#i was. i was accepted and everything. i had plans

[palskippah]

Hi!! Nimona Tangled AU my beloved 🗣️🗣️

Here's drawings of some of the stuff I can remember of the movie woo

Also under the cut are some random thoughts too c:

(Apologies on any mistakes! I tried checking in to make sure that everything was correctly written)

-Save me, PNG of a frying pan.

-By the way, I've only watched the movie (several times) in Spanish, never in English, so not only I am writing what I can actually remember of the dialogue, but also I'm translating it into English djfdk clarifying this in case it feels weird

-I think it was Ambrosius' voice actor who mentioned about the discarded idea of the queen being Ambrosius' mother, but anyways here she is his mother and Ambrosius was stolen from his crib and all that

>Invented Ambrosius a dad called King Something-Something and the guy definitely cried like Rapunzel's dad when him and his wife were getting ready to send floating the first lantern (I swear, that scene is my favorite in the whole movie, it's just so aaa hitting me right in the daddy issues, he was missing his daughter so much)

>Then Queen Valerin wipes the king's tears very tenderly while feeling very melancholic herself, but she doesn't cry because she had accepted long ago that their son was never coming back, but she knows that her husband is still hopeful about it, even if each year he gets disappointed.

-Instead of it being Queen Valerin who was sick, it was Ambrosius who was born as a sickly baby (stealing comic Nimona's lore a bit here sjdkf), and so in all the kingdom they went to look for a cure for his sickness because otherwise they were sure he wouldn't make it.

>Then they find the flower and they give it to him and from then on he becomes a very healthy, robust baby. Also he started quickly growing blond hair with the weeks and they were like ? okay, but he's healthy, so-!

>(It would've been cool to color Ambrosius' tip of his blonde hair brown like his haircolor is supposed to be but I forgor and I'm too lazy to fix it sjdfkjs)

>Anyways the Director thought that she had lost the power of the flower forever since they fed it to the prince, but then she's like :0 bc hey it seems that the powers transferred to the baby. And she's like, well, that works too, and tried to get his hair but it didn't work so she planned on kidnapping him instead.

>Maybe she kidnapped him like when he was a toddler or lil kid under four or very young so he wouldn't remember his parents or anything prince-related, that's why twenty years went by and yet Ambrosius is older than that.

-I'm yet to keep reading rosemary-frog's tangled au fic but the idea of Ballister being Lord Blackheart is really cool and then him probably admitting that his name is just Ballister pipipi when he and Ambrosius are about to drown in that lil cave.

>Maybe Nimona starts narrating the story with something like 'this is the story of how Lord Blackheart/my boss/the villain died' or something very dramatic.

>Maybe he's surname-less and the queen names or knights him Boldheart or something aaa

>Ambrosius starts calling him Ballister and then just Balli wiwiw

-The director sometimes losing her cool and blaming Ambrosius over it (in a, look what you made me do, kinda way) [LIKE THAT THING IN AMPHIBIA SJDKFSJF the king just kills Marcy and is like oh look what you made me do :( ]

>She definitely applies that when she stabs Ballister nearly to the end of the story sdfjs like, look what you caused, Ambrosius, if only you had listened to me.

-Her not naming herself his mother to keep some distance between herself and the queen's kid, so just going along with her director title, since she is still the director in the institute or something, and how is Ambrosius going to know what a director actually is, anyway.

>He tried to call him mom once and she was like (ew) no, it's director, I'm not your mother (maybe he's told his parents abandoned him or tried to use his magic for their own evil benefit, and that's why the director decided to save and protect him, taking him to the tower).

>Ambrosius hasn't known anyone beside her tho, so she allows the occasional hug or gentle treatment. He's very touch-starved.

>She feels nothing for him, he's just useful and at the second of him rebelling she tries to kill him or whatever happened in the tangled movie sjdfkds

>Actually I think Rapunzel's mom wanted to take her away for no one to find them? Maybe the director was just so desperate to not lose Ambrosius' magic that she'd leave everything behind just to get to keep it for herself idk.

>Also she definitely tells him out there are monsters and stuff bc why not, anything to keep Ambrosius fearful of the outside world and keep him in the tower.

-Nimona doesn't like Ambrosius for calling her a monster, then over finding out that he whacked her boss in the head with a frying pan several times, and then for gatekeeping the crown that they stole.

-Nimona starting the Goldie nickname, Ballister following along, and Ambrosius not finding it amusing. Maybe Ballister comments something about having a thing for blondes during the whole thing of him and Ambrosius clearly liking each other (and Ambrosius' like oh?? I am a blond! 😈).

>Later on, after the whole dying and reviving through Ambrosius' tears, Ballister says that he's crazy for brunettes actually and Ambrosius' like :D ??!! because Ballister is alive (and hey, he is a brunette! 😈)

>Btw they definitely flirt in-between their mission of going to see the lanterns, even if Ambrosius isn't all too sure about what he's doing bc he has never flirted with anyone before, he just knows that saying things to Ballister that make the man look almost coy makes his heart go faster, and also of course receiving the flirting from Ballister.

>What if he applies all the stuff he had read in his books or something sjdkfjs he had only ever flirted with the mirror and now he gets to apply it to the very attractive man that is leading him to watch the lanterns sjdfkjf

-Nimona breaks Ballister out of jail exactly like in the Nimona movie and hurts lots of guards and jumps out of the building as it explodes and stuff.

-Since Nimona is sort of using Maximus' place in the movie (and any animal, like Pascal and also that bunny that Rapunzel gets scared of), let's say that the overly competent guard/knight here will have to be Todd and his team sjdkf

>They're after Ballister and Nimona, but since Ambrosius' there too they also chase him (running away from the law as a family, amarite)

-When they're in the lil' cave about to drown, both Nimona and Ballister have to pull Ambrosius out of the water when he keeps trying to push the rocks away, in desperation because how is he going to die this way.

>Nimona's like, Goldie stop! It's useless. Because she tried pounding the rocks in the biggest forms she could use and had to resist turning into a much bigger form in fear of squashing both men. And her smallest forms did nothing because they were completely sealed in, yet she was aware that both men were about to die and she wouldn't. Then Ambrosius turns to Ballister who just gently shakes his head, because it is a lost cause.

>Both Nimona and Ballister see him crying in guilt and stuff and Ballister says his actual name when Ambrosius says, I'm sorry, Nimona, Lord Blackheart-. Ballister admits that he isn't a Lord nor Blackheart, and that he actually has no last name. He's just Ballister.

