how you won't respond well to any of the topics. When you two slow to a stop, you're already glancing at your hands and flexing them ; watching your knuckles turn white against such strain. You're trying to think of how badly you could hurt the former thespian. All while he's looking at you with his mouth open, then closed. As he struggles to find out how to word his want, the want you need to yank out of him. A want that burns inside of you twice as bright already.

When Tyler finds the words, he peeks up at you from where he tilts his head downward. "How's Joey?"

The words gush out of him quickly, effective and to the point. You raise a brow and watch him fluster, yet he looks pleased. Like he's been dying to ask every meeting. It makes your stomach churn with something fierce. Any charmed part of you wilts away as the acidic jealousy coats you a second skin.

"He's great, actually." The lie tumbles out, as do the others. "Better than I've ever seen him! He's always thanking Nikita and I for helping him straighten his life out , but you know Joey. Natural born charmer!"

For added effect, you wink at him. Trying to squash out your rising delight at the way his face blanks. Every word was picked with precision in order to watch Tyler's eagerness fade like a dimming light. 'You know Joey' no, Tyler doesn't, not like you and you can tell he knows that. You preen from the make-believe praise you imply the savant gives you, and feel faint with how much you love the idea of Joey being happier with you than he ever was with the man before you. It's all a lie but you almost believe it yourself. You want to.

"Well, that's good.. I'm glad he's finally happy."

Doesn't sound like it, from the defeated wisp in his sigh. But you simply smile at Tyler, in your styled crooked grin. Letting him get away with his words

You place an assured hand on your hip, pronouncing it outward. "He really is."

There's no offer to relay any message, because you would never tell Joey anyway. He doesn't like to hear about these meetings. Very bleeding hearted at the fact he was never offered a spot. So your silence wouldn't only be an act smitten with selfishness, not when it would favor your beloved savant greatly as well. It's better to leave Tyler in the dust. Covered with cobwebs that smell of the past. It's time for Joey to let go and heal properly. If he clings to anything else, he'll never get there. This love would drag him down and you know it. You adore the man to the point of self destruction typically, but today you'll finally do something in his best interests. Something Tyler fails to do.

The brief encounter ends shortly after. With the former thespian stuttering about, side stepping you greatly on his way out. You fight back a satisfied grin, or a wicked smirk, while you follow far behind.

When Nikita notices your mood, she says nothing about it. Only calling attention to how famished she is.

For once, you're thankful for her inability to talk about things like this.