#put me back in the kiln!

[waitineedaname]

i think ling (pre-greed) could be made of clay and go SPLAT

maybe

me stretching out a lump of clay as much as possible before throwing it against the nearest solid surface as hard as I can

boys who go SPLAT

[pigcowboys]

hiii!!! may i request headcannons or smth for doing arts n crafts or pottery with percy pleaseee!!! :3 thank youuu have a nice dayyy

pairing: percy jackson x gn!reader

warning(s): mutual pining, kissing, fluff, incorrect pottery knowledge, physical touch.

summary: percy helps you with your pottery assignment

a/n: HI!! TYSM FOR REQUESTING :D, this request is adorable too I’ve always loved this pottery trope it’s so cliche 😭😭 im currently working on the missing FIC but! I wanted to post SOMETHING cause it’s been so long.

happy halloween to anyone who celebrates it!

percy peered into the arts and craft room curiously, looking around at the abandoned looking room. a smile made its way onto his face as he took notice of you, practically skipping over to you.

you huffed as you picked at the dried up clay on your hands, flinching slightly when percy slung a hand over you, pulling you towards him with a smile.

“what’re you doing?” he asked, peering over your shoulder curiously. you barely moved, adjusting your shoulder so he’d rest comfortably.

“making — or well, trying to make a vase.” you turned to look at him through your peripheral. percy stared at the discombobulated mess of clay that he assumed was your attempt at that.

“i’m guessing this is a more..artistic take on that.” he joked, nuzzling his face further into your shoulder. “did you come here to laugh at me or something?”

“truth? maybe.” he grinned. “that and, i just missed you.” you rested your head against his own which laid in the crook of your shoulder, cradling it with your clay stained hands.

“flattery will get you nowhere, percy.” you smiled at him. “but, i missed you too.” you leaned forward, moving Percy’s head out of your shoulder in the process. he moved to sit beside you, looking at the mess in front of you with a confused look. you met his gaze, offering him a dazed grin.

“do you want some help?”

“yes, please.”

percy laughed slightly, standing up and plopping down behind you. you adjusted to the feeling of him behind you, giggling slightly when his hands brushed your rib cage as it came to hold onto your waist.

you eyed him curiously before clearing the kiln of any excess clay. Percy watched closely as you placed a fresh lump of clay onto the wheel, watching closely as you began to toy with the shape of the clay. his head found it’s way over your shoulder as he braved against your back, removing his hands for your waist.

your breath caught in your throat at the proximity but paid it no mind, pushing down your anxiety in favor of focusing.

“here,” you said, motioning for Percy to bring his hands forward to which he did, hovering on the wheel with uncertainty as he waited for your next command. “shape the lower half, i’ll work on the top half, okay?”

percy hummed in agreement, leaning to the right of you as he used his lithe fingers to curve the lower half of the vase. you two worked in tandem despite the close proximity and the straying thoughts that would flash in your mind every few minutes about how you could feel percy’a breath against your neck.

you felt like you were going crazy, especially when your hands absentmindedly wander further down towards the lower half of the vase, grazing Percy’s own hands which were moving up at the same time. in real time the contact only lasted about a minute or two but you felt like the lasted well over ten.

it seriously didn’t help when Percy inched forward as you were turning to observer the wall mounted clock in the arts in crafts room, locking eyes with him for moment before whipping your head back to focus on what you were actually supposed to be doing.

the situation was so awkward and it was only punctuated by percy talking enthusiastically about something that crossed his mind as you tried your best to listen to what he had to say. though, at this point you were down for the count and there wasn’t anyway to just slip out from the position you’d put yourself in.

your mind wandered and you turned to look at percy as he spoke, mind getting caught on the pinkish hue of his lips. they looked, regular — you guessed. just..really nice. and inviting. and cute kind of? can lips be cute? maybe not, but, his were.

Percy trailed off as he caught wind of the fact you were zoned out, fixating his eyes towards wherever it was you were looking at and flushing when he did. a nervous laugh slipped through him that caused you to snap out your daze as he murmured out your name.

“you’re not listening are you?”

“i am.”

“y’know I hate that I doubt that.”

you frowned, a bad attempt at looking offended by the complete and total truth that Percy was accusing you of doing.

“what makes you think I’m not?” you asked, turning back to focus on shaping the clay. percy stilled for a moment before leaning forward, breath fanning against the shell of your ear.

“ the fact you keep staring longingly at my lips.”

you flinched at the sound of his voice, whipping your head back to look at him and simultaneously digging into the clay that was still rotating. you cursed, removing your hands from the wheel as you shifted out from your spot in-front of Percy.

he looked at you with slight amusement as he stopped the spinning, getting up to follow after you, who had walked over to the sink — washing your hands furiously while also trying to calm your racing heart.

percy walked over slowly, observing you silently before taking a spot next to you to wash his hands. you didn’t spare him a glance when he did, only shifting slightly so he’d get access to the sink as well.

“ are you embarrassed or something?” he spoke up suddenly

“wh—” You snapped your head towards Percy with a genuine look of bewilderment in your face. “no!” you frowned at him, heart beating in your ears and he stared you down. well, you had to give it to him, the guy had amazing eye contact.

“you just caught me off guard.”

“caught off guard or caught red handed?”

“caught off guard.”

percy looked at you like he trying to analyze you, hands flapping in the wind as he shook off the water that was on his hands. you turned your back towards him, reaching for the towel that was a near the sink, drying your hands. now, how were you supposed to come up with an excuse that could get you out of this?

“hey,” Percy spoke once more, a slight seriousness in the tone of his voice. you turned your head towards him curiously. “we could try it.”

“try..?”

“kissing.”

“each other?” you asked, complete shock on your face.

“no, the clay.” he quipped, expression faltering when his response was met with silence from your end. “it’s..okay if you don’t want to — i just thought it would be.. uhm, good for practice?”

“yeah, cause i kiss people every other month or so.”

he shrugged. “you could be living a double life.” you shot him a look, a sigh escaping you. he wasn’t joking right? like, this wasn’t a prank..right? you racked your brain from specifics, trying your hardest to walk through the idea before reluctantly opting to give into it.

it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

“c’mere,” you murmured, and Percy obeyed your order almost immediately. your breath caught in your throat as he approached you carefully, placing his hand on your shoulder. you looked up at him like a deer in headlights, causing a laugh — or more like a cackle to escape his lips.

you gave him an unamused look. percy smiled warmly, clearing his throat before moving his hands towards the underside of your chin, angling it up. you closed your eyes expectantly, gulping as Percy’s breath fanned over your lips.

he hesitated for a moment before leaning in and locking lips with you after a pause. you pursued your lips against his own, hands coming to rest on his chest as you fiddled with the strings of his hoodie.

you were stiff in his hold, something that he could feel as he pressed into your body. his other hand reached up to rest on your hands which was rested against his chest in attempt to soothe your nerves. you relaxed in his hold, titling your head slightly as you pull back for air before going back in.

Percy pulled away from the kiss finally, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gazed at you longingly. he opened his mouth to say something, lips pressing shut as he stood in silence. you felt as if it was now your turn to ease the tension, a smile breaking out on your face in an attempt to soothe his fears.

“that was..a solid 8/10..”

percy grinned, removing his hand from under your chin as he cradled your torso. “2 points off?” he smiled. “How come?”

You shrugged. “you were pretty stiff.”

“you’re talking?”

you punched him playfully, sliding out of his grip carefully as you inches back towards the wheel.

“come on, let’s finish this, okay?” you turned towards him. “i’lil let you do a redo afterwards.”

percy stared at you with starstruck eyes, briskly walking back over to the pottery station.

[mouthsfullofsharpteeth]

Alex kralie getting into ceramics after everything happened. Taking a class for 50$ a month. Now that he and Tim have a place and arent blowing all their money on motels, they can sort of afford it. Tim encourages it, even if Alex sees it as a waste. His argument is, Alex needs something to get out of the house for. Hes too much of a disaster to get a job, and before this he had just been laying in bed, still as stone and staring at the wall for all the hours that Tim was working. At least now he moves.

For the first few months, he makes nothing good. Mishapen pots and ugly mugs. He mushes so many projects together before they can even dry. Hating his work, disgusted by the crap his useless hands push together. When he first starts getting things back out of the kiln, he takes them home unglazed and throw them against the concrete of the parking lot. Tim arrives at their place to find Alex surrounded by broken hardened clay, and wonders if maybe this wasn’t the right thing to encourage. If maybe Alex wasn’t ready to re-enter society yet. Was he damaged beyond repair? Was there no fixing what the Operator had done to him both mentally and emotionally? Tim could feed him, make him sleep, keep him clean- repair the physical wounds. But he couldn’t fix Alex’s brain if it was already too broken.

But Alex went back to the studio again the next week. And after another month or so, Tim wakes up for work one morning, and is met with hot coffee, presented in a bumpy, shiny black and brown mug. Alex holds it out to him, one of his hands in the pocket of Tim’s sweatshirt that he must have put on.

(Neither of them have many clothes. Might as well share what they did have. Same reason they just used the same bed. Not like they could afford a two bedroom apartment anyway.)

“Thanks.” Tim stares at him, takes the mug. “Did you make this?”

“The coffee maker did,” Alex says, rubbing the back of his neck. Avoiding Tim’s eyes. He sits on the edge of the bed, near Tim’s legs. “Same brand we always buy.”

Tim raises a brow. “Right.” On the inside of the handle are the letters ‘AJK’. Tim feels a warmth fill his chest that has nothing to do with the coffee. He takes a sip.

“What do you think? Of the coffee.” Alex scuffs his socked feet on the carpet.

“It’s good. Really good. Thanks, Alex.”

The corner of Alex’s lip twitches like it does when he wants to smile but physically can’t bring himself to. Tim considers it a win.

“And it’s for me?” Tim asks to clarify.

“I gave it to you, didn’t I?” He mumbled.

Tim’s heart warmed some more.

He was right from the start. Tim was glad he encouraged this. It just proved his point- no one wasn’t worth trying to save.

[joelscurls]

fallen into place

an epilogue to my feel it in your bones series (part i | part ii)

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.3k

summary: It's the one year anniversary of the day you & Joel met. Your plans to celebrate are soured by poor weather - but Joel doesn't let that ruin your day.

warnings: 18+, minors dni, no outbreak, age gap (reader is in her late 20s, Joel is in his late 40s), fluff, smut (allusions to piv sex, but nothing explicit)

a/n: thank you a million times over to everyone who left nice comments on the first two parts of this series; every single one has made me smile like an idiot :') and ty as always to my beta & muse @caffeinated-validation <3 enjoy this lil epilogue!