>I'm not sure what Nimona would admit, like the being lonely thing, the pushing people away, or something to do with their powers? (but I doubt that one), maybe she just watches the other two share their small moment of truths.

>Ambrosius reveals that his hair glows when he sings. And so he does when he realizes that they could use that, and once there's a very small crack revealed by the light where his hair is trying to get out, Nimona puts her whole into using that and she finally manages to push all the stuff away.

-Ballister is like, his hair glows?! and Nimona's like, yeah and I change forms, so what?! a bit offendedly and Ballister's like, oh right.

>(Nimona getting offended on Ambrosius' behalf over Ballister freaking out about his powers/magic, reminding her a bit of when they first met and Ballister freaked out too. But Ambrosius couldn't care less about the guy freaking out, he's way too happy about being alive)

>Then he heals his right hand where he had a cut and all that and the whole talk of stuff.

-Imagine that same night that they have to spend resting, that Nimona and Ballister easily fall into a sleeping position that works to brace them (especially Ballister) against the cold of the night, and Ambrosius just staring with like a smile because isn't it great that those two get to have each other and be so familiar between each other to just do that?

>Then he prepares to lay on his own side to sleep, but Nimona just rolls her eyes and roughly pulls him into their pile, leaving him wrapped on her arms too. And there's Ambrosius and Ballister back-to-back, and Ballister just says 'goodnight' to him and Ambrosius mutters the same back, feeling something like a lump in his throat as he accommodates his head on Nimona's arm like a pillow.

>And Ballister throws Nimona a knowing look, because despite her not liking the blond much, she still felt some clear sympathy for him, both over him admitting that he had never left the tower, and the fact that they were similar somewhat, both had pretty cool powers that confused people.

>And the fact that Ambrosius getting locked into a tower so no one could use his powers was a bit similar to Nimona's situation in a way (if we're going with the comic lore for her)

>(maybe it was Nimona who muttered the 'you've never left the tower' in realization after Ambrosius said almost shyly the 'that's why I've never been out and...' and then he sighed defeatedly and then said the next stuff all resigned, and all that)

-When the whole dancing bit happens in the Kingdom, Ambrosius tries to keep Ballister as close as he can but apparently the dance meant to change partner every once in a while. In the end he forgets about holding his hand and finds that holding anyone's hand while dancing and moving around to the music is just as thrilling.

>But then they end chest to chest anyways and smiling at eachother wiwiw (like the art in this post by unironicallyresurrected waaa)

-Maybe something and something and Ballister loses his arm when the director tried to kill him, some way. Ambrosius' tears only fixed the injury and blood lose but it was already almost completely detached from Ballister's body, so it just laid there jsdfk

>How did he manage to cut Ambrosius' hair I have no idea, don't ask me 😭 maybe Nimona made act of presence at some point, I have no idea where to put her here, I doubt she'd be down after a smack from the Director in the same way it happened to Pascal sdfkj

>(But anyways wouldn't it be cool if she jumped to defend Ambrosius? pipipi is like Eugene and Maximus teaming up but it's Ambrosius and Nimona sdjfks)

-When Ballister and Nimona take Ambrosius with the king and queen, they step back and watch the whole family reunion go by and they're like :) bc hey look at the guy, he's crying his eyes out and hugging like his life depends on it to the queen, but he's happy wouu 🗣️🗣️

>Anyways, the queen's hug is the warmest hug Ambrosius' had ever received (aside from Ballister's), and it's nothing like the Director's and he can't believe he has never been hugged like this in his life.

>Then Queen Valerin pulls Ballister into the hug and encourages Nimona to get in there too but she just shifts into a bigger animal and squeezes them all into a hug.

-Ambrosius gets a better haircut maybe, or maybe he keeps the bob cut I don't know 😭 dfjkj but his hair never grows longer bc the flower's power affected it or something like with Rapunzel.

-I think Ballister would be knighted or something, and then there's Nimona who's just doing her thing of being a little menace and being Ballister's sidekick, and Ambrosius is a good prince and is very happy of finally being outside and getting to know so many people yippiee

>And the director is dust in the air wouu

-Btw the last part in the movie is like this, because I think Ambrosius would say yes the second Ballister asked him to marry him unlike my pal Rapunzel, so- 🤨 also Nimona is the main narrator like in the Nimona movie sjdkf

Nimona (narrating): And so, after years and years of begging and begging and even going to his knees by his feet... Ambrosius: I finally said yes 😌 Ballister: Hey- Ambrosius: Fine, it was me who begged 🧍 Ballister (amused): And so they all lived... Nimona and Ambrosius: Happily ever after. [Happily ever after music and celebration]

>And then there's a drunk guy blowing a kiss to the audience or something 🧍

That's it, thanks if you read till here!

[claramelooo]

Hey, my lovers! How are you guys? I hope you're good! As for me... I'm in my fertile period and that's why the chapters are so naughty and I won't say sorry for that!

Enjoy and hold your little hands for yourselves Lmao <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Warning: +18, NSFW, ANGST, DEEP JEALOUSY

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat Fem Reader x Tough Natasha (don't get too excited about it)

Summary: You decide to take revenge on Wanda out of jealousy, you just didn't expect her to have the same plan as you.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On your Knees | Part 4 - The Spider | Part 5 - The Lamb | Part 6 - Pure Crimson | Part 7 - Dependece | Part 8 - Passion

VELVET CHAINS

Revenge

Wanda’s Sunday started early. The clock barely struck six in the morning, yet she was already up, moving through the house with the precision of a well-rehearsed orchestra. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen as she prepared toast for the twins, mentally checking off the day’s obligations. Sunday service was the week’s main event, and Wanda took her image—and that of the Maximoff family—very seriously.

Getting the boys ready was the first step. Tommy and Billy, still groggy, took turns complaining while Wanda, with unyielding patience, adjusted their shirts and straightened their ties. She made sure they looked impeccable: starched shirts, shining shoes. After all, they were the sons of the woman who led the choir. They had a reputation to uphold.

“Billy, stop messing with your collar. It’ll end up crooked,” she warned, raising a pointed finger at her son, who rolled his eyes but complied.

Vision was next. He entered the room with a restrained yawn, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. Wanda was already prepared, holding two tie options. One was dark gray, sober and classic; the other, navy blue with small geometric details that conveyed seriousness without being overly rigid.

“This one.” She handed him the navy tie with firm decisiveness, her gaze assessing every detail as though deciding the fate of a delicate negotiation. “Serious but approachable. You know how people notice everything.”

