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crimson-calligraphyx · 7 months ago

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Tag List: @cheyfi @kingdomof-omens @daylightlvrs @blade-in-red @jay02bo @itsmrsfuentes @cncohshit @catj422 @lma1986 @chels3a-smile @kiwi475 @cookiesupplier @timid-raccoon @xxkittenkissesxx

A/N: I just want to apologize for the delay. I really lost my motivation there for a while, but you all deserve an update. Love you all 🖤

Braxton Hicks.

After a very much panicked phone call with my doctor, we were able to determine that the pain I had been feeling was, in fact, false labor. Thank God.

Still, she insisted that I take things easy from here on out—not necessarily total bed rest, but to not be on my feet for any extended periods. There was no way I'd be able to stay off my feet while at the bakery, so that meant that I had to leave the bakery in the hands of Juliana earlier than we had originally planned. Which wasn't a problem per se, but I would've liked to have helped her prepare more than I had been able to.

I tossed my phone down beside me on the mattress with a huff after letting Jules know the new and unexpected plan. She said that it wasn't a problem and that she could handle it, but there was a hesitancy in her voice that told me otherwise. I had no choice but to take her word for it; there wasn't anything that I could do at this point. What the doctor said, goes—Noah wouldn't let me do anything otherwise.

I closed my eyes and ran a hand down my belly with a deep exhale, hoping to shut out the stress from today. I feel him kick against my palm, and it brings a subtle smile to my face. There wasn't anything to worry about. The baby is okay, I'm okay, the bakery will be just fine.

"How are we doing?" Noah asks, quietly entering our bedroom. "We're fine," I answer, opening my eyes to the mess that was my husband. "What the hell happened to you?" I snort, taking note of the light blue he was now sporting on nearly his whole left arm. The longer I stared, the more paint I noticed had accumulated on him. It was splattered across the front of his pants, a good portion of the left side of his shirt, across his face, and even in his hair. "Did a bomb go off while you were painting?"

He glances down at himself, his eyebrows rising in surprise as if he hadn't even noticed he was practically turning into a Smurf. Pink skirts across his cheeks, a bashful chuckle sounding from him as he brings his attention back to me. "Yeah, about that..." he trails off, shaking his head. "I finished painting the room." "Are you sure? Cuz I think you're wearing most of the paint," I tease, pushing myself up into a sitting position. "Yes, I'm sure." He rolls his eyes, "Come see for yourself."

He offers me his clean hand, pulling me to my feet and guiding me to the baby's room. I gasped upon entering, a smile spreading on my face; the walls were pristine, evenly painted, leaving only the painter's tape over the trim as the paint dried.

My eyes flicker to the still-tarped floor, catching a mess of baby blue around the roller pan that was now misshapen. I glanced between the pan and Noah's coated arm before quirking a brow up at him, finally putting two and two together.

"What happened here?" I flashed him a knowing grin, folding my arms over my chest and cocking my head towards the spill. He shrugged before simply stating, "I tripped." "And took a bath in the paint, it seems," I giggled. He rolls his eyes again, draping his right arm over my shoulders and pulling me towards him. "Oh, come on. It's not that bad." He plants a brief kiss atop my head. I snort, leaning into him and wrapping my arm around his back. "Whatever you say, Papa Smurf." "I think you mean Daddy Smurf," he humors, a hint of sultry in his voice as he brings me in front of him and waggles his brows at me. I snort, shaking my head at him. "You did not just say that." "Oh, I so did," he teases before planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

I swat my hands at him and he laughs, pecking my face a few more times before letting me go. I couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of me from his playfulness and smiled as I stood on my toes, giving him one last kiss before turning to admire the room once again.

"The room really came out great, Noah," I tell him truthfully. "Thank you." He sidles up behind me, running his hands up and down my arms. "Why are you thanking me? It was a joint effort, Liv." I shrug. "You've done so much. You put together the furniture and finished the walls without me." "You're 8 months pregnant," he chuckles lightly. "I'm not making you do all of that. And before you say it, I know I was a dick about it earlier, and I'm still sorry about that. I was just frustrated—" "I know, Noah. I know." I lean into him as he wraps his arms around my shoulders, holding me to him. "Just let me thank you for all that you do, okay?" "Okay," he agrees quietly, kissing the back of my head.

We stayed like this for a moment or two as I envisioned how the room would look once the walls were dry and things were put into place. A smile graces my lips, picturing the white bookshelf filled with children's books, the nightstand with a small lamp, the lampshade peppered with clouds, and a hot air balloon to match the wall decal we'd eventually put up. The crib with blue and white bedding that will soon house our son, the wall behind it soon bearing his name and a picture of him as a newborn. Stuffed animals galore, and a rocking chair in the corner for when we read him bedtime stories.

God, I couldn't fucking wait.

"Seriously?" I shout, slamming the hardcover book in my hands shut, the sound carrying through our much-too-quiet living room. "You okay?" Noah pokes his head out from the kitchen, one eyebrow perched in curiosity. "No," I grumble, holding up the book with one hand and shaking it with agitation. "That's how this ends?!" Both his brows shoot up in surprise, though his expression quickly melts into a knowing smirk when he sees that I'm holding his copy of Iron Flame. "Told ya," he chuckles, returning to whatever task he had in the kitchen. "This is some bullshit! Now I gotta wait months to know what fucking happens!"

I hear him laugh as I toss the book onto the side table next to me, adding it to the ever-growing collection of books I've read in the past three weeks. I huff, throwing my head back against the couch and folding my arms across my chest as I fester in what was admittedly unnecessary anger.

"Here, I made you some lunch," Noah says as he joins me in the living room. He holds out a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chips, and a pickle spear, with which I do nothing but stare at it. "I'm not hungry," I mumble, setting my jaw and looking forward. He snorts. "Are you really that mad?" He asks, lowering his arms. "Yes," I pout. "It's just a book, Liv. You've gotta eat," he tells me and balances the plate atop my belly.

I blink at the food in front of me, appalled that he actually just put it on my stomach as if it's some sort of fucking table, before slowly bringing my gaze to Noah. He flashes me a cheeky grin, clearly pleased with himself, and my blood starts to simmer.

It's been three weeks of nothing but sitting on my ass and reading, three weeks without going into the bakery, three weeks of Noah coddling me as if I'm broken and not just pregnant, and it was starting to get under my skin.

"Really?" I snap at him. He cringes apologetically, taking the plate back into his possession. "Sorry, I was just trying to make you laugh." "Using him as a table isn't going to make me fucking laugh, Noah." I palm the cushions beside me, pushing myself off the couch and brushing past him, headed down the hallway. "Liv, wait," he sighs, trailing after me.

I reach our bedroom, immediately rummaging through my bureau for a change of clothes—I needed out of these pajamas, and out of this damn house.

After throwing what seemed to be half my wardrobe across the room, I held up a sundress that I hadn't worn since last year and stared at it, wondering if it would still fit. It was flowy enough that it should, theoretically, fit right over my bump and hit my knees. I shrugged, laying it out on the bed, and began stripping out of my PJs.

I slipped the sunflower-clad fabric over my head, wriggling and tugging at the sides to manipulate it into place. It was a little snug around my chest, forcing my breasts together and accentuating my cleavage, but it did fit exactly how I imagined it would around my belly, settling right above the knee.

"Liv, what are you doing?" "Going out," I answer Noah curtly, slipping on a pair of tennis shoes. I can feel his eyes burning into my back as I walk to our closet, digging out a shoulder bag. "Oh... Well, where are you going?" I shrug. "Not sure. Maybe the beach," I tell him as I retreat from the closet, placing a sunhat on my head. "I just need to get out." "Let me take you, then. I don't think you should walk all the way—"

I let out a groan, throwing my head back in aggravation. The hat tumbles from its seat, landing behind me, and I sigh harshly as I begin to squat to retrieve it. Noah beats me to it, picking it up and placing it back on my head. He runs a hand down my shoulder, earning my gaze, and I see his eyebrows are pulled together, creased with concern. "Why are you so mad, Olivia? It's just a book," he all but whispers.

Again, I sigh, my eyes closing as my shoulders slump. "It's not really about the book, that's just an excuse," I mumble, shaking my head at myself. "I'm just cooped up, sitting around doing nothing. And when I do get up to do something, you're there in a heartbeat and won't let me do whatever it is I got up to do. I feel like a ticking timebomb," I scoff incredulously, bringing my gaze back to his. "Just waiting around til he's ready to come out. And then the ending of the book, knowing I have to wait for the next one to get published—it tipped me off. All I'm doing is waiting, Noah. At least let me do something while I wait."

"I—" His lips part, but he remains silent. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as his eyes bounce between mine. "I'm sorry, Liv," he sighs. "I didn't want you overdoing it after what happened." "Can't overdo something I'm not doing," I mutter. "Just let me do something. Anything. Please." "Okay," he agrees quietly with a quick bob of his head. I give him a soft smile. "Okay."

With my shoes in one hand and Noah's hand in the other, we leisurely strolled our way across the shoreline. The sun kissed my skin as the tide rolled over our bare feet and the oceanic breeze coasted by, my hair and dress caught in its path. Gulls cried overhead and children laughed as they played about in the sand, building sandcastles and digging trenches. I let out a content sigh, a grin spreading across my face as peace washed over me.

This was exactly what I needed.

Fresh air and sand beneath my toes; no air conditioning and no book in my face.

Noah gives my hand a rhythmic squeeze, and I look up at him. He's squinting, his eyes extra crinkled at the outer corners because he neglected to grab a hat and sunglasses, but he's smiling down at me. I couldn't help but giggle, and placed a kiss against his upper arm before resting my head against him as we carried on.

"Are you having a good time?" he asks, giving my hand another squeeze. "The best," I tell him, returning his squeeze. "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier." "I guess you could say you were a little...crabby... earlier, but it's okay, I forgive you."

I halted, the hand that Noah was holding rising as he continued to walk without noticing I had stopped. He turns when our arms tug against one another, and I shake my head at him, processing his poor joke.

"Get it? Crabby cuz, ya know, we're at the beach and there are crabs at the beach." "You are such a dumbass," I say with a chuckle. "What? I gotta get these dad jokes down sooner or later," he snickers. I roll my eyes. "I'd say you got them down pat." "Yeah?" He smirks when I nod. "Well that's good, he'll be here any day now." I smile down at my belly. "Any day now."

|Chapter 27|

#fanfic #fan fiction #noah sebastian #fanfic writing #romance #quandary #noah sebastian fanfic

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hurtmehurtmeluv · 10 months ago

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Vast Error and Splatoon fans, how do we feel about these? (custom kits and some explanations under cut!)

Sova (Defensive Utility) - Reef-lux, Splash Wall, Baller I don't really know her that well so this one is probably the most shaky out of all of them. I was hoping to give her a more defensive play style here (Splash Wall and Baller)

Dismas (Evade Skirmisher) - .52 gal, Toxic Mist, Triple Splashdown The .52 is here since it takes 2 shots to hit (in reference to 2xbladekind). Toxic Mist and Triple Splashdown don't have too much reason to be on here except that this all together makes a nasty .52 gal kit.

Arcjec (Tank Skirmisher) - Tentabrella, Autobomb, Taticooler Arcjec would tend to use Autobombs the most while hiding behind the huge shield the Tentabrella provides. Taticooler is in reference to not only his obsession with Code Red, but also how he recovers quickly when pushed down (respawn buff from Taticooler). He's also meant to be paired with Ellsee in a way, since her Squid Beacon's can support this specific play style greatly.

Jentha (Special Utility) - Bloblobber, Angle Shooter, Wave Breaker She just feels like it. Like she just feels like a Bloblobber and I can't really explain it too much. Source: just trust me bro. Angle Shooter would be something she'd use in a panic to try and find someone, just a quick 'throw it out' thing while revealing her location at the same time. Wave Breaker suits the non-aggressive play style that I'm trying to go with her.

Ellsee (Evade Skirmisher) - Inkbrush, Squid Beacon, Ink Storm The Inkbrush is meant to be similar to her staff in a way! Also the movement made with a brush flick reminiscent of dancing, nothing too deep with this choice just that it fits the best out of all the weapons. Squid Beacon is in reference to her portals and goes along with Arcjec (see the desc. of his kit for details). Ink Storm is probably the weakest here since I added it only because her last name is Raines (like raining.... storms.....).

Albion (Crossfire Utility) - Heavy Splatling, Ink Mine, Booyah Bomb The Heavy was picked out mostly because its Deco version is very sparkly and shiny, like her quirk! Ink Mine is mostly to tie the kit together and Booyah Bomb is her sort of 'calling upon her friends'. I think this kit fits her a lot more towards the start of the comic but could still be applied later on.

Serpaz (Special Utility) - Big Swig Roller, Sprinkler, Ultra Stamp I tried to sort of play into the idea that she uses toolboxkind so that's why she has a paint roller and a hammer! The sprinkler is to help her build her special.

Laivan (Trick Skirmisher) - Squiffer, Splat Bomb, Triple Inkstrike A Charger for Laivan felt like the obvious choice since he's known to wield a gun (not sure exactly what kind since he doesn't have a confirmed strifespecibus from what i can tell) but I wanted him to contrast Occeus with quirk charges and shorter shots which is why I ended up giving him the Squiffer. Splat Bombs and Triple Inkstrike don't really have a big reason but I think they overall fit as a simple but effective kit.

Occeus (Anchor) - E-Liter Scope, Toxic Mist, Stingray All of these have reasons, mostly relating to the fact his strifespecibus is lazerkind. E-liter is slow charging but has a very high range, with the scope providing greater accuracy. I considered giving him the Tri-Stringer in reference to his three eyes but I feel like the E-Liter Scope feels more true to the way lazerkind works. Toxic Mist is a bit silly as it's entirely there to reference the fact he's a scientist that works with a lot of weird vials and bottles with potentially dangerous substances inside. Stingray basically works the same as lazerkind, cutting through everything around it to hit its targets.

Taz (Slayer) - Luna Blaster, Burst Bomb, Ink Armor The Luna Blaster is fast, powerful and if the direct hit doesn't get you the splash damage will! Powerful, destructive and makes sure to not leave anyone behind, that's how Taz fights. Burst Bomb isn't a reference to anything, just an effective combo with any shots with a main weapon and helpful when you need to ink something quick. Ink Armor is meant to reference how her chucklevoodoo is always active with the 'glint' in her eye, as well as how she's someone who supports others at heart.

Murrit (Slayer) - Tetra Dualies, Point Sensor, Triple Splashdown (plays Bloblobber sometimes just to piss Jentha off) This was the guy who started this whole thing so lets get into it. I chose the Tetra Dualies to allude to the fact that he uses 2xknucklekind. I was thinking to myself "what feels like getting punched in the face when playing a splatoon match?" and it 100% the Tetra Dualies. Point sensor is meant to not only portray how she keeps tabs on everyone but also how she seems like the type to hunt down her targets. Triple Splashdown is mostly because that also feels like a punch in the face (and also how the animation is literally a punch). Overall, I wanted her play style to come across as high risk, high reward.

Calder (Anchor) - Ballpoint Splatling, Curling Bomb, Kraken Royale I tried to find the best way to portray his fighting style (with three different strife specubus's) but the common theme seems to be that they're very long weapons that directly confront the target and have quick 'jabs' at the target. I think the Ballpoint with its ability to have short range bursts accompanied with long range hits, as well as the fact that the fire can be interrupted for continuous fire, portrays that. Curling Bombs feel the closest to golf balls, bouncing around the stage and being able to control how far you put it out (similar to how hard your swing is). Kraken Royale is mostly to allude to the fact that Calder is royalty. He also tends to seem commanding and in control, which is suitable for an anchor.