The windows of the old farmhouse groan, rain pelting the glass and an angry wind jostling the frames. A draft slips in through a gap in the wood, the one Joel’s been meaning to fix, and you reflexively pull the blanket that’s wrapped around your body tighter, snugger. 

Through fogged panes, you can barely make out the sheep in the pasture where they’re huddled together, their bodies distorted by bulbous raindrops. You watch as a couple break off from the herd, blurs of white floating toward the fence line like grounded clouds.

The kettle on the stovetop squeals, quiet at first, then louder, and you pad out of the dining room, into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea. The percolator on the nearby counter gurgles away, still working on Joel’s coffee.

The day has been all but thrown away, thanks to the weather.

You and Joel had planned to celebrate your anniversary: one year since meeting under the fluorescent white lights of the lecture hall, all fidgety hands and warm cheeks.

He’d wanted to take you out, back to the lounge you’d gone to that first night, to sip whiskeys again and reminisce.

You’d wanted to cuddle up together on one of the large, leather armchairs and kiss him the way you had then, just with a bit more purpose, this time.

But a tree had fallen at the entrance of Joel’s dead-end road early this morning, the fractured trunk stretching from one shoulder to another. 

The loud thud of it had jolted you from a sound sleep, causing you to seek refuge in Joel’s strong, impregnable arms as he’d continued snoring away.

It was only when he’d stirred a few hours later that he’d called the town and learned they wouldn’t be able to remove it until later today, at the earliest.

And so, you’re stuck at his house — at least for the time being. 

When the percolator seizes, you pour the contents into Joel’s favorite mug, the one Sarah had gotten him as a housewarming gift. The speckling on the dark green ceramic makes it look as if it’s been handmade and fired in a kiln. The front is appropriately adorned with the Vermont state seal. 

You leave the coffee black — his preference — and bring it, along with your tea, into the living room where Joel is splayed across the couch, reading some book about the history of homesteading. 

You’re quiet when you enter. It gives you the opportunity to marvel at his concentrated face, his brows furrowed and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he scans the pages. He traces under the words with his thumb, so as not to inadvertently lose his place.

He finally notices you when you sink into the cushion by his feet and place his mug down on the coffee table in front of him. He swings his legs around and sits upright to make more room for you. 

“Thanks, baby,” he says, dog-earing the page he’s on and setting the book down on the arm of the couch. 

He buries a gracious kiss in your hair and reaches for the coffee, not bothering to let it cool before he takes his first sip. He hisses. Curses under his breath. 

You shake your head in amusement as you settle into plush upholstery, your cup still steaming away on the table. 

Joel grunts. He puts the mug back down in defeat and resumes reading

You decide to sift through your emails. You grab your laptop from your nearby work bag and settle back into the couch with it propped atop your knees. 

You open your inbox. A new message from your well-intentioned, but neurotic colleague sits at the very top, received 20 minutes ago. She’s requesting any final advice for facilitating a fun and informative Open House, since you aren’t volunteering at Homecoming this year. 

You don’t have any fresh insight to provide, so you just copy and paste the last email you sent to her, which she’d never responded to, and add a see below to the top of the message.

Most of the remaining unread emails are from students, a few begging for an extension on their midterm that’s due Monday, another asking how to access their assigned reading for the nth time.

You check to make sure the link to said reading in the syllabus is still working. It is.

A garbled, frustrated sort of noise forms at the bottom of your throat. Joel looks up from his book. Cocks a brow at you in silent question: you okay?

You groan. “Sorry, I’m fine. Just stressed. Annoyed. I can’t believe I’m checking emails right now when we’re supposed to be celebrating.” 

He leans forward. Presses the laptop shut before you can protest. “Then stop,” he offers. 

Joel is a perceptive person, more so than most people give him credit for. His usual persona, the one everyone else sees, characterized by indifferent grumbles and petulant grimaces, is a facade. Because in truth, he’s observant. Caring. He can read you better than the book in his lap with just a scan of his eyes.

He knows just what you need at all times. And right now, he can tell you need to relax.

“Darlin’,” he starts. Waits until you look at him. Until your muscles slacken and he knows you’re listening. 

“I know this isn't ideal. But we’re gonna make the best of it, okay?” 

You nod. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” You watch him think for a moment, gaze fixed absently on the far corner of the room. “You’re gonna go upstairs and take a bath. Put on one ‘a those cucumber things-” 

“A face mask?”

“Yeah, that. And you’re gonna stay upstairs until I tell you to come down. Alright?” 

You want to crack some wise remark about feeling like Rapunzel. But a bath sounds good right now. Great, actually. So you nod again. Say, “okay”. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Go relax, babygirl.”

You bring your untouched cup of tea with you. It rests on the windowsill next to the clawfoot tub as you wait for the basin to fill with water. You undress, apply a few squeezes of the facemask you keep stashed at the back of Joel’s medicine cabinet just in case. Then you get into the bath, sighing immediately at the feel of warm water lapping at your skin. 

You sink into it, let your head rest against porcelain as your eyes fall shut. 

You stay there until your fingers prune and sweat begins to bead on your forehead. When you stand, the water draining at your feet, you glance out the window and notice that the rain has let up, at least enough that you can actually see the pasture below. 

Joel is there, you realize, his stocky figure leaning against the fence, observing the sheep as they graze. He remains there for a few minutes, and you watch, entranced by him even from a distance.  Water drip-drip-drips off of your body and circles the drain.

When he retreats back toward the house, you step out of the bath. The floor below you vibrates as you towel yourself off, the way it does whenever the front door shuts. You hear the clomp of Joel’s boots against the hardwood as he makes his way inside.

He doesn’t come up. Which means you can’t come down yet, according to his instructions. So you wash your facemask off before wrapping yourself up in Joel’s bathrobe, the bottom hem grazing the floor as you saunter into his room and flop down onto the bed. 

You spend the next hour scrolling mindlessly on your phone, bookmarking recipes that look appetizing slash easy, and cute cat videos to show Joel. You figure if you show him enough, he’ll break and get himself one. 

You need a barncat, you’d told him. You can’t have a barn without a barncat. 

He’d questioned your logic. But he hadn’t said no, not explicitly, anyway.

You refresh your feed for what must be the tenth time this afternoon. Another video of a cat. This one tries to jump onto the top of the fridge from its place on the floor and misses by a longshot. Your laughter fizzles quickly. You’re getting bored. 

You lug yourself off the bed with an exaggerated huff and tiptoe out of Joel’s room to the top of the stairs. He’s playing music, the faint notes of a Johnny Cash song filtering up the balustrade. The smell of garlic follows on its heels, wafting directly into your nostrils and your stomach growls. He’s cooking. 

Joel isn’t a chef by any means. But ever since moving to Vermont, he’s really embraced farm life, sourcing eggs from a neighbor and milk from another. You’d even gotten him a book full of farm-to-table recipes for his birthday, and he’s cracked into it more than once already.

The thought of him referencing it right now to prepare an anniversary dinner for you makes you swoon. Suddenly, you’re very impatient. 

“Can I come down yet?,” you call out. 

You’re not sure if Joel will hear you over the music. But he appears at the bottom of the stairs less than ten seconds later, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. It’s marked with an orange, splotchy stain.

“Nice robe,” he smirks. Leans against the railing. “Two minutes, okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, your heart rate quickening at the sight of him looking so domestic. “I’ll go get changed and come down.” 

“Or you could just keep that on,” he drawls. “Look good in my clothes.”

Warmth blooms at the base of your neck. 

“Wait,” you say. “Stay there.”

You feel his eyes on you as you turn and slink down the hall, back to his room. 

You change out of the robe, into one of his flannels and a pair of sleep shorts that you’d stuffed at the bottom of your overnight bag. Then you return to the top of the stairs. 

Joel groans when he sees you. “Get down here,” he growls. You feign innocence, toying with the buttons on his shirt. 

He tracks you like a wolf as you descend, his love for you in his clothes visible by the growing bulge in his pants. You move to grope him when you reach the bottom step and he stops you with a large hand wrapped loosely around your wrist. 

“Dinner,” he reminds you. His voice comes out pained, like if he hadn’t been slaving away in the kitchen for the past hour, he wouldn’t be so adamant. 

“Wait here for a sec,” he says. He adjusts himself and disappears into the kitchen. There’s a series of worrying clangs on the other side of the wall. You hear one of the burners on the stove click off. 

You stand patiently, soundtracked by the sounds of footsteps and clattering dishware. 

And then Joel reappears, outstretching a hand. You take it. Follow him.

It’s dark in the house, the sun having set by now. You try your best not to trip over your own feet and wonder why Joel hasn’t turned any lights on. 

Your question is answered sooner than you can voice it, when you round the corner to the dining room and see what he’s done.

He’s gone all out, two small candles lit at the center of the table next to a bouquet of wildflowers from the edge of his property, arranged in a clear glass vase. On either placemat are steaming plates of pasta, garnished with tomato sauce and fresh basil. You’re practically drooling as you sit down opposite him.

And then there’s the bottle of wine, red, label turned away from you. You twist it around. The name is illegible in the dim candlelight. 

Joel clears his throat. Takes your hand in his on the tabletop. 

“It’s uh – it’s the same one I brought to your apartment that time. The first time.” 

You blink hard. Your brain works to catch up with what he’s just said.

And then you’re all but leaping across the table, catching him in an earnest kiss. 

“Joel,” you say, gesturing to the plates, the wine, the candles. “This is amazing.”

You swear you catch him blush. It’s difficult to tell in the dark.

“‘Ts nothin’,” he retorts. “Less than you deserve. I know you were lookin’ forward to celebratin’ properly.” 

“Hey,” you squeeze his hand. “This is perfect. Better than perfect.” 

Now you know he’s blushing. He attempts to cover it up by bringing the bottle in front of his face, pouring you both a glass.

Joel’s pasta is delicious. You devour it, have to stop yourself from licking the plate clean when you’re done. After dinner, you retreat to the living room where Joel throws a few fresh logs on the hearth and lights it.

He tires quickly of his flannel cloaking your body, and plucks the buttons open one by one until you’re on display for him. Then he lays you down by the roaring fire and makes love to you, heat from the flames licking at your exposed chest as he takes you apart.

