sweethearting

Perfect

For her birthday, tirahsmommy asked me to write a fic inspired by Lewis Latimer’s “Ebon Venus”:

"Let others boast of maidens fair,

Of eyes of blue and golden hair;

My heart like needles ever true

Turns to the maid of ebon hue.

I love her form of matchless grace,
The dark brown beauty of her face,
Her lips that speak of love’s delight,
Her eyes that gleam as stars at night.

O’er marble Venus let them rage,
Who sets the fashions of the age;
Each to his taste, but as for me,
My Venus shall be ebony.”

He hadn’t expected her to acquiesce. At least not so quickly. But she agreed to be his muse at once.

“Sure, why not? Kind of has a sexy Titanic vibe.”

“In what way is this similar to a tragic oceanic disaster?”

She had rolled her eyes and added the name to her long, long list of films he must view.

He staged her before a fire banked to mere embers. A repurposed bed linen was draped across her breasts and over her cradle like a goddess of old. The ever-changing shadows transformed her very body into a glowing coal, now luminous, now cast into deepest, loveliest shadow.

“You do this a lot? This how dudes picked up chicks back in the day?”

“A gentleman never sketches and tells.”

It was true, he had some mild talent for the art, aided by his exacting memory, and ladies seemed to appreciate even his clumsiest attempts. Yet never before had he rendered a subject quite so dear to him as the lieutenant. Nor a lady whose skin was burnished by sunny African skies instead of gloomy European prospects.

As he drew, he fell into an almost prayerful state, that moment when his own self seemed to fall away until he was something more, something nearly divine. There was only the soft shush of charcoal against thick paper, the crackle of flames, and the beautiful, beloved woman before him.

Each line was inscribed with precise care. The horizon of an eyelid, the swell of a breast, the fine haze of delicate hairs at her temples, all must be perfect. Perhaps if only he were clever enough, true enough, she could see herself as he did.

He brushed and smudged until his fingertips turned slick and silvery as a herring. Here and there the white of the paper shone through to highlight delicate cheekbones, graceful neck, taut stomach.

“The way you keep looking at me,” she murmured, rousing him from the world he spun on paper, “I don’t even know. It’s…” One hand curled over her belly. “I like it.”

He smiled but did not pierce his reverent silence. Words were but pale echoes beside the heat of his gaze. He drew on.

At last he held the page aloft, frowning. Was it perfect? No. He’d never quite gotten the knack of hands; hers seemed spindly and malformed. The draping of the cloth was too smooth, lacking texture and definition. But her face? That was perfection. Eyes bright as the stars and lush lips parted with desire.

“Can I see?” She rose without waiting for his assent. The sheet slipped away to the floor. Bare as a babe, she strode toward him and plucked the paper from his hand.

Despite the ample distractions before him, his gaze was steady upon her face as she surveyed his handiwork. Her eyes scanned over the page, first rapidly, then with luxurious slowness, lingering over the details. Her lids fell heavy with pleasure. “Crane, this is…” She flapped the paper as she groped for words. He settled his hands about her waist, gazing up in rapt adoration. “This looks more like me than what I see in the mirror.”

“Yet you are more beautiful still to my eyes.”

She chuckled and set the page aside with care. “You are gonna drown in pussy tonight, you know that?”

He tugged her down into his lap. “But what a happy death it will be.”

bookie2924 asked:

Percy, What are you doing!?

"Percy, what are you doing?"

He freezes. He knows that voice. She normally uses that voice when she’s about to flip him over her shoulder or punch him in the stomach or make him sleep on the couch. 

Percy doesn’t like to sleep on the couch. It’s a lot colder there, and there’s no Annabeth. 

"Um," he stammers, lifting the bowl of cookie dough that he had been mixing up. "Making cookies?"

She’s standing on the other side of the bar with her hands on her hips. Her hair is still pulled up into a tight bun on top of her head, and she’s still wearing her work clothes. Her heels are already gone, so she must have ditched them when she came in the door. 

And sure, she can be mad at him all she wants, but really, he just wants to know the reason. He hasn’t really done anything to make her be mad at him today. The apartment was clean, dinner was in the oven, and all of their laundry was already folded and put away. He had stayed at home all day, and he had even rented them a movie to watch tonight. 

What was he missing?

She stalked over to him, and the intense look in her eyes never faded. As she got closer, Percy tried not to shrink away from her. She slipped around him, and one of her hands slipped down his back and around to his belt buckle.

Oh.

"Can they wait?" She murmured, mouthing at his ear and trailing her hand down the front of his jeans, which were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. 

"Um," he gulped. "Yeah."

"Good," she said. 

The cookie dough was left sitting in the bowl on the counter, and afterwards, Percy barely managed to save their dinner from catching on fire.

seriously though fate/zero is a goldmine for this clickbait meme