#mid-century romance

[verityreadsbooks]

Book of the Week: You Should Be So Lucky

This was the other book that came out the week before last – and so they’ve both now been BotW picks. So that’s two new books in a row, two romances in a row – although this one is set in the past – and two books I’ve been looking forward to that haven’t let me down! It’s 1960 and baseball player Eddie O’Leary is having the worst time of his life: after being trading to the New York Robin, his…

[forsapphics]

Two women kissing (Mid 20th century)

[cachiko]

yeehaw

[realsafari]

whoever the FUCK reviewed FUCKING LOLITA as “the only convincing love story of our century…” needs to be TORTURED,

BLOOD EAGLED,

AND HUNG IN THE TOWN SQUARE TO ROT.

[goshyesvintageads]

Alberto-Culver Co, 1954

[cafenervosa]

fix, fax, fuck you📠

[ID in Alt Text]

[choccy-zefirka]

Garrus leans forward, arms criss-crossed over the balcony railing, and slowly, deeply, breathes in a lungful of air.

It is warm, slightly damp, and carries a very particular scent that he has by now learned to identify as briny water, and seaweed, and rock that got wet overnight when the tide rose, and is now drying off.

This place is not exactly tropical. Not like in the human travel ad vids that Garrus scrolled through when this crazy thought first skittered, klixen-like, across his mind — retire with Shepard! Or take a vacation at least; just the two of them…

It seemed like such nonsense back then. He almost smacked himself with his own data pad so he’d stop being a sap and go back to his calibrations.

And yet, here they are. Vacationing. Again, not in the tropics, but somewhere warm for sure. Very, very warm.

So warm, in fact, that he even spotted a few other Turian tourists flocking in here. They, like him, are probably not huge fans of that endless, flat expanse of — Garrus shudders — water. Stretching on and on, swallowing the horizon, shimmering like molten silver, whispering something vaguely threatening in its miriad rustling foamy voices. But the Turians have to appreciate the way the afternoon heat radiates off the stone embankment, turning the air into a hazy, rippling veil. Really makes you think of Palaven.

And as a nice bonus, the humans that were living here a couple thousand years ago had some… unexpected cultural similarities with the ancient Turians. Shepard has been talking about this non-stop lately, eager to take Garrus to a museum and show him all the… What was the word? Chitons? That does sound like something a Turian of old would wear.

Historical fashion is not really his thing, it’s hers. A hobby she can now give all of herself to, what with the galaxy more or less… fixed. But this time around, he does feel curious about what sort of exhibits she’ll rush him to. And if there’s something he does not understand or find particularly interesting, he can always just watch her face. Marvel at how her eyes light up with so much passion while she talks about textiles and dye vats and loom counterweights. He will never get enough of that light.

His mandibles fan out in a blissful smile. It still lingers when he slips back into the room and grabs a plaid blanket off the back of an armchair that’s been conveniently moved next to the balcony door. Not by the hotel staff, obviously; this armchair is part of a set meant to face the TV — but Shepard knows that Garrus likes to soak up the sun on the balcony, and then has to come back inside, where the air conditioner is roaring like a wounded Krogan to keep *her* comfortable.

Plus, rolling an armchair across the room with nothing but biotics seemed like a fun thing to do. She actually laughed while doing it. And since the war ended, Garrus has somehow become more… aware of every time she laughs.

He wraps the blanket carelessly over his shoulders — like a chiton? — and braces for the wave of cool climate-controlled air. The smile is still warming his face, but not for long.

He is about to remind Shepard of their museum trip… when he stops in his tracks.

She is sitting in the armchair’s twin, which remains in front of the TV. The green upholstery casts a sickly shade over her features. Spirits, despite all her excitement for their journey through human and Turian past, she is still so thin, still recovering from her ordeal at the Catalyst’s chamber…

And she is crying.

Not with a lot of eye secretions, not this time — but her mouth is twisting and quivering in that certain way that has always made the floor spiral from under Garrus’ feet. And not in a good, walking-with-Shepard-to-a-fancy-party way.

Garrus’ frightened, icy stupor turns to sizzling anger when his eyes flick to the TV set and he registers what the news channel is showing.

There’s a picture of them flashing all over the giant display. The frame mostly focuses on Shepard, who’s getting out of a flying cab on the hotel rooftop, but there is also a fragment of Garrus’ elbow, offering her support (he has watched plenty of human vids about that, too).

How the blasted paparazzi got them at this angle, is beyond him. Hoverboard? Another cab stealthily tailing theirs? A giant flock of immaculately trained birds, carrying the sneaky bastard up and concealing them?

Garrus’ mandibles meet and part with a series of anguished clicks.

Maybe he should have brought up his plan to being his sniper rifle on vacation — with no ammo, of course — and point it at everyone who points a camera at him and Shepard.

But the picture is not the worst thing. It’s the bloody running text at the bottom of the screen.

“SPACE WHALE” NO MORE.

Garrus bares his razor-sharp inner fangs, unsure if he should console Shepard or claw the screen apart.

This is not the first time he heard the word. He remembers human mercenaries in some seedy warehouse or other screaming, “Let’s go whale hunting!” when they’d get Shepard in their gun sights.