You’ve never felt so loved. 

It dawns on you in the afterglow, heart rabbiting in your chest and thighs soaked with arousal — Joel is everything —  your past year, your present, your forever. An immense contentedness settles in you, deep in your being. Unshakable; impenetrable.

As Joel lays next to you, stroking calloused fingers lazily along the length of your arm, forehead shiny with sweat, you sigh. 

“What is it, darlin?,” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Just feel really lucky.” 

“Nah,” he whispers. He caresses the curve of your jaw gently, like he thinks you’ll break if he’s any less tender. Like he’s forgetting the way his body just ravaged yours. “I’m the lucky one.”

You let him have this one — at least on the outside. Inside, you’re making a list of all the ways Joel has sweetened your life: his kind soul, his expert touch, his deep, unwavering love for you. You add to it until the slowing of his heart and his loosened grip on your face distract you.

And then you lose count.

end notes: ty for reading! please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment if you liked it <3 til next time!

series tag list:  @anoverwhelmingdin, @joelalorian, @lol-im-done, @bensonispunk, @sereindreams, @survivingandenduring, @stevie75, @vee-bees-blog, @brittmb115, @cassiopeia, @bbyanarchist, @janaispunk, @barbellpedro

[ghostbeam]

empty til she fills | fuyumi todoroki x reader

You’re beautiful, really. It’s truly no wonder why they chose you for the job, every line and curve and fold. They’ll never be able to capture you the way you really are. Nothing compares to the real thing.

Her eyes gaze over your neck, down your chest, over your stomach, your thighs. That familiar hunger sits in Fuyumi’s stomach, aches in her jaw. She wants to bite you everywhere that she can, really make you bleed. But Fuyumi doesn’t feed from anything but animals, and it’s not like you’d satisfy her hunger anyway. She’s given up on that feeling a long time ago.

Notes: Hiiiii everyone!!! This is the first installment of vampire empire and it’s all about fuyumi!!! It’s much shorter than I thought, but when it was done it was done u know? I love her I think she should be allowed to go apeshit and drink blood and not hold back if she wants to!!!!!!! Let her fuck!!!!!! Anyways yeah thanks for reading!! (title from vampire empire by big thief) u can listen to the playlist for the whole anthology here! Also I made a Pinterest board!

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, f! reader, explicit content, dark content, angst for like the briefest moment, violence, vampires, detailed descriptions of blood and gore (on both reader and another person), murder (u kill someone! It’s offscreen tho), blood kink, biting, drinking blood (fuyumi drinks from reader, u both drink from the dead man), biting and drinking from already open wounds, fingering, oral (reader eats fuyumi out!!! Yay!!!) (bloody), bloody sex, reader is sort of a masochist, soooo many commas, a line completely stolen from fascination (1979) cause I had to ajsjsjsjs, perspective changes between u and fuyumi like a lot idk I’m sorry she spoke to me<3

words: 4.3k

Fuyumi has always been a little unsure of what to do with her hands. When she sits, when she walks, when she kisses, while she waits. Where does she put them? Where do they go?

It’s the same, squeezing porcelain clay through her fingers, molding and shaping and running a wire through the middle and cursing when it doesn’t topple over. She’s bad with her hands, but she loves it, lumpy mugs and all. 

And her mugs are lumpy, most of them break in the kiln, but whatever she’s proud of, she sends to her brothers. 

She’s never been much of an artist, and all the years she’s lived (many, many years), none of it ever interested her. But when you’ve done everything, there’s no harm in trying. And so even though her pots and bowls end up twisted and misshapen on the wheel, she tries and tries until they’re at least a little bit useful.

The truth is that there, in the studio, surrounded by people who do all the same things that she does, mess up and try again, break things when they don’t turn out, or smash fragile wet clay held together by careful hands, Fuyumi feels human. She makes mistakes. She screws up. It’s something she’s never been allowed to do before. 

Plus, you’re there. 

The anatomy class pays you to model. Sometimes, she sees you run around in your long robe, buying snacks from the vending machines or remembering something you left in your car. She’s completely enamored with you, with your humanity, how free you seem. She’s envious, in a way, but really she just likes you, wants you—wants to bite you. Which is dangerous for Fuyumi because she stopped feeding from humans ages ago. 

You collide on a Saturday night, left alone in the studio, separated by one wall. Fuyumi works late because she doesn’t sleep, and one of the owners of the building had given her a set of keys to lock up when she leaves. When she opens the door to the pottery studio, you’re out in the hallway, slapping your palm against the door next door and murmuring soft no’s as you peak through the glass. You have half a mind to just bust the thing down, except now you’re not alone in the hallway. 

Fuyumi. The pretty vampire with streaks of scarlet through her ivory hair, cute glasses perched on her nose, and hands you think about way more often than you should steps out of the pottery studio. You’ve caught her staring at you before, and you can’t tell if it’s because she knows of the similar condition you have in common, or if she’s as interested in you as you are in her. 

You both pause, caught staring at one another. The only thing on Fuyumi’s mind is that you’re probably completely naked under your robe. 

“I—um, got locked out.” You say, finally, blowing air you have no need for out of your throat like a breath. It must be nerves. “My clothes are in there. My everything is in there.”

“Oh!” She shakes her head free of the thoughts of your bare body. Then a realization, “I have a key!”

You move out of her way and let her unlock the door, jiggling the key in the lock and pushing it open. You grin, press your hands into her shoulders and let out a squeal of delight. “Thank you!”

“Yeah, no problem.” She speaks, willing herself not to melt at the feeling of your fingers digging into her flesh for a moment. She turns to leave, satisfied with the interaction, enough to hold her over for a lifetime, maybe. Your hands on her shoulders, your robe against your skin, your neck. 

“Fuyumi!” You call, and she feels like maybe she’s dreaming, or maybe she’s hearing things. But when she turns around, you’re looking at her expectantly. “Would you wait for me? I don’t really wanna walk to my car alone at night.”

It’s a good excuse, you think. Fuyumi’s got that bleeding heart (or lack of one). She won’t leave you alone. 

“‘Course! Yeah, I’ve gotta lock the front, anyways, so—yeah, I’ll wait.” She nods, stepping back into the room and letting the door fall shut behind her. She watches you untie you’re robe at the middle, and she spins on her heel, facing the door again. She hears you chuckle, and it makes her feel a little silly. You’re naked for, like, four hours every day. It’s not like you would care if she watched. 

But Fuyumi cares, because she doesn’t want to see you naked for the first time like that. She doesn’t want to see you naked and know she won’t be able to touch you. 

“Okay, you can turn around, now.” You speak now that you’re dressed. She turns and you walk toward her, locking elbows. She leads you outside, locks the door with your hand against her arm like she’s yours, and walks you to your car. 

“Guess I’ll see you next week.” She tells you, pulling away from you to walk to her bike. You call her name and it’s deja vu.

“Do you want to go get coffee?” You ask, stopping Fuyumi in her tracks yet again. She turns.

“It’s eleven o’clock at night.” Fuyumi says like an idiot. 

“I just—I wanna keep…hanging out.” You say, and well, so does Fuyumi. Of course, she does. “Your bike’ll fit in the trunk. I’ll drive you home after.”

So, she says yes, stuffs her bike into your trunk with the back seats folded down, and ducks into your car. 

You drive like a maniac, and you listen to your music way too loud, and Fuyumi hopes she doesn’t look as terrified as she feels despite knowing she can’t die in a car accident. But you can, she thinks, so yea, she’s terrified. And you drive like this all the time?

But you both make it in one piece, skirting into the parking lot of a diner with a yellowing neon sign out front. Everyone knows you inside, greeting you with happy smiles and asking you questions about your life, details Fuyumi hopes to know after tonight. 

You take her to a booth in the corner, sliding in next to her instead of across, thighs pressed up against each other as a waitress brings you both a mug of hot coffee. You order apple pie with ice cream, and Fuyumi envies the fact that you’re even able to eat it. Since becoming a vampire, she’s lost any appetite for anything that isn’t blood. 

“So, when were you turned?” You speak, licking vanilla ice cream off the back of your spoon, head resting on you fist as you stare at her. If Fuyumi had a working heart it would be beating out of her chest right now. “I don’t think you’re all that old. You actually seem pretty young. Tell me, maybe in the mid nineties, early two-thousands?”

Fuyumi opens then closes her mouth, unsure of what to say. How could you have possibly known (besides the fact that you got the decade way off)?

“I was turned in ’87 by an old boyfriend who couldn’t control himself.” You shrug, revealing the information like you hadn’t just told her that you, the little human she’s been so fascinated by lately, are a vampire. 

“You’re a vampire.” She says—a statement—not a question, because of course, you’re a vampire. 

“You didn’t know?” You ask, softer. She shakes her head, stares at the booth in front of her. She feels your fingers underneath her chin, and she’s not sure how she never noticed it before, but you’re hands are freezing. She lets you guide her to look at you. “Hey, are you okay? Did I freak you out?”

And it’s not that you’re a vampire. It’s not even that you’re a vampire that she was convinced was human. It’s that she wanted to bite you, wanted to feel that pop and gush, drink from you what’s not actually even being pumped through your body anymore, blood that’s lying dormant in your veins. And the thing is, she still wants to. 

“I think I’m just shocked.” She speaks, willing herself to calm down, accept the situation, adapt. “I haven’t met another one of us here in town. It’s new, but it’s…good. I’m actually a little excited about it.”

“You don’t sound excited.” You observe, letting your hand fall to her thigh. 

“I am—no really. I am.” She grins, leaning toward you. “How come you can eat real food?”

You think maybe she still hasn’t processed everything yet, the smile on her face a little unnerving. And there’s something in her eyes, raw, dangerous, hungry. It makes you shiver. “I never lost the appetite.”

“It tastes good to you?” 

“So good.” You nod, unknowingly moving a little closer. Two girls pressed up against each other in a booth in a dark corner. Two vampires. Two monsters. 

You’re there later than either of you expected to be, fingers intertwined, hands brushing away stray hairs, and words whispered against ears, tucking your face into her neck when you laugh at something inappropriate. 

When you leave, Fuyumi tugs on your hand, interlocks two fingers as you walk to your car. You drive just as bad, but she doesn’t think she minds it this time. To die by your side, and all that. 

When you drop her off at home, you scribble your number on her wrist with a green glitter gel pen and resist the urge to do something drastic like kiss her or invite yourself in. 