Vision accepted without question, smiling at her with a hint of admiration. He knew Wanda had a special talent for these things, for controlling the atmosphere and ensuring everything was perfect.

But Wanda had her own preparations. Choosing her outfit was a different ritual, something more intimate, imbued with a kind of excitement she wouldn’t dare admit, even to herself. The Sunday dress had to convey purity, elegance, and a touch of authority. She settled on a navy-blue dress with lace accents, paired with discreet heels and pearl bracelets.

However, when she entered the bedroom to retrieve her outfit, she couldn’t help but smile at what she had laid out for you.

On the bed, your clothes were folded to perfection: a simple yet elegant dress fitting the occasion’s style. Beside them, meticulously arranged, were your undergarments. And placed dead center, almost like a calculated provocation, was a discreet, silent vibrator, still encased in its translucent silicone packaging.

Wanda stood still for a moment, her eyes fixed on the object. It was intentional, of course. Everything she did always was. The vibrator wasn’t just a provocation; it was a message.

“Remember who you belong to,” it screamed without words.

You entered the room seconds later, the sound of the door announcing your arrival. Your eyes fell on the bed and then on the vibrator. Your face flushed instantly, which only made Wanda’s smile widen, subtle but laden with intent.

“I thought you might need a little... encouragement,” Wanda remarked casually, adjusting the pearl necklace around her neck as though she were commenting on the weather.

“Wanda... this is...” you began, but the words failed you.

“It’s appropriate, darling,” she interrupted, stepping closer to you. “Because even when we’re in the sanctuary, even when we’re surrounded by hymns and prayers... you shouldn’t forget who you belong to.”

Wanda reached out, holding your chin gently but firmly enough for you to feel her control.

“Now, go get dressed. I want you ready in fifteen minutes,” she instructed, her voice a low, authoritative whisper.

As you left the room, your face burning, Wanda turned back to the mirror, adjusting her necklace once more. Her expression was serene, but a shadow of dark satisfaction danced within her. There was something deeply gratifying in knowing that, even among prayers and sermons, your mind would never stray far from her.

The living room was impeccably tidy, a direct reflection of Wanda’s meticulous nature. Vision stood near the door, making final adjustments to the tie she had chosen. Tommy and Billy, seated on the couch, chattered about something only they found hilariously funny, filling the space with a lightheartedness that seemed to contrast with the growing tension Wanda felt.

She had her back to the stairs when she heard the soft sound of your footsteps descending, and immediately, something inside her stirred. Turning, she raised her eyes toward you — and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

You looked stunning, as always, but there was something more in that moment. Wanda knew exactly what was hidden between your legs, knew the sensation you carried with every hesitant step, and, more than anything, she knew it was because of her. Her gaze slid almost imperceptibly over your body, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than it should have on your legs before meeting your flushed face.

There was hunger in her eyes. A hunger she suppressed instantly, lifting her chin with the elegance that was almost her trademark. But the flame in Wanda’s eyes didn’t lie — and you felt it hit you like a blow.

“Wow, you look amazing!” Tommy exclaimed, jumping up from the couch to get a better look at you. “If you don’t get a boyfriend at church today, I’m giving up on humanity.”

“Tommy!” Billy rolled his eyes but couldn’t hold back his laughter. “She doesn’t need a boyfriend. Women can be happy without men these days.”

You smiled, the blush on your cheeks deepening. “Thank you, boys. But I think I already have enough to worry about without having to think about... boyfriends.”

Vision’s soft laugh filled the room. “It’s good to stay focused, Y/n. Yale isn’t going to accept anything less than your best self.”

But Wanda didn’t laugh. She kept watching you, her dark, unwavering gaze fixed as she crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly, as if assessing every word you said and every movement the boys made.

“She’s right,” Wanda finally said, her voice calm but carrying a sharp note that drew everyone’s attention to her. “Boyfriends are distractions. Especially for someone with goals as important as Y/n’s.”

Her comment seemed to end the conversation, with Tommy and Billy suddenly shifting their focus to their shoes or their phones. But you felt the weight of Wanda’s stare, locked on you, as if daring you to entertain even the thought of shifting your focus away from her.

The tension was palpable. You knew the boys’ comments had irritated her. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something more possessive. Wanda hated the thought of you imagining yourself belonging to anyone else.

When Vision finally declared it was time to leave, Wanda moved with her usual elegance, but as she passed you, her hand subtly grazed your arm, her delicate nail lightly scratching your skin.

“You look beautiful, bunny,” she murmured so quietly that only you could hear.

Your heart raced as you followed the group out of the house, hyper-aware of every step, every sensation, and especially Wanda’s gaze burning into your back.

The church was steeped in reverent silence, the kind of heavy stillness that amplified every little sound. The pastor spoke with a firm yet calm voice, his words captivating the congregation. Occasional murmurs of agreement and the rustling of Bible pages were the only sounds accompanying his sermon on righteousness and devotion.

You sat next to Wanda, trying to maintain the impeccable posture she always demanded in moments like these. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers tightly interlaced in a futile attempt to mask the nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. You were already uncomfortable—not just from the rising heat within you but from the constant awareness of what you carried between your legs.

And then, it happened.

The almost imperceptible hum of the vibrator roared in your ears, deafening despite your certainty that no one else in the church could hear it. The sensation was immediate, a wave of heat radiating from your core, spreading through your body and raising goosebumps on every inch of your skin.

You swallowed hard, eyes wide, but kept your gaze fixed on the pulpit, as though the sheer effort of appearing unaffected might save you. But your body was betraying you. A faint tremor ran through your legs, so subtle that only Wanda, sitting beside you, could notice.

She noticed.

Her fingers slid slowly across the wooden pew until they barely brushed against your hand. The touch was gentle, almost casual, but the deliberate pressure made your heart pound even harder. She knew.

You shifted slightly on the bench, searching for a position that might ease the intensity of the stimulation, but it only made things worse. The vibrator pressed against your most sensitive spot, and every movement amplified the pulsing vibrations. Your entire body felt ablaze.

“Shh…” Wanda whispered, so low that only you could hear. The tip of her fingers traced a slow, calming circle over the back of your hand—a gesture that, to others, appeared comforting, but to you, was an inescapable reminder of her control.

You were sweating now. Fine beads formed along your hairline, trailing down the back of your neck as you struggled to breathe deeply and steadily, but every vibration seemed to steal the air from your lungs.