Kaidan later explained to a confused Garrus that whales are enormous Earth mammals living somewhere out there under all the… endless… water. And while he did not go further than a polite cough when Garrus asked him about the other meanings of the word, it was not so hard to infer that it’s an insult. For people built like Shepard is — or used to be, before the damned war, and the damned Reaper mind games, and the damned people always asking, asking, asking things of her, nearly drained her to the bone.

Garrus moves to stand behind her and places his hand on her shoulder, not saying anything yet. Not at a frequency she can hear anyway. His subvocals, though, keep hissing at the TV.

She leans into his touch, also remaining silent save for a quick, ragged breath, with a harsh, bubbling noise at the back of her throat. His stomach sinks a little.

She really is the shadow of that beaming, rosy-faced woman, all soft folds with steely muscles underneath, who shook his hand briskly on the Citadel, welcoming him on Team Hunt Saren… And those bloody news people act like that’s a good thing!

But then… He shouldn’t be surprised.

Humans, as Garrus has discovered, favor thinness. For some reason.

Sure, he himself grew up among beings with tall frames and wiry limbs and narrow waists, but… There is not much variety among Turians, as far as bodies go. Oh, there are the subtleties of fringe and talon shapes, each with centuries of rapidly changing fashion trends surrounding it, but when you look at the general built — this is pretty much it. Can’t really stray from it, with all of you neatly packed into a carapace.

Humans, though — the soft, squishy, pliable humans, whose legends (that Garrus may or may not have looked into ahead of the museum run with Shepard) often talk about the gods making them from clay… They come in such an incredible variety of shapes, that it is beyond odd that they paint just one as desirable, and insist that everything else is comical at best and monstrous at worst. Odd — and stupid. Demeaning.

Shepard used to laugh off the insults — both the guffaws of the mercenaries, which soon would turn into a dying gargle, and the snide remarks from posh people at the upper Wards, “concerned” that the Citadel would go beyond the weight limit now that Shepard has stepped into their shiny little world. Once, she asked a passerby how to get to the elcor embassy, and the way they snickered when they said “Ah, of course you would want to go *there*!” was certainly not flattering. To her, or the elcor.

But even as Shepard appeared carefree, the discomfort would still linger in her eyes, ricocheting like a sharp rock straight into the middle of Garrus’ chest plate. And now… Now this has to be the last straw. Finally bringing her to tears after all she’s been through.

Garrus is so caught up in his own inner raging that he does not even realize that first that there’s a voiceover too.

“Commander Natalie Shepard has been spotted recently doing some island hopping along the Old World coast of planet Earth,” says the news presenter, almost with more urgency than when the news agencies were keeping track of Geth and Reaper sightings.

“She is, of course, accompanied by the Normandy’s Turian officer Garrus Vakarian, her indispensable right-hand man and rather unusual romantic partner.”

A scathing blue flush grips at the unplated flesh of Garrus’ throat.

“…While some of our viewers may have doubted that this union — Shakarian if you will — would ever last, especially considering that our heroic Commander is built nothing like the ideal Turian woman, perhaps there is hope for them yet after Shepard’s remarkable weight loss.”

Shepard chokes on another breath and balls her fists over the arm rests.

“I kept dying and coming back to save their asses, and *this* is all they will ever see!” she blurts out, chest heaving. Never was Garrus more heartbroken to see that his hunch was right.

“I didn’t ask for this!” she pinches the skin on her arm. “I… I don’t feel… ideal, or even pretty, like this! I feel weak, worn out, no matter how hard I try! I…”

She cranes her neck, and faces him at last.

“I am sorry, you didn’t have to see this. Give me a moment, and we’ll head out to the museum, okay? I do want to do this, it’s just…”

She sighs. And Garrus, feeling that ricocheting pang all over again, moves — nearly sweeps — to the other side of the armchair and folds himself down in front of her, kneeling.

“Hey.”

He grasps one of her small, many-fingered hands — painfully smaller, bonier, than he is used to — pulls it gingerly to his face and nuzzles against it. If he had lips, he would have covered it in countless tiny kisses (like in the human vids!).

“Hey… Remember that one time when the guns on the Mako’s roof started acting all wonky in the middle of a mission, and I wanted to climb up there and calibrate them manually? And the Geth kept on firing at us, so you followed me to give me cover, and let Wrex take the wheel?”

Shepard blinks, as if roused from a bad dream. Her eyes — deeply sunken and darkly bruised, albeit less so when she first crawled out of the Citadel’s heart — sharpen into focus. The light slowly blooms within, and Garrus holds his breath, like an awestruck kid watching the evening’s first star.

“Great, now I will be haunted by Wrex’s maniacal laugh!” she says. “And the mental image of us skirting along the edge of that mountainside track… Good times.”

Garrus feels his chest spread, like something had terribly mangled his carapace and was only now letting him go.

“Good times,” he beams back.

The mental image he is getting, though, is a little bit different.

He remembers how Shepard balanced on top of the wildly lurching car, solid and sure, protective, unwavering… And how a swirling sand cloud hung behind her, with orange sunlight sifting through, scattering into sparks that intermingled with the searing-blue flashes of her biotic barrier. And how that dual lighting hit her messy, flying hair, and sculpted her soft human face, and then the rest of her… All those curves that would later fit perfectly into Garrus’ embrace, like they were puzzle pieces that had finally clicked.

“Yeah…” Shepard trails off to hushed wistfulness.