Fuyumi realizes she’s left her bike in your trunk, her only mode of transportation to the studio besides walking. She eyes the green glitter on her skin and opens her phone. 

left my bike in ur car:/ pick me up to go to the studio tmrrw? Read 2:22am

be there at 10 sent 2:24am

u can sit in on my class sent 2:25am

…

She does sit in on your class the next morning. You hold her hand and show her where to sit, a view of both the artist’s sketches of you and the actual you draped over a couch. It’s probably inappropriate to sit there all horny in the middle of this art class, but you won’t stop looking at her. You know exactly what your doing, mimicking the rise and fall of your chest like you’re breathing when she knows you’re not. 

You’re beautiful, really. It’s truly no wonder why they chose you for the job, every line and curve and fold. They’ll never be able to capture you the way you really are. Nothing compares to the real thing.

Her eyes gaze over your neck, down your chest, over your stomach, your thighs. That familiar hunger sits in Fuyumi’s stomach, aches in her jaw. She wants to bite you everywhere that she can, really make you bleed. But Fuyumi doesn’t feed from anything but animals, and it’s not like you’d satisfy her hunger anyway. She’s given up on that feeling a long time ago.

When the class ends, Fuyumi leaves to make more misshapen mugs, taking a few out of the kiln she thinks she’ll give to you. As the sun sets, both of you get ready to leave, and you’re at the door to the pottery studio by the time Fuyumi is done cleaning her space. You’re a little disappointed you missed watching her on the wheel, her pretty hands shaping the clay like you’ve seen her do many times before. You knock on the door frame, and she looks up at you, grins. Her hair is tied up, pieces of hair falling over her face, her cardigan falling down and exposing her right shoulder. You can’t get over how pretty she is, a little messy.

“Hi.” You speak.

“Hey. You ready?” She asks, throwing her bag over her shoulder and walking towards you. You always want to watch her walk towards you—never away.

“I’m ready.” You nod, intertwining your fingers with hers when she makes her way towards you. You drive Fuyumi to your house, your arm over the console and your hand on her thigh. 

Your place is small, really just big enough for you. The walls are a mauve color that Fuyumi decides she likes, tiny star shaped twinkle lights hang over each window instead of curtains, a bundle of violets stuffed inside a beer bottle sit on your coffee table, books and dvd’s and records all stacked against one another with what seems to be no sense of organization in your bookcases. It’s really not much for a vampire.

She sets her tote bag carefully on the counter, red and white checkered, pulling two of her signature misshapen mugs from inside. One painted blue with tiny yellow stars and the other lined with terribly drawn strawberries. 

“These are for you.” She tells you, turning to face you as you’re bent over your stereo, looking for a station you like. Bits from the past stick with you like a refrigerator magnet. Fuyumi wants to remember the look on your face when you turn around and see her gift for the rest of her life. 

“I love them!” You gush, rushing over to pick both of them up. “They’re perfect. One for me, and one for you. We’ll drink blood from them with our pinkies up and cheers to LeFanu.”

Fuyumi laughs, says nothing about the blood. “I’m glad you like them.”

You turn around, opening one of your cabinets open with a finger, setting the mugs down on the counter and moving two snoopy holiday mugs on one shelf towards the back. You set the gift down in their place and wave a hand over it like your presenting them on a gameshow, “I’ve replaced the snoopy mugs with them. That’s a big deal, you know.”

“I’m honored.” Fuyumi grins, moving around the counter to stand near you. 

“You should be.” You lean a little closer to her, let her hand brush against your hip, hook her fingers in your belt loops. You nudge your nose against hers, and she takes that as a sign to kiss you. 

Chapped lips meet yours, hungrier than you expected, much less soft than the girl before you. There’s a burning in your gut, her hands, those hands you’ve payed so much attention to, pressing into your hips, pulling you flush against her front. You let out a moan when she swipes her tongue against your lip, your bodies pressing closer and closer like you’ll become one person. She moves her leg in between your thighs, pressed up against you, and your mouth falls open in a gasp, one she wastes no time taking advantage of, all tongue and teeth, all her, her, her. 

The two of you end up on your couch, unable to make it to the bed. If you had to wait any longer, you think maybe you’d both explode. She eats you out, there in your living room, makes you come three times in a row, familiar hungry eyes never stray from your own. 

…

She doesn’t talk about the vampire thing. Ever. She goes quiet when you bring it up, busying herself with something else like washing the dishes in your sink or trying to find something to watch on tv. You mostly let it go because you know Fuyumi. You know how fascinated she is by humans, how she envies them, how that envy and fascination is the very reason you’re together now. 

And maybe it should hurt you, the fact that believing you were human was the one reason she’d been so interested. But you know her, bleeding unbeating heart and all, she loves you. She loves you and your monster, she just doesn’t love her’s.

It’s difficult to drag the body through your house alone, vampire strength being something you hadn’t been blessed with once you’d turned all those years ago. Fuyumi sent you a message that she’d be at the studio late and would probably just end up going home instead of coming over. You figure you have time to drain this guy of all he’s worth, pack him up into little tupperwares in your fridge and be done with him by morning. 

You’ve done this a million times before, dragged a body out to your back yard, fed from it until your satisfied before saving the rest. It’s enough to last you a couple of weeks. It’s a good system. 

You don’t hear the sliding door open, you just hear Fuyumi say your name. You look up at her, blood on your mouth, your neck, your hands, fangs poking out underneath your top lip. You’re sure you look terrifying, but it’s the look on her face that scares you. 

It’s disgust, and betrayal, and anger. It’s tears welling up in her pretty, gray eyes and her mouth falling open and closed at the sight of you. 

But Fuyumi, well, Fuyumi wants to join you. It’s taking everything in her not to fall to her knees and sink her teeth into the neck of this possibly innocent man. She wants to drink and kiss you, and drink, and touch you, and then drink some more, this time from your neck. But Fuyumi doesn’t kill for blood, and she thought that neither did you. 

“I can’t believe you.” Her words are quiet. If you both hadn’t been outside on a completely silent night, you don’t think you would have even heard her. 

“Fuyumi…” You begin, standing up from where you’d previously crouched down, blood on your hands falling against the concrete in sticky splatters. She takes a step back like she’s scared of you. 

“You killed him.”

“Fuyumi,” another step.

“Stay there.” You stop. It’s not supposed to be like this. She’s supposed to love you. She does love you. You have to tell yourself that. 

“I’m a vampire. What did you expect? This is who we are.” You try to explain. 

“It’s not—it’s not who I am.” She shakes her head, flashes of red appear behind her eyes, the teeth of her brothers, her hands covered in blood the same way yours are now. Laughing, hollering, arms tangled together, the last time they’d all been with each other, the last time they were happy. 

“It is. It is who you are. Fuyumi, you’re starving.” Your words seem to do something to her, her mouth falls closed. A decision is made, and her feet take her closer and closer to you and the body on the floor. 

She wraps her hand around the back of your neck, thumbs through the blood you’re covered in and kisses you. She licks the blood on your lips, moaning from either your tongue or taste, you’re unsure. You pull her close, blood smearing against her white t-shirt. She pulls away from your lips, kissing your jaw and your neck, poking her tongue out to lick up the mess. You place your hands on her cheeks, pulling her back to look at you. 

“Come here.” You whisper, pulling her down as you crouch to the ground. “I want you to drink—I want to share.”

She lets you pull her down, taking your hand in hers, slippery, slick. You move away from his neck, leaving it open for her, urging her. This is what she wants. There’s something about drinking from your bite in the man’s neck. You’ve been here, you’re bite is her bite is her blood. 

And, god, is it delicious. She drinks, lets it fall down her throat in large gulps, dripping down her chin and neck. A sound escapes her throat, guttural, everything she’s deprived herself of having, here in between her teeth. She watches you while she drinks, eyes looking up through white lashes, reaching a hand out to hold you by the wrist, grounded. She pulls away, heaving, even though she has no need for breath. Her lips, saturated in red, begging to be tasted.

“You’re beautiful like that,” You speak, squeezing her hand, “with his blood on your mouth.”

She kisses you, all tongue, her fangs catching on your bottom lip. She pulls away and pushes you down, lets you bite the other side of the dead man’s neck, pets your hair as you drink. It goes on like this for a while, kissing, drinking, touching, whispers of please and oh, god and both of your names over and over until you’re a jumbled mess of words and sounds and blood and guts. 

You stumble, half naked through the door, Fuyumi’s hands and lips all over you. You don’t make it to the bed, a habit the two of you have seemed to form, falling down on the hardwood, limbs all tangled. With her shirt already discarded outside, you thumb the hooks of her bra open, throwing it to the side. Blood has dripped from her throat down between the valley of her breasts, and you lick it up, feeling her back arch as she hovers above you. 

She kisses your neck, almost frantic. Her fangs brush against your skin like she might sink into you, but she doesn’t, just kisses you so sweetly. 

“Can I bite you, please?” She moans. “I need to—I’ve wanted to—”

“Yes.” You interrupt her, throwing your head back against the floor and baring your neck to her. She wastes no time sinking her fangs into your flesh, blood pouring into her mouth. Coppery and sweet, a hint of licorice and cherry—Fuyumi thinks she can’t get enough. You gasp, hands grabbing at her waist, fingers digging into her sides enough to leave a mark. You’ve never felt pain like this, all agony and bliss. 

She smiles at you, bloody, when she pulls away. A part of you is her’s now, nestled between her ribs, living in her stomach. You taste yourself on her lips, hands pulling at her jeans, your leg moving between her thighs to grind against her cunt. 

You flip her onto her back, sucking on her neck, venturing down her body. You pull her jeans from her legs, along with her underwear, spreading her legs. She’s so wet, thighs sticky with arousal as you run a finger through her folds. A whine escapes her lips as you thumb over her clit. With your eyes on her, you press your tongue to her entrance, watching how her face contorts in pleasure. It reminds you of the way she’d stared at you while drinking from the man, hand clutched to your wrist, not once daring to look away, With one hand, you reach up to do the same, bloody fingers circling her wrist as you devour her. 

She writhes, arching her back and grinding against your face, a mess of slick and blood pooling in your mouth as you bring her closer and closer to orgasm. 

“Please!” She cries, “please! Oh my god!”