Your knee trembled, and you pressed it against the pew to disguise it, but Wanda noticed. Always perceptive, she leaned in slightly, just enough to whisper once more: “Be a good girl for me, bunny.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to beg her to stop, to give you a moment of relief, but her calm gaze, fixed on the pastor, said it all. She had no intention of stopping. Not now.

Every second seemed to drag. The sermon, which you usually barely paid attention to, now felt interminable. Your body was so tense that your thighs ached from trying to contain the spasms. Shame burned on your face, but you couldn’t—dared not—make a single move that might give away what was happening.

When the pastor asked everyone to stand for prayer, your heart stopped for a moment. You could barely manage to get to your feet, your legs trembling as Wanda, with an almost imperceptible smile, took your hand and helped you up.

“Good girl,” she murmured again, and the vibrator finally stopped.

The relief was as intense as the torment, but you knew Wanda had won once more.

Wanda watched everything with a calm that was unsettling, almost impenetrable to anyone observing from the outside. While the pastor spoke about redemption and morality, her attention wasn’t on the sermon but on you—every small tremor, every ragged breath, every bead of sweat trailing down the side of your face. It was a sight that fascinated her in a dark, almost intoxicating way.

She was in control, and the control filled her with a shadowy pleasure that rivaled anything else she could feel. It wasn’t just the power to activate the vibrator pulsing between your legs or to dictate your submission in such a sacred and public space. It was the cruel satisfaction of watching you wrestle with yourself, seeing your body surrender while your mind begged for relief, for an end to the torment.

When your knee trembled, Wanda noticed before you even tried to hide it. A cold smile threatened to touch her lips, but she restrained it, maintaining the flawless mask of a devout wife and respectable mother. Even so, her eyes betrayed something deeper—a latent hunger, a predatory gleam that intensified with every sign of your suffering.

She adored the contrast.

You, so young, so vibrant, trying to be strong while slowly unraveling beside her. With every nervous adjustment you made on the pew, every breath you held in a futile attempt to conceal your vulnerability, Wanda felt a dark warmth grow in her chest. It was a dangerous mix of possession and cruelty, something she would never admit to anyone—not even herself.

But she knew.

The control she wielded over you was a secret shared only between the two of you, a bond she had forged and now held tightly. The mere fact that you couldn’t react, couldn’t scream or beg in that environment, made the experience all the more delightful for her. It was as if every one of your sighs, every drop of sweat, was a silent offering to the power she held over you.

When she whispered “Good girl” while helping you stand, Wanda couldn’t hide the malicious satisfaction that coursed through her. Seeing you on your feet, trembling, struggling against the weight of your own desire while everyone around remained blissfully unaware, was the confirmation of her victory.

She turned her gaze back to the pulpit, maintaining the serene façade, but inside, a dark and hungry part of her roared with pleasure. Knowing you had endured all of it for her, that your body responded so perfectly to her provocations, filled Wanda with an almost cruel satisfaction.

“You look beautiful like this,” she thought, catching a glimpse of the sheen of sweat on your forehead and the subtle tremor in your legs. “Beautiful in your fragility. Beautiful when you know you belong to me.”

When the sermon ended, Wanda held your hand firmly as they walked out of the church. To anyone watching, she was the picture of kindness and compassion—but inside, the dark pleasure still burned like an inextinguishable flame.

[...]

The midday heat made the glare from the pool water almost blinding, but nothing was more intense than the uncomfortable burning sensation in your chest. You were sitting in the shade with a glass of lemonade in your hands, but your attention was entirely on Wanda.

She was on the other side of the yard, next to Vision. Her laugh was light, almost musical, as she made a comment that drew laughter from Agnes and the other neighbors around her. Wanda seemed perfectly comfortable in her role as a devoted wife, the ideal woman: attentive, affectionate and… affectionate.

So affectionate that her fingers ran down Vision's arm in a way that made you squeeze the glass in your hands hard enough that the plastic rim threatened to crack.

You tried to look away, tried to focus on the blue sky or the unimportant conversations around you, but your eyes always returned to Wanda. She had a magnetic presence, as if the whole universe was conspiring so that you couldn't ignore her.

And then came the worst.

Vision leaned over Wanda, and she returned the gesture, smiling as she caressed his face with a delicacy you knew all too well. He said something low, inaudible, and Wanda let out a soft laugh before leaning over and pressing a kiss to his lips.

You clutched the glass in your hands. The anger and jealousy bubbling up in your stomach. Thoughts so bad and irrational running like a loop in your mind, you just wished you could disappear.

Agnes was a woman of Wanda's age, she seemed just as admirable. Both important women in the neighborhood and married to their respective husbands.

Agnes was the kind of woman who exuded charisma effortlessly. Her words were always carefully chosen, her laughter always at the right moment. She had an almost hypnotic charm, like Wanda, but in a different way - less subtle, more direct. You couldn't tell for sure what it was, but there was something about her that didn't seem to fit perfectly with the image of exemplary wife and neighbor that she projected.

She was standing by the pool, holding a glass of white wine, her lips painted an impeccable red that contrasted with the pearly shade of her teeth. Her dark eyes were expressive and shone with an energy that seemed to hide a secret or two. From time to time, she cast curious glances at you, but not in an uncomfortable way - at least, not at first.

As you watched Wanda and Vision once again exchanging falsely affectionate endearments, you noticed Agnes tilting her head, as if studying your reaction. When your eyes met, she smiled. It was a small, almost enigmatic smile, as if she could see something you didn't want to show.

“You look… thoughtful,” she commented, approaching with elegant steps. Her voice was soft, but there was a hint of something else - an insinuating tone that made your skin shiver slightly.

“Oh, I'm just tired,” you replied, forcing a smile as you tried to control the emotions boiling up inside you.

Agnes didn't look convinced. She sipped her wine, keeping her eyes fixed on you. “Tired of what? The party or… something else?”

The question made your throat tighten. You looked at her, trying to decipher the expression on her face. There was something about her that seemed to understand more than she should. Before you could answer, Wanda's voice cut through the air, clear and controlled as ever.

“Agnes, why don't you come and help Vision put more ice in his drinks? He insists on doing it anyway,” she said, laughing softly.

Agnes's smile widened, but she didn't seem in the slightest hurry to obey the invitation. “Of course, Wanda,” she replied, but not before casting one last glance at you, full of something that seemed both curious and… amused?

When she finally pulled away, you let out the breath you hadn't even realized you were holding.

But the discomfort only grew.