Before the light in her eyes fades again, Garrus blurts out,

“You know, back then, when I looked at you, I felt a… a feeling.”

Despite herself, she rolls her eyes.

“Eloquent as ever, Vakarian.”

He clears his throat. Yes, he needs to do better. Especially right now.

“Wait, let me, uh — I’ll try and describe it… There was this sharp thud in my stomach, like on a speeding elevator… Sharp, but also sweet. Made me lightheaded, like a nice liquor shot. At first, I thought…”

He clears his throat again, nearly wheezing but determined not to, how did Vega call it, chicken out halfway.

“When we returned, I snuck off to flip through some Fornax issues, look at human models, try to figure out what it was about humans that made me feel this way.”

Shepard quirks an eyebrow, but her lips set into a tightly pursed line.

“I can’t imagine many of them looked like… like I used to, back then.”

Garrus’ subvocals make an embarrassing squeak, as he rapidly begins to panic. He did not make it worse, did he? He… He needs to get to the point, stat!

“It’s not that they did not look like you. They *weren’t* you,” he mouths, resting his head in her lap now and looking up at her.

“It was never about humans, about what your people, or mine for that matter, find ideal or not… It was about *you*. That feeling I, well, felt that day — it was me realizing I was in love with you. And I always will be. Those journalists have no idea what they are talking about.”

She swallows.

“I — Thank you, Garrus. I… I know that you love me, I never doubted that for a second, but… hearing you say it out loud… It helped a lot.”

“Mhm. Always at your service.”

He closes his eyes and, absentmindedly, slides the back of his hand along her thigh, talons facing away.

“Does that mean you will model some chitons for me?”

The cheekiness in her voice startles him awake — delighted.

“Only if they compliment my eyes,” he drawls, meeting her gaze again.

It is so full of light now, his heart could burst.

[calochortus]

Authentic Glamour by Dolldom Photography Via Flickr: with @daeoriginals D.A.E Originals' new collection for Vivian the Miniquin.

[wirtsroom]

today i learned about lesbian pulp fiction, and the book that popularized it in the west! it was called Women's Barracks, and it was so popular (selling over 4 million copies) and so polarizing (caused a lot of gov't officials to do something about the rampant "problem" of homosexuality) that it's now considered a controversial original bestseller.

and!!!! there was one publishing company that actually made sure their works were being published BY lesbians instead of just for the man viewing pleasure!!!!!!!! thats so cool

[thegothiclibrary]

Classics: The Mistress of Mellyn

Mistress of Mellyn first edition I talk a lot on this blog about the initial Gothic heyday at the turn of the nineteenth century, which sprung up after the publication of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto and brought us such authors as Ann Radcliffe, Matthew Lewis, and William Beckford. But these days when you mention the Gothic to someone not overly familiar with the genre, they may picture…

[fedoranon]

Call me Peerless Cucumber the way I keep reading books that skate around the interesting bits of the story all fucking day, leaving me to yell at the clouds, shaking my fist impotently

3 in a row!!!!!!

[marzipanandminutiae]

This is maybe a silly question, but how does a dance card work? I hear about them but I don't really know what they are or do.

Basically, during the 19th-mid 20th centuries, women might have one at a ball with a little pencil (usually given as party favors). Thus:

Dance card from a ball on January 11, 1887.

Before dancing started, men would approach women and ask for this or that dance with them. Women could refuse, but would then have to sit that dance out entirely so as not to appear rude- rejecting one man and then accepting another was seen as impolite. The general rule was to accept your first offer, in part because dancing didn't always imply romance. It was a social activity, and you were supposed to be a good sport and spread yourself around, so to speak. Men weren't exempt from this, either- asking ladies for as many of the dances as possible was considered good manners, for the same reason.

once one had a partner committed for a given dance, one would write his name on one's dance card. this was as much to create a memento as to jog one's memory later, it seems to me. you could also be asked to dance immediately before a dance started and write the name of your partner in afterwards; see above re: memento creation

and that's basically it

(men usually just had to remember with whom they had claimed each dance. womp womp.)

[moiraimyths]

The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) | Official Trailer

The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) is a lore-rich and choice-driven historical fantasy visual novel inspired by Irish mythology and Celtic folklore. Play as a tenant farmer from mid-19th century Ireland, whose path becomes inexplicably entwined in fairy affairs after getting robbed by the roadside and lured into the mythic and war-torn world of Tír na nÓg: A once unified land, now divided into the Seelie and Unseelie Courts. Will you escape and return home with your stolen belongings? Or does fate have something else in mind?

🍃 STEAM 🍂 ITCH.IO 🍃PATREON 🍂DISCORD 🍃

If you're excited for our indie game, please give us a wishlist on Steam or a follow on Itch.io! For more information, click below👇

Meet the Cast

Facts & Questions: The Game

🍃 The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) is a Kickstarter-funded project currently in development. Due to the scope of the story, we will be releasing content serially on Steam and Itch.io over several years, beginning November 1, 2024. While you wait, feel free to play our demo! The revised version, with all new backgrounds and more voice acting, has been released on Steam and Itch.io as of August 1st, 2024!

🍂 The main character's name and pronouns are determined by the player, but in Vol. 1 (or the demo content), the MC will be referred to as "they/them" due to a case of mistaken identity.