Her moans only spur you on as you speed up the movement of your tongue, squeezing her wrist as you let her move her hips against your mouth. She comes with a strangled cry of your name, legs shaking around your head, falling limp against the floor as you lick at her swollen clit. You pull away, rising from your place in between her thighs to hover over her.

“Like that?” You ask her, placing soft kisses against her jaw. She manages a soft mhm before moving her face to kiss you.You run your hands up and down the sides of her body, “so pretty…”

“Let me touch you.” She begs, pushing herself up onto her elbows. You nod, letting her maneuver you so you’re on your back again. She kisses you again, swirling her tongue against yours, tasting herself. In a way, part of her is yours now, too.

She slips her hand into your underwear, gasping at the feeling of how wet you are. You take the opportunity to lick into her mouth, moaning against her lips as she slips two fingers inside of you. She pulls away from your mouth and eyes the open wound on your neck. You lock eyes with her, nodding in approval, allowing her to bite you again. 

She bites and curls her fingers inside you at the same time. A choked scream escapes your throat at both sensations. You move your hips as she pumps her fingers in and out of you, her throat bobbing with each drink she takes from you. It’s overwhelming, and so satisfying, being the consumed for a change. 

Her thumb brushes over your clit and you jolt, gripping her waist as she brings you closer to the edge. 

“Kiss me!” You cry, “Fuyumi!” 

She pulls away from your neck, watching how the blood flows from the wound, continuing her movements against your pussy. You pull her down to kiss you as you come from her fingers. You’re both moaning against each other, passing your blood between your tongues. She pulls her hand from between your legs, stares at the pink-tinted slick and how it webs between her fingers before wrapping her lips around her fingers and sucking them clean off. 

She smiles down at you, hair a mess, glasses-less as they’d fallen off much earlier. You press your palms against her cheeks, admiring her. This Fuyumi is hungry, and bloody, and the furthest thing from human. You love her like this. You’ll be her’s forever, if she’ll have you. 

You pull her into the shower with you, washing the blood from her hair and her back, taking turns and watching the blood swirl down the drain. She cleans the wound on your neck, and places a bandage over it, though you know it’ll be healed by morning. You place her glasses back onto her face. The two of you fall into bed, finally, arms and legs tangled together, huddled closely. She rubs over the bandage on your neck. 

“Next time, I wanna bite you, okay?” You ask, nudging your nose against her. She lets out a laugh you’re excited to hear for the rest of your immortal life and nods. 

“I can’t wait.”

[claypigeonpottery]

AVAILABLE

this is my new anchor post for available pieces. it's not rebloggable, because I will edit it as things are sold.

All my work is food safe, dishwasher safe and microwave safe unless otherwise specified (if it's a trivet/coaster and has rubber pads on the back, you might not want to put those in the dishwasher)

All prices are in CAD and don’t include shipping. please dm me if you’re interested in a piece

Last updated: 04/05/24

white kiln god $60

4.5" tall

Horses pie plate/deep dish $90

9.75" across, 2" deep

[mysteriesmuse]

FIRE IN THE HOLE🔥💥☕️

Your lovely boyfriend turned current fiancé, Katsuki Bakugou knows that when he says not a word to anyone and you pretend to zip your lips that’s there’s a pretty substantial chance that a certain list of people are probably gonna hear about it . . . your siblings, your childhood best friend, your college best friend, sometimes your dentist if they can put together the mumbled response to their questions. Katsuki seriously wonders why they all do that. Especially yours because you are a chatter box. But, at the top of that list is your mom . . .

Katsuki is sitting inside peering over the pesky reading glasses he got a few weeks ago, he hates to admit he needs them, as you slip out the back door to take your weekly phone call from your mom. He brings chin to chest before puffing out a breath of laughter. Across from him is your new organic mug. A lopsided thing steaming with a new cup of peppermint tea . . .

Katsuki hums, he’ll heat it back up for you when you return. You absentmindedly stroll on the tattered lawn in your flip-flops. Phone pressed to your cheek as you grin and tease patches of dandelions with your toes . . .

Katsuki’s sure you’re on the wind-up with the causal “how are you” catch before regaling your mother with this most recent and embarrassing fiasco.

————

In the backyard you poke at a nearly blossoming yellow lion bud.

“Oh- yeah, yeah I’ll be sure to mention it to Katsuki. Have dad text him about the furniture thing. He’s inside looking at tiles for the bathroom”

you shake your head, slipping your toes back around the sandal strap and carrying on. Your mother clearly has you on speaker phone. You can hear the food sizzling in the pan and your father scrubbing at the kitchen sink. a coy smile lights itself on your face: the perfect segway.

“oh mom, speaking of the dishes that I can hear dad scrubbing in the back you’ll never believe what Katsuki and I did”

“Sweetie? You know I know you’re engaged to a pro-hero?” your mom chuckles, “that could be anything in my wildest imagination”

Humming you glance back over at you darling fiancé. Diligently scrolling through a catalog of kitchen and bath tiles, “actually this is pretty mundane compared to other things.” You can hear the hiss of air and the playful groan that follows. The sound of your mother rolling her eyes . . .

“well about 2-3 weeks ago I get Katsuki to join me at this pottery class that I’ve been looking into. We’re there and he’s, tsk, typical grumbling about it to me under his breath. The place is so homely and smells like the earth and a dash of paint chemicals but otherwise nice. A few soccer moms trying to be earthy and unwind, but nothing along the lines of crazed fans or anything like that.

once we’re told the rules and given the supplies we’re going. The both of us - right? Totally surprising. But Katsuki’s actually into it. They tell us we’re making mugs because that’s a good beginner pot, but his hands are so big so his is more like a soup bowl. I KNOW, that’s the kinda of coffee mug you’d need! Anyway, it’s still huge by the end, but it looks good. Not at all lopsided or anything.

. . . oh god no mine was a mess! The instructor lady said the walls were all uneven and whatnot, but it coulda’ been a lovely pencil holder. Yeah, right. So anyways, we leave feeling pretty good. Katsuki has begrudging enjoyed himself and they’re supposed to call the both of us when they finish up in the kiln.

a few days past and we’re out at home. yeah the apartment - sitting on the couch and trying some new recipe for guac our friend Sero recommended. And we get the call. Except it’s not a “hey your mugs are ready to pick up thanks for taking our class. We hope to see you again” it’s “oh hey our condolences here’s a free voucher to take another class if you so desire” and you know why? It’s because our group exploded in the kiln. Which - yeah - is natural if there’s a huge air bubble.

Right, so I’m sitting on the couch with the voicemail they left us on the answering machine. Katsuki’s throwing a bunch of stuff together in a bowl in the kitchen still.

but the place doesn’t say that the pots in the kiln exploded it says that the kiln exploded. Right away. Like boom! anyway that grabs Katsuki’s attention and he utters the loudest “shit.” I may have ever heard him say in his sacred space. And he rushes into the bedroom to grab his wallet and checkbook . . . and I don’t know that’s what he’s grabbing. Im just like babe where are you going?

and he comes back out panting and says “dial them back” and I’m like why?? And Katsuki’s just sweatdrops and deadpans like babygirl I just broke their kiln.

Then it hits me . . . the nitroglycerin from his quirk sweat is all over that clay and once that thing got fired up . . . Fire. In. The. Hole. And so Katsuki paid to replace the damage cause neither of us were actually thinking about that part when we were there. So he combusted everyone’s things, but on the bright side I went back using my voucher and made a cute mug.

Oh, and Katsuki is gonna let me use his too. Honestly, probably for the best”

———

and it’s later that evening when Katsuki’s massaging your knee that’s draped over his lap that he hears your impression of you mothers response to this story which was, understandably, “oh pumpkin, that’s hysterical! You’ve got to call your sister and tell her!”

[jedineedlove]

LMK MK Thoughts and Theories!

I just wanted to share my thoughts on this topic of MKS origin With everyone sharing their theories I thought I share mine as well. So to really get into this we should go back to MS Suhbodi by that I mean Memory Scroll Suhbodi. But with what we heard in the memory scroll through his lines of ......

“Although this was the stone from which Sun Wukong once sprung, it appears, over time, it was used to form another. A simple creature with no past, no family, and no name. ”

and

“Without question, you were not born from the stone as he was. Who or what you are, even I do not know the answer."

The main words that caught me, about the creation of me were in quote one that the stone that made Wukong was used again to make MK but in quote two not in the same way as before this is where the image of the goddess may be seen as Nuwa and I can agree with that guess.

With the words I mentioned earlier and the mention of Nuwa who made humans out of clay well think what is clay? Clay is a type of fine-grained natural soil material containing clay minerals. Where I am going with this is that by using the shards of the remaining rock that hatched Wukong, Nuwa used them to create the clay to make MK.

Like with ceramics the words mentioned in quote one, “It appears OVER TIME” When you are done forming the clay you must let it set out to dry before it is ready to be put in the kiln. This means MKs' clay self was left to cultivate similar to how the rock that acted as a rock womb for Wukongs' egg was cultivated by the energies of the Sun, moon, heaven, and earth. Most likely she used larger shards of the stone egg of Wukong to create a shell to let him dry and cultivate in the power. Like we saw in Mks' own flashback the pieces of the egg coming together around an energy sphere.

Also with how he was formed was sort of a tribute to the book forming of Wukong. Wukongs' egg was not hatched round but hatched after having heavy and stormy winds form a monkey shape first before hatching. MK was formed with more precision and control than Wukong. That might also explain the broken monkey figure in the memory scroll.

In the book, there were two rocks that made Wukong the first was larger and acted as a rock womb for the egg when the large rock split open the rock egg came out, and ....

"When the wind blows on the egg, it turns into a stone monkey that can already crawl and walk"

Wukong was formed by the winds and Mk was formed by a godess. However, that would make the rock egg from his flashback the rock womb and the small monkey figure his egg. The broken monkey we see above is the shard from his hatching. It also gives us the already walking and crawling because still covered in mud and dirt Mk is standing and walking. (also seen by the mud trail left behind him.)

Also, that would make MK part stone monkey but more a clay monkey is my main thought. And maybe why he came out with a human form. Nuwa made humans.

Now all that is left is to find out why. Why would this goddess make another stone monkey after all the first one had done? Along with another thought. Earlier I mentioned the quote from MS Subhodi "over time." This means there is a possibility that MK was formed years and years ago also like Wukong his rock womb was still at the top of the mountain for an unknown amount of time, no one could tell you when it was placed there. So MK could have been made maybe even during the JTTW or any time in between Wukongs' hatching and this image of recent years.

