there's always something special about the way my muses look at their significant others that would always get me. because i can always picture what type of gaze they have when they look at their partner so clearly in my mind. a kind of gaze that spells how so utterly enamored they are for their partner, and the thoughts that go through their mind. i feel my muses do that unconsciously, whenever they get a chance they just look at them, look at the other half of their souls and think; this is it. this is the reason i'm here. this person is the reason why i have endured what i had until this point. this is the person who makes this world worth living. the person that i'd change my ways for, the person that i'd do anything for. it's so, so innate in terms of attachment and how large and powerful their partner's image and presence is in their mind. this is the person who they had willingly handed their hearts to, allowing them to have a kind of power and control over them and willingly allow them to know how to both make them the happiest beings and how to hurt them in the worst way possible, too. that kind of trust, of faith, of devotion, and when their partner's eyes met theirs, it just resonated inside their mind :
i am so in love with you i wouldn't know what to do if i were to lose you.
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I love how I made Telemachus the perfect mix of the two
Bonus art of Grandma Athena and Boy-failure Telemachus:
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maybe i do like men?? (my political philosophy professor's brain is just idk man)
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crawling back out of the dark depths with a little portrait :)
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HMMMMM bakugou being just. the absolute picture of sin.
he works overnight and comes home early in the morning, around 3 or 4 am or so, and you greet him and give him a kissy and ask how it all went. and even though it's still dark outside and he's been working for twelve hours—he's still coming off patrol, right ? so he's still got some energy left, and he eats something and takes a shower and winds down as you fall back to sleep.
and it's not until much later in the day that he wakes up, early afternoon, and you're kind of tiptoeing around so that he can get his much-needed rest. you slip into the closet of your bedroom for something and you think you're gonna get in and out without a sound, but his hearing is so attuned to just about anything and everything at this point.
so rough and raspy, he grunts out, "what're y'lookin' for?" and you whip around real fast and he's just—
half sitting up in bed, bare back leaning against the headboard. an arm behind his head, so that his bicep is tense and round and stone-solid. stretched like that, his obliques are more prominent, taut and rippling up the side of his ribcage. he must have gotten hot while passed out, as he usually does, because the comforter is all askew; one of his legs is bent, the fine hair a dark gold in the waning day; the other is hanging off the bed, lightly swinging as he watches you, and the blanket has come down enough that you can see the bulge of his thigh muscles beneath his stupid tiny black boxer briefs.
and he's just so. man. in every single way.
(his hair is flat on one side, too, and his eyes are still a little puffy from sleep—but you think that adds to it, all in all)
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