🍃 Thanks to our Kickstarter, all upcoming routes will have both romantic and platonic choice options. If you're uninterested in romance, feel free to make friends instead!

🍂 Due to its Irish setting, NDM will occasionally feature instances of characters speaking in Gaeilge, i.e. the Irish language. All instances of Gaeilge are linked to an internal translation tool, which will be voiced by Nigel McKeon, a Gaeilgeoir.

🍃 Shae and Robin are non-binary characters, and respectively use they/them and any/all pronouns. Robin and Keagan are also arospec, and Shae is asexual. (Note: You can pursue the arospec characters romantically, but their romances might look a little different as a result of their identity.)

🍂 The free demo consists of the introductory volume of The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe). It is 2.5 to 3 hours of total gameplay, and ends at the point in which the player would continue on to a route (Vol. 2-7). The full game will be paid.

🍃 NDM is very intentionally set just prior to the onset of the Great Famine, which is both thematically and textually relevant to the leftist, anti-imperialist story we're aiming to tell. If you would like more insight into this, refer to this post.

🍂 Some Mac users who directly download the demo from Itch.io run into issues launching the game. If you're also running into issues, please refer to this post on our itch.io page.

🍃 Prepare yourself for horse related shenanigans. 🐎

Facts & Questions: The Company

🧵 Moirai Myths is a five-person company based out of Canada. The core devs/founders go by Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. All writing and programming are done by this collective, i.e. the Fates.

🪡 Moirai Myths has a two person in-house artist team consisting of Kazane, our Character/UI Designer, and Melinoe, our Environmental Designer. In addition to them, though, we have had a number of guest artists assist us with the creation of sprites, CGs, and an assortment of other materials. If you'd like to meet them, check out our about page on our website!

✂️ Moirai Myths stands with the people of Palestine 🇵🇸

Disclaimer: This description will be updated periodically.

[nouearth]

“POLKA DOTS AND MOONBEAMS”

steve rogers x male reader.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 & 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓—headcanon [ 4.1k ] 〳 part one

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒—male reader 〳 domestic!au 〳 mid-century!era 〳 'roommates' 〳established relationship 〳 secret husband!steve 〳 mentions of period-homophobia 〳 brief quarreling 〳 sexual content: top!steve, bottom!reader, love-making, breeding, milking, praising, verbal, dirty talk, body worshiping, guidance.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who coasted the city and was on a mission to find the best spaghetti and meatballs with you.

‣ "Verdict?"

‣ Steve's gaze looked right past the fork held before your lips, watching your mouth and expression twist and turn like the spaghetti noodles around the fork prongs prior.

‣ "It's good... not great. The sauce isn't as thick as I'd like for it to be... but it tastes fresh? Basil leaves adds a nice balance to the acidity... but the meatballs are a little overcooked. What do you think, Steve? I'm too picky, aren't I?"

‣ It was written all over your face. Satisfied, but not impressed.

‣ Unlike the last restaurant where you two had the misfortune of eating bloated pasta noodles and watery red sauce, this place was edible and especially generous with their serving.

‣ Decent, if Steve had the chance of writing a one-worded review for the paper.

‣ "You're not picky, just particular, but I agree. Red sauce is good—Padrino's still better. Meatballs are pretty tough, aren't they... but I do like the flavor of them. You can tell they used a fattier mixture compared to the rest. A lot of garlic too, which makes up for the lack of it in the sauce..."

‣ "Not as good as Mama's?"

‣ "The moment we find a spaghetti that's as good as your mother's, is the day we find a way to squeeze water from stone, (M/N)."

‣ "Don't mention that to her. I don't need her ego to be any more inflated than it already has been."

‣ Dates like these were never boring.

‣ No matter how many times Steve had watched your face wrench in disdain or light up in surprise, he always found it a joy to watch you participate in this arbitrary—now routinely—idea of critiquing spaghetti and meatballs so earnestly.

‣ To be fair, it wasn't like you two had a slew of options to make dates seem... more like dates.

‣ In fact, there shouldn't have been any options offered on the table in the first place.

‣ Any intimations that you and Steve were on a date would've been subject to a location change.

‣ Most likely, a candle-lit dinner in a jail-cell, dined over cold hard concrete, and Steve was sure the spaghetti and meatballs served there was going to clutch last place in his ranking.

‣ Though, Steve was hopeful that the romance would still be alive and well had it ever come to that point.

‣ You had a thing for restaurants with a gimmick.

‣ "Seven out of ten sounds about right?"

‣ "What about dessert? We can't leave without getting the tiramisu, Steve."

‣ "Since when did we factor in desserts for the scoring?"

‣ "What—since we started. Don't tell me you've been only ranking the spaghetti and meatballs... it's all about the experience, the... the je ne sais quoi—heard that on the radio once!"

‣ "The je ne sais quoi—this is why I wanted you to be the one logging everything down, (M/N)!"

‣ It took more of a toll on him than it did on you.

‣ Well, if it did, then you did a stunning job at maintaining your usual optimism.

‣ Whenever you two were out in public, Steve felt hammered by this distance pushing him apart.

‣ It was a conscious effort on both ends—a natural one that pertained to the business of being in a homosexual relationship

‣ Or just being a homosexual, period.

‣ Steve understood it. He abode it. And he hated it.