Tell me your thoughts in the notes :)

Hope you all enjoyed it!

[brisquad-unit-4402]

crimzon ruze dating an artist

i’m gonna be real the hate mail stream changed me as a person

yhis one is about ruze and a reader that likes to make visual art, but if this gets some reception might be interested in writing more headcanons for writers, musicians, programmers, dancers…

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, fluff, headcanons

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

let’s get it out of the way: ruze isn’t just a viciously violent mercenary menace, he’s also a viciously violent mercenary menace that ✨ loves creativity ✨

he respects people that can use their imagination, like inventing new horrific ways to kill a corruption beast, or making someone’s day worse in a way that can’t be replicated

so naturally he gravitates to people who put their imagination to use through their own art medium. he has a type for creators

one of the best feelings ever is being able to watch an artist in their element, focused on their vision

there’s always so much to admire. their hands wrapped around the pencil, the way they squint and stare at the lines… he could go on

if he’s really lucky maybe the artist will move around while drawing a character, just so they can use their own body as reference. it’s so cute seeing them lift a hand and compare it to the one they were drawing, even the pout they do when they erase the last few strokes, all frustrated but ready to try again. especially the pout

he doesn’t do the whole “talking about your feelings” thing so when he sees a well-done drawing, well, that just makes admitting it all the more redundant. who needs words when a picture is worth a thousand of them?

ruze himself isn’t exactly an artist, but he’s tried before. it’s tough work. anyone that can control their pen that well deserves respect

if you’re an artist and your love language is quality time then dating ruze is a dream. he’ll do work in the same room as you while you’re preoccupied with your latest piece

it’s just the right amount of togetherness, but you’re able to do your own thing, and so is he. this feeling gets even better with banter, music, anything

he doesn’t mention it often but ruze also likes to work with his hands too. his favorite is papercrafting

you’re the only one in the world that knows he has a diy scrapbook full of photos and embellishments and, yes, some of your doodles and scrapped art you let him keep

always wants to display your art in some way. it’s personal and makes him feel like his house is a little livelier

if you need more space or expensive supplies for your art like a firing kiln, large canvases, pressure pots, or other equipment, then he’ll drop off the face of the earth for, like, a week, then come back with a bounty collected and a cut of it for your art fund

ruze likes the challenge of hunting down and fighting a fearsome monster, and how you brighten up as you plan a visit to a local craft store

he likes to ask questions about what you’re working on. this can be anything from art history to oc lore to symbolism to techniques

it makes especially good conversation at night when he’s about to go to bed with you

…there have definitely been times ruze was the first to sleep because you got hit with inspiration at 1 am though

it would be hypocritical if he were to make you rest, but just don’t overdo it and wake up cranky past your alarm, alright?

and do some stretches, including your hands, and your back. you’re literally dating someone who uses his muscle to make money. you better be treating your body nicely while you’re making art

you should be getting accidental paper cuts, not carpal tunnel because SOMEONE didn’t stick their arms straight out and bend their wrists back while keeping their fingers straight for 10 seconds, then bend their wrists down to the floor for another 10 seconds. not naming names

the type of mf that will sneak up and make some form of sudden physical contact (a kiss? bite? lick? annoying poke to your side?) so your back straightens and then tells you to keep it straight instead of giving you more affection

would NEVER respond to someone talking about their art with “can you draw me?”

that’s probably his greenest flag actually

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[illuminatedferret]

Poll idea for you if you want? Or you can just take it as a normal thoughts ask. I've been pondering it myself and seeing what others think might be nice.

Does Jun Wu know Hua Cheng is Wu Ming?

1. Yes, the whole time.

2. No, he doesn't.

3. He figures it out over the course of the present day plot.

I wonder because he told XL that WM was gone and used how 'alone' and 'abandoned' XL is alot in his arguments. But also isn't the kiln and mount tonglu like his space. He never saw any of the statues and wondered? Also what did he think HC wanted from XL? Friendship? Relationship? Revenge? Control? What did he even think of Crimson Rain during the 800 years? I can see him having Black Water figured out and just enjoying that whole mess, but I'm not sure I can imagine what he thought of HC. For a character that really seems to know a lot, I can't help seeing HC as a bit of a blind spot for him? Maybe wilfully dismissed as unimportant?? Jun Wu be hard to understand 😅

Lot your fics and posts ❤

Hey! Thanks for the ask! I made a poll out of it(as u know) and now as promised I'm also gonna share my thoughts!

Short answer: no! I do not believe so. And I don't for one very specific reason- Jun Wu mentions Wuming during the fight on the Heavens-Crossing Bridge. Specifically, he mentions whether or not Hua Cheng knows about Wuming, and all the things Xie Lian did back in his first banishment. He says it to undermine Xie Lian's confidence, both in the fight and in Hua Cheng's feelings for him. If he knew that Wuming was right there, ready to go "actually that's me, I already know all about that stuff, and I'm totally cool with it." he never would have brought him up.

Longer answer: we don't actually know how much attention Jun Wu paid to Mount Tonglu. I mean, it's never confirmed one way or another that he knows/doesn't know everything that goes on down there. I think it's sort of a mixed bag. On one hand, he didn't know about the statue of Xie Lian in the Kiln. On the other, he was in the Cave of Ten Thousand Gods, and the way I see it, he could have either found it beforehand, or he could have followed Xie Lian into it(because he was following Xie Lian by that point- right before he wakes up in the cave he has a nightmare about White No-Face, actually). I think the latter, just because he doesn't act during canon like he knows Hua Cheng is, like, mega-into Xie Lian. Because I do think that it's not hard to put together who made the Cave of Ten Thousand Gods if you saw it uncovered and thought about it a little.

In regards to what he thought Hua Cheng wanted out of Xie Lian... I think it's safe to say that at least initially he didn't think Hua Cheng loved him or anything. He tries to break apart Xie Lian and Hua Cheng very early, by sending Xie Lian to Ghost City on a mission that runs directly against Hua Cheng. Nevermind Xie Lian seeing the Gamblers' Den(which many people would find distasteful and think less of Hua Cheng for), if Hua Cheng wasn't so gung-ho about helping Xie Lian, recovering Ming Yi(and Lang Qianqiu) would've been really ugly. If Jun Wu actually knew Hua Cheng loved Xie Lian(or desired him sexually), I can't see him NOT trying to use that, either to harm Xie Lian or poison his opinion of Hua Cheng(like FXMQ).

I think it's also important to recognize that Mount Tonglu opened while Xie Lian was with Hua Cheng. Jun Wu did that. By this point in time, he's(I believe) already consumed Lang Ying, so he knew that Hua Cheng had invited Xie Lian to Ghost City for the day. If Hua Cheng's reaction hadn't been #KissingTime but violence instead, Xie Lian would have been greatly hurt, and that would have had its own repercussions on their relationship. (if it had been sexual violence...? i think he would have been mad about that, actually) The more I think about it, the more it seems like Jun Wu just didn't want Xie Lian around Hua Cheng at all, like "a supreme's already called dibs on him, back off" kind of deal.

What Jun Wu thinks of Hua Cheng... Overall I think he just hated him. Didn't like him at best. Hua Cheng really did turn out to be a blind spot of Jun Wu's, because there was so much about him that he didn't know. He didn't know he was Wuming or that he loved Xie Lian, and so he didn't think to incorporate those facts into his plans. But beyond that? Not sure. He definitely didn't like him- I would say there was value in Hua Cheng being feared and thus inspiring worship of Jun Wu and the heavens, but he has plenty of worshipers himself. Maybe some stuff about encouraging Heavenly Official solidarity. But I think the existence of Ghost City had a significant(positive) impact on the Mortal Realm, removing 'evil' stuff from the streets of mortal cities and giving ghosts a safe place to live, rather than remain in the open world where they can cause problems. So I don't think he liked that either. I also think he hated having such a powerful figure that he didn't have something over, be it authority or blackmail. Even if he was confident he could beat Hua Cheng, he's very much about control, and he has nothing on Hua Cheng.

[humblebeginningsceramics]

Vincent van Gogh

“To catch up on the time I lost by starting later than others, I will have to try twice as hard, but even with the best will in the world I would have to stop if I did not have you.”

Sculptural bust of Vincent van Gogh I made several years ago when I first started playing around with clay. This bust is made of air-dry clay, with poor scaffolding and drying techniques, so that a huge crack developed at the back of his head. I put some decorative flowers over it and called it a win, at least for now. I plan to fire sculptural pieces in the kiln, so I am busy making small hand-built pieces with lots of air pockets, first to prove to myself that pieces explode due to moisture and not air pockets during biscuit firing, and second to figure out how to glaze them. I have a big idea brewing for him, so I’ve got a lot of testing ahead of me!

[seasaltandcopper]

Summary: Teddy is a former thrall turned vampire hunter. After a decade of chasing her revenge, she gets wind of a group of Hunters keeping an all-too-familiar monster in their custody. Now finally, after ten years waiting, maybe she'll finally get some answers.

And much needed payback.

Pt 2 | Vampire Hunter AU

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Profanity, non-graphic mentions of torture, violence, imprisonment, starvation, dehumanization, 'it' as a pronoun (only used by one character), referenced past captivity and enthrallment

Teddy left Will to watch the truck while she made the journey into the compound alone to pick up the vampire. He seemed to understand, and didn’t argue or ask why. Just turned up the radio, and leaned back the passenger’s seat to nap until she showed back up to drive them home.

The Hunter Teddy had talked with on the phone—Brooks—led her on a meandering path through the repurposed factory. Past living and dining areas where many Hunters gathered in their off hours, and past the armory in the factory’s basement.

Down, again, to a sub basement that reeked of must and rot and worse. Long used to it, Teddy simply studied the layout, mapping her path back out to the surface, a habit ingrained after years of training in a place not that different from this one.

Brooks led them to what looked like an old walk-in industrial kiln, now fit and reinforced to work as a containment cell. The box was covered in locks and seals, both magical and mundane, layered intricately with each other in a masterful weave.

Brooks glanced over his shoulder as he worked to unlock the cage. “So uh, if you don’t mind me asking, why this one?” He shrugged, clearly asking out of boredom or mild curiosity. “We don’t get many transfer requests out here.”

“Got a score to settle with it.”

Teddy didn’t elaborate, but Brooks didn’t push. The man just nodded, clearly accepting that as answer enough. “Fair enough. Still one less leech I gotta keep tabs on.”