Obviously, there's plenty of other kits and roles that they can fit into but this is more a kit that reflects bits of themselves rather than the one they would realistically play or would be the best at. I would love to hear some of y'all's opinions on this and your own kit ideas! Here's my attempt at making Murrit in Splatoon.

#Splatoon Kits are kind of like my version of classpecting #vast error #splatoon #sovara amalie #dismas mersiv #arcjec voorat #jentha briati #ellsee raines #albion shukra #serpaz helilo #laivan ferroo #occeus coliad #tazsia poemme #murrit turkin #calder kerian

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assortedseaglass · 1 year ago

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The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Strong Language, Smut, Violence, Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Injury Detail, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

Word Count: 6.1K

October 1940

The bombardment started the second he rounded the corner.

“Got time to play?”

“Maybe later, Joseph.” Joseph Mason, his older brother Albert and little sister Betty ran along the ginnel in Tom’s wake. A few of the younger children, which were Mrs Mason’s Tom didn’t know, struggled to keep up on their chubby legs.

“Haven’t you got anything else to wear?”

Betty shushed her brother. “It’s his uniform!”

“Well?” Joseph ignored her. “Haven’t you?”

“Free sweets and tram tickets with the uniform, Joseph.” Tom continued ahead, his little battalion of children trotting along beside him. He smiled.

“What’s that?” Betty pointed to the silver coin pinned to his navy shirt.

“Distinguished Service Medal.”

“Are you a hero?” Albert suddenly seemed interested. Tom smirked.

“Always was, always will be.” Thank God Bess wasn’t here to hear him say that. Or Albie. He’d have laughed himself into next week.

“What you doing here then?” said Betty.

“Hitler sunk my ship, gotta find me a new one.”

“Did you kill any Germans?” Albert was still awed by Tom as he tried to keep up.

“Loads.” Tom said, turning on his heel. The children stopped abruptly and stared up at him. A wry grin quirked the corners of Tom’s mouth. “Killed a few kids an’ all.”

They shuffled back in fear. Mrs Mason told them to keep away from Tom Bennett before the war. Now he was back, and he’d actually killed people! Joseph found his quavering voice. “What for?”

“Asking too many questions.” Tom left them behind in the ginnel and turned into the street. The smile faded from his face. The kit bag on his shoulder fell to the floor and, for a brief moment, his mind stilled. The house. What had happened to the house? Why was there rubble across the road? His mind sped up, images flashing like a zoetrope through his mind.

“Lois?” he croaked, running to the house. “Dad!?” His feet carried him up the pile of bricks scattered outside the front door, and he peered into the kitchen. The table and chairs had splintered, fragments of them remaining, and he saw it. The bomb. Its inactive shell lying before the fireplace. Pressing his face against the little glass that remained in the window, Tom looked up. His father’s iron bedframe dangled precariously from the hole in the kitchen ceiling, and above it, the cold and grey Manchester sky stared back at him.

Tom slipped as he took a step back. His chest was rising rapidly, the panic that accompanied him every day since the Exeter awakening every nerve. Blood pumped through his fingers. He balled his fists a few times to regain their feeling. Find them. He was as untethered here as he was at sea. Find them. An image, Vera in her little cot, gazing up at the ceiling as it came crashing down around her, flashed into his eyes and he rubbed it away. Find them. He slid down the rubble pile and before he’d taken his first step towards the abandoned kit bag, terror froze him once more.

The Vaughn house. It was intact. Still standing, but the windows were boarded with black-painted wood. Tom hammered on the door. “Fergal? Dot?” He waited. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a whisper.

“Fuck.” The word hissed from his mouth in panic. He grabbed his kit bag and raced to the only place he could think of. The hospital. If anything’s happened, they’ll be at the hospital. And Bess – fuck – Bess will be on shift. She would have been on shift, why would she be in Longsight? Please let her have been on shift.

“They found you a ship then?” Joseph shouted with a smile as Tom ran past. He didn’t hear. All he could think about was his family. His little family, shrinking. I can’t lose anyone else, not after mum. Not after Vic. Not after Albie. Already, the world felt smaller as he ran towards the Royal Infirmary. Through the parks, ginnels and scrapyards, the world was the hiss of his breath, the thundering of his heart and thoughts of his family. He rounded into the dockyard, sprinting towards the canal bridge that led to the city’s centre. The dockyard.

In an instant he changed direction, pelting along the dockside between engineers and labourers. Some tipped their caps to him, offering their thanks and “welcome back”, others hissed at him to get out of the way. Still, Tom thought of only one thing.

“Fergal?” He called as he pushed through the crowd of workmen. “Fergal Vaughn? Does anyone know where I can find Fergal Vaughn?”

“Tom?” The rasped Cork brogue cut through the clatter of metal. Tom launched himself at the squat man in relief, his arms wrapping around Fergal’s broad shoulders. Fergal barely had time to comprehend this out of character display before Tom pulled back and unleashed a tirade of questions.

“The house-I-I went home and the house-” Fergal placed his hands on Tom shoulders to calm him but the young man continued. “Bess? Bess? Is she ok? And Dot? And-”

“They’re all fine, my boy. Just fine.” Fergal rubbed his shoulders soothingly. “It was the same strike as what got your place. Only blew the windows out, thank the Lord.”

“And Lois and Dad? And the baby? Where are they? I-I don’t know where to go,” Tom’s voice cracked, thinking of his childhood home destroyed, the last place that held any concrete memories of his mother. Through his panic, he saw a piece of Fergal’s lightness dissipate. The round and reddened face of Fergal Vaughn, the man Tom had known since childhood, displayed that one thing he had never seen cross it before. Pity.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Fergal said softly, taking Tom by the hand to sit between the metal sleepers and tell him everything.

Bess was in no mood to stop and chat. Sister Stern had given her a bollocking for not changing the beds quickly, and Joan was in a foul mood because the soldier she was seeing had dumped her unceremoniously. So when she approached Carver Mills to see Mrs Russo waving, her cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in the air, Bess groaned. The silk scarf wrapped about Mrs Russo’s head took flight on the autumn wind and bustled towards Bess’ feet, and she knew a conversation was unavoidable.

“Ta, Bess.” Mrs Russo said brightly, holding her hand out for the scarf.

“Hiya,” Bess rubbed her eyes and fussed with her keys.

“Had a good shift?” Mrs Russo’s voice was offensively loud.

“Yes, fine.” Bess shifted uncomfortably under Mrs Russo’s watchful gaze and tried to squeeze past the round woman to reach the door.

“I’m expecting best behaviour from you girls while I’m away at my daughter’s,” Mrs Russo said, tying the scarf around her permed hair. “Caught Joan trying to sneak in that new beau of hers-”

Bess pushed the door open wearily. “They aren’t together anymore.” Mrs Russo paused her bustling.

“Poor girl. I’ll see if I can get some chocolate at the corner shop. Try and cheat my ration book.” She winked and tottered away. “Ta-ra, Bess.”

The door to the old mill swung shut heavily behind Bess, and she trudged up the stone stairs towards her flat. A glint of light cut the gloomy stairwell in two, and Helen poked her head out of the door to her own flat.

“Bess! A few of us are going to The Crown tonight for a lock in, do you want to-” She stopped as Bess turned to face her. “Christ, you look awful. Tough day?” Bess could do naught but nod. “Tell you what. You stay home and rest, I’ll take Joan. Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and all that. There’s bound to be a desperate soldier looking for an easy girl.” She laughed and closed the door.

A moment later and Bess was in the welcome peace of her little home. Smalls were strung across the kitchen on a length of rope. The morning’s empty cup of tea still sat on the rickety table beside an old copy of Vogue, the christening dress she was making for Vera abandoned on the armchair by the window. Since the start of the war, fabric was hard to come by, lace and silk especially. Douglas let Bess take a cutting from Marie’s wedding dress. She wanted something from each side of the family, and parting Robina from her store of antique lace had been a challenge, but she persevered. Still, the gown was almost complete. Bess removed her nurse’s wimple and placed it by the garment, running her fingers over the ivory silk. Darling Douglas. The christening couldn’t come soon enough. After everything, Lois needed some happiness. It would be even better with Tom on leave. Bess’ heart skipped and she padded to the bedroom. She perched by her simple vanity, a mirror balanced on a school writing desk, kicked off her shoes and took the stack of Tom’s letters out from the drawer.

October 16th can’t come soon enough. Lois’ food, Cora and Dot making a fuss. Little Vera and you.

The last letter was dated early September. Bess knew Tom couldn’t write all the time. He was either too busy onboard or, on occasion, they were prevented from writing during particular missions. Her only knowledge that he was ok were the continued reports of the Navy’s skirmishes on the wireless and in the newspaper. The HMS Keith had sunk, but Lois received a telegram that Tom was fine and awaiting the next ship home. Bess looked at the calendar on her wall. October 15th. Tomorrow. God willing, he’d be here with her, tomorrow. Instinctively, her hand reached for the photograph of Tom, now propped against the mirror. Every morning and every night, he watched her in sepia as she dressed and undressed. She kissed it and, placing it back, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Helen was right. She looked awful. The swift removal of her wimple caused tufts of the hair to stick up at odd angles. The uniform she wore was bloodied and dirty. Her hands, hard now from hours work at the hospital, were grubby. She wiped them on her face. Her dark eyes were framed by circles of purple and grey, and her usually plump cheeks were gaunt and pale. The only thing that remained were her full and pink lips. Against the dullness of her skin, they looked garish. Bess sighed and one by one removed her hair pins. Watching her hair come undone, in some places curled from the pins, others straight and frizzy, she wondered what it was that had so changed the Longsight boys towards her. How she went from “witch” to something desirable. What drove Walter Watson from bullying her to forcing himself upon her behind the Palais.

It wasn’t as though she had changed all that much from those difficult years to now. When presented with the option to speak or remain silent, Bess always chose the latter. That is, unless someone cast insult over her chosen few. Then, as Cora said, “there’ll be none so fierce as Bess on judgement day”. She wasn’t as kind as Cora, with her thoughtful gestures and selflessness. Nor did she have her gentle charm and beauty. Dot, on the other hand, was an entity unto her own design. Despite her tendency for the flighty and sudden outbursts of judgement, wherever Dot went, the sun seemed to follow. Funny and light, the world seemed brighter in her company. Bess still stared at her reflection. What did she bring? A haughty quietness that most found intimidating? Her use as a seamstress and pianist? Over her shoulder, she caught sight of the photograph pinned to the wall by her bed.

It was at Albie’s birthday celebration in the summer. Dot had taken it with the camera Harry gave Bess in the spring. In it, Tom and Bess stood side by side. His arm was gripped tightly around her middle, pulling her to him and highlighting the slightness of her waist and fullness of her hips. The blouse she wore, tucked into her slacks, curved around her breasts. At her ear, Tom was whispering something sinful; Bess could tell by the girlish giggle captured in celluloid. For the first time, she was embarrassed by the image. Her womanhood was so wantonly on display. So, that’s what the boys saw in her, that summer she came back from Manchester.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn. That little freak from school.”

Vomit rose to her mouth as the memory of stale smoke and alcohol flooded her nose. Bess’ eyes snapped from the image to her reflection. Gaunt face, dark eyes, grey skin.

“Then you came back from Manchester with this. And these-”

Bess rubbed her hand across the bodice of her uniform. Her chest felt tight. Heavy and not her own.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

The memory of Walter’s assault on her was plaguing Bess of late. With Tom at war and Douglas-. And Douglas-. Her two defenders were gone. At night, alone when she imagined Tom with her and her hand slid beneath her nightdress, Bess recalled the way his neck strained as he screamed at the man. The crack of his fist against skin. But no sooner had the memory of Tom’s dominance warmed her cheeks, chest, thighs, was Walter’s sweaty face swimming into view and ruining her bliss.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

Her near lifeless eyes blinked back at her in the worn mirror and, body humming with hatred, she pushed herself away from her reflection. The stool fell backward with a thunk onto the wooden floor and Bess stood motionless. The day had been full of misery at every turn. Bloodied soldiers to be sewn back together. Wrecked buildings pouring onto Manchester’s streets. Her own self-loathing. Too tired to drag her body to bed, Bess hovered at the centre of her room, lulled into an imitation of sleep somewhere between lucidity and nightmare.

Downstairs, the front door of the mill crashed closed, and she jolted from her half-sleep. Joan was obviously back from the infirmary and still in a foul mood. Bess sighed, ran a hand through her tangled hair and uncovered the duvet. The clock read 6 o’clock and she hadn’t even removed her apron. Beyond the door, Joan was tearing up the stairs of Carver Mills, her heels sounding more like jackboots as she pounded the steps. Bess stomped across the floor. Her hand closed around the doorhandle, ready to slam it shut-

BANG BANG BANG

She froze. From her spot in the bedroom doorway, Bess watched the front door rattle on its hinges. On tiptoe, she edged forwards. The thundering fists hammered on the door again.

BANG BANG BANG

She tried to remember if she had locked it behind her. No, of course she hadn’t. Shit. Only Mrs Russo and the other nurses had access to the flats; there was no need to lock it until curfew. Not even Helen or Joan, in her anger, would bang down the door. Bess rushed forwards, ready to bar the intruder as best she could. She knew there was little she could do to stop them. Even with her nurses’ strength and steeliness, an intruder would overpower her. Walter Watson flashed across her vision. What if he was home? What if Queenie or Frank told him where to find her?

BANG BANG BANG

Hang on. An intruder wouldn’t knock. Again, she froze, this time in confusion. The last knock had barely rung out when, as if in slow motion, Bess watched the handle turn. The door flew open and the person on the other side stormed in.

It was like watching a cat stalk its prey. The whites of his eyes burned like a wild beast’s, the blue at their icy centre darted around the room madly until they landed on her. They widened, then narrowed. A predator locking onto its next meal. For them, everything faded from view. The peeling wallpaper, the laundry, the few scattered belongings. Everything, except for Bess. Excitement, or was it fear, fluttered in her ribcage. The pathway to her was blocked by the kitchen table and, striding towards her, he threw it aside in one swift motion. She shivered, swaying where she stood at the flex of his hands. Bess barely had time to register his thin cheeks, the lines that framed his eyes, before those same hands gripped her face hard.

“Tom-” His mouth crashed into hers. It was hard, a clash of teeth and tongue. With her words stolen, Bess grew light-headed and struggled for breath between Tom’s harsh kisses. A hand moved from her face to her neck as she tried to speak, keeping her head in place against him. The other fell to her waist and gripped the flesh there roughly.

“Tom, I-” He silenced her. Swallowing Bess’ words, he roughly tugged the hair fisted in his hand and bit the exposed flesh of her neck with a growl. She whimpered, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support. For something real. Surely this wasn’t real? “Tom,” His assault on her neck was rough and through it, still Bess struggled to speak. “Tom, I thought-I thought you weren’t back ‘til tomorrow-”

He ignored her. The hand holding her waist moved to grope the fullness of her bottom and pull her harder against him. The strength of the action forced the breath from Tom’s chest in a huff as, overwhelmingly, his world became Bess. The scent of her sweat. Old perfume. Her pathetic whimpers. The small hands clawing at his body. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The ripe flesh of her bottom. The smell of her sex. He was an animal on the hunt. Uncontrollable. Terrified. Surviving. Hungry. He bit the meat of her shoulder and she cried out, at last pushing him away. Tom’s hands flew once more to the sides of her face and held her in his vice-like grip.