‣ Often, when the conversation between you and him would come to a slow, Steve would look right past your shoulder, right at the lucky couple who were in his sight-line—a gentleman with an impressive mustache and his lady—and simply stare.

‣ His thoughts wandered.

‣ The gentleman was unabashed in his public flirtations with the woman.

‣ Massaging her hands, tending to the aches in her knuckles with firm, but appeasing presses.

‣ The smell of his cigar was pervasive, but the lady didn't seem to mind. It seemed like she thought it was rather charming when he blew a smoke towards her face.

‣ One hand would run up her arms in several strokes, rough callous grinding down her goosebumps, and the man would compliment how soft and supple her skin was.

‣ The lady would bat her eyelashes, giggle at the man's public display of affection whilst also maintaining some sense of courtesy to halt his advances when a pair of curious eyes were enough to render her cheeks scarlet—like the lipstick she had worn for the evening.

‣ Steve hated this restraint. This lack of freedom that forced him to talk to you as if you were his co-worker.

‣ To look at you as if he had no affection for you whatsoever when that was further from the truth.

‣ To touch you as if you were an infection that could cost him his life, and him to yours.

‣ That wasn't completely off from what society thought of people like you and Steve, was it.

‣ "It's not nice to stare, Steve... quit it."

‣ "If I can't even look at my own lov—you, what else am I supposed to do?"

‣ "Steve—come on, not now. You know how it is. It's hard, I know. But... we can't just be cooped up in our pad and wear out its virtues. It's nice to go out every once in a while, even if—it has to be like this."

‣ "It's just not—fair. Maybe—maybe we can do something. It doesn't feel right if we're doing nothing about those bar raids too. They're increasing, you know? Becoming more violent and—"

‣ "Hush. People are staring to look."

‣ "Why do you seem completely fine with this? Hiding ourselves—"

‣ "Look, I don't like it as much as you do. Hell, it's killing me on the inside that I can't even smile at you like how it would naturally come. But I'm okay with hiding—because it's for my safety, and most importantly, for yours. I don't ask for much, but I've envisioned the near end of my life to be fulfilled and labored with no regrets. With a house where I can harvest my own apples from my own tree. With a lazy pup that knows better than to eat through my laces. All of that would be possible because I hid—no—because I endured. And I would heavily prefer it if you would join me in that life. Call me a coward, spineless, or selfish, but I don't want it to be our last, Steve. It's terrifying—to know that any day I could lose you to violence and persecution, myself included. So, please—just hold it out for longer—that's all I ask of you."

‣ Most of all, Steve hated that he was envious.

‣ He wished he could be the one wiping sauce stain off your lips.

‣ He wished that he could hold your hand over the table and stroke the ring on your finger that you could've kept on.

‣ He wished that he could stop the tears from welling in your eyes like he often did back at home.

‣ He wished that he could tell you that he loved you, either with a mouthful of meatballs or none at all, because in the end—it would've felt better than communicating those three words with three taps of his foot to your shin.

‣ You nearly reached over for his hand to calm him down, but pulled your back straight upon the fright of a passing waiter and opted for the cipher that was could only be cracked between you and Steve.

‣ Three gentle kicks to his shin, once more to his other leg, and Steve sighed for pardon, returning the cipher gently to your own shin.

‣ He wished he could openly compliment how handsome his husband looked tonight, ramble how grateful he was to have you in his life, or complain about how you kicked him a little too hard, but that was all well and fine because it meant that you were still present.

‣ Freedom—All of it, the positives and negatives, without the looming threat of a policeman pummeling you and Steve with a nightstick afterwards—because that was normal.

‣ Because that was life.

‣ A life that will pay in the long run.

‣ "Check, please."

𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who ambled the misty street of Brooklyn Heights with you, the night dew giving everything a hazy look as you and Steve passed through moist air, side-by-side.

‣ "I was brash tonight, Steve. I apologize."

‣ "No, no... you were right. If anything, I was being a fat head. I was out-of-line. I'm sorry."

‣ "You were right too, you know. It's not fair. It's not that I don't want to do anything about it, I really do. I just—it can't be the two of us tackling something bigger than us. Everyone is petrified, Steve."

‣ "I know... but if we somehow all come together in some kind of union, then maybe—we can call for a difference. Show them that enough is enough. Show them that fear is no longer something they can instill in us."

‣ "Like a rebellion or something?"

‣ "Well, if it has to come to that, then so be it."

‣ "You know a guy, don't you..."

‣ "I know a guy."

‣ "Is it Bucky?"

‣ "What—how'd you know?"

‣ "Steve, you only know one guy."

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who was detoured into a dark alleyway between business building blocks. There was the droning sound sound of night, the low and humming resonant as the city had fallen asleep, all but two guests.

‣ "(M/N), what are we—"

‣ "All that quarreling made me forget to tell you how dashing you looked tonight. You know I especially like your hair combed back like that, Steve-o."

‣ He didn't need much of a hint as to what you were getting at.

‣ Squeezing in between a narrow passageway that would luckily only admit two bodies at a time, you and Steve were obscured from any wandering eyes.

‣ From judgement of the world.

‣ "Steve, you ought-ta listen to me more. Blue polka dots look darling on you."

‣ "If I recall correctly, you were the one who wanted me to wear a pink tie, darling."

‣ "Pink would've made me sauced my pants..."

‣ "You. Are. So. Vulgar."

‣ Shadows cast over his squashed body against yours, the moonlight only lighting the parts that mattered the most right now.

‣ The laughter that left your mouth after each peck Steve would grace you with.

‣ The lips that had him feeling withdrawal symptoms after an unbearable few hours of watching you lick sauce off your lips.

‣ The hand that tug Steve closer by his tie.

‣ The eyes that drew Steve in closer, until the tip of his nose touched yours.

‣ "Have I told you how much I love my cologne on you, darling?"

‣ "Have I told you how much I prefer your cologne rubbing off on me, as opposed to me spraying it on directly?"

‣ Slowly, breathing, pacifying; Steve's invisible stubble made your mouth twitch with a scratch, one of your many quirks he found himself silently obsessing over.

‣ And that was enough to push him over the edge, and finally kiss you like he'd wanted to since the evening had started.

‣ It was slow, almost careful like Steve was afraid of breaking you.

‣ Steve wasn't expecting this self-restraint from you. He wasn't expecting your hands on his jaw, tenderly massaging at either sides to keep your hands preoccupied while he slid his tongue alongside yours.

‣ He wasn't expecting to hear his own pulse because you were so stubborn in maintaining this control—you refused to summon urgency by vaulting your moans into the back of your throat.

‣ But Steve knew you more than he knew himself. He knew how you liked your eggs in the morning. He knew the perfect temperature for your bath. He knew you from the mole on your back, to the stance when you were impatient.

‣ He knew that if he led one of your hands right here—feeling the cusp of his growing bulge—that you'd give Steve what he wanted, and fall completely apart.

‣ And Steve knew that—by the eager palm of your hand, shoving into his unbuckled pants and groping—he was right.

‣ "Steve—just fuck me right here, yeah? I can't take it anymore."

‣ "Honey, we don't have any slick..."

‣ "Then give it to me raw. Use your spit. The rain. I don't care, I need you—"

‣ Your lips were warm and soft when Steve kissed you from rambling into the void again. His hands were against your stomach and chest, and your moans sent shivers down his spine.

‣ "Christ—turn around."

‣ Against the brick wall, teeth sinking into your forearm, you took Steve in without any regrets. Cold sweat breaking over your skin like evening dew collecting on window sills.

‣ "O-oh, fuck—slowly, Steve—"

‣ You could feel Steve's heart beat against your back, pushing further into you, huffing into your neck.

‣ "I love you."

‣ "I love you."

‣ From then on, you and Steve lived without any regrets.

𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍.

Secret Husband!Steve Rogers who relished every inch of your body; with his eyes, with his mouth, with his hands, with his body, with his being—until you found yourself transported wholly to all different kinds of sensations, and he'd repeat to discover new ones for you.

‣ "You're good at this, you know."

‣ "Humor me?"

‣ Steve was mouthing at your inner thigh, one hand stroking your leaking cock, and the other pumping his Vaseline-slicked fingers into you.

‣ He looked up from his eyelashes, teasing your sack with a lick.

‣ Another lick, because he liked being distracted by your body arching off the bed, crinkling the sheets in the process.

‣ "Good at loving me. You know what I want, what I need—just like that. Putting another finger into me without asking of me if you can. Twisting—fuck—turning me out, all based on how my body responds to you."

‣ "Well, it's not difficult to gauge what you need. Your nails dig into the sheets when it's too much. Your fingers and toes curl when the pleasure's coming in. Your hips roll—when you need more, or a new fix. I'm no magician you're making me out to be, (M/N).

‣ "You notice all of that? That's embarrassing... and here I thought I was being alluring..."

‣ Steve layered his thick cock in slick, capping the tin and tossing it to the bedside counter after.

‣ He teased your prepped rim, observing how the ring of muscle would catch a string of his pre-cum and latch onto it with a clench.

‣ At the sound of your moan, at the sight of you toying with your nipples, at the torn decision between preening—you knew that he liked the sight of you biting your lips—and ceasing his taunts.

‣ Steve's cock veins pulsed, his cock pleading for him to fill that delicious hole before him, otherwise it would live in agony for as long as it could leak.

‣ "I do, and it's not embarrassing. I love how you—mm—like that. I love how you immediately wrap your arms and legs around me when I finally push my cock inside of you.

‣ "Oh, Steve—"

‣ "I love how you call my name, just like that. Say it again."

‣ "Steve..!"

‣ He pressed his forehead against yours and groaned with you. His hips racketed off your ass in a slow, but increasing rhythm.

‣ You held onto him, hands over his neck, anchoring him close until the only way you could have your fix of air was through Steve's lips.

‣ Steve's mind was empty, except for the thought of your hot tongue roaming into his mouth and the swelling grasp your walls had around his loving cock.

‣ "Like that... I love how I can decipher every meaning behind the way you call out to me."

‣ "Fill me up so well, Steve—baby. Can feel you deep inside of me. Ruining me with your cock. Your balls slapping against me, God—Steve!"

‣ Your moans tasted delicious on his tongue. If they were seeds, they'd bloom colorful hybrids of fruits because your love for him couldn't be defined by one singular hue.

‣ You were an array of colors—a prism conjured by the way Steve loved you.

‣ Red, because you were gritting your teeth as Steve had you taking him balls-deep, filling you up to the brim, and stretching you to the shape of his pistoning cock.

‣ "Fuck me harder, Steve—"

‣ "You're taking me so well, darling..."

‣ "When have I not?"

‣ Orange, because Steve rendered you speechless except for a few gasps, with his cock grazing your prostate and his hand over your cock, stroking while kissing at your neck.

‣ "O-oh, fuck—oh, fuck!"

‣ Yellow, because you were on top, straddling Steve's lap and yielding to the nearing high that you both had been gauging.

‣ You took your sweet time to make love to Steve with your body. Hands braced on his chest, combing your fingers through the light hairs, deeply rocking back and forth on his cock after a couple of lighthearted bounces.

‣ You marveled over his well-built body, following the contours of his muscles with one hand while silently admiring his broad chest, perky nipples, and wide shoulders with your tongue.

‣ The smell of aftershave on him was infectious when you came up for a brief kiss. You kissed at his lips, then his chin, licking at the short blades of stubble before pulling away to preen again.

‣ Your back straightened and you spread your thighs apart for Steve to get a good look at how hard he was making you.

‣ Your cock throbbed, swollen a pronounced shade at the tip, bouncing to the rhythm of your hips, all while you devoted your mouth and tongue to Steve's thick fingers, suckling and laving your tongue over every digit, every vein, every knuckle—thanking him for opening you up so well with the slick of your saliva.

‣ Steve was absolutely keen on watching you worship him with one hand tucked behind his head, the other stroking your cock when he would finish appraising your body with a couple of fond strokes.

‣ "God, look at you. You're so beautiful. I could do this all day, watching you ride every vein on my cock..."

‣ Green, because you built up enough energy to reverse your straddle and take the lead for once. You wanted Steve to see all parts of your body, especially the asset that had been drawing out those glorious moans deep from his gut.

‣ You knew it was a pretty sight that would teeter Steve closer to the edge.

‣ Sweat ran over the plump mounds of your ass as you were propped up on your forearms, slamming down onto his thick cock.

‣ Skin rippled when your ass repeatedly hit his groin, and then prickled, when Steve grabbed a handful of your sweaty flesh out of pure enchantment before swatting it as a stimulus to your slowing hips.

‣ "How's the view?"

‣ "Stunning..."

‣ Blue, because your body was covered in shivers from the way Steve had captured you into his arms and pummeled icicles into you from behind.

‣ Kneeling upright, Steve had embraced you tightly, supporting your core with a flat palm while simultaneously engaging his, thrusting into you.

‣ His hand was around your throat to feel every vibration that would squeeze from your throat and then pour into his mouth like a saucer of milk as he swallowed your sweet moans.

‣ Like Steve's cock, his other hand was equally uncompromising. He squeezed into the pulsating veins of your cock, stroked your shaft, and teased your glans with a thumb.

‣ When you sank back into the dip of his hips, Steve would propel you forward with a strong thrust, forcing you to fuck his closed fist in midst as he held you from ever retreating back on all fours.

‣ He loved that dazed look on your face. Wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. Flushed like how you were abashed by his compliments to your novice cooking, yet only a hundred times worse.

‣ He also loved the way he had fucked you into being inarticulate, muttering a slurry of words—warnings of you coming soon, Steve would later learn after turning his ears up.

‣ "Steve, stop, stop—I'm going to c-come—seriously—"

‣ "Come for me, (M/N). I want to see you stain the bed. Want to see you come because of me. Only me. Want you to drench my fist and—Christ, there we go..."

‣ Violet, because you were red, and Steve was blue.

‣ You spilled heavily over his fist, shooting large, thick ropes of cum over the bed sheets. The sound of the cum splatters making your cheeks run hotter than the warmth drawing out of you.

‣ Each spurt shot further and further the harder Steve pounded into you and milked your orgasm with unrelenting strokes to your shaft.

‣ His thighs slapped into yours, resonating the bedroom with a sharp thunder that was sure to wake up the tenants.

‣ His cock punctuated deep into your guts, hard and sweet against your prostate.

‣ You cried out as Steve battered your insides with his cock, with his undying love for you. Biting into your shoulder to contain his groans, but Steve had enough of this restraint, of constantly holding himself back.

‣ He growled behind your ear, filtering out the resentment society had instilled in his body as he let his grunts loose, replacing that bitter feeling with the antithesis of knowing that he wanted to live life to the fullest.

‣ With a house that grew oranges alongside your apples.

‣ Steve thrusted harder.

‣ With an indifferent cat that couldn't care less about your torn shoelaces.

‣ Your moans hitched at the sharp snap of his hips, his cock digging somehow deeper into your guts when he pushed you lower into his groin.

‣ With a fulfilling life that was lived without regret.

‣ Steve felt himself come undone upon the last thrust. Every fiber of his muscle unraveling like pointe shoes after intense wear.

‣ He held you tight as he shuddered against your, his pulse anchored and soothed by the palm of your head on his cheek, stroking him affectionately.

‣ Silken white, he spilled his hot seed deep inside of you, weakly propagating the warmth from the outer rim of your raw, swollen hole, then to the deep depth of your walls and prostate, milking himself until he was jelly in the legs, until you were creamed, from inside and out, with his thick cock.

‣ You and Steve shared one more kiss, another breath, heaving and panting like you two had never kissed before, before his stance eventually gave out and made him collapse over your body.

‣ "Think—I might bump the restaurant earlier up a few spots, (M/N)..."

‣ "Why's that?"

‣ "Must've put some kind of aphrodisiac in that spaghetti... I'm deeply spent."

‣ "I disagree. It must've been that couple! I told you it was all about the experience—that je ne sais quoi that I've been talking—"

‣ "You really aren't going to stop saying that, are you?"

‣ "Shouldn't have fixed my radio if you knew you were going to be disappointed, Steve."

‣ "That's where you're wrong. If you think anything about you is disappointing to me, then I'm not being a great husband, am I?"

‣ "Well, look at you being all sappy tonight."

‣ "Too much?"

‣ "Never too much. I'm far too gone to ever think otherwise, Steve-o."

‣ "Me too, darling. Me too."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[isimchi]

‣Download Novel Defaults | Posters (MF)

‣Alt download: Novel Defaults | Posters (SFS)

Before my diary defaults, I was in the process of creating book defaults to match my game! I wanted some to match the funky, nostalgic, and silly Maxis Match-ish style that I enjoy!

I also decided to make recolors of the FT Artig poster with these novel covers for a future build, I included those as a separate download in case anyone else is interested.

If you are using any other mod that replaces the novel cover icons in the write a novel screen, make sure ziSimChi_Default_NovelCoverIcons loads after it.

Each novel is based off of existing media: ◦ Reference - the one that started it all, is now Skilling for Simmies, inspired by the For D*mmies series (feat. a new mascot). ◦ Romance - The Rogue's Groom, inspired by the many romance novel covers starring Fabio. This one features a cameo by the beautiful Carlos Suarez, from @eulaliasims's amazing Middleground! ◦ Children - Gooseflesh: Night of the Living Bunnies, inspired by the Goosebumps series. ◦ Cooking - The Complete Gelatin Cookbook, inspired by the horrifying mid century Jello creations. ◦ Drama - Running with Scissors, cover art inspired by Kubric's A Clockwork Orange. ◦ Mystery - Everyone Nose What You Did Last Summer, inspired by Louis Duncan's I Know What You Did Last Summer. ◦ Sci-Fi - Plantimorphs, inspired by the Animorphs series.

Credits: • @episims for their original textures, which I used as a base to build my textures around. • @eulaliasims for Carlos Suarez, a fine romance novel cover model! • @franzillasims for the many similish fonts used. • For D*mmies and Goosebumps for their cover templates, which I traced before editing. All other illustrations were freehanded.

Posters swatch under the cut:

[fahye]

book recs: feb 2024

(disclaimer: I have spent nearly three months languishing and sullen with post-COVID symptoms and have read, over dec-feb, eighty-one books. this is a ruthlessly streamlined list of recs that does not include, uh, all the rereading of sarah maclean and charlie adhara and georgette heyer books.)

AT FIRST SPITE by olivia dade - what if I moved in next to the man who ruined my engagement to his younger brother, and tried to ruin his life by playing monsterfucking audiobooks really loudly?? a heartfelt and lovely romance that also expertly sets up a great small-town setting for an ongoing series.

THE REFORMATORY by tananarive due - historical horror based on the existence of a real school for boys, clear-eyed and brutal in showing the the effect of racist systems in the 1950s american south. compelling as hell. even if you're not usually into horror, I'd recommend this: the ghost aspect is light-handed and really not as important as the horror of what humans do to other humans.

SOMETHING WILD & WONDERFUL by anita kelly - this is a m/m romance about walking the pacific crest trail which made me see the appeal of very long walks. a miracle! it's gentle and emotional and well put together; the characters really grabbed me.

THE BELL IN THE FOG by lev a.c. rosen - the followup to 'lavender house', and somehow even better?? a historical mystery series featuring a queer private eye in 1950s san francisco who looks into crimes against other queer people. amazing queer history! ACAB! I hope there are fifty more books in this series.

FEAST WHILE YOU CAN* by mikaella clements & onjuli datta - beautiful, greedy, terrifying small-town horror that is also a fucking fantastic, gorgeously written sapphic love story. this one IS for the horror fans. it gave me the absolute creeps but I couldn't put it down.

LADY EVE'S LAST CON* by rebecca fraimow - I described this on bsky as 'if you like Leverage, space opera, old screwball comedies, and dashing sapphics who are at all times spiritually wearing a leather jacket: this one is for you' and I stand by that. huge amounts of fun.

LONG LIVE EVIL* by sarah rees brennan - I will be screaming from here until forever about SRB's first adult fantasy book. if you like the isekai'd-into-a-villain-character setup and want it to be hilarious, genre-savvy and wildly angry and clever, you will roll around in this like a blood-stained mud puddle and then beg for more.

THE LAST HOUR BETWEEN WORLDS* by melissa caruso - really clever and original fantasy about a woman on maternity leave who gets dragged into saving a cocktail party which is falling through increasingly murderous and bizarre dimensions. LISTEN, JUST GO WITH IT. it's a seriously cool adventure.

YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY* by cat sebastian - yes, it's another m/m romance about queer history in the mid 20th century, this one between a baseball player and the journalist assigned to write a story about his slump. made me care about baseball. cat is a genius.

*I read these as ARCs, they're not available yet but consider preordering or keep your eye out for them!