The final lock released with a dull clack, and the Hunter trailed a hand over the wards. They shimmered, pulsing a deep crimson before fading again. Reaching for the handle, Brooks paused long enough to glance at Teddy.

“It shouldn’t give you much trouble, long as you keep it restrained. It’s been here long enough it knows how this shit works by now. We’ve mostly been using it for training and educating new recruits. Put up a hell of a fight when we first processed it though.” Brooks shot Teddy a conspiratorial grin. “I mean, damn. Should’ve seen that motherfucker in the first couple weeks. Had the whole crew taking bets on how long it’d take to finally break it.”

Teddy’s face stayed emotionless, though her eyes flicked to meet the Hunter’s. “How long did it take?”

“Four months, one week, and three days is when Nadia officially called it but—” Shrugging, Brooks gave the door handle a firm yank. The heavy metal groaned, a deep metallic wail like a thing in pain, and swung open to reveal a box of pale firebrick. The creature lay chained on the floor inside. “—between you and me, I don’t think it has yet. You can see it in its eyes. The way it looks at you sometimes.” He shook his head. “Nah. Might be too weak to fight, and smart enough to mind its manners, but there’s a spark of something still in there. Don’t give that motherfucker an inch, unless you’re prepared for it to take it.”

Teddy stayed quiet long enough the Hunter just shrugged again and led them into the tiny room. He strolled inside, aiming a heavy kick at the creature lying curled up on the floor. The vampire grunted, chains rattling with the impact.

“Alright leech, up. You got a visitor.”

Slowly, the vampire moved to comply, pushing himself stiffly up and settling into a kneeling position, bound hands resting on his thighs. He didn’t look up or move beyond the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed air Teddy knew for a fact he didn’t need.

Inclining his head, Brooks stepped aside to let Teddy take the floor.

She’d waited for this moment for over ten years. Before she’d even known she was waiting for it, before she’d been able to hope this kind of reversal could be possible for a vampire’s thrall.

Now that she was here, standing in the room with one of her former masters—one of the keystone pillars of Jericho’s coven, his bloody right hand, his former lover, one of only a handful left that had still been unaccounted for, and the only one left alive who could tell her what she wanted to know.

Teddy still couldn’t believe it was real.

This was a victory. Retribution a decade in the making. Closure.

She drew in a breath. Then stepped forward, heavy black boots thudding hollowly on the bricks. The vampire stayed quiet as she approached, kneeling and hunched forward like just keeping himself upright was a monumental effort. He stared at the filthy floor in front of his knees without acknowledging either of the two humans in the room.

If she hadn’t gotten confirmation of his identity beforehand, Teddy wasn’t sure she would’ve recognized him. Naked, emaciated, filthy, muzzled, bound in iron manacles and so covered in marks of abuse it was a challenge to find an untouched patch of skin. Even the color of his hair was impossible to judge from the matted, shoulder length mess it’d become.

Teddy held her breath. Silence followed. The kind of heavy, pressing quiet, like watching lightning flicker on the horizon before hearing the thunder. A static charge to the air.

She let out the breath in a rush, heart hammering in her chest. Desperate. Frantic. Hopeful.

Furious.

“Mal.” His name dropped from her lips like a condemnation, and that got his attention. He slowly lifted his head, meeting her gaze through a tangled curtain of hair with wary confusion. “Today’s your lucky day, bloodsucker. You’re coming home with me.”

AN: So this is apparently the second time I independently had more or less the same idea. Teddy (and Will) end up in a kind of antagonist role with Mal, and the story progresses as a back and forth between both these povs as they navigate this reversal, and all deal with the messy consequences of the choices they've made and the lives they lived.

If you really want to boil it down to basic tropes I suppose it'd be whumper turned whumpee?

I'm pretty happy with the direction this one is going, I am pondering continuing it. The next 'chapter' would be Mal's pov, so probably much heavier on the whump than this one lol.

Edit: added links to header since this is now an official series

[mamajankyy]

「 Kiln Me Softly 」

Summary: Okoye has been in search of a new hobby to fill her free time, so she signs up for a pottery class (it’s Attuma’s shop).

“Do you mind if I show you?” Attuma asked. He’d been to her station a few times before but those times he just gave verbal instructions.

She chuckled, thankful that he was putting her out of her misery, “I think that would help because whatever I’m doing is getting me nowhere,”

“I’m gonna step behind you” Attuma informed before stepping behind her, and encasing her with his arms, his hands atop hers. “This okay?”

She nodded and then replied with a small “Yes.”

With his fingers guiding hers he showed her the proper amount of pressure to put on the clay, wiping the excess into the little waste bucket at the side of her station.

“The clay will do whatever you want you just have to guide it in the way you want it to go,” he spoke up after the moment of silence.

“Like a child,” she said with an airiness to her voice.

“Like a child,” he took his hands away, watching as she mimicked his previous movements perfectly. “See, you got it”

He stepped back once she seemed more confident in her actions. It was only when he took his eyes off her to wipe his hands on his towel, that he saw how her date had been side-eyeing their interactions.

“Need help?” Attuma tilted his head in the man's direction

“Nah, man. We’re good.” He pressed back, making sure to emphasize the we.

Read on A03

[ghouljams]

Hey there! I recently reread your Crybaby fic (the horror was so descriptive and cleverly psychological! had me on edge throughout the whole story all over again) and I hope you don't mind if send you this big ask!! But I would really like to know what meaning their relationship has, especially from Threat's perspective. If I remember right I saw you answer an ask (must have been months ago) about Threat tapping when Crybaby blocked off their advances – so Threat does have a sort of ownership sense over Crybaby, but is there more to it? (the ring scene was cute; Threat feels generally very touchy-feely, boundary pushing) Did they scare Crybaby on purpose, for the paranoia and emotional terror? (I'm assuming they stalked Crybaby too, on campus and near the forest) I also love the way Crybaby is not completely oblivious to Threat's weird behaviour and is pretty 'lucid'/suspicious/aware? for someone who get terrorised and tapped the shit out of their mind. I'd love it if you could share some thoughts about that, I'm very curious, this work has been haunting me in the best way possible! I'm obsessed with this OC, (although both are really polished characters!!) was Threat limited to only this main piece of work or could there potentially be more? (the bar one was great too, I'm getting antsy just thinking about the different endings) –Lots of love!!!

Oh my god you're so kind, I am so deeply proud of the Crybaby fic and I'm glad it's still getting love. I feel like I'm at a con panel rn ehehehe :D I'm going to do my best to answer your questions in a way that makes sense, and doesn't devolve into me just rambling <3

What's the meaning of their relationship(especially from Threat's perspective)?

This is actually a little complicated but I'm going to do my best. For Crybaby, Threat is a close friend and potentially a lover. We hear from Threat that they've done this dance(Crybaby running) multiple times and that Crybaby has attempted to be understanding in multiple cases, but Threat either broke the rules or didn't want to follow them and tapped her. In my mind Crybaby and Threat would have grown into lovers if Threat was just a little more careful with their spooky shit(which I think is nicely shown by the ring scene, they're comfortable with each other and intimate, but there's that tense horror beneath the surface). For Threat... I think they love Crybaby. Genuinely I think they love her, they just don't know how to love someone properly. That's why they work so hard to keep her around, to keep her placid and tapped. Threat could eat Crybaby at any point and they would rather keep her around, and stay close to her. I think Threat is in love and doesn't know how to handle it so they keep trying to start over and get it right.

2. Did they scare Crybaby on purpose, for the paranoia and emotional terror?

Nope! Crybaby caught Threat organically, and then Threat started running damage control. Threat plays pretty fast and loose with what they are, and they got a little too comfortable with Crybaby's routine. That said, I do think Threat sort of... enjoyed Crybaby's fear. I think Threat limits their scares to a quick "boo" or just being quiet around the house. The sort of "Oh I didn't see you there" scare that normal people engage in. They didn't show their fae form or do any of the big scares on purpose(Crybaby was not supposed to wake up and see them messing with her tethers...)

3. Was Threat limited just to this piece or will there be more?

I have more planned for Threat! I have had to put them on the back burner because writing for them is a LOT, but I do have more stories planned for them. They were originally conceptualized as Soap's darling, so I want to write a few pieces with the two of them interacting more. I also just really enjoy their interactions with Crybaby so I want to do more of those too. I just haven't had any ideas pan out so they're cooking in the kiln rn, but they'll be back <3

4. I also love Crybaby's vague awareness that shit is happening. I think it adds a lot to her character that she ISN'T clueless, but can't do anything to save herself. And I think it's closer to what most people would do in a horror movie than we'd all like to believe. Sure you can notice the tropes, and feel on edge, but at the end of the day you don't know whether there's actually a killer or if you've just concocted one in your mind because you've watched too many movies.

Lots of love to you too!! I'm so glad you enjoyed the fic, thank you for sharing your thoughts with me and letting me answer your questions!!

[sixteen-sugars]

put all your faults to bed, you can be king again - a junmei fic

Credit: @ixooredark02

Jun Wu thrashed in his sleep, sheets twisting. Having been woken up by the shaking, Mei Nianqing searched for the source of the ruckus. Suddenly, Jun Wu bolted up and frantically looked around, both eyes and hands searching. Having seen him, Jun Wu scooted closer to Mei Nainqing, lanky arms embracing the priest. Mei Nianqing shuffled out of the embrace only to reach his, considerably, shorter arms around his husband. Hands combed through black silky hair, soft lips caressed Jun Wu's forehead. They lay embraced for a few minutes. Jun Wu mumbled, only audible to the other, “I thought you were gone, I threw you in the kiln” 

Mei Nianqing reached his hands behind the former god’s neck, stroking soothingly at the back of Jun Wu's neck, “Don’t worry I am here, see, you can hold me.” 

Smiling faintly, Jun Wu brought his hands to the fortune teller's side, and mumbled, “Yeah, yeah. You're here,”

Even quieter muttered into soft silver hair, “I never meant to hurt you” 

Mei Nainqing twinkled, “I know you never meant to, and I know you will never do it again” 

“Yes, never.” 

Not many words were exchanged after that, the couple lay in comfortable silence. The honeyed fingers of sleep insistently pulled at their minds until they fell into a dreamless sleep.  

_

Morning light blasted Mei Nianqing in the face, groaning, he rolled out of bed. Seeing Jun Wu already left, assuming the kitchen Mei Nianqing padded with sleep-softened feet to the cold kitchen floor. Smelling porridge, the priest smiled.

