wax patterns


One of my oldest works - bowl from spearwood with celtic pattern. Polished by antique wax.
Одно из моих старых творений - чаша из груши с кельтским орнаментом. Отплирована античным воском.


(a little sneak peek at the andreil coffee shop au i’ve been working on!! i’m also in need of a beta!)




  1. a longing or desire. 

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hot wax

@foldingcranes mentioned wax play in this cute ficlet and i had…….. i had to.

this is short and only boarders on suggestive rather than fully naughty. very light and safe beginner’s temperature play.

They start with a scented candle first—just like the guide advises. It smells like apple cinnamon and the red dye looks exceptionally bright when Jack drips some on the sheets next to him. Jack trails it from the center of his back out in a spiral, holding it far away from the skin and testing the feeling. It doesn’t really do anything.

“Just kind of itches.” Gabriel tells Jack, sitting up on his elbows. “Can we do somewhere else?”

Jack leans over him and grabs his phone off the nightstand, candle poised in one hand. Gabriel hears him unlock it and thumb through the guide.

“Chest, maybe?”

Gabriel hums in approval. “Sounds good.”

He flips over and Jack straddles his waist, already an improvement. Jack gets closer with the candle this time, dripping along the center of his chest. It still doesn’t really do much for sensation. Gabriel cranes his neck to watch and finally sighs.

“Can we do another candle? I smell like grandma’s house.”

Jack laughs and nods. He makes a show of blowing out the candle, a thin line of smoke trailing off the wick as he sets it on the headboard and grabs the next step up. Unscented, uncolored, soy. He lights it with a few flicks of his lighter and reclines back on his haunches, watching the wax melt while Gabriel watches him.

He’s so obviously charmed by the whole thing. Faint grin tugging at his lips, eyes fixed on the small candle flame. Gabriel nudges his thigh to get his attention.

“You next?” he asks, grinning. Jack mirrors the expression.

“We’ll see if it does anything for you first, sunshine.”

Once the wax has pooled enough on the candle, Jack makes a few tentative drips on Gabriel’s skin. That one does more; a light sting and pleasant warmth. Gabriel sighs fondly and seems to encourage Jack, who brings the candle a little closer and trains a line across his pecs. Tentatively, he lets a few drops land close to his nipple.

“Mm, stop teasing.” Gabriel grumbles. He bites back a pleased laugh when Jack lets a translucent drop land directly on his nipple.

“That good? Or do you want another step up?”

Gabriel tilts his head back to see the final candle they grabbed; this oversized beeswax thing. He’d joked it looked like a sex toy in the store; tapered and oddly rounded in places. Jack laughed so hard he almost dropped the apple cinnamon candle in the middle of the isle, then instantly grabbed it.


Jack laughs, snorting, and blows out the soy candle before setting it next to the apple one. He leans over Gabriel to light the beeswax one on the headboard and, before he can lean back, Gabriel sits up and mouths at his stomach playfully. He holds Jack steady, the other man squirming and laughing the whole time, and rubs at his ribs gently.

“No, stop, Gabe!” Jack drags his dull fingernails over Gabriel’s scalp. “It’s your turn, let me go.” Gabriel blows a raspberry against his chest before letting him go. Jack sits up, huffing, and awkwardly grabs the candle off the headboard.

This time, he drips with purpose. Draws a line down Gabriel’s sternum and then under his pecs before trailing wax down the center of his stomach toward his bellybutton. It’s amazing; Gabriel’s skin prickles on contact, sensation of molten wax rapidly cooling against his skin instantly addictive. Jack smiles above him, chewing his lower lip, and stops the line at the waistband of his boxers.

Gabriel exhales shakily, laughter on the edges, and glances down at the patterns of wax on his skin. He flops his head back and squirms comfortably under Jack’s weight.

“Do we have a winner?” Jack asks playfully. Gabriel nods without looking at him, eyes squeezed shut.

Jack adds more wax patterns, getting closer to his skin. It drips over his side in a few places, sliding down his ribs, and the sensation is so pleasantly painful and somehow soothing at the same time. Jack pools a large amount in the center of his chest and Gabriel feels the warmth in a few places, suddenly overly aware of Jack’s ass on his lap.

“This is doing good, huh?” Jack asks, teasing. Gabriel nods and goes to speak but Jack drips a crisscross over his other nipple and he has to bite back a groan. “You wanna try somewhere else next?”

“Got any suggestions?” Gabriel asks.

Jack hums and considers for a moment, candle balanced in one hand. He reaches down with the other and peels the soy wax off his other nipple carefully. Gabriel gives him a look, probably bordering on puppy eyes, and he laughs.