Wanda's jealousy was suffocating, but now it was mixed with a growing irritation towards Agnes. There was something about the way she spoke, as if she was always analyzing everything, dissecting the dynamics around her. And you hated to think that maybe she could see what you were trying to hide.

As Wanda continued to play her role as the perfect wife, a laugh echoing here and there, Agnes rejoined the group, now at Wanda's side. They seemed to be chatting animatedly, and suddenly, you noticed something that made you uneasy: the way Agnes' eyes slipped to Wanda when she thought no one was looking.

It was subtle, but you saw it.

Your heart squeezed, jealousy intensifying in waves. Vision wasn't enough. Now Agnes? What was so irresistible about Wanda that everyone around her seemed to want something more? And then, as if sensing your gaze, Wanda turned her head towards you again. This time, there was no disguise.

She held your gaze for a moment too long, her lips curving into a smile that seemed to be just for you. A smile that reminded you exactly who was in control.

You wanted to run. Run and cry like a baby. For a moment you even thought it would be better if you'd never left that stupid fucking convent. You looked up at the sky to try and stop the tears from falling.

No. You wouldn't cry.

You clenched your fists, feeling your nails dig into the palms of your hands. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Wanda had the power to dismantle you with a single glance, while she stood there, laughing and exchanging fake caresses with Vision, allowing Agnes or anyone else to approach her as if they were worthy of it.

What hurt most was not just the jealousy, but the frustration of knowing that, however much you wanted her, she would never be completely yours.

She had a life, an image to preserve. Vision was the exemplary husband. Agnes was the nosy but harmless friend. You? You were just a secret. A sin that she whispered to herself at night and pretended not to carry with her in the morning.

You took a deep breath, but the knot in your throat only seemed to tighten. Everything around you seemed to mock you. The sound of laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, the lively conversation that didn't include you. You needed to get out of there. Now.

Without saying a word, without looking at anyone, you placed the empty glass on the nearest table and walked quickly out of the yard. Every step felt heavy, as if the weight of your heart was anchored to your feet.

You stepped out onto the sidewalk, breathed in the fresh night air, but it didn't bring you the relief you were hoping for. Why did you subject yourself to this? Why did you still insist on getting hurt by someone who could never be yours?

Your cell phone vibrated in your pocket, and when you pulled it out, Yelena's name flashed on the screen. She had sent you a message earlier, asking if you were available to talk.

Yelena. Of course, she'd be there. She always was.

You started walking, without looking back, without even considering going back. Your mind was already made up. It didn't matter what Wanda thought or said afterwards. She was good at making you feel special, but she was also good at forgetting you when she didn't need you.

The walk to Yelena's house was quick, but it seemed to last forever. You thought of everything you wanted to say to her, but the words seemed blurred, lost amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

When you finally arrived and knocked on the door, it opened almost immediately. Yelena was barefoot, with messy hair and a surprised expression that was soon replaced by concern.

“Are you all right?” she asked, without even waiting for you to explain. You tried to answer, but your voice failed you.

The lump in your throat that you'd been holding in since the party finally loosened, and the tears began to flow. Without hesitation, Yelena pulled you in and wrapped you in a strong hug, which you hadn't even known you needed until that moment.

“Shh, it's okay. Tell me what happened,” she said, her voice low and reassuring.

But how could you explain? How could you tell her about the insane jealousy, the obsession, the forbidden love for Wanda? Yelena was your refuge, but would she be able to understand? Or worse, would she try to convince you to give up, to move on, when all you wanted was to sink even deeper into that destructive feeling?

She carried you by the hand to her room. Looking around, the room was so… Yelena-dark walls, 90s rock band posters pasted up, a desk with books lazily thrown on it. The place smelled of cigarettes, “nothing more Russian than that”, you thought with a chuckle.

“Okay, now talk. What happened?” She stared at you, sitting facing you on the sofa, her legs crossed and her eyes full of expectation and concern.

“I… I don't even know where to start.” Your voice came out shaky, almost a whisper. You pressed your hands against your knees, trying to calm the trembling that seemed to take over your body.

“Try, at least. You came here as if the world was falling down.” She leaned over, touching your hand gently. “And the way you are now, it feels like it's still falling.”

You took a deep breath, but the air didn't seem to fill your lungs. The words were stuck, as if admitting them out loud was a greater crime than carrying them inside you.

“It's her. It's always her. I can't…” Your voice failed, and you bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the tears that insisted on coming back.

“Wanda.” She said the name as a statement, unsurprisingly, but with a weight that made your heart sink even deeper.

“I know what you're going to say. That I should stay away. That it's wrong. That she'll never…” You stopped, the words breaking like glass in your throat.

With a laugh, the blonde continued: “I'm not going to say anything like that.” Her answer took you by surprise, and you finally raised your eyes to meet hers. There was something there-a mixture of understanding and pain that you couldn't interpret.

“You're not going?” Your voice was weak, hesitant.

“No. Because I know you already know all this, I'm sure.” She sighed, running a hand through her messy blonde hair. “But I also know that telling you to give up on her is like asking you to stop breathing. And I'm not going to be cruel like that.”

Her words were a relief, but at the same time, an even greater weight. Because it was true. You knew you were trapped, that this love was a trap you yourself had chosen to walk into.

“I wish… I wish I could hate her. I wanted to be able to look at her and feel anger, contempt, anything other than that.” You made a vague gesture, as if you could explain with your hands what words could not.

“But you can't. Because, somehow, she's managed to make you believe that her love is worth anything. Even if you never really have that love.”

You swallowed, feeling your throat burn.

“She doesn't love me. Not the way I love her.” The words were like knives coming out of your mouth, each one cutting deeper.

“And yet you're still here. Running after crumbs.” The silence that followed was deafening. You had no answer, because you knew she was right.

“What do I do, then?” Your voice was desperate, almost pleading.

“Do you want an answer from the young and irreverent Yelena or the centered and mature Yelena?” She asked, causing you to frown in confusion. And then she continued: “The irreverent Yelena says that we should introduce you to the night, take you to a loud party with drinks and good music. The centered Yelena says that I should welcome your tears with ice cream, hugs and silly movies.”

You looked at Yelena, still frowning, trying to process the options she had just given you. Party? You'd never been to a party before. You were the kind of person who preferred to spend a quiet evening reading a book or listening to music in your room. But now… the idea seemed to carry something extra.

“What if I choose the irreverent Yelena option?” Her voice came out hesitant, but there was a new sparkle in her eyes, a spark of curiosity and… something more.