Walking into the kitchen was a different story, you see Jun Wu could cook but he never really measured. This morning meant enough congee to feed all of Wu Yong with some to spare. Sighing, Mei Nianqing started to berate, “What did I say about actually using the bowls?” 

Protesting, Jun Wu started, “I can just eyeball it!” 

“No, no you cannot”

Mei Nianqing mentally tallied as many recipes for leftover porridge, but there weren't many. Well, he knew what he was having for breakfast for the next week. 

_

Whining, Mei Nianqing pleaded, “Just one game of cards, your highness!” 

“I have already played 5 games, and you lost every one. Every. Single. One.” punctuated with a accusing finger jab in Mei Nianqing's general direction.

The priest pleaded, “But that doesn't stop them from being fun!” 

Jun Wu groaned, “Fine, one more game. Only one. Not more, not less” 

Cheering, Mei Nianqing shuffled and dealt the cards. They played many more card games that night. The god was not immune to the charms of the priest.  

[tropes-and-tales]

A Bit of Color

December 26:  Quilt/Scrooge - Sunny versus Grumpy (Ray Merrimen x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts found here)

CW:  Angst; Ray is a rude boi; mention of suicide

Word Count:  1828

AN:  Requested by the lovely @bport76​!

Ray would have never chosen you for his crew, but Bosco brought you in when they lost their intel person.  He’s dubious at first—you’re preternaturally chipper, so cheerful and sweet that Ray’s teeth ache after he has to deal with you.  

But Bosco has a good handle on their needs, and you’re an absolute ace at tech.  You can hack anything:  any computer, any phone system.  You can find blueprints and hack a security camera, all with that saccharine attitude that grates against him.

It’s like a Hallmark movie fucked a Care Bear and created you.  You dress in bright colors, usually dresses where the skirt flares out as you skip around the fucking chop shop.  You hum pop songs as you work.  You bake for the guys, cupcakes with rainbow frosting and chocolate chip cookies.  You fuss over the guys too, take on a mother hen role that frays Ray’s nerves.

Hell, you even smell sweet, the scent of vanilla and lavender lingering even long after you leave.

Ray would get rid of you in a heartbeat, but you’re too damned good.  He knows he could look for someone with half of your skills and never find them.

So he puts up with you.  For your stellar hacking skills, he endures your colorful/sweet/manic pixie bullshit with a clenched jaw and a grumble.

-----

You’re also one of those crafty women, always knitting or sewing or painting something.  More than once, Ray and the guys have come back from a heist just to find you sitting there and waiting for them, a piece of knitwork in your lap.

You’re also one of those generous types, which means when the holidays roll around, you become extra insufferable.

You bake.  You make candy.  You can your own jams, jellies, salsas.  You make chili and cornbread, feed the guys when they are working late one night.  Ray grunts when you hand him a bowl, and he calculates how much harder he’ll have to work out the next day to burn off all the fucking calories—

You give them gifts.  Handmade gifts.

For Lavoux, it’s sweaters that you knit.  Three sweaters, matching, for him, his wife, and his daughter.

For Bosco, it’s an elaborately wrapped box of homemade fudges.  Chocolate, peanut butter, rocky road, orange cream.

“You’re trying to make me fat,” Bosco says as he pulls you in for a hug, pulls you off your feet.  “I love ya, girl.”

For Mack, it’s a beer stein that you apparently made yourself, glazed yourself, and fired in a nearby community kiln.  Because why the fuck not, Ray figures.  He wonders if you mined the clay yourself too, just to be extra fucking irritating.

For Ray?  Of course you have a gift for Ray.

It’s a quilt.  At least it’s not super colorful, like Rainbow Brite puked on it—it’s shades of grey and blue in small rectangles stitched together.

“It’s a variation of the Big Fences pattern,” you tell him, as if he knows what the hell that means, and he misses the shy smile on your face.

“I don’t really need a quilt.”  He refolds it, then tries to hand it back to you.

You frown, your eyebrows knit together.  “But…it’s a gift.”

“It’s L.A.  I never will need a quilt.”

You seem to misunderstand him because your face splits into a bright grin.  “Oh, but I used lightweight batting!  It’s not too heavy, so it’s actually perfect for L.A. weather—”

“No.”  He pushes the quilt back at you, frowns until you take it.  “I don’t need this.”

Ray never has been very tactful, and no one would ever accuse him of being soft, but the way your face crumples as you take the quilt and clutch it to your chest, the way your eyes fill with tears but how to try to play it off, give a shaky laugh and say “sure, sorry Ray, of course”…

He’s never felt like more of a monster in his life.

And then you leave, come up with a flimsy excuse of how you need to be somewhere else.

Even if he didn’t feel like the world’s biggest asshole, the guys cut him zero fucking slack.

“That’s cold,” Lavoux tells him.  “Ice cold, man.”

“Like watching someone kill a kitten,” Mack agrees.

Bosco glares at Ray, crosses his arms.  “This shit takes time, Merrimen.  All this crafty homemade shit?  It’s hours of her life, and that quilt was easily the most time-intensive of all of our gifts.”

“I didn’t ask for a gift.”  Ray crosses his own arms, matches Bosco’s energy.

“And she didn’t ask for a fucking Scrooge.  You don’t want the quilt?  You tell her ‘thank you so much, this is great,’ and then you take it home and tuck it away somewhere.  Fuck, Ray.  You lose all your home training in prison?”

“She’d never even know if you threw it away,” Mack adds.  “You coulda just taken it and tossed it, and she’d be none the wiser.”

“Being rude like that is bad karma.  Bad juju,” says Lavoux.

“No such thing,” Ray says, and his tone makes it clear that the discussion is over.

-----

Ray doesn’t believe in karma or juju, and nothing overtly bad happens.  Still, he has to admit the vibe in the crew has changed.

You’re not the same.  Maybe Mack was right, maybe what Ray did to you was like killing a kitten.  You still joke around with the guys, but the minute—the absolute second—Ray shows up, you shut down.

You still dress in your colorful dresses, but somehow it’s sadder when your outfits are paired with a slight frown and a sad silence.  You don’t hum anymore.  No singing along to bright pop songs under your breath as you hack into banking mainframes.

You don’t bake for them anymore either, and that’s what pushes the guys to near mutiny.

“You need to fix this shit,” Bosco mutters to him one night.  “I haven’t had one of her peanut butter brownies in weeks.”

“So go to a fucking bakery.”

“I said fix it.”  He pushes the words out through gritted teeth.  “You’re the one that broke her.  You’re the one that’s gonna fix her.”

-----

How can Ray fix it with you?

He has no way into your world view.  His life has never been colorful.  He grew up in a military family, went straight into the military himself.  MARSOC, then his discharge, then his life of crime.

Never any color.  Just the dun and greys of the military, of prison.  Never any music or sweetness and Ray doesn’t see what he’s missing in all of that.

He does the best he can.  He asks himself what he would want, and then he does the exact opposite, which is why he finds himself on your doorstep, a fistful of colorful flowers from the grocery store clutched in his fist.

-----

You’ve always been reasonably assured around Ray, but in your kitchen, you stumble.  You offer him tea, then shake your head at yourself, mutter stupid to yourself.

“I have…a beer.  If you want it.”

“Sure.  Sounds good.”

You reach into your fridge and hand him the bottle gingerly, then perch yourself in the chair opposite of him.

Ray takes a drink, looks around.  He thought your house would have been nothing but bright colors, but it looks…mostly normal.  A few pops of color here and there:  paintings on the walls, knick-knacks on the shelves.  But nothing outrageous.

You only stare at him solemnly, a subtle tension in your features.

“I came by to say I’m sorry.  About the quilt.”

“I guess it was pretty stupid.  A quilt in Los Angeles.”

“Nah.”  He shakes his head.  “I’m just an asshole.”

If there’s one other thing Ray likes about you, aside from your skills as a hacker, it’s your honesty.  You never lie to them.

When he calls himself an asshole, you nod at him in agreement.

“I’d like it back,” he continues.  “The quilt.  If you’d be willing.”

“I don’t know.”  You turn and look out the window into your backyard.  “You don’t have to take it just to be nice.”

“I’m not nice.  I want it.  I’ll use it.”  A beat.  “I don’t have anything homemade in my apartment.  It’ll make it nicer.”

You turn back to face him.  “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

You smile, and it’s the same shy one you had when you first handed him his gift.  “Okay then.  I’ll go get it.”

You stand up and leave the kitchen, disappear into some deeper part of the house, but Ray stands up too.  He takes his beer into your living room and studies the framed photos on the shelf there.  You and friends.  You and a dog.  A little girl that he guesses is you, with an older man in the full dress uniform of the military.

You come into the living room with the quilt neatly folded in your arms, and you see Ray studying your pictures.

“This your dad?” Ray asks, pointing at the man in the uniform.

“…yes.”

“Marines?”

“Yes.”  A beat.  “He died when I was young.”

“Sorry.  Which campaign?”

Another beat, longer.  “He…he committed suicide.”

“Ah, shit.  Sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Still…”  He looks at the picture again, sees you as a little girl with a wide grin, eyes squeezed shut.  

He clears his throat, offers you a bit of himself.  “You know, my old man was military.  Fought in Iraq, came back different.  So I get it, a little.  I understand what it’s like to grow up like that.”

Though he doesn’t point out the difference:  Ray followed down that same military path, allowed himself to be molded into a killing machine with MARSOC.  You split off in an entirely different direction, filled your life with color and light and sweetness.

You nod in acknowledgement, then hand him the quilt.  “Here you go.”

He takes it and waits for you to look him in the eye until he gives you the smallest of smiles.  “Thank you.  I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’ll be the nicest thing at my place.”

You get a sly tilt to your lips, a smirk more than a smile.  “Not much competition though, right?”

“Oh, that’s how you’re gonna be then?  You’re gonna knock my decorating skills?” he jokes back.

“Your decorating skills probably aren’t that bad.  It’s easy to match black and grey,” you say with the same teasing grin.

“Well, there’s some blue in this.”  He holds up the folded quilt, runs a finger along the neat stitching.  “A good start.”

“It doesn’t hurt to have a little color in your life, Ray.”

He guesses not.  And more than any color, he has insight into who you are.  An inroad into what formed you, what made you the person you are.  Better than any color is intel, and Ray has some valuable intel now.