“I’m getting to it.” he hums fondly, lowering the candle close to his skin before dripping beeswax across that pec. He makes a process of this one, covering a few scars there before slowly crossing wax over his nipple. Gabriel shivers pleasantly.

Jack watches him squirm, smile growing, and balances the candle while he reaches out and takes Gabriel’s chin in his free hand. He rubs his thumb against Gabriel’s lower lip before leaning down and kissing him, smiling against his lips.

“Guide said thighs next.” he murmurs when they part, still close to Gabriel’s lips. “You ready?”

Gabriel grins and nips at Jack’s lip. “Gimme all you got, Morrison.” he growls. Jack laughs and kisses him again before sitting up.

“Alright,” he says, winking, “you asked for it.”

Yes, he did. And yes, it’s just what he wanted.

i. you can’t help but drown in him. after all, you’re only a god, gasping for breath from your own damning immortality.

ii. his hands – smaller than yours, rougher, callused, burned by flames who’re cousins of your sun; his hands – inventor’s hands, creator’s hands, magician’s hands that breathe life into your body of flickering flames which licks everything into ashes; his hands that love every inch of you without flinching, that tease ichor from your blazing skin and leave marks where no one else has dared touch you.

iii. and you chase after him, but the closer you get to his waxy wings the faster he plummets into the sea.

iv. he drips wax patterns about your back. you didn’t mean to hurt him, didn’t mean for his skin to melt when your fingers explored him, didn’t mean to leave crimson hickeys that don’t fade into bruises, but you love when with each burning bite his breath hitches and his neck arches and you can’t help but feed on the golden lines of this godly mortal boy.

v. Zeus won’t answer your prayers. Zephyr howls in envy. Hyacinth curls around your still-beating heart and whispers destruction in your ear. burn, burn, burn, nothing can love your nuclear fission heart without death charring.

vi. and so you drip wax about your own fingertips and crash your chariot into the sea. “it was never meant to be,” his ghost breathes, so sweet through the hyacinth breeze, “we always die, and we always leave.”

how melt his heart, his wings | a.c. 

“Extras” Request Fic: Surfer AU

I finally got to the first of my “extras” requests/dusted off my writing hands, so here you are, @evil–isnt–born, an extra from my Surfer Killian AU! Side note, she wrote one in this universe for me and it is genuinely too good for me to handle, so be on the lookout for that if she chooses to post it.

The full morning sun is unrelenting, especially where the interior of her car is concerned. Every shard of light that cuts through the tangled trees lining the winding road flickers across her face, her arms, her thighs, warning her of the heat to come, but it’s a warning Emma finds herself easily distracted from. Thoughts of the day ahead of her are more than enough to drag her focus away.

She ran out of excuses a week ago. Her bills were paid, patient treatment plans written, apartment clean as it was ever going to be. Work’s slowing down, too — at least half of her patients are out of state for work conferences or vacations, and even Regina is beginning to get annoyed with her restlessness. Killian, on the other hand, has been waiting patiently for her to admit she’s ready for her first lesson. She can feel it every time a good morning text greets her when she wakes, every time he drops by her desk with the lunch she forgot to pack, every time they sit on the beach and watch the ocean swallow the sun.

He’d given her the choice between sunrise and the hour after her last appointment ended. Emma picked the latter, tricking herself into believing the extra time would help her prepare. Like the few wispy clouds that had greeted her from her bedroom window when she woke up, time slipped away. Now she’s parked in the beach access lot, no clouds to be seen, and she’s more nervous than ever.

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Finally had to make time to get some glamor shots of the Apothecary Cabinet I was working on in January.

The best part of making this was the custom pattern veneers used for the drawer fronts. Made with Redwood, and I hope it shows I worked at getting the pattern to be a cohesive whole across all the drawers. The pulls are Rosewood. The drawers are finished with Tried&True Varnish/Oil blend and wax.

The case itself is White Oak, dyed Dark Mission Brown. The grain is highlighted with Liberon Black Patina wax and then a couple coats of Paste Wax. Ended up having a nice depth of color. One of my new favorite finishing techniques.

One of my best pieces to date, adding this to the portfolio. Hopefully will help me continue to get into better art shows.


… Nature needs simply the Matter which it is to work upon and bring under Form; its productivity cannot depend upon mechanical operation. What driving or hoisting goes to produce all that variety of colour and pattern?

The wax-workers, whose methods have been cited as parallel to the creative act of Nature, are unable to make colours; all they can do to impose upon their handicraft colours taken from elsewhere. None the less there is a parallel which demands attention: in the case of workers in such arts there must be something locked within themselves, an efficacy not going out from them and yet guiding their hands in all their creation; and this observation should have indicated a similar phenomenon in Nature; it should be clear that this indwelling efficacy, which makes without hands, must exist in Nature, no less than in the craftsman–but, there, as a thing completely inbound. …

… The Nature-Principle must be an Ideal-Form, not a compound of Form and Matter; there is no need for it to possess Matter, hot and cold: the Matter that underlies it, on which it exercises its creative act, brings all that with it, or, natively without quality, becomes hot and cold, and all the rest, when brought under Reason: Matter, to become fire, demands the approach not of fire but of a Reason-Principle.

This is no slight evidence that in the animal and vegetable realms the Reason-Principles are the makers and that Nature is a Reason-Principle producing a second Reason-Principle, its offspring, which, in turn, while itself, still, remaining intact, communicates something to the underlie, Matter.

The Reason-Principle presiding over visible Shape is the very ultimate of its order, a dead thing unable to produce further: that which produces in the created realm is the living Reason-Principle–brother no doubt, to that which gives mere shape, but having life-giving power.

Plotinus, Nature, Contemplation, and the One (III.8.2)

the signs and aesthetics
  • Aries: campfires during the cold, the feeling of soft fabric, a creaking fan
  • Taurus: dusty books, matching clothes, the smell of candle wax
  • Gemini: patterned furniture, horror stories, shelves full of random items
  • Cancer: car lights in the rain, muffled music playing on an old radio from a motel, the view of dark clouds from a window
  • Leo: vintage perfume bottles, scented hand soap, walking alone at sunset
  • Virgo: gazing at the stars, old coffee shop decorations, detailed sweaters
  • Libra: glass reflecting rainbows, elegant hands, a comforting voice
  • Scorpio: shop bells ringing, the familiar feeling of a museum, looking out the public bus window
  • Sagittarius: antique decor, arts and crafts scattered on a table, a fish tank bubbling
  • Capricorn: spilled ink, shapes in the clouds, air planes late at night
  • Aquarius: the shining sun, empty airports, the feeling of being with a friend
  • Pisces: clinking glass, gentle breezes, fruit ripening on trees

getinthefuckingjaeger  asked:


More of them? More of them?

Do you know what Graves has to put up with from the Kowalski spawn? Do you know how many various shades of pink and pastel blue (and that one month of violent blood red that still haunts him to this day) his nails have been painted? He’s had sparkly beads braided into his hair.

And you want more of them?

Graves didn’t realise what he was getting into at first, and maybe, maybe that was his fault. But come on - the spawn was tiny, her entire hand was the size of Graves’ finger, she blew him a spit bubble and called him “Nun-cle” in an adorable little lisp. Graves thought she was cute, like those stray crup puppies Newt brought home that one time.

The crup puppies alternately chewed his dressing gown and shat in his slippers, so he really should learn to be wary of cute things.

But! The spawn was cute. She had round cheeks and curly hair, and liked to sit on his knee and tangle her fingers in his scarf. And, maybe, he and Newt had been in Paris and there’d been this little boutique shop with these little pink dresses and he’d picked one up for her on the way.

And then, maybe, there’d been that doll with the ringlets in its hair and the lace frills on its clothes.

In Bolivia there are llamas, and brightly coloured ponchos with llamas knitted on them.

In China, silk, every colour under the sun and shimmering iridescent with more that are only seen by moonlight.

In Malaysia, batik wax-patterns of the most beautiful flowers imaginable.

Newt picks up stray creatures and stuffs them in his suitcase, but Graves picks up toys and clothes and picture books and slips them in his jacket pocket. There’s one two three spawn, and he can’t stop bringing them things now, they’ll be sad.

It’s emotional manipulation at its finest and they all practice it, even if the youngest is still too young to talk. He’ll learn. His sisters will make sure of it.

His sisters, who are currently barrelling towards him at unreasonable speed, socked feet sliding on the polished floor.

“Uncle Graves, quick! Come with me!” the younger spawn says, hauling him out of his chair and diving behind the sofa with him.

“Fiend!” the elder cries dramatically. “Dastardly evil fiend!”

“Um,” Graves says from where he’s crouched against the sofa.

“I’m kidnapping you,” is the matter-of-fact response. “You’re my ostrich.”


“It’s hostage, and don’t worry Uncle Graves, I’m an auror and I’m going to rescue you!”

Graves ends up hiding in the bath with a stuffed toy fire crab while his auror savior dramatically flings spells from a quill pen and and his devious kidnapper marshalls the puffskeins into an army.

More of them, maybe, would be ok. Maybe.