Yelena flashed a wide grin, the kind of smile that made it seem like she was plotting something that probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Ah, Malysh… then let’s toss the tears aside and dress up to break hearts.”

You laughed, despite everything, and shook your head. But as you laughed, the idea began to take shape more clearly in your mind. Wanda. How would she react if she saw you at a party, surrounded by people, maybe dancing with someone? Would she be able to keep that cold control, the façade of the perfect wife? Or would it crack, even just a little?

Your smile slowly faded as you mulled over the thought. What if this was your chance? Not to hurt her—you would never do that intentionally. But to make her feel a fragment of what you felt every time you saw those touches and smiles meant for Vision.

“And... if I do this, do you think she’d notice?” You bit the corner of your lower lip, asking softly.

Yelena tilted her head to the side, her grin morphing into something more subtle, more analytical. “If ‘she’ is who I think it is... she wouldn’t just notice. She’d be livid. But the question isn’t whether she’ll notice. It’s whether you’re doing this for you or for her.”

You bit your lip again, looking away. It was a fair question but a hard one. The truth was, you didn’t know. Maybe it was for both reasons.

“Maybe I just need to remind myself that there’s a world outside... of her.”

Yelena nodded, her gaze fixed on yours, studying your expression like she was trying to decipher the layers of what you were feeling.

“If that’s what you want, I can help. But be warned: getting into this kind of game can spiral out of your control quickly.”

You pondered for a moment, but the decision was already made deep in your heart. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything. But the idea of ​​seeing Wanda react, of seeing that perfect facade crack, was irresistible.

“Take me to the party, Yelena.” Her mischievous grin returned in full force, and you felt a rush of adrenaline building within you.

For the first time, it felt like you were about to reclaim a fragment of power in a game that always seemed out of your hands.

[...]

The pounding music made the floor vibrate, and the air was thick with a suffocating mix of sweat, cheap perfume, and alcohol. You were already regretting agreeing to Yelena’s idea. The overstimulation was pushing you to the edge—every sound, every smell, every flashing light felt like a shove closer to your breaking point.

Leaning against a wall near the bar, you crossed your arms and stared at the drink in your hand, now warm and unappealing. Yelena, naturally, was in her element. She danced and laughed loudly, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.

Then, as if sensing your growing impatience, she appeared at your side, a sly grin tugging at her lips.

“Okay, clearly you’re not having fun. But don’t worry—I brought backup.”

You raised an eyebrow, ready to complain, but froze the moment you noticed the woman standing beside her. It was impossible not to notice. Natasha Romanoff had a presence that seemed to cut through the noise and chaos. Her gaze was sharp, cold, and piercing, like she was dissecting every detail about you in mere seconds.

“This is my sister, Natasha.”

Natasha inclined her head slightly in a wordless greeting—no handshake, no smile. Just a curt, weighty “Hi.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Natasha was intimidating, not just because of her stiff posture and unreadable expression, but because of the quiet authority she seemed to radiate.

“Nat,” Yelena continued with a grin, “this is my friend—the one I told you about.”

The redhead’s gaze didn’t waver as she spoke. “The shy one who ended up here out of pure stubbornness?”

The jab sent a flare of irritation through you. Your mood was already sour, and now she was treating you like some lost child?

“I might be a lot of things, but stubborn isn’t one of them.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips before her neutral expression returned.

“Hmm. Debatable.”

Yelena laughed, clearly enjoying the tension crackling between the two of you. “Alright, I’m getting another drink. You two play nice, okay?”

Before you could protest, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with Natasha.

The silence between you was taut but not entirely uncomfortable. Natasha thrived in it, exuding a quiet control without needing to say a word. You, on the other hand, felt like a cornered animal, searching for a way out without showing weakness.

“So,” she said finally, her voice low and even, “what are you really doing here?”

You exhaled sharply, letting your shoulders relax as if surrendering to her scrutiny.

“Trying to forget someone.”

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She studied you with that sharp, unreadable gaze, like she was trying to unearth the truth buried in your words.

“Bad idea. If they’re important, it won’t work.”

“And who says I want it to?” you shot back.

Natasha tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as if reconsidering something. “Interesting. Usually, people come to parties like this to pretend they have control over their own lives. But you don’t seem like the type.”

Her statement was blunt, almost brutal, but there was something intriguing in the way she spoke. No fluff, no unnecessary niceties.

“And what does that say about me, then

“I’m still deciding.”

Despite the irritation still bubbling inside you, there was something about Natasha that held you captive. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed impervious to any kind of charm or pretense. There were no games here—at least not the obvious ones.

“And you? Did you come here to forget someone too?”

Natasha let out a low sound, maybe a laugh or just a long exhale. “No. I just came to make sure my sister doesn’t cause a catastrophe.”

Her answer pulled an unexpected laugh from you, and Natasha finally allowed a small, discreet smile to play at the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe you’re not as unbearable as I thought.”

Was it a compliment? A jab? You weren’t sure, but for the first time that night, you felt like maybe the party wasn’t so bad after all.

Later, you were tipsy from the alcohol. Your body felt light, and your laughter came easily... especially around Natasha. The redhead wasn’t so bad after all, always complimenting your eyes and how soft and shiny your hair looked.

You found out she was an important agent in a national security agency, though she wouldn’t reveal the name, saying it was “against the terms of her contract.”

You didn’t know what time it was, but you knew it was past 10 p.m. What about Wanda? Had she already put the twins to bed? Had she already made love to Vision in the same bed she’d fucked you in? The thought made you grip your glass tightly and tense your jaw.

You downed the shot and made a cute grimace.

“Hey, little girl... slow down.” Natasha gave you a calming look, making you snort and roll your eyes. “Sweetheart, watch your manners...” she warned.

“Fuck it, I wanna dance!” You jumped off the stool, which was a bit too high for your height, your feet dangling just above the floor as you swung them when you got anxious with your thoughts. Adorable—though Natasha would deny it until the end, obviously.

The redhead followed you onto the dance floor, momentarily forgetting about Yelena. The sway of your hips, brushing against hers, dared her to move in rhythm with you. The way you tossed your head made your hair bounce, sending its scent directly to her.

"Your hair smells like grapes," she murmured in your ear—her voice tinged with something almost distracted, like she was lost in the scent and the way your body moved. It made you turn to face her.

Her gaze was intense, but there was something else beneath it. Fear? Why?

Natasha seemed to snap back to reality, her posture stiffening as she masked her expression, retreating into her usual taciturn demeanor. “I… I’ll go find Yelena,” she said before walking away.

You nodded, watching her until she disappeared completely from sight. A few minutes later, you found Yelena sitting at the bar, chatting casually with the bartender.

“Hey, Yelly!” you called out, your voice bright and cheerful from the alcohol buzzing in your veins.

The blonde turned to look at you, her eyes scanning you up and down, clearly gauging just how drunk you were. “Y/n, please tell me you don’t get hangovers,” she said, closing her eyes in mock prayer.

“Yelly, your sister…” You started to speak, but before you could finish, a voice cut through the noise, freezing you in place.

“Y/n.”

That firm, authoritative tone made your heart stop for a moment.

You turned slowly, and there she was—Wanda. Impeccably dressed as always, but with an expression sharp enough to split the air. Her eyes were dark with fury, and her chin was slightly raised, a telltale sign of someone who either had control of the situation or was desperately trying to regain it.

“What are you doing here?”

You tried to respond, but the words were tangled in your mind. The alcohol wasn’t helping at all. Before you could form a coherent reply, Yelena stepped in.

“She’s having fun. You should try it sometime, Maximoff.”

The provocation was deliberate, and Wanda shot a venomous glare at the blonde.

“And you thought bringing her to a place like this, filling her up with alcohol, and letting her dance with strangers was a good idea?”

Yelena crossed her arms, puffing out her chest as if to intimidate Wanda—not that it worked.

“She’s an adult. She can make her own decisions.”

Wanda laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound laced with scorn. “Terrible decisions, clearly.”

You could feel the tension rising like a tide around you. You wanted to step in, but the words still wouldn’t come. Wanda took a step closer, now fully focused on Yelena, ignoring you for the moment.

“If you think you can toy with her like one of your one-night flings, you’re sorely mistaken.” Her eyes glinted dangerously.

Yelena didn’t back down, stepping forward to meet Wanda’s challenge. It was like a dance, both of them fighting for control, neither willing to give an inch.

“Do you even hear yourself? Who’s really toying with her here, Wanda?”

The answer made Wanda blink, just for a second, before her expression hardened again.

“I don't need to justify anything to you.” She said between breaths.

“You don't. But maybe you should to her.” Yelena shot back, pointing the glass of vodka in your direction.

Wanda's gaze returned to you, and your heart raced. She was furious, but there was something else in her eyes - a mixture of concern and possessiveness that seemed to struggle to hide behind the mask of anger.

“Let's go, Y/n.”

It was an order, not a request.

You hesitated, looking at Yelena, who just shrugged as if to say: It's up to you. But the weight of Wanda's gaze was overwhelming. You lowered your head, biting your lip and holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

“Okay...” You whispered softly, giving one last look to your friend who just nodded.

Walking out of the party, you felt your body being pushed into some dark place and hitting the corner of some sharp iron, making you squeal in pain. However, Wanda seemed to care much more about killing you with one look.

Wanda was standing in front of you, her breathing heavy and her eyes glowing with a mixture of anger and something darker. You instinctively backed away, but the metal spike in your back reminded you that there was nowhere to go.

“Do you realize what you did in there?” Her voice was low, but charged with fury. “Dancing, drinking, rubbing up against anyone who paid attention to you.”

“I was just… trying to have fun.” Your voice came out shaky, but you tried to keep it steady.

Wanda let out a dry, humorless laugh, taking a step towards you.

“Have fun?” The word came out as an insult. “With Yelena pushing drinks at you and Natasha looking at you like she's going to devour you? Is that what you call fun?”

“And what did you want me to do, Wanda?” The words escaped before you could stop yourself. “Sit at home, waiting for you to decide that I deserve some of your attention? Be content to watch you be the perfect wife while I run myself ragged inside?”

The intensity of the silence that followed was suffocating. Wanda stopped, her eyes narrowed, as if she were measuring the impact of your words. Finally, she took another step, her proximity taking your breath away.

“Watch your mouth, young lady.”

“Why?” You lifted your chin, tears starting to form in your eyes, but your voice was defiant. “The truth hurts, doesn't it? I love you, Wanda, but you only know how to play with me! Use me whenever you want and then go back to your perfect life with Vision!”

Wanda didn't reply immediately. Her face hardened, anger flowing from her eyes like lava. Then, almost unexpectedly, she grabbed your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You're a spoiled brat,” she hissed, her sharp tone cutting through the air. “A selfish little girl who thinks the world revolves around her.”

You tried to wriggle out of her grip, but her gaze seemed to pin you in place.

Do you know what you need?” Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper. “A lesson. Someone to teach you to control that insolent mouth of yours and stop acting like you're the center of the universe.”

You swallowed, your heart beating wildly. There was something in the way she spoke, in the darkness of her eyes, that made you shiver.

“And you're going to be that person?” The question escaped your lips before you could think, defiant despite the tremor evident in your voice.

Wanda let go of you abruptly, as if the touch had burned her hand, her eyes blazing. The woman pulled your hair back, so violently that your head was taken with it.

“Attention. That's what you wanted, isn't it, little tramp?” Wanda turns you to face the wall while she still has a handful of your hair in her hand.

Wanda leaned towards you, moving closer until your faces were so close that you could feel the warmth emanating from her, along with the soft perfume that always accompanied her. Her heart seemed to be pounding in her ears, each pulse echoing like a drum.

“Do you want to know if I'm going to be that person?” Her voice was a whisper laden with something dark and irresistible. “Do you really want to test me, Y/n?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but couldn't make a sound. Before you could react, Wanda ran her fingers down the side of your face, tracing the outline of your jaw in such a delicate way that it seemed to completely contradict the brute force you had felt just a few minutes before.

“I should. I should teach you the difference between wanting and deserving. Because, honestly, you have no idea what you're asking for.” The words came out slowly, almost lazily, but loaded with a weight that made her legs weak, even though she was sitting down.

She pulled her fingers away from your face and held your chin firmly, forcing you to look into her eyes. They were dark, almost black, and there was an intensity there that made something in you freeze and boil at the same time.

“Do you think you're brave, teasing me like that? Playing with something you can't control? Little…” A smile curved her lips, but it was a cruel, predatory smile. “You have no idea what I can do to you.” Wanda rubbed against you, making you feel a roughness, something stiff in her pants.

Her hand went down to your neck, her fingers lightly touching the base of your throat. It wasn't a squeeze, but her mere presence there made you feel as if the air was being stolen.