They stood watching each other. Beneath the furrow of Tom’s brow, the hard crease of his forehead, the usually bright eyes that Bess so adored, always full of mirth and mischief, were desperate. If she looked closely, she swore she could make out tears, taunting him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, the air passing through his flared nostrils. The line of his mouth was shut firm, though swollen from the way he kissed her, and his jaw- fuck, that jaw, was set hard and strong. Bess should have been worried. Scared even. Instead, her heart flooded with unease.

The dark eyes that Tom so adored, always full of certainty and knowing, were searching. Not disgusted by his depravity, or the violent lust with which he needed her. Her hands wound up his arms and grasped the hands still on her face, and Tom watched as the same emotion that had washed over Fergal’s face, washed over Bess. Pity.

He didn’t need fucking pity. He needed stability. Comfort. Home. Something real. One of Bess’ thumbs stroked the side of his hand and he snapped at its tenderness. Tom brought his face to hers, devouring her in a hungry kiss. He walked them backwards until Bess hit the bedroom door. Breaking momentarily from her lips, Tom bent down, a hand sliding up one of Bess’ stockinged legs, and hitched it around his waist. She barely had time to steady herself before he thrust his groin against hers, his hard length pressing against her through the sturdy cotton of his bell bottoms.

Still, he didn’t say a word. As Tom’s hands roamed greedily across her backside, her hips, her breasts, Bess tried not to think about his silence. It was true, she had imagined the devouring ferocity of what having him would be like when he returned home. But each time, it was bookended with tenderness. Whispered adorations and gentle devotions. Not this…anger. The first prickle of fear ran over her. Not at what he would do, but why he was doing it. She tried to reach out to him. To caress his face or run her hand through his hair. He batted it away, gripping her wrist and pinning it to the door as, with ferocity, he ground his hips into hers. The movements were hard and desperate. Whether by the hand caught beneath his bruising grip, or the urgency with which he rubbed his clothed length against her, Bess’ mind went blank and she moaned. At last, Tom spoke.

“Fuck.” His head lolled to nuzzle at her neck, and when she met his hips with the thrusting of her own, he growled. He could take no more of this. He lifted Bess over his shoulder and kicked the bedroom door open. It banged against the wall, and when Bess shushed him, he ignored her. Tom threw her down onto the bed and knelt between her parted legs. Without hesitation he tore at her uniform. Tom pulled the apron so hard its bow gave away, and he tossed it aside. His hands fisted her layers of skirt to reach her suspenders. He unhooked them roughly and pulled down Bess’ woolen stockings. The second ripped, and through the haze of her increasing arousal, Bess noted that they’d need darning. The thought vanished when Tom pushed her knees away and rolled her suddenly onto her front.

“Tom-” Whatever she was going to say died in her throat at the sound of ripping fabric and buttons hitting the floor. Tom tore the back of her bodice open, kissing the skin there as he pushed the sleeves away from her shoulders. Bess slipped out of her uniform, squealing when Tom let go of her. Her body fell forward onto the bed and he roughly pulled the skirt away from her legs. Bess was near nakedness now, and excitement warmed the apex of her thighs. When Tom pushed her small chemise over her bottom and smacked the skin there, she burned.

“On your knees.” His voice was low and cracked, as though his throat were full of gravel. Her cunt clenched. Immediately, obediently, Bess pushed her body off the bed. She was too slow for Tom. He grabbed her by the hips and wrenched her towards him. Resting on all fours, Bess tried to look over her shoulder. Tom pushed her face away. “Don’t look at me.” The darkness of his order made her shudder. She faced forward, toward the damp-stained wall and the photograph of her and Tom. The one she’d been gazing at mere moments before he arrived.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.”

No. She shook Walter’s words from her mind. This was Tom, not Walter. Rough and angry and needy, yes. But Tom. Not Walter.

Tom’s hands rested on the apples of Bess’ backside, and she felt him lean his weight there a moment. Heard him hit the ground. He was kneeling, wrenching the now soaked knickers she wore down her thighs and, before she could comprehend it, lapping greedily at her core. How long they stayed there, with Tom’s arms wrapped around her thighs as he worshipped her cunt, Bess couldn’t say. Only that with every grunt of his throat, every suckle at her sex, every eager flash of his tongue against her folds, the tension in her abdomen increased. The worry she could not put aside, did the same.

If the callous and unashamed way Tom devoured Bess caused her arousal and anxiety to grow, his next movement all but obliterated any thought of him regaining his senses. With one last smack to her bottom, Tom departed. Bess’ thighs clenched. His sudden absence was frustrating. Infuriating even. She knew she needn’t wait long for him, though. Atop the mussed bedding, the navy of his uniform shirt landed. A thud on the ground indicated he had abandoned his boots, and the hush of fabric and panted breaths told Bess he was battling with his slacks. She yearned to help him. To turn around and with fast hands rid him of his last barrier of restraint. But Tom knew Bess. He’d known her long enough, well enough, to recognise her craving for control and independence. Not today. Not now. She was alive. She was here before him, bottom raised, sweating gleaming at the dip of her back, panting with need, doing whatever he asked of her. Just as she began turning her head, he ran two long fingers through her wet slit and she moaned his name, pushing backwards against his fingers for relief.

“Sheath.” Tom grunted, taking himself in hand. He was painfully hard, precum already weeping from the angry head of his cock. His eyes roamed over Bess’ exposed heat, pink and slick and waiting for him. The urge not to drive forward, full into her, was overwhelming.

“We used the last before you left,” Bess was breathless, waiting. A hard warmth brushed against her entrance and she groaned. “Please, Tom.” He wasted no time. That was the certainty that the sheath didn’t matter. One hand one the small of Bess’ back, the other gripped at the base of his cock, Tom thrust forward, heading falling at the tight heat that welcomed him. Both hands holding the flesh of her hips, Tom withdrew himself from Bess before slamming forward. Bess buried her face in the bedsheets, muffling her cry. She had missed him these last months, and though her fingers temporarily satiated her longing, nothing could prepare Bess for the sensation of Tom Bennett filling her completely.

Over and over, Tom’s hips snapped into Bess’ cunt. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat pouring from his brow. The hands that held Bess in place were unmoving, the nails biting into her tender skin. Over and over, Bess moaned his name. When she tried to reach a hand back, desperate to touch him, Tom seized it and, body bent low across her back, held it against the bed. His breath was hot in her ear, hard with pants and grunts of what should have been desire. Between her paroxysms of pleasure, Bess thought they sounded angry.

Like all these other thoughts, they disappeared with every thrust of Tom’s cock into her. His passion was confirmed again when he gripped the auburn hair at the base of her neck and bit her pulse point. Pain fluttered through her veins and excitement lit her core. When Tom did it again, she sped towards painful release. Her hip was burning under his hand, the skin of her buttocks sore from the continued slam of his hip bones. Her back, bent and pressed against the bed, ached and the pulse of a headache crept under the spot were Tom pulled her hair taut. Tears were beginning to prickle her eyes, and when Tom pulled again on her hair, a mangled sob of pain and pleasure ripped from her throat as her walls spasmed around him.

That was it. With a final few violent thrusts, Tom spilled himself inside her. Blinding white light flashed across his eyes and his whole body seemed to crackle with electricity. This wasn’t a release of passion or love, but something more depraved. A violent shock to the system that proved he was still alive. Could still feel. He’d seen men charred beyond recognition, heard the tear of bombs through the sky and torpedoes in water. The groaning of metal as it gave way to bullets. Feared drowning, being mown down or else ripped limb from limb by enemy explosives. Come home to find his childhood didn’t exist and missed the death of his father, years after he watched is mother slowly succumb to nothingness.

Tom looked sideways at the body beneath him. Though her face was half-hidden in the bed, hair frizzy and in disarray, there was no mistaking the tear tracks that ran down Bess’ face. Her breath was ragged and erratic, the small whimpers she made so different to her usual sounds of pleasure. Tom pulled out of her suddenly and though she didn’t move, she gasped. He looked at her lying there, so still and vulnerable. With tentative hands, he caressed her legs and knelt on the bed to lie beside her body. She didn’t look at him, even turned away once he had brushed the hair from her face and, crumbling with shame, Tom buried his face in her neck and began to cry.

7 o’clock. The sun had just descended below the Manchester skyline and only Tom and Bess’ laboured breathing could be heard throughout the flat. Bess hadn’t moved. Not for a long while. Against his thighs, Tom could feel the gentle shake of her legs. Breath still shuddering from their exertion, her back occasionally brushed against his hard chest. The sight of her like this, quaking because of him, should have made Tom proud. But when she shivered, actually shivered, he felt nothing but disgrace. He should have ravished her when he got home. Instead, he'd used her. And she’d let him.

“Are you cold?” he whispered in her ear.

“A little, yeah.” Grabbing the quilt from the floor, Tom draped it over Bess, his warm hand beneath the patchwork rubbing lazily at her side. It was only then did she roll over to face him. Her small hand, with its long, dexterous fingers, brushed across his cheek. Tom knew she was studying him. “You’ve become a man far too quickly,” she said. Tom didn’t need her to explain. His hair was lighter, already on a stress-induced course to grey. The youthful fullness of his cheeks had gone, and now the skin stretched too tightly over his prominent cheekbones. Sometimes, when he caught sight of himself in a mirror, he could see his skeleton sitting just below the surface of his pallid skin. He knew too, that the hardness had settled not just about his face, but in his soul. War had sunk its terrible claws into him, and the man he swore he’d never become, his father, was beginning to appear. Tom brushed some sweat-stuck hair from Bess’ forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She continued to stroke his face, and Tom placed a palm there to stop the action. If she carried on with this gentleness, he’d cry again.

“I just had to make sure you were real,” At this, Bess laughed.

“What do you mean?”

Tom sat up, leaning on his elbow and, distracted by the hair wrapped around his finger, hurried his words. “When I saw the house, I just panicked-And I didn’t know where to go and then I went to your dad-I was thinking-I was gonna come here but I didn’t know if you’d still-and then I went through the dockyard and your dad-your dad told me everything-and when he said you were ok I-I,” he took a shaking breath. “I had to come and see for myself. That you’re still here.”

Bess was silent. Her eyes darted about his worried face, unsure of what he meant. “Did you think something had happened?” It was Tom who looked confused now.

“Bess, I went home and the fucking house had been blown up and neither you or my family were anywhere to be seen.”

“But, I thought-”

“No. I didn’t know.” Tom spat. His anger was flaring again as he swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his bell bottoms. What he was planning to do, he didn’t know, and when Bess quietly said his name, he deflated, slumping back onto the bed. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, and immediately Bess was at his side, rubbing circles on his back and kissing his bullet wound scar. He collapsed against her, and slowly she pulled him back under the covers with her, his head resting against her naked chest.

There was nothing to be said. What could she say? Tom Bennett had been away at war and come home to learn his father had been killed by the very thing he was fighting. As if reading her mind, Tom spoke quietly into her chest. “What’s the point? We go and fight, to keep you all safe, and it doesn’t fucking work.”

“That’s not the only reason-”

“It is for me.” Tom said firmly. “I’ve got nothing else but my family, and you. You’re what makes this bastard war worth fighting.” Bess looked down at him. At his elegant nose and furrowed brow. At his lean and muscular body curled around hers, and her heart swelled with enormous affection for Tom Bennett. She kissed his head and he settled for a while. Content to have him home, nose buried in his hair, the first comforts of sleep beckoned to Bess.

“Your dad said you were there.” Though quiet, she jumped at his voice and, swallowing the lump that appeared in her throat, she murmured that yes, she had been there. Tom chewed his lip, considering his next question. After Bess, it was all he had thought about since Fergal told him of that night’s events. “What did he look like?”

Bess froze. “Tom, you don’t need-” He cut her off.

“It can’t be anything worse than what I imagine.”

He had a point. Gripping one of his hands in hers, she told him about the events immediately after the bomb detonated over his childhood home.

“Dadda was trying to get us back to the shelter, it was difficult to see because of all the smoke, but when the ambulance arrived, I could see it was Lois and Connie. And when Dadda came out of your house, there was blood on his uniform. I didn’t know what state your dad was in, but I knew that whatever it was, Lois couldn’t see him. So me, Connie and one of the paramedics went in to get him out.”

Tom sniffled against her chest and Bess hugged him tighter.

“He looked so peaceful, Tom. I won’t lie to you and say he was perfect; a beam from the ceiling got his arm so there was a messy gash there, lots of blood, and what I assume was falling rubble had caught his head. Nothing dreadful!” she quickly said when Tom flinched. “Just a few little cuts around his face. But he was sat in his chair by the fire, newspaper hanging out of one hand. Like he’d just drifted off to sleep. Thinking of you, I expect.”

“Shut up,” Tom wiped his nose. “He was probably thinking about Mrs Chase’s smalls-”

“The sooner you realise that your dad adored you, Tom Bennett, the better!” She pinched his arm. “You know, him and Lois had a fight that day. She’d gone off to work and he was so down in the mouth about it, we said we’d look after Vera that night.” Tom said nothing and she continued. “What did Lois say when you saw her?”

“Eh?” Tom looked up at her through his long lashes.

“Lois. What did she say when you saw her?”

Tom’s arm around her waist grew tighter. “I came straight here.” Bess hid her smile from him, trying not to let her joy show as she ran her hand again through his hair.

“I think perhaps you should go and see her. Now,” Bess added when Tom tried to argue. “Tom, she’s so unhappy. Missing you, and your pa, raising little Vera alone. I suppose Dadda told you about Vernon?” Tom nodded. “Go. Now.” She kissed the top of his head and shooed him from the bed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Notes: I read an article about a gunner who fought in the Battle of River Plate getting the Distinguished Service Medal, so I figured Tom would get one too. The HMS Keith actually sunk during the evacuation of Dunkirk but for the sake of the story, I made its sinking a little later.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel@greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x reader #tom bennett x ofc #world on fire #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

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cowplantcalamity · 3 months ago

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Dakota has been gaining some fame selling her paintings. She just developed this emotion bomb quirk and it is a MENACE. She's having a breakdown every time I turn around.

#the sims 4 #the sims #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #the cleary family #dakota cleary

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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 1 year ago

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Crush My Bones with Bittersweet 🙏

Your titles are my FAVORITE just saying

*Deep breath* This one is a little out there, ngl.

Basic premise is a what if/reincarnation fic. What if Coin somehow screwed up the deception and everyone knew it was her that dropped the bombs on the Capitol children? What if Snow still dies but the Capitol (Snow's granddaughter, hello) manages to maintain control in the chaos after the war? As for the reincarnation aspect, what if Katniss and Peeta died in the war and then were reincarnated a generation later as enemies, but their memories of each other from their previous life grow increasingly stronger with each interaction? Like I said. It's a little out there. I don't have much written yet. Actually what I'm sharing here is everything that is actually written, and the outline is still in flux/very much a draft.

Thanks for the ask, friend! And I always feel like I struggle with titles, lol so that means a lot. <3 kdnfb

From the Second Treaty of the Treasons…

Section 1: Let it hereby be declared upon these cessation of hostilities the most Noble and August House of Snow proclaims for the future prosperity of the nation

That the war criminal known as Alma Coin, for her heinous and unpardonable crimes of inciting insurrection, producing harmful and misleading propaganda against the Capitol, and ordering the bombing of children and medics upon both sides of this tragic conflict, shall be executed by hanging in public.

That the military assets of the province known as District Thirteen, to include soldiers, weapons, transportation, physical infrastructure, and medical assets, are hereby remanded into the custody of the Capitol.

That this new military shall be charged with maintaining the peace and prosperity and security of the nation, beholden and obedient to the orders of the office of The President, punishable by death. The specific purpose, powers, and duties of The President shall be delineated in Section II of this treaty. The purpose and duties of said military shall be delineated in Section III of this treaty.

That the most August and Noble endeavor known as the Hunger Games are hereby abolished in perpetuity.

That, in order to secure amity and equality in the need for retribution, to establish a bond of trust and mutual sacrifice among the people of Panem, there shall on each fourth day of July, take place a public Reaping. The purpose and ceremonial procedures of this Reaping to be explained in Section IV.

That henceforth and forevermore, the names ascribed to the late rebels, Katniss and Peeta, are hereby outlawed, neither to be uttered nor given by any citizen, an offense punishable by death.

Always the same dream. A desiccated street cloaked in a blanket of smoke. Agony metallic in her mouth. Searing her skin. Screams hollow in her ears. Muffled. And half a face hovering over hers. The tears welling in her eyes smearing the paint of the image to incomprehensible.

“Don’t go. Don’t go. Please don’t go. You can’t die. No you can’t!”

The crack of gunshots. The full, blooming sky puckered with black smoke.

And then… nothing.

Catriona Nox surfaces slowly from the dream. A recurring nightmare. She blinks the sleep from her eyes and squints at the bright sliver of spring sunshine peeking in through her curtains. Rolls over to carefully luxuriate in her silken sheets. She reaches out and turns the gilded clock on her bedside table, sighing at the time. Her maid allowed her to oversleep.

Tossing aside the covers, she rises from the bed, marches to the window and flings open the drapes. A few blinks and her eyes adjust to the bright morning sunshine and she is able to drink in the bounteous profusion of flowers blooming in her garden. Her lips quirk in a smile. Even a Snow would be envious. Not for nothing is Catriona Nox known as the greenest thumb in the Capitol.

Reaching out, she pulls the velvet chord to ring for her maid and dances across her room towards the ensuite bathroom, starting the bathwater and humming to herself.

#wip file game #crush my bones with bittersweet #bellairestrella #look at that ask

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birb-boyo · 1 year ago

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The Chain with My Hero Academia Quirks

Quirks and info about them are under the cut

Time - Mortal Essence

Mortal Essence was something I came up with for my Percy Jackson OC but then I thought of it and was like HELL YEAH so it’s Time’s now

Basically, in my head, god’s have their essence that mortals can’t see or they will die instantly. Like with Semele, Dionysus’s mother, she saw Zeus’s essence and disintegrated immediately

In contrast, a mortal essence is an essence that can make the user have powers on par with gods, or turn the user into a god temporarily

We all know about Fierce right? You know, the war god that can temporarily take over Time’s body? Well, Fierce is Time’s quirk.

Sky - Goddess Guardian

Ok…so maybe he’s the goddess’s guardian but shhhhhhh

This quirk was inspired by Demon Snow, an ability from Bungo Stray Dogs

Basically, Sky has a goddess or an avatar of a goddess who protects him and can and will kill you should he ask her to

He’s best friends with her, don’t worry

I mean, Sun was also in the academy guys, she can and will fuck you up should you try and hurt Sky

That being said, Sun is and isn’t Sky’s quirk

I might say that it’s Farore that’s his guardian instead of Hylia because his girlfriend is Hylia(technically)

Twilight - He technically already sort of has one(Wolfie) but Essence

If you watched My Hero or just know Todoroki’s backstory or you watched Heroes Rising you’ll know that quirks are hereditary

Twilight has sort of inherited Time’s quirk

BUT

He sort of has Malon’s quirk too

Malon has a quirk that allows her to command any animal to do something that she speaks to

But anyway, Twilight’s essence quirk allows him to turn into anything that he has DNA to as long as it is in his system

Plot twist

He can only turn into animals which makes things a little weird for him sometimes

His favorite for in his wolf form(obviously) he enjoys growling at people and he thinks that he looks cool

Warriors - Frost Blades

Warriors is just an ice user. I can sense it in my bones

Frost blades are mostly what they sound like

Blades made out of frost. If he’s mad enough and his quirk loses control, they can be solid ice

How the blades work is, no one but him can hold the blades, without the coldness of his hands, the frost will disperse

Knowing the Captain, he mostly doesn’t rely on them. He’s more like Aizawa, he uses his quirk when he feels like he must

Warriors quirk is mostly lackluster, but trust that he can still very much beat your ass without it

Wild - also technically already has one(bullet time) but Spiritual Connection

Spiritual Connection was thought of because of his whole thing with the other Champions

Wild can see and talk to spirits. He can also use their quirks, if they allow him to take it

Spirits love being around him, and he has probably been suspected of having AFO at some point, but he just has a lot of dead friends

Because why have living friends, when you can have dead ones? :3

Wind - Wind Bombs

Wind deserves bomb rights.

Wind bombs are small cyclones that can and will explode, should Wind make them

He probably blew a kid up once when his quirk first spawned

Parents hate him, but he loves his quirk

It’s a nice warning when you get hit was a wind bomb in your chest (:

Hyrule - Cloned

Hyrule can clone only inanimate objects

You know, like how his sword sort of has a shadow? I don’t feel like getting a picture

But when his enemy gets hit with his sword’s silhouette? Yeah, that’s his quirk

He clones money a fuck too

He’s a rebellious teen probably…idk

Legend - Alteration

Inspired by the whole painting shenanigans in albw

But anyway, Legend’s body is able to adapt to any environment

If he needs to keep up with a long legged person, boom, he has longer legs than they have now and now they have to jog to keep up

Need to get your phone that fell in the crack of your bed? Boom. Thin arm

Need to slip into a crack in a wall to kill that roach, bam, small and skinny

My man is more fantastic than Mr. Fantastic

Four - Mental manipulation

You know how the colors have their respective emotions…but not really…I think

Like Blue is usually characterized as angry a lot

Like that

So with Mental Manipulation, Four can alter someone’s emotions or thoughts

It’s that simple

You’re feeling depressed today? Nah. Have some choccy milk and be immensely happy.

Your significant other is making you nervous with how much you want to kiss them? Nah, Four got you, have some more confidence

You think you’re a sane human being? Nah. Go commit arson

So…yeah

There it is

The Chain and their My Hero Academia quirks

Thank you for reading :3

If you have different ideas for their quirks, I’d love to here them in the comments

Anyway, thanks for reading

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #tloz link #loz link #screams from the shade #my hero academia #character quirks #:3c teehee

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sugarpuptard · 4 months ago

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ppl saying yes to share about my D&D oc so her i go yippieeeeeeee! she's pretty much done but im still like trying to build lil personality traits and quirks that suit her and figure out more ways i can project onto her besides the one main thing she got going for her, if anyone wanna share ideas hand them over pls if the vibe fits i need it!! i feel like she could lowkey be jirai but idk if that's just me projecting my current interests onto her

also if you're the two other ppl in my bf's campaign that starts in september DONT READ THIS i have put a cognitohazard into this post that only affects them two and it WILL make you piss your pants and have the song yummy by justin beiber stuck in your head for a month YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

ok if u didn't piss ur pants instantly you're not them and ur safe, so onto my scheduled ramblings

my character's name is Em (short for emulate) and she's a changeling infernal (mom=changeling & dad=demon, we're using a lil bit different way to build characters but i can't remember the damn name of the book my bf used for it) she's also an inquisitive rogue fiend warlock with an aberrant dragonmark (Eberron campaign yay) that i hate to draw because i made it look complicated asf, but she has to hide it anyways so she's not thrown into jail and blamed for the murderers of 1000s of people due to a bombing or whatever the fuck happened that blew up where she grew up, but im getting ahead of myself xD i'll do bullet points so maybe this wont be too long

- ABANDONED as baby .o. (Achievement Unlocked: tragic rogue backstory start)

- put into an orphanage in Cyre and a based asf worker there teaches her how to hide her mark and helps her hide it

- in and outta plenty of homes since she can change to suit anyone's tastes, but they all never keep her too long for one reason or another and she ends up back at the orphanage eventually. living was modest neither scraping by nor finding excess comfort, she manages to keep a positive outlook and just enjoyed the company where she can find it(the trauma from all of that tho still lingers a kid will be fucked up needing to pretend who they are all the time)

- girlie turns 18 and has to hit the streets cuz she's too old for the orphanage now. what do u do if you can look like anything and need food water and shelter? become a prostitute :) now she's not hitting the streets she's working them

- eventually doing all that led her to meeting a woman named Cala, and instead of taking advantage she offered Em a job as a spy working for a branch of the army of Cyre, which sounded pretty dope compared to giving huk tuah and shit to a bunch of weird guys so she said hell yeah. Cala quickly becomes her friend and they fall into lesbianisms but they had to hide it at work so no bs happens

- age 19: during the end stages of the last war Em served by assisting with a few espionage missions getting behind enemy lines using her talents to make entry points for other troops to move in

- age 20: The Day of Mourning... during that day she was on her way back from a mission from Thrane investigating rumors of fanatical religious extremism, deciding to bail and rally reinforcements upon seeing it related to aberrant dragon marks. as she made her way back on horseback, the Mourning occurred and she could see the explosion within the distant city of Cyre painting the skys with smog. she tried to return, but the guards who managed to survive were creating a safe perimeter of demarcation and denied her entry, informing her everyone within the city had died and that she would fare no better.

- age 21: Em moves to Sharn and found out Cala survived and had the same idea, they moved in together and bonded and was more lesbianism

- age 22: a protest about the treatment of Cyran refugees that Em and Cala were participating in got violent and both of them got injured. Em's were minor, however Cala suffered debilitating injuries not curable without the help of divine magic

- age 23: Em tries to get Cala treated but unknowingly brought her to a division of Thrane extremists known by them as "the chosen" based off what they said, the group captures them and tries to make them "hosts" for whatever entity they work with. they succeeded with Cala since she couldn't fight back but Em managed to get away when they got confused over her aberrant mark. she doesn't know what happened to Cala exactly, and part of the conversation ritual affected her mind in a strange way and gave her a magical affliction from whatever force the chosen serve. it feels at odds with her infernal heritage but oddly feels good to use it, like it was rewarding her for using it

- age 24: Cala is gone so the city took her house away rip. Em is back on the streets because of all that

- age 25: doing ykw she meets a guy who also has an aberrant dragonmark, bro freaked out until Em showed hers. they shit talked the government and talked about their heritage for a bit, and since things are getting too risky for people like them they plan to run to escape persecution. shit happened and there were guards blocking the way to escape the city and they got caught. the guy tries to fight back and gets killed for that, so Em just let herself get arrested and is now in jail

so uhhhhhhh thats it, the campaign starts with all of us in jail lol xD i seem to be unable to write her backstory in a short way oops, oh well

#‧₊🐾˚⊹ my stuff #‧₊📝˚⊹ journaling #‧₊🐉˚⊹ D&D #journalblr #d&d 5e #d&d #dnd5e #dnd character #d&d character #d&d oc #jiraiposting #jiraiblr #jiraiblogging #landmineblogging #landmineblr #landmineposting #jirai girl #neetblr

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ota-division · 8 months ago

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Taria's Thoughts on Kumamoto Division

Aoba Yamamura

"Aoba, the librarian by day and 'Bluefire' by night? Gotta say, I'm impressed. It's not every day you find someone who can handle books and bombs with the same finesse. We've never officially met, but I've heard whispers about his nighttime escapades. And if he's really out there giving the upper crust a run for their money, then he's alright in my book. We might both wear masks, but it seems we're dancing to the same tune—just on different rooftops. Stick it to 'em, 'Bluefire.'"

Kunio "Kurome" Chōten

"Kunio Chōten, the 'Smiling Nobleman' turned actor and magician, huh? I'll admit, the first thing that caught my eye concerning this guy was his last name, which reminded me of that pretentious prick from that neighborhood of other rich pricks. To be honest, I hadn't heard of that family having another kid, but I guess they probably made his name 'disappear' from the family records or something. Wouldn't be the first time I've seen that happen.

You'd think I'd have nothing but sneers for a guy who used to rub elbows with the kind of people I can’t stand. But here's the twist—I've got a bit of respect for him. The guy got kicked out and turned his back on all that noble nonsense. That takes guts. And anyone who can put on a show that dazzles and distracts, well, that's an art in itself.

Sure, he's got that noble blood, and part of me wants to shake him down just for the thrill of it. But I haven't. Why? Because he's not flaunting it or looking down on the rest of us. He's out there, making a name for himself without riding on his family's coattails. That's something I can get behind. So, for now, he's safe from my mischief. But if he ever starts acting high and mighty, well… let's just say I've got a few tricks of my own up my sleeve that'll remind him where he stands."

Natsume Kurome

"Natsume Kurome, the artist and fortune teller with a side of poison, eh? His work's got flair—I'll give him that. Paintings that can make you stop and stare, and poisons that'll send a shiver down your spine. It's not every day you meet someone who can mix beauty and danger quite like that. Marrying a former nobleman? Now that’s a plot twist I didn't see coming. But hey, love's love, and if they're happy, who am I to judge?

As for his tarot cards and fortune-telling... Can't say I'm thrilled about it—it's a sore spot, considering what happened with Chinami. But Natsume's not Chinami, and he's not spouting off about destiny or whatever. He's got his art, his shop, and he seems to keep it all separate from the family drama. So, I'll let it slide. Doesn’t mean I'm buying into it, but if it works for him and he's not using it to mess with people's heads, then who am I to judge? We've all got our ways of coping, and if his is flipping cards and painting pictures, then so be it.

As for his mom… yeah, that's rough. Nobody should go through that kind of nightmare. I've got a soft spot for family drama—it hits way too close to home. So, I guess you could say I feel for the guy. And no, I haven't tried to lift anything from his shop. 'The Pandora Box' is off-limits. I respect the craft too much. And besides, I’m not looking to make enemies with someone who knows his way around a poison bottle."

Strange Magic

"Strange Magic, huh? They're like a band straight out of some underground fairy tale—each with their own quirks and shadows. Aoba's got his fire, Kunio's got his charm, and Natsume's got his art. They're a mixed bag, but together, they've got something special. It's not every day you see a team that’s part showbiz, part mystery, and part rebellion.

Do I like them? Well, they're stirring the pot, and I can respect that. They're not just sitting around complaining about the world—they're out there making waves. Kunio being a former noble? I've got my eye on him, but he seems to have ditched the silver spoon act, so we're cool, for now.

As for Kira's suspicions, let her do her job. I've got my own way of handling things, and if Strange Magic steps out of line, they'll answer to me in their own way. But for now, they're just another crew trying to make a mark. And who knows, maybe we'll cross paths when the spotlight hits just right."

#hypmic #hypmic oc #hypnosis mic #hypnosis mic oc #hypnosis microphone #taria chinen #birds of prey #ota division #kumamoto division #strange magic #aoba yamamura #kunio chōten #natsume kurome

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thebunniesgrim · 1 year ago

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Ok so like part 1 go to part one for context

Clothing!

But they don't say alot about her to me it's just a crop top with Mickey Mouse buttons and torn pants. Also it's just plain black :/

Lol her outfit is so black she camouflaged into the background of the wiki I nabbed these pictures from...

Anyway with Moxxie's outsit I looks professional and business ready he even looks like music conductor.

I'm not sure how I'd dress millie, but I think I'd make her outfit less black add more colors to compliment the red of her skin

you know?

I suppose the ripped pants show that she's rough

Maybe put her in practical clothes or she still wears clothes like how she did when she still lived with her family

But I honestly think viv is better at designing male characters they look awesome in they're outfits. See look

helluva boss characters

Male Female

Idk about you but it seems like the Male character look more appealing and to me

The male characters get more detailed they're seen in brighter colors they just look better

And don't get me wrong Sally Mae and verosika are a definitely a slay and a bucket of paint but they're outfits are SO boring to me

Even fan fav loona her outfit is very boring to me it's just shorts and crop top... if she's so goth and rebellious why are her clothes so normal?

If Blitzo and Stolas were women how different do you think they'd be? Or would viv do what she did with Angel Dust and said step the female protag for the more popular male counter part maybe Moxxie or Fizzarolli (if introduced earlier) would be helluva's Angle Dust.

( I think Fizzarolli is already hellua's Angel Dust after the Fizzarolli eps for S2 are done I think alot of people are going to stop watching. )

Also is it just me or does viv use brid logic for her character designs?

Like male birds or colorful and female birds or dull and gray

Because most of the female characters in Helluva have like 2 or maybe 4 colors

Millie is mostly red and black. She also has buttons, a tooth gap and a tattoo. Also very few white spots with how violent and rough she is I'm surprised she doesn't have more

Moxxie has black, white, yellow and whatever off blackish blue color his suit jacket is. Moxxie also has freckles, his bow tie, his buttons. It's just more detailed

What I'm saying is male characters are just better designed even Vortex has way more detailed than loona... wait

You know what!?

Even Beelzebub!

Bee and Loona have the same fucking outfit! Just different colors, and Loona's shorts has distress on the bottom and they're crop tops have different straps but other than that pretty much the same outsit to me!

OH LOOK!

Even the sinners! like lyel and loopty look way better than Mrs./Ms. Mayberry

Mrs. Mayberry is just in the outfit she died in but her hair is a different color and her clothes torn this there's barely anything to her old job as teacher

And it's not like she didn't have time change clothes she was in hell long enough for Martha to recover with should have taken at least a while

And lyel and loopty just came with they're outfits and what I'm assuming is they're ship.

And this isn't just helluva boss it's hazbin as well vaggie and Charlie's outfits are so boring to me

Pilot

Official (I think)

I even personally think Katie Killjoy, Tom Trench, Cherry Bomb, and Sir. pentious

are also victims of this lets be honest with each other Tom and Pentious have better designs that Katie and Cherry. (I mean with they're respective person like Tom and Katie and Pentious and cherry. I'd pick cherry over tom and so would Tom)

I mean come on Charlie's outfits is literally just bell hops uniform! Where's her glam! The spark?

Small character quirks!

Like how moxxie has that possum thing going

Or Stolas botany thing

Or Blitzo's horse thing

Or Blitzo breaking his phone

Or Blitzo being sleazy

Or blizto being mean

Don't mean make her like Apple Jack from my little pony where country is a part of her personality. I mean what she had a small smoking thing or she had a random thing about gum flavors. It seem only important characters get little hobbies or interests.

But yeah! That's just stuff I'd change or add to make Millie even better than she already is

#helluva boss critical #helluva boss #helluva millie #helluva boss millie

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enkisstories · 10 months ago

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The popup in the upper right shows that Rose made her hacking/slicing roll!

The droids turn idle and don't pose a threat anymore, meaning the team is free to roam through Upper Strangerville now.

But there's still the APB on everyone's head, that paint them as dangerous lunatics.

Enter this nice psychologist in the government's employ! If my sims can convince her that they are as sane as the next person, they won't have to battle the constables in Lower Strangerville.

BEN!!! This isn't the moment for your Emotion Bomb quirk to kick in!

Psychologist: "Hm..."

The evaluation will be simulated by a Debate duel between the psychologist and Armitage. If he passes, then everyone does.

Armitage: "That's just a temporary mood, as everyone can fall victim to. Not a permanent condition."

Armitage (internally): Fate’s really making me pay for my past deeds, huh? Forcing me to defend Ben’s sanity...

#ben solo #kylo ren #rose tico #armitage hux #poe dameron #sims4journeytobatuu #star wars #simblr #battleforbatuu6 #newstarwarssims

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marsconer · 2 years ago

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fire at the end of the lane, touya todoroki

two: one hand, one heart

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.”― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

As the years went on, he became ever more certain that if the two of them were left alone in the world to find their way back to each other all would be well. But if he was blinded and stolen from her sight, all would crumble and the universe would be nothing but remains of the great monument of her existence. ( He stole that from a book, one of hers, it’s secret but Touya actually listens )

When he wasn’t training he was with her. Locked away in her glittery pastel world

Touya would always remember the day after Christmas when she dragged him up and down the hills to see what her parents got her.

It was the size of a large shed, a small house of wood painted pink and white. Inside it was even worse, a sore sight indeed. Flowing curtains, a small floral patterned sofa covered in plushies, a tea table and some chairs. A perfectly comfortable living space for a human-sized Barbie.

Cordelia smiled at him, like she was proud of it. Touya imagined her picking the cushions for the sofa or the perfectly sparkly shade of blue for the curtains. “I loved it.”, he didn’t loved it but he would have made the entire world look like a candy store if it meant she would smile like that forever.

“I have something for you”, she said, revealing a small blue wrapping and handing it to him, “i asked you what you wanted and i know you said nothing so i made something!”

Touya opened it in a surprisingly careful manner. It was a bracelet of beads of colorful hearts and smiley faces. He put it on, it was nothing like he usually wore but Cordelia had a way of making him do almost anything.

“Now we match!”, she raised her hand so he could see her wrist adorning it.

He felt his cheeks fluster. “I didn’t get you anything, now I’m feeling bit bad about it”

“You didn’t have to”, she said

“I did, I do now”

“In that case, you have until New Year's to get me something. I love flowers this time of years”

He appeared with a bouquet of flowers bought with mom’s approval at her front door on December 31st. One of each type of flower in some atrocious aesthetic-crime against the precious art of making a bouquet. Cordelia loved it like no other.

Life was good. As good as it would get, they would walk home together and he would talk about his progress in training, even if it came with burn marks her songs couldn’t fully heal.

They stopped playing tag and swinging the day away but they were still together. Touya could hide away at her sanctuary. The sun was bright and gentle in the summer and winter was made of snow days and hot chocolate and mistletoes.

The change started before she could feel, like any storm worth it’s name does. It was serious, his voice gave it away. It was always his voice that cracked first.

Touya was laying on her bed again when he should be training. Trying to not be so angry he couldn’t speak and try as he might, he could not find the words to express the bomb planting itself in his heart, his vocabulary was not vast enough yet. He stared at her ceiling for one hour instead, counting and recounting starts.

“239”, he announced through gritted teeth.

“I did need six boxes”, she looked at him, she was the only one who did these days so he spilled it all out.

“Do you think I can still do it?”, he sat back on the mattress, “Become a hero” that would surpass All Might. That would make my father proud.

“You? Why not? I think you can do anything if you have enough nerve”, she barely gave it much thought, as if it was obvious.

The reason for his questioning became apparent when Shouto’s quirk awakened. At age four he was better than his older brother. Half fire and half ice, exactly how some people think the whole world will end. The toddler lacked his weakness towards fire and had a mighty power of freezing ( which mostly made itself known through ice houses and the ice people tiny Shouto held and moved around like dolls ).

He was moldable, a child is soft as clay and it can become anything his father wants if his father is attentive enough. Endeavor is all but dismissive of his youngest’s talent.

Touya learns how to make himself at home anywhere but his own. His fire is using his flesh as fuel, he is flame, wood and pyre and for that reason, training is no longer on his schedule. Not officially at least. So he takes back roads to learn, old tapes to get the intricacies of his father’s moves and using candy to get Natsuo, who is barely eleven and too busy studying most of the time now, to join him in sparring sessions.

He learns the simpler things too. How to use the stove and how to make the strawberry milkshake Cordelia loves and how to use the shower at her place when he sleeps over, and how to lie to her parents about staying the whole night on the couch when he can’t even sleep alone.

Training in secret doesn’t make the burning any less painful. It shows in his skin just as clearly and he doesn’t know what to do with himself when his efforts to hide are successful even at their worst stage, even when he’s not trying at all.

He’s at the breakfast table with Fuyumi and mom and Natsuo and he can hear the faint voice of his fathers talking to Shouto with the tone that was reserved for him. He crouches over his food and makes himself so small he fades away.

Cordelia knows. He hates her for it but she always does. He lays on the wooden floor in her dollhouse. They are getting too old for this but it smells of eternal spring so they spent the afternoon there. She sings and it’s the first time in weeks his skin starts to force itself to heal, his cells responding to the sound waves of her voice.

“Maybe you should stop pushing yourself so hard, that or your skin will fall off”, she says, bitter, worried and some other emotion he has never seen before.

“I can’t”, he can’t handle opening his eyes, Touya’s covered in ice packs and thinks that if he lays still he’ll cool down faster, “And you said I could! How am I supposed to become a hero if I don’t go to U.A High School?”

“So that’s what the training was for?”, Cordelia asked.

“We are graduating this year.”

“And you would be taking the admission exam behind your family’s back?”, she raised a brow.

“I would and maybe father will realize that he made a mistake by giving up on me!”, Touya tried to sat up and winced, his whole body rejected it.

“You need rest, idiot”, she kneeled by his side and forced him to lay back. Her hand on his shoulder.

“Cordelia?”, he laid once more, “What do you plan on doing after graduation?”

“Go to high school? And then University? I’m not you, Touya. I’m okay with the fact that I’m destined for normalcy. No hero will ever save from an average life”

“I will”, he said, so plainly and honestly she couldn’t help but to believe in him.

Shouto took his place almost everywhere now and there’s a black hole stretching in size every time his brother takes something new from him. Touya tries to fill in the gaps and not worry over growing grey at a preteen age. Shouto takes away most of their dad’s time and attention and love and Touya does nothing. A new favourite.

The Todoroki family has been exposing a lot of favorites lately. Mom’s Fuyumi, they are very alike. Left behind, away in the kitchen, talking in whispers and tense shoulders.

Fuyumi’s favorite is Natsuo. They are almost twins, barely a year apart but she watches over him like a mother would when Mom can’t. They are both ice. They understand each other and Mom has an easier time understanding them.

Natsuo’s favorite should be him. It used to be before Touya’s single mindedness took the best of him and divided his life in two.

Shouto was maybe too young to play the favorites game but to Touya’s distaste, it was him. Shouto followed his older brother around like a lost puppy from the minute he could walk.

“Touya”, Shouto ran to brother one morning and he found Touya, sitting in grass outside. Shouto raised his tiny baby fingers to Touya’s hair. “We have the same hair!”

Shouto grabbed the white strand amidst the red.

“I think—Ouch! Don’t pull my hair, idiot”, Touya pushed his brother’s hand away from his hair.

“Sorry, Tou”, and his younger brother put his hands innocently behind his tiny body.

Little does his brother know that his hair was completely red once, like Dad's. He almost looks like an old man and no one noticed. No one ever notices, he could set the house on fire and his family would rather say it was struck by lightning before admitting it was him.

Touya was standing in the hallway. Not his hallway. Cordelia 's. He is staring at the altar, so different from his own. All candles and incense too but crosses and images. Rosaries hanging on the wall, a man holding a flaming heart, pointing at it. Where's the blood, he wonders. Do all wounds look this obvious? Does his own?

"We are catholic", she explains, "My mom is, guess that is dad is too, they got married in a church so-."

"Oh", Touya knows his parents didn't. It's not about the candles and the rosaries or the angels. Is it alright that his family never had any of that, that they weren't supposed to. It's about love but he doesn't know that yet so he blames the angels. Maybe it's the feathers and halos. That's what's missing.

Her house is dark half empty the next time they both stand in that hallway.

“Would you light me some candles?”, she asks.

They sit down and he lights their multitudes one by one, looking at her dumbfounded. Under the soft orange lights she’s beautiful.

The weight of this realization dawned on him. She was beautiful. He could lie and say he always knew that. But maybe Cordelia wasn't. She was a little wild thing for sure when they met. Pointy ears, big glimmering eyes almost half inhuman. And she was ethereal now. Candlelight on the right angle, her long hair glowed like the sun. No, it glowed like a halo.

“Give me your hand, Touya.”

“Why?”, he said, already placing his hand on hers.

“I saw my prima do this with her boyfriend once, it made them one", it was the first time he saw her blush, "Do you want to be one?"

It's such a heavy question but his truest answer was heavier. Sometimes I feel like we already are. Touya can't say that so he says yes.

"Will you repeat it with me?", Cordelia laces their fingers.

"Yes.", it falls from his lips so easily he should have the decency to be scared.

"Make of our hands", she says.

"Make of our hands”, he becomes her echo

"One hand"

"Make of our hearts, one heart'’

"Only death can part us now"

"Make of our lives, one life"

"Only death–"

"Not even", Touya is somber and serious, he means. He means it even if he's too young to mean it. He means it so hard it kills him.

"Not even death can part us now",

It's a promise he intends to keep. It's last thing he thinks about when the hills burn blue.

"You can stay the week if you tell me what happened", her voice echoes in his mind, a memory intruding.

"Can I stay the week, then?", he asked, with the weakest voice she had ever heard.

"You can stay forever.", he thinks about forever and about how he won't have it.

#oc fanfiction #dabi #dabi x oc #dabi fanfic #dabi headcannons #dabi imagines #dabi simps #fanfic #ao3 #fire at the end of the lane #bnha oc #endeavor slander #dabi x reader

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minosimu · 9 months ago

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Majestic Valley Weekly Recap

Pregnancies, babies, toddlers, foals and kittens...the settlement is growing!

Making the most of the warmer summer evenings, the Nung family have been visiting the Grovehursts. Here Xiang is chatting with Mary and, now heavily pregnant, Gwen.

The evening was going well until Gwen dropped a bomb and unexpectedly went into labour!

Baby Edward is born!

Unphased, Mary and Li were much more interested in the valley's beautiful night sky! I guess babies can be born anytime because enjoying the serene sky with your girlfriend is far more important...

Back at home, Haoran loves spending time with his baby sister...

because unlike his twin sister, Li, she loves his quirks and is happy to get any attention from him.

Over at the Beauforts, Adeline had a foal that was quickly adopted by the Huntington family and named Light Nose.

Pleased with the adoption, Edgar and Henrietta are focused on their, very soon to be, new arrival.

Did I say new arrival? I meant new arrivals! They had twins!

Because they live in a bit of a madhouse now, the elder Beaufort children have been out making friends in the settlement. Victoria has taken a liking to Cèlestin, which a change from when she first met him and gave him all out attitude.

Caroline met Oscar Huntington at the community grounds. It's nice she has someone else her age she can play with.

Speaking of the Huntington's, they welcomed their new baby, Therron!

Trapper loves being a big brother!

He also loves spending time at the Fanaan's, much to the disdain of Riyad, who is still feeling incredibly awkward that someone who tried to kiss him is making friends with his parents.

Cèlestin has been busy with his new contraption, his flour mill! He's now able to make flour out of the wheat the Grovehurst's have been growing.

He also adopted a kitten from the Fanaan's, who he named Croissant :3

The Fanaan's have been working steadily on their art curation, selling enough paintings for Lina to buy a guitar, which she practices every morning to her sleeping husband :-/

Using the flour they bought from Cèlestin, the Fanaan's were able to make the town's first serving of pancakes! Such a grand milestone!

Overall, the town's been in good shape. Its wealth is growing slowly and I'm gearing up to create its second community lot, a consignment store! The market (which has been busy lately!) will move there, leaving the community grounds for leisure purposes. Things are looking up!

#the sims 3 #bacc #majestic valley #the sims 3 bacc

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peterthepark · 3 years ago

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venus, planet of love

pairing: steven grant x f!reader

tags: 18+ graphic smut with plot, mentions of marc and khonshu, mentions of therapy and brief panic attack depiction, all the fluffy feels, mutual pining, idiots in love, inexperienced!steven and reader, the l-bomb and lovey dovey sex, aftercare, about 9k word count teehee, friends to lovers

summary: art models are surprisingly hard to come by in london. maybe they just don’t want to work with you. maybe they’re intimidated. steven thinks you’re pretty and marc thinks it’s time to act on it. who knew steven grant would be up for a portrait?

note: first moonknight fic!!! here’s to many more :) feedback and reblogs are 100% appreciated, thanks!

- masterlist - steven grant playlist

“It just looks so smooth, like I want to touch it.”

“What? Her arse?”

The Rokeby Venus stands out as striking against the patterned red wallpaper of the gallery. The painted depiction of Venus is a stark paste of white, sensual and vividly nude as your eyes follow the curvature of brushstrokes on her backside. The soft greys, reds and creams compliment the fleshy paraphernalia of the painting; your starry eyes wander in a mixture of awe and engrossment, while your fidgeting friend beside you finds his gaze on another work of wonder.

“I’m appreciating the art, Steven. Not the arse.”

The corners of your lips tweak into something in the sorts of regale as you deliberately scribble onto your notepad, the sound of the number-two pencil against paper filling the eerie solitude of the museum. Steven’s attentive stare follows the tiny scrunching of your nose and soon, he finds himself amused at how your expression slowly shifts into unmistakable concentration.

It’s endearing.

Especially when he sees the tip of your tongue poke out from between your lips, nestling against the bottom of one of your front teeth.

Adorable.

“Oh, you’d loathe the ancient Egypt exhibit then. Not a tad bit of arses there.” Steven finally catches your eye, your head lifting from hunched shoulders to listen to him. His comment draws a quiet chuckle out of you, to which you motion for him to go on. He doesn’t hesitate. “Well, I mean, nudity had a proper place and time then. The Egyptians prided themselves in — in fashion, in jewels and beads, fabric and linens. Really, nudity was practically associated with work or oftentimes, social status. Royalty loved to dress up. You don’t see many naked ushabti, yeah?”

The strewn sentences leave him with a deep exhale, mouth parting as he gauges your reaction carefully. You’ve always adored his bursts of passion. Youthful, exciting, like the first tall flame of a new candlelight.

Steven makes an effort to ignore the image of Marc harshly rubbing his temples in the golden frame of the painting.

“I don’t think Velázquez intended nudity to be the central theme.” You mindlessly tuck the notepad into the tote bag on your shoulder. The movement causes your elbow to brush against Steven’s forearm, and he gulps roughly at the tingling of his skin. “Nor do I think it’s completely about Venus.”

“Whaddya think then?”

You quirk a brow at his question. “I think… I mean, it’s obviously an allusion to sexuality and the aesthetic of it. But not sex. More like—”

“Beauty.”

You glance at him briefly, voice getting caught in your throat as you lose your train of thought just by looking at him.

“Yeah. Beauty, women, attraction, it’s all very speculative…”

His side profile is something you’ll never get used to. The singular curl that unravels down his forehead knocks the wind right out of you, the dark chocolate strand begging to be wrapped around your finger and the rest carded through your palms.

Sometimes, you think he deserves a museum exhibit of his own, dedicated to his constant busy mind and to the soft yet simultaneously roughened details of his face.

Maybe most of the time, actually.

Steven doesn’t notice the stumble in your body language, too swept up taking the painting in for what feels like the hundredth time but really, his mind can’t stop replaying how ‘sex’ had rolled off of your tongue so beautifully, and now how Marc won’t stop fucking pestering him about growing some balls and manning up tonight.

His watch beeps and pulls you both from your respective trances while Marc sends him a hard glare through the reflection of the watchface. “Oh, bollocks.” Steven sighs out, jaw clenching as anxiety takes over the tranquility of his features.

You turn to him with knitted eyebrows. “Problem?”

“Yeah, think we’ve got to run.” He frowns, gesturing for you to follow him to the front of the exhibit. “Donna’s gonna have my head tomorrow for bringing you ‘round again, love.”

“S’not like I’m breaking and entering.” You playfully smirk at him as you clutch your bag, jutting one foot in front of the other as he hastily takes you through the employee exit and resets the alarm on the door. “And if I did want to rob this place, I would’ve done it by now. No offense.”

“None taken.” He breathes out through a winded laugh, fiddling with the zipper at the bottom of his collared jacket. He treads carefully beside you in the alleyway. “Mind you, as long as you leave the gift shop out of it, yeah?”

The streetlamps cast shadows over your face, but he finds himself gazing at you even through all the darkness.

A lingering stare. An appreciative smile. A mirroring in how you both tilt your heads to the side ever so slightly. But Steven sees the second hand embarrassment on Marc’s face transcend into the golden swirls of puddles on the cobblestone, his eyes screwed shut as a pained scoff leaves him.

Could’ve kissed her right now, Steven.

Your toothy grin is all in one airy and lighthearted. Despite Marc’s unmistakable jabs, he’s proud of at least one thing:

Making you smile.

“Of course, silly.”

No one really expects a friendship between an art student and a gift shop-ist from the National Gallery to work in a manner that is so effortless, so easy, as if it were like clockwork.

Except, the hour hand and the minute hand will never line up.

Because you’re semi-convinced that Steven doesn’t harbor any sort of attraction towards you, nothing more than feelings of friendliness and a dash of awkwardness. But then there’s that other part of you, the part that notices the stolen glances, how he looks at you all doe-eyed and regardful even when you have nothing to say, how he remembers your breakfast order every single day despite having trouble with his own, how your number is the only other emergency contact in his phone besides his mom who hasn’t called him back once. Hell, you’ve even been friends long enough to earn an alligator emoji beside your name. What a rarity.

Just friends. That’s all it could and should be.

Steven thinks you’d never date a bloke like him. Marc is sold on the idea that you have feelings for Steven, in which the tension, he states, is painfully and terribly obvious. It’s difficult to watch, even from that other dimension. And Khonshu, well, that guy just thinks that the three of you are all bloody idiots.

You try to push down the odd fluttering of your stomach when Steven opens the door to your car for you. He always does. You’re used to the chivalry, the old-fashioned kindness, but something about how he’s doing it tonight — hand hovering over the small of your back, then over your head as you dip into the driver’s seat while he watches you intently, wrinkles smoothing over his tan skin and eyes softening.

You look up at him before he shuts your door. “Tea at mine?”

“Only if I get to make it this time.”

You scoff in offense, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he comes around to the passenger side then buckles himself in. “What was wrong last time?”

“Honestly, Y/N?”

“Yes, honestly!” You slightly turn up the radio, raising your brows at Steven as he immediately changes the station.

He sputters through a chuckle before he can even finish his sentence. “Tasted absolutely rubbish, I tell you!”

“Piss off!”

Abruptly, you both laugh heartily at that, shoulders bouncing as Steven recalls the memory of how awful it not only felt in his mouth, but how awful the brew looked in general. He finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from your face. Unable to stop replaying your sweet giggle that he drew out of you over and over again, and how his name falls from you like a bubbly chant as you reach over the console and slap his arm. Unable to stop his fingers from twitching against his thigh because he just wants nothing but to reach out and tuck that annoying wisp of hair behind your ear and tell you how much you truly mean to him.

The moonlight looks pretty on you.

Steven likes the comfort of your flat more than his own. There’s something remarkable about seeing a bed without ankle restraints and chains, or having sand stuck to the soles of his feet as he pads around the kitchen for once. Just you, him, an ugly red sofa, and the mess of unfinished canvases on your floor. Your lips twitch when he reaches around to help you get something off of the top shelf in your cupboard, his large palm gently pressing against your upper back when he pulls away to hand you a porcelain cup.

You pour from the teapot. Steven adds an acceptable amount of milk. One long sip. Sigh of relief. Another sip. Then, smile at each other behind your delicate cups.

Like clockwork.

His kind voice feels warmer than the tea in your hands. “I enjoyed today.” Steven admits, leaning back against the counter and crossing his ankles as he speaks into his cup.

You study the sincere tenderness in his dark irises. “I did too.” For a moment, the silence is nice. It’s comforting. You’re a safe haven, even as he fidgets nervously, drumming his fingers against the cool surface as you reluctantly look away from each other. Yet the longer you linger in the quiet, the louder the thoughts in your mind get. Your pinched voice comes out rushed and unsure. “Are you still seeing that therapist?” Steven tilts his head, unable to recognize your tone.

“Seeing her? What do you mean?”

“Like, um, the sessions and stuff.” You chuckle softly, waving a dismissive hand at that with widening eyes. “Not in — in that way. I mean, are you?”

Why is she asking?

“Oh, goodness. No. Absolutely not.” Steven‘s dark eyebrows shoot upwards. His hold on the porcelain teacup tightens, knuckles tensing. “Why’s that?”

You blink rapidly. “Just wondering.”

“We weren’t compatible. Professionally.” He sends you a close-lipped smile. It’s demure, and for some reason, nostalgic. “She had this — this big, caged bird in the room with us. Like a bloody parrot or something.” Then, he shrugs, eyes darting across the room with what seems to be an amused smirk as if you’re supposed to understand this implied sort of inside joke. “Wasn’t very soothing. Probably gonna find someone else in the time being, you know, hopefully with a… nicer therapy animal. Preferably one that doesn’t repeat everything that I say.” You nod slowly, taking another sip while he clears his throat. “And you? How’s your project coming along, dear?”

You snort. “Haven’t even drawn a single thing.” Your shoulders deflate as you sigh dramatically. “Due in a week, not a single idea in mind, canvas still as empty as ever.”

“You’d think it would be easy to find a model. Plenty of nudists in London.”

“Yeah, well, none of them want to be painted.”

“Then they must be intimidated.”

A tiny clink fills the air when you set the cup of tea onto the table behind you, arms crossing over your chest as you tuck your hands by your hips. The flat feels chilly beneath the illumination of the kitchen lamp. Steven feels too far away. But at the same time, he’s here. Here, in the tiny room, by the stove, dark circles beneath his lower lashes like he hasn’t slept in years, muscles straining against his jacket.

“And why would they be intimidated?”

If Khonshu could swallow him whole, this would be the perfect time for it. If Marc wanted to take the body, he’d let him. But the alters stay out of it, and for once, Steven longs for their interference. He can’t escape the way you stare at him, innocently chewing on your bottom lip as you await his response patiently. You don’t prod, just let time pass. Steven doesn’t know which is worse. The fridge rumbles. The shower next door shuts off. The cars outside whizz by. The moon peeks out from the blinds. There’s a wailing siren in the distance, but nothing is louder than the heartbeat drumming against your chest as Steven swipes a wet thumb over his mouth and gazes out the cracked window above your sink.

“Because — well, you’re a talented painter. You’re good, good at what you do and you — you’re intentional.” He locks eyes with you in the midst of his ramblings. “You’re purposeful in how you study people, how you look at them, memorizing every flaw and every detail between. You capture beauty, um, that — that I can’t even see and I don’t know how…” He lets out a nervous laugh, jaw clenching under the weight of gritted teeth. “I don’t know how anyone can just sit there and watch you paint without melting on the spot.”

Keep going.

“Steven…”

“You intimidate because you’re beautiful. And beauty makes people nervous, Y/N.” He clasps a hand over his heart, not because the words strike him deeply, but to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.

You collect your weight from the table, using your heel to slowly push yourself towards Steven and stand in front of him. You curiously toe at his white sock with your own, avoiding his gaze as you uncross your arms from your chest and entangle them behind your back with a frown.

“Do I intimidate you?”

Khonshu isn’t even in the kitchen anymore, and Marc is speechless. He can’t even watch.

At first, Steven’s voice comes out as small. And had you not been watching the parting of his lips, it easily could’ve been mistaken as the wind knocking against the walls. “Yes.”

“Is it because you think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re more than that.”

“Honestly, I don’t think I am.”

Steven chuckles, shaking his head. His pupils are heavily dilated, darker than normal. “Trust me, you are.”

“Prove it.” You pick a stray thread off of his shirt, goosebumps erupting across his soft skin as your cold fingertips leave him. His eyes follow the motion before they flicker back to your face. “Sit on that sofa and let me paint you.” Steven can’t pinpoint the emotions behind your words. Close to playful. Far from joking. He doesn’t know if you’re being serious, but you’re grasping at paintbrushes with a glowing smile and quickly tying an apron around your waist that leaves him blushing shamelessly.

“You do not want to paint me.” He awkwardly huffs out, raising his hands at you before you’re pouting at him. “Y/N, it would just be a waste of canvas.”

“And why would I not wanna paint you?”

You pull your hair up into a ponytail, ignoring how Steven’s gaze trails up your exposed arms and the curve of your shoulders. You inhale deeply, and just from the way your throat flexes in the shadows, Steven suddenly brings himself to sit on the mass of pillows atop of the velvet couch. He watches you drag an easel out from your closet, placing it right by the footrest and the swiveling stool across from him. There’s a cart filled with discarded jars of scotch, tubes of different paint mediums and a wooden palette marked with an array of clashing colors beside you, an attest to the acrylic staining the Persian rug beneath your feet.

“Because I’m just me. Just Steven.”

Your eyes pop out from over the canvas.

“Well, I think ‘just Steven’ is perfect.”

He winces, lines creasing together on his forehead. “So what do I do now? Just — just pose, or…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, teeth making indents on his bottom lip. “Do I smile? What do — what do your models usually do?”

“Well, most of the time, they’re usually half-naked and tend to be as still as a statue.”

“Oh.”

You peer back at him again, gaze full of sincerity and concern as he self-consciously situates his position on the couch. “But you don’t need to follow the naked part. Just the latter, okay?”

“Alrighty then.”

He can feel the warmth of your smile radiating even from six feet away. “Relax your jaw. Don’t look so scared, the more natural the better.”

His pupils dart around the room, taking in your flat as if it’s the first time he’s been here. He can’t look at you. He can’t. Not when you’re concentrating on him like that, scouring the details of his features, the lines and moles that mark his face, the exhaustion, surveying the slump of his spine like that was meant to be beautiful to you.

Would you capture all his flaws and blemishes then turn them into compliments?

“I told you I’m intimidated.” Steven quips, squaring his shoulders when he sees your paintbrush take the first glide across the blank canvas.

“And I told you that there’s nothing to be intimidated about.”

“You know, I quite hate it when you get down on yourself like that.” He glares at you with a heavy shrug. Even when he’s clearly upset at you, Steven has a certain calmness to him.

He’s the striking resemblance of lightning without the explosiveness of thunder.

You don’t say anything, just swirl a mixture of colors onto the battered palette as you return back to the painting. He can see your tongue prodding against the inside of your cheek, rumination coating your mind in the same manner that hues of beige, black and pink coat his portrait. Steven lets the silence talk. He lets you bask in the quiescence for the sake of your art, for the sake of peace and his embarrassing desire to get this over with. But at the same time, he doesn’t want this to end.

Sure, he hates the fleeting eye contact. But come tomorrow, you won’t be staring at him like this — won’t smile at him with such tenderness and intention, won’t let your gaze wander for longer than a best friend would. Come tomorrow, you’ll have breakfast together while an ABBA record echoes from the living room, then you’re driving him to work with morning road rage and leaving for a nine a.m. lecture as if domesticity didn’t have an effect on you like it did on Steven.

There, you won’t study him like he’s the most interesting creature on the planet. But come tomorrow, he’ll continue to read you like you’re the rarest text of Egyptian lore.

“You intimidate me too, you know.”

Could you hear the cogs in his brain? Was this an answer to all of his speculations? Curiously, Steven turns his feet towards you. His ears perk up, full brows raising at your unanticipated statement. “What?”

“Yeah.” You sigh out tiredly.

“Now why would I do that?”

This time, your face is completely blocked by the easel. You make it purposeful so he can’t discern your expression, even as the brush moves in slow and heavy strokes against the canvas.

“I suppose for the same reason you find me intimidating.“

The sound of wet paint dabs onto the surface and drowns out your shallow breaths in the midst of Steven’s surprise.

“You find me… pretty?”

The scoff at the end of his question makes you cringe. Maybe you’ve said too much. Maybe you’ve stepped a line, or maybe he thinks this is all too odd.

Your lips flutter upwards solemnly as you repeat his exact words from earlier.

“I think you’re more than that.”

His heart could absolutely burst from his chest right now. He’s helplessly pinching at the bridge of his nose, unsure where to put his hands and why his hair suddenly feels so flat against his head. The couch beneath him is stiff, uncomfortable against his arse as he realizes that he’s been sitting in the same spot for too long. And now, Khonshu is simply leaning over your shoulder to look at the easel, thrumming with critique and amusement as the God towers over your hunched frame on the stool.

“Damn it.” Steven groans, placing a fist over his chest as he fidgets erratically. His eyes narrow, lips pursing together as he tries to blink back the chaos in his mind and fights off the urge to hand the reins to Marc. “God, I think I’m having a panic attack right now.”

“What?” You immediately place your brush down, peeking around the side of the canvas as Steven tries to even out his breathing. The stool nearly clatters to the floor when you stand and take long strides to his aid with wide eyes. “Do you need some air? I can — I can open a window, or — water? Water would be good?” He nods feverishly, tearing his gaze away from you and directing it to the stained carpet. You rush over to the sink, flicking on the tap and clumsily filling up a mug that Steven had given you from the gift shop. “Okay. Here, here.”

The dinosaur pun on the front isn’t so funny anymore when water sloshes over the rim as you hand it to him. He takes loud gulps as you cup your hand below his chin and catch the excess from the corners of his mouth.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — are you okay? What happened back there?”

You called me pretty, he wants to say. You don’t think I’m awful-looking, he wants to say. You think that I’m worth a second glance and worth all those lingering stares that I thought were parts of my imagination, he wants to say.

But instead, he saves those remarks for another time, and settles on one that seems fitting for the moment.

“I got intimidated.”

And you laugh. It’s brief and small, yet large enough to mend the brokenness of Steven’s haywiring brain when you set his mug down on the footrest and look down at him from where he sits awkwardly on your couch. The overhead light creates an unconventional halo behind your crown of hair, your shadow embracing the sunken essence of Steven’s face as he quietly admires you.

You send him a lopsided smile, dimples creating crescent moons around your lips and the bulb of your nose as anxious fingers twitch at your sides. “I’m no Venus.”

“Goddess or planet?”

He draws another chuckle out of you.

“Goddess, I think.”

“Well, Y/N, gods and goddesses are fairly overrated anyways.”

You bite your lip. “And if I’m a planet, then what does that make you?”

Steven lets his stare drop from your face, curls dropping against the shine of his forehead as he dusts away the lint on his pants. You study his distracted form, leg brushing against his bent knees as your stance hovers over him. He sighs shakily at the sensation, but then your fingers shift to wrap around the roughened hands that are interlocked together in his lap, thumbs hesitantly ghosting over his knuckles with a shyness he’s never seen on you.

The notion causes him to ever-so-slightly lift his head. Those big, brown eyes meet yours in the humming of your living room, and the hand that’s wrapped around his own slowly travels up to the underside of his jaw. You can feel his muscles move beneath your gentle touch when his warm cheek leans into your palm, staining his skin with paint.

“Must make me the idiot who sits in the observatory all day, all night, watching in awe through a telescope.” He closes his eyes when your fingers trace his skin, shifting higher and higher until you languidly card your nails through his dark curls. His head tilts back submissively with the soft action, nose pointing up at you as bliss falls upon his features. “Sounds a bit creepy now that I say it out loud.”

“You know people say that Venus is hellish, right?”

His eyelids flutter open, long lashes tickling you. “You’re pretty hellish to me.”

“I’m offended.”

“Don’t be.” He whispers, resting his hand against your outer thigh.

Both of your heads follow the motion, as if his body had betrayed what he was trying so hard not to do — touch you, feel your heat against his, let his touch wander where his mind shouldn’t. But he can’t rewind time, and he certainly can’t stop how his palm stretches over your upper leg until it rests upon your hip.

“Steven…” You stroke his cheek with amorous yearning, smudging the space underneath his eye with a shade of pastel pink.

“Don’t — don’t say my name like that, love. Please, don’t.” Air escapes from his nostrils, his words fall from his lips in a longing tone laced with subtle desperation. But nothing is subtle anymore. Not with how he looks up at you like you’re the brightest star in the universe, staring at you like how you stare at famous masterpieces in a museum or even the works of art that never get noticed, but when they are, everything just makes sense. “You say it like…”

Now this all makes sense.

“Say it like what?”

“As if it’s more than my — more than just a bloody name.” Steven’s eyebrows furrow deeply, yet somehow he looks softer.

“More than just Steven with a V?” He laughs at that, a deep rumble that vibrates through his belly and throat as his eyes never leave yours. “Hey, I like saying your name.”

Your fingers against his bottom lip bring him back to this painless reality, and the tension isn’t so unbearable when you stain his sun-kissed skin blue in the dull light above the sofa.

“No… not that.” Both of your hands cup his cheeks, ears tucked into the spaces between your curling digits as you caress his chin with your thumbs. Your pupils lull him into hypnosis, and he finds himself unable to stop gazing at the constellations in your irises. “You say it as if you like me.”

Fucking hell, Steven.

His hands tighten around your hips, anchoring you.

“I do like you.”

“No, like — like more…”

“More than a friend?”

“Yeah.” His blinks grow rapidly while his face contorts into something of shock and perplexity, teeth on display as he shoots you a panicked look. “Do you?”

“Do I? Steven, I’ve…” An exhausted chuckle racks through you.

A pathetic noise of protest bubbles out of him when your palms leave his jaw. The cold isn’t so welcoming, and neither is the rest of your flat when you turn your back on him to tousle your hair with pent-up frustration. Meanwhile, Khonshu lingers in the hallways and curiously sorts through your vintage records. Marc wants nothing to do with this and resorts to plugging his ears.

Steven, here and now, is alone — alone with you and a giant, undeniable problem with the word ‘FEELINGS’ stamped right on top of it. He’s been decent about how to deal with emotions. He knows where his heart is, what makes his brain light up and what grows butterflies in his stomach. And even when you pace the room in worrisome, dizzying circles, all of the above outweighs the anxiety that shelters his bones.

“Y/N, dear, will you please sit down?” You don’t listen. He allows you two more laps around the couch and footrest until he beckons to you again. “Y/N.” Another two, then Steven himself is trailing behind your haste steps. “Y/N, what is the matter with you?” He takes the liberty of grabbing your wrist, pulling you back before you can escape once again. He squeezes your arm. Once, twice, till he understands that you’re fully listening. “Stop it, you.”

Normally, he’s the one running. But something about the way you look at him makes him want to stay, something about how your lips part and how you roll your bottom lip between your teeth then let it bounce back to its natural position makes him all hazy-eyed and helpless when your own eyes flicker to his mouth. You don’t know where to look, yet you strive to take in every single detail of him because you’ve never stood this close to one another.

You’re breathless, while his chest rises and falls steadily. You’re stepping on Steven’s toes, but he doesn’t mind. The hand around your wrist travels up your elbow, keeping you anchored when his other one does the same to your opposite arm. “Stop.” He whispers, warm breath fanning over your face as he shakes his head at you.

“You stop.” Your eyes gravitate to his mouth again, plump lips pouting with temptation as you subconsciously take a step closer towards each other.

Does he want this as much as you do?

His knuckles run along your cheek and your droopy eyelids grow heavy at the tender feeling. Steven’s fingers find that annoying wisp of hair from earlier, and he takes it upon himself to tuck it behind your ear. You try to stifle a moan when his nails card along your scalp, mirroring your gesture from before. But a whimper eases its way out of you, followed by a shaky sigh when your voice denounces you. His movement stills for a moment, but then both of his hands are cupping your face and his forehead is pressing against yours in a manner that is so indescribably intimate, you can’t even believe it’s real.

“You’re so pretty.”

There’s that desperate whisper again.

Your mouth reaches for his. You can feel him holding you by the back of your neck, lips unmoving and lacking confidence against yours. It’s a short kiss, nothing too heated, but when you try to pull away through mumbling apologies, he can’t help but grab you by the chin and bring you back to him for seconds.

You gasp into his mouth, the button of his nose resting against your cheek when you regain your self-control and hold onto his shoulders for leverage. “I’m sorry.” You blurt out.

“No, no,” He kisses you again, pupils wide and hands grasping at your belly when realization washes over. “Forgive me, I don’t — I didn’t mean to—“

“You didn’t mean to kiss me?” You smirk. The teasing grin is immediately wiped off of your features when Steven pulls you closer and tighter, almost as if you’d slip away from him anytime soon. “Are you going to do it again?”

“I think I want to, unless you don’t want me to, Y/N.”

“Of course I want you to. I want you, Steven.”

He chuckles in disbelief. “You do?”

“Well, I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

He gets lost in your eyes for the millionth time tonight. His accent draws out thick and frustrated when he finds the courage to pull your lips back onto his.

“Oh, fuck it.”

You moan instantly when his fingers undo your ponytail and tangle through your hair, flawed palms grabbing at each other’s clothing like you hadn’t felt the touch of someone else in ages — like you hadn’t felt Steven touch you in a fashion that is so sexual, so passionate and needy as if he’s been needing you all his life.

You kiss down his jaw, reveling in the soft sighing that he casts against your ear when you near his throat. He pinches himself when your mouth latches onto that sweet spot by his shoulder. It’s real. You’re real, with your hot tongue against his neck, with your chapstick molding him into shea butter and beeswax, with your paint-stained fingers dancing across the hem of his jacket like a tease. It’s real when his arms wrap around your frame, and your back immediately arches in response to his embrace while he ponders the skin beneath your shirt.

“You can touch me.” You whisper against his mouth with swollen lips and nudging noses. He sighs at the consensual phrase, coffee-colored eyes never once leaving the comfort of yours. “S’okay, Steven.”

“Are — are you sure?”

“I am.”

The couch creaks beneath him when he reaches over and gingerly holds you by the jaw, thumbing at your earlobe with hopeless adoration. It feels like two teenagers kissing each other for the first time. Awkward tangled limbs. Noses accidentally bumping and twitchy eyelashes poking at sensitive flesh. But it feels so natural, especially when your body reacts to Steven’s affections as if it has always known him.

He kisses you. A lot.

And he kisses you some more until you’re practically sliding off the couch and resorting to becoming labyrinths of desperation on your rug.

Your shirt rides up as Steven drags a large palm over your ribs, tracing the bone beneath your titillating skin. His head rests on your stomach, lips pecking the area around your belly button and down your hip bone until you’re eager for his mouth again. “You’re unreal, Y/N.” He groans in pleasure when you tug on his hair, smiling when you roll on top of him and straddle his lap. “Two years of my life I’ve spent pining after you.”

You giggle, “Try three. I win, yeah?”

“Oh, so now it’s a competition?”

“I’m just saying maybe you’ve been Venus all along.”

He smirks playfully, shrugging from where he lays on the floor. “I think we both know I prefer ancient Egypt over ancient Rome.”

“Planet.” You breathe out, fighting off the urge to close your eyes when his hands finally make contact with your lower back. “The planet, not the goddess.”

Steven’s arm extends upwards, pushing your hair away from your face when you look down at him with a dreamy gaze.

“Goddamnit, you’re so pretty.” You sigh in content at the praise. “My Venus.”

The pet name nearly makes you melt.

No artist in the world could replicate the masterpiece of your skin against his. No artist could etch every detail of you and depict it in a manner so accurate or perfect — every mole, scar, freckle and fold as if you were carved from Venus’ hip at birth. No painting could hold the same beauty of Steven nervously taking your shirt off, unable to capture the quiet chuckles when your head gets caught in the fabric. Venus’ figure can’t compare to Steven’s tawny chest, faint abs rippling under your nails and lips as you kiss your way up to his pecs.

Surrounded by pools of each other’s clothes, your burning bodies lay beside one another as sensual messes on the floor, rutting against each other gently and needily as Steven hikes your leg over his hip. You grind your mound against his crotch, gasping into his mouth when he holds you there.

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He remarks, gripping onto your waist before he suddenly looks to you for guidance. “I-I really… fuck, I really do want you.”

His touch is featherweight, flightless but not even close to fleeting when he takes the time to voyage the muscled wings of your back.

“In what way?”

He exhales shakily, wetting his lips. “All of them.” You tuck your head under his chin after pressing a brief kiss to his temple. His voice rumbles against your body. The richness of his accent drops to a deeper octave when you reply in a high-pitched moan, hips grinding onto his front when his fingers find the waistband of your underwear. “Teach me how to take care of you, love.”

“Touch me. Just touch me like you won’t ever stop.” Steven studies the desperation in your glassy eyes and nods softly, stroking his finger on either side of your cheek. Yet, past the swirls of loving lust in his expression, you recognize that something’s bothering him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” He says almost too quickly. “Yeah, I am. Are you? I just, um…” He laughs sheepishly, stroking the side of your head. “I’ve never done this before.”

“You haven’t?”

“I never… got to that point, really, with anyone.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” You shift closer to him, resting your forehead against his as you look at him through your lashes, “I’ve never had someone inside me.” And Steven moans. Loud, deep, desperate. You would’ve clenched your thighs together had Steven not hoisted your leg higher over his hip. “I’ve done stuff, but… never been fucked. Never been…” You sigh blissfully when his fingers trace the curve of your buttock. “… properly filled up by anyone.”

“You’re going to k-kill me, love.” He glances down at your clothed core, fingers begging to reach for you.

“I’m sorry, I know. I know.” You kiss him, earning a needy groan from the man. “Go on then, touch me, baby.”

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong. Tell me if it’s not what you want.”

Agonizingly slow, his digits dip down the waistband of your panties, cotton rubbing against the back of his hand as he curls his fingertips towards your cunt. The gentle notion makes you gasp once more, especially when he spreads your folds apart to expose the hood of your clit. His middle finger circles leisurely over the sensitive nub with feathery touches.

“Steven, fuck… yeah, that’s it.”

His voice hitches in his throat as he gauges your reaction. “Oh, love, you’re — oh, you’re just dripping, aren’t you?” You guide his hand further, the pads of his fingers dragging your slick against your wet entrance. “Y/N, you gorgeous, gorgeous thing.”

“Feels good.” You scratch at his shoulders shamelessly, rocking on the heel of his hand for more friction. Your eagerness spurs Steven further and so he increases the pressure, skimming his fingers over your folds and pressing ever-so-tantalizingly near your hole before he returns back to your clit. “Tease.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing and you’re calling me a tease?” He smirks proudly, repeating the gesture until he’s drawing a moan out of you each time. The outline of his dick protrudes against his boxers, and only then does he realize how hard he is for you. “It’s good, yeah?”

You’ve never seen him so smug.

Yet you like it, and you can’t fucking help but want more of it.

“Shit, yeah. Yeah, it’s — it’s… oh, Steven.”

Your sentence is interrupted midway when he pushes his finger inside you, slow and deep enough to rip a whine right out of your throat from the stretching sensation. He inhales loudly, eyes fixating on your mouth when you hopelessly sigh against his neck. You shift your knee higher up his leg, giving him more access to finger you. He hums at your facial expressions, mirroring them when you suckle dark marks just beneath his jaw.

It brings an innocent smile to his face thinking how he’ll have to show up to work tomorrow with remnants of you all over him.

Steven mouths at your shoulder, leaving glistening patches of saliva in the wake of his fumbling kisses. You rock against the heel of his palm, mewling as he drags his fingers against your walls and he muffles his own pleasure against your skin.

“You’re so perfect.” He groans, fucking his digits in and out of you. The noises that leave your cunt and his throat are sinful, but nothing beats the image of you resting your head on his arm, his hand cupping your mound while he fingers you on the floor impatiently. “Fuck, Y/N. You’re making quite the mess, aren’t you, dovey? God, your moans are so fucking sweet to listen to.”

“Steven, your fingers...” You watch his wrist snap against you, juices squelching around him. You nearly sob from the intensity. “You get me so wet.”

“That’s good, Y/N. That’s good. I love pleasing you, you know that.” You clamp down onto the crook of his neck, teeth stifling your wrecked moans as he curls his middle and ring finger against that spongy spot inside you. His touch is generous, obviously eager to satisfy you, and accompanied by his weathered hands, you can feel your orgasm approaching soon. “Can I tell you something?”

Your voice comes out broken, mind fuzzy as your cunt tightens around him. “What?”

“Those… those two years, I…” He moans in tandem with you when you nibble at his bottom lip. “I, fuck, it wasn’t just pining, Y/N.”

“I have n-no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I — I think I’m in love with you. And not just because I’m…“ He laughs. “… inside you right now, but I think I’ve been in love with you from the moment you spoke to me and — and fuck, being able to hold you like this only confirms it.”

And just like that, you come undone all over his thick fingers.

“Oh, fuck! S-Steven!”

You cry out into his chest, bite marks tattering his skin as you hold him tight and gracelessly grind against him until you lose control over your climax. Your body shivers from your orgasm, gradually and slowly, which usually never happens from anyone else’s hands other than your own. Steven’s confession hangs heavily in the air even as he coaxes you through your high, fingers scissoring carefully in and out of you.

Soft praises leave him in whispers, and he shares his affection for you with gentle pecks to your temples.

A couple minutes pass by until you’re able to catch your breath, or at least, compose yourself.

“Was I imagining that or did you just say you love me?” You look up at him with big eyes, voice hushed and fearful as he wipes the sweat away from your brow with his thumb.

He gulps, lashes fluttering dreamily when you cup his cheek with a shaky hand. “S’real.”

“Tell me again.”

“I love you.”

“More than best friends?”

Steven adores the childish glimmer of curiosity in your innocent gaze. He chuckles quietly, nodding. “Best friends included and more.”

“I love you, best friends and more.” You rub your nose against his before your stare drifts to his swollen lips. “But the next time you confess shit like that, don’t do it when you’re fingering me.”

He flashes you a weak smile. “Alrighty, miss.”

Although, Steven is unprepared for when you untangle yourself from his arms and settle between his thighs, nails raking over his muscled calves and mouth grazing over the bulging front of his boxers.

Your next words simultaneously fill and take the air from his lungs.

“Do it when you have your cock inside me.”

Marc nearly takes control of the body himself at that exact moment, and Steven immediately thinks he’s going to pass out when you tug his boxers down his hips to free his aching prick. His reddened tip is already leaking with pre-cum, thighs jolting beneath your slow and open-mouthed kisses to his skin.

“You really are hellish.” He whines when you wrap your middle and ring finger along the middle of his cock, lips suctioning around the base. A long moan drawls from his throat as he rests his head back against the rug, eyes screwing shut when you run your warm tongue along a prominent vein.

“Am not.” You chuckle, pressing a chaste kiss to the head.

He stifles a groan, forearm coming up to cover his eyes as you take just the tip of him into your mouth. “Oh, my god, Y/N. F-Fuck, yes.” You hum in amusement, the back of your throat sending the vibrations right to his cock. “That’s good. Really fucking good. Oh, fuck.”

You grin widely, but remain careful not to use any teeth on him. “You’re very needy, you know that? But, oh, you’re just doing so well for me, aren’t you?”

The mocking tone of your phrases make him squirm. He’s gripping onto a fistful of the Persian rug, wrinkling it with scarred knuckles.

“Please.”

“Please?”

“More. Touch me more.” He shakes his head at you, chin pressing against his chest as he stares down at you with a defeated expression. “Please, love.”

You’d be lying if you say that the way he looks at you doesn’t make you wet. You’re practically a puddle of desire, and Steven is melting jelly in your hands when your head quickly bobs down his thick length.

He’s sputtering out a string of swear words, cursing more than you’ve ever heard him in your years of friendship. You can tell he’s trying his best not to cum prematurely, not that you’d care anyways, but with how his soft stomach ripples and flexes with each deliberate swirl of your textured tongue, you know he’s struggling.

And just when you’re about to give him that moment of release, you feel Steven pulling you back by the hair. Disappointment flashes over his features briefly when your mouth leaves him, but the boyish longing on his face quickly shifts into attentiveness when he catches a glimpse of the confused glint in your eyes.

“Everything alright?” Your hands find his face once more. It becomes so natural in this new, sudden dynamic together — touching him, feeling him against you like you’ve always wanted. “Was it too much?”

“No, no, it was amazing.” He assures you, fingers pushing back the matted hair on your cheeks. “You’re amazing. I just don’t — I don’t wanna finish and leave you unsatisfied.”

“You could never leave me unsatisfied, silly.” You bite your lip feverishly, thumb stroking his chin for comfort.

He smiles. The tension of the conversation seems far from innocent now, especially when a near-indiscernible side of Steven appears as the words leave him confidently:

“I want to be your first, though. The first man inside you.”

“Steven…”

“Only if you want, Y/N. Whatever you say goes, no matter what.” His hands grab yours, sweat sticking to each other’s skin. “It would be nice to have you be my first. And me as yours. I mean, it sounds so juvenile to want no one except you, but it’s the truth.” He lazily kisses across your knuckles, paving his way around the tendons with his lips. “I want to have sex with you, and I want to remember it.”

“Is he here right now?” Steven freezes and his jaw goes slack at the question. He can tell you’re nothing but concerned once your eyebrows knit together deeply. “Is Marc here?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked about Marc Spector without Steven bringing him up on his own account.

“Why? Did you want — do you want him instead?”

“No! No, I don’t. Not for this.” You smile with brief panic, tracing the bridge of Steven’s nose to put his worries to rest. His frown gradually fades with the soothing motion. “I just want to make sure it’s you. Everything we do here, I want it to be with you.” You ruffle his hair teasingly once he sits up. “No offense to Marc, by the way.”

Steven chuckles, “I’ll give him your regards.”

“Well, he has yet to talk to me.” You shrug casually, grabbing onto his biceps as he pulls you onto his lap.

“He’s just shy.” He grins against your lips. His palm travels up the swell of your breast until he’s softly kneading the ball of flesh and rolling your nipple between his fingers.

Your breathing quickens, eyes fixating on his hardened erection. “Shyer than you?”

“Oh, incredibly.” Steven jokes, shaking his head.

He can just imagine Marc’s downturned expression of disbelief.

“Tell him…” You nip at his earlobe, moaning against his cheek. “… that I’m already spoken for.”

“Are you now?” He’s abrupty cut off by his own gasp when your arm reaches behind and you wrap a fist around his dick, pumping him slowly in your firm grasp. “Rude. I was talking.”

“Were you? I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

She thinks she’s so funny, doesn’t she?

“Stop a-apologizing and…” He hisses when you twist your hand, grazing the pad of your finger over his slit. “F-Fuck, Y/N.”

“There we go…” You grind against his tip, pre-cum smearing across your folds. “What do you want?”

“Want you to use me, darling. However you’d like.”

“So eager for me, Steven.” You breathe into his mouth, noses nudging against each other as you line his cock up with your entrance. “You haven’t even fucked me and yet you’re practically begging for more.”

“God, you talk so filthy for someone with such a gorgeous face, yeah?”

“I guess I truly am hellish.”

And yet nothing about this feels like hell.

Especially once you sink down onto his length, the heavy tip of his cock ready to stretch you out. It’s only slightly painful — a brief sting, the awkward shifting of bones so that Steven can sit back and have your thighs on either side of him, the echoing of your quiet whimpers beneath the soft light as you take every inch of him into your core. Your slick spreads onto his thighs and balls, wetness coating his digit as he instantly reaches for your clit like its become second nature.

“You — you’re really tight.” He groans, looking down at where your cunt swallows him whole.

You laugh wryly, whimpering when his hips subconsciously rut into you. “And you’re really big.”

Steven tilts his head back and looks up at you with a hazy smile, raising your chin with his thumb and pointer finger. For a split second, you think it’s Marc — the darkness in his eyes, the sudden dominance dripping from his tone, but it’s a big mistake on your part to second-guess him once he finally thrusts into you.

“Say it again, love.”

It’s completely Steven — his wandering hands, grasping and grabbing at flesh, grounding you, feeling every crevice and fold of your body like it’s a sanctuary that he’s been dying to enter.

“You’re so big.” Your mouth gapes, eyes widening when you submit to his touch and let him take you. “Oh, fuck. Steven, please.”

“Yeah?” He grunts gruffly into your neck, teeth marking the virginal expanse of your throat. “You like it this way? My lovely Y/N enjoys getting fucked on the floor of her own flat?”

“I love it.” You meet his strokes halfway, tits bouncing in his face as he leans forward on his knees and wraps your legs behind his back. “Oh, s-shit. Mmm, right there — right there feels so — so good, Steven. Fuck!”

Steven bites down onto your shoulder when he lays you down onto the rug, cock burying itself deeper inside your cunt while he puts his weight on top of your body. His whiny moans are muffled, gasps and slaps filling the ambience of the messy living room. You’re sure that the neighbors below your studio can feel every force of Steven’s hips pounding into you — hard, slow and full.

You scratch down his spine, red marks drawing angry lines across his tanned muscles. Juices are running down your inner thighs and cream coats his cock as he fucks you needily. While his skin is stained with paint, your skin is littered with his stinging handprints. He spreads his palms over your ass, carefully maneuvering you up and down his length as you sob into his chest.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re everything I could’ve dreamed of.” Steven pants out incoherently, nipping at your jawline. “This pretty cunt… jus’ wrapped ‘round me. I could get used to this, you know that?”

Your throat feels raw from your mewling, the exhausted and desperate need to cum written all over your features. “You can have me anyday and anytime. I want you to…” You swallow roughly. “… fill me up, Steven. Take me whenever.” Your tone grows hushed, breathy whispers ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I wanna see how drunk you can get off of my pussy.”

“Holy f-fuck.”

You laugh together, even during the heated moment. “You love it when I talk dirty, don’t you?”

“I just love you. Anything you say, anything you do, it just absolutely riles me up.” His hand finds the nape of your neck, pulling you to him till your foreheads are touching and your naked bodies beg even harder for release. “God, dovey. You’re a perfect work of art.

“Mmm, I-I’m close.” You gasp out, nails digging into his shoulder blades when his cock begins to hit that unforgivable spot inside you.

Steven takes a moment to pull out of you, running himself against your folds until he dives right back in. His tip prods and prods at your walls, your wetness leaving his prick damp with each deep stroke.

“Fuck, Y/N. S’good, I can’t — oh, hell, I can’t think anymore.” He whines, arms resting on either side of your head as he pounds into you.

“Stevie.”

He shushes you tenderly, thumb sliding across the corners of your eyes to wipe away the brimming tears. “I know, darling. I know. I’ll get you there, promise.” His breath fans out across your lips, and you take advantage of your proximity to reel him in for another drowning kiss.

His thrusts grow sloppy, hips losing their graceful rhythm as he continues to snap into you. He beckons your name like it’s a song on loop, while your tiny whimpers turn into loud wanton groans of lust. He pulls you back into an embrace and sits up again, hooking his arms under your knees so that they’re bent and your ass hovers over his lap.

The position leaves you vulnerable when you hold onto his torso for dear life, fluids making a mess between your bodies.

“I love you.” You croak out, opening your eyes to gaze into Steven’s dilated pupils. “Best friends and more.”

“And I love you.” You moan in tandem, feeling yourselves near your orgasm. “My sweet, perfect Venus.”

You clench around his hard cock, cumming intensely on his length as he cries against your neck. His hands are everywhere, but all you can focus on is the way your cunt contracts around him, tugging and milking him till he discovers his own high. This time, Steven doesn’t shy away from moaning and allows himself those deserved minutes of relief as you ride out your orgasms together.

“Oh, my god.”

Momentarily, neither you or Steven move from the rug. He keeps you on his cock, too scared to face the emptiness that’ll come once you leave him. But it seems that you share the same sentiment, sighing against his bicep as you draw circles on the back of his hand.

He decides to break the comfortable silence.

“I do okay?”

Steven can feel your smile form against his skin, eyes sleepy and droopy from where your head lays. “You did so good.”

“You wanna get cleaned up?”

“Please.”

With ease, Steven helps you off of him, already missing the comfort and warmth of your core as you both shakily rise to your feet. For a split second, it’s awkward — your palms shift to cup your naked breasts, while his limbs fumble to fetch you a quilt from the couch till he realizes his own indecency.

But then you share another bubbly laugh and offer the other half of your quilt to Steven, who doesn’t hesitate to cozy up beside you and have you lead one another to the bathroom. You take him under your clothed wing, ankles bumping together clumsily as he finds the light by the sink and quietly flicks it on.

He unravels himself from the quilt first and sits by the edge of your bathtub while he waits for the water to heat up. You watch him lovingly from the doorframe, tired and hair matted, but nevertheless, Steven thinks you look ravishing.

“Come on now.” The Londoner makes grabby hands towards you, taking the blanket from your hickey-covered frame and folding it neatly by the bathroom counter.

You sit with him in the tub — back to his chest, his back to the tile, your hands interwoven amongst the soapy suds and lavender, chamomile-scented bubbles.

A soft sigh. A gentle kiss to the top of your head. An adoring chuckle as your lover brushes his nose against your ear and tells you stories of how the sun loved the moon.

Like clockwork.

Steven is everywhere. On your lips, the scent that wafts through your closet, your bedsheets and the Persian rug in your living room, in how you make your tea, in what mug you drink water out of, what songs you play to start your morning.

But most of all, he lingers in the unfinished painting on your easel. Jaw sharp and nose prominent, eyes youthful yet wise, lips pillowy and inviting.

He is in the shades of brown, pastel pinks and the added hue of orange from how his marked skin glistens in candlelight.

He is your Venus.

Not the goddess, but the planet.

Either way, neither of them are able to truly equate your love for him.

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