“You know what the problem is?” She continued, leaning in even closer. “You think you can control this, but the truth is that you're already mine. Every thought that goes through your head, every time you try to challenge me, every part of your body-all of it already belongs to me, even if you won't admit it.”

She rubbed herself more and more, making her pussy feel gooey and sticky.

“I'm inside your head, your heart. Inside your skin, Y/n.” She laughed against your ear-as if it was silly of you to think you could change that.

You tried to say something, but her hand on your neck came up to cover your mouth, interrupting any words. Her smile widened, but her eyes were more serious than ever.

“Shhh… Don't say anything. Don't try to answer me. You've said enough, and look where it's gotten you.”

Slowly, Wanda pulled her hand away, but she didn't move from her spot, still close enough for the weight of her presence to be almost overwhelming.

“You want my attention, don't you? Well, congratulations. Now you have all of it. But I'm going to give you a warning, bunny…” She tilted her head, her eyes burning into his as she squeezed his neck. “If you keep challenging me, I promise you won't like what happens. Because when I lose control…” Squeezing, squeezing and squeezing. Wanda savored it when you ran out of air and gasped for it. “…no one will save you from me.”

You felt your panties being ripped brutally, and you bucked, already craving the woman's rough touch. The head of the belt caressed your entrance, like a kiss - or torture.

Lunch at Agnes' house should have been a simple distraction, a chance to sustain the Maximoff family's impeccable façade. Wanda knew how to play the role of devoted wife and loving mother to perfection. Vision at her side, always so polished, the twins running around the pool, laughing loudly, while she served drinks and exchanged cordial words with Agnes. A perfect picture of normality.

But you.

You were there, trying to disappear among the other guests, but

Wanda always found you. Her gaze had an unerring way of finding you, even when you didn't want it to. Especially when she didn't want to. The way you looked at her - full of something intense, something forbidden - made her burn from the inside out.

And then came the twins' innocent, or perhaps not so innocent, comments. They were sharp, as only children could be. “Y/n, you're so pretty. You'll get a boyfriend at church, I'm sure!”

Wanda froze for a moment, the glass of lemonade in her hand almost slipping. Their laughter seemed to echo in her ears, and then she looked at you. Her expression was a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something that only Wanda seemed to see.

You blushed, stammered something to change the subject, but it didn't work. Wanda saw the discomfort, the hurt in your eyes, and something inside her clenched tightly. But it was different from what she had expected. It wasn't empathy. It wasn't compassion.

It was anger.

Anger at herself for wanting you in a way she shouldn't have. Anger at Vision, who seemed so oblivious to the storm roaring inside her. And, above all, anger at you. For being there. For feeling so much. For making her feel so much.

When you disappeared from the party without warning, Wanda tried to ignore it. She tried to convince herself that she didn't care. But the thought of you wandering around alone, your thoughts in turmoil, made her grit her teeth. Then, when night fell and you didn't show up for dinner, Wanda lost her patience.

She didn't have to ask where you were. She didn't have to search. A cold, sure intuition led her straight to you. Yelena. Of course it would be her.

The sound of loud music and laughter echoed through the night as Wanda parked her car in front of the club. She felt her chest tighten, the air in the car becoming heavy. Her hands were shaking slightly, but she wasn't sure if it was from anger or the anticipation of seeing you again - and bringing you back under her control.

As she entered, the atmosphere almost suffocated her. The smell of alcohol, the sweat of dancing bodies, and the throb of the bass in the speakers were oppressive. But it was the sight of you - in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with Natasha Romanoff - that really destroyed her.

The way you laughed, the way the light reflected off your hair, the closeness between you and the other woman… it was unbearable. Something feral and possessive grew inside her, darkening her vision.

Now with you here, in front of her. All Wanda wanted was to make you pay. Looking at your trembling, demanding body - already so ready for her… The woman releases you, stepping back and making you look at her with puppy dog eyes.

Wanda smiles darkly.

“Aren't you a precious little whore?” She asked herself. “Kneel.” You were so well trained by her, being her good girl.

“Suck my cock, make it juicy for you, little girl.” Wanda ran the base of the strap-on over your lips, making you open them slowly, taking the toy into your mouth, savoring the flavor.

“That’s right, honey…” It excited Wanda to see you like that, humiliated, subjugated, sucking the cum off your plastic cock after you disobeyed her.

Grabbing your head, the woman pushes it deeper into your throat, making you cough. “Shh… breathe through your nose, Dekta.” The excitement was all there. In commanding, directing your steps, humiliating you and then welcoming you.

“Stand up and turn around again. Face forward this time, as much as I love your ass, I need your eyes for myself.” Wanda said, already positioning the strap-on at your entrance, however she only introduced the toy when you said she could.

Arching your back and breathing hard as Wanda's cock stretched you wide, you murmured, "Mommy, harder!" Wanda's eyes, which had previously been filled with rage, shone with the definition of the purest, rawest desire.

"Oh, look at that… My little slut is showing her claws… She likes to be taken hard, huh? Fucked until that tight little pussy of yours is all swollen, huh?"

The woman began with the thrusts, making you delirious. She placed you on top of a table so that you could wrap your legs around her waist—loving this position.

You moaned loudly, crazy, and Wanda increased the intensity in response. "Scream! That's it, scream! Let everyone hear who you belong to… Yelena, Natasha… They're no one to you, they could never make you moan like that."

Wanda murmured unconsciously, crazy with desire. You howled when you felt Wanda's cock go deeper inside you.

"Yes, baby. Only mommy knows how to do it, right? Only mommy knows how to hit your hot, juicy spot, right?”

“Mo-mommy!” You gasped, feeling your legs tremble—announcing the strong orgasms you were going to have.

“Oh, do you think you deserve it, Dekta?” She asked, her mouth sucking on your neck. “After everything you’ve done…” Wanda dug her hands into your hips, leaving finger marks on your immaculate skin.

You whimpered, desperate.

“No, mommy! Don’t deny it, please! I can be good! I ca—” You cut yourself off in a strangled scream as you felt the woman’s index finger caress your clit, prolonging your orgasm.

“But I didn’t even deny anything…” She laughed, enjoying your desperation, “You’re such a smart bitch, aren’t you?” Wanda breathed. “Apologize… apologize to your mommy!”

“Yes! I’m sorry, mommy! I’m sorry! I'm a needy little slut who needs your attention all the time.” You said against her lips, grabbing the lower one and giving it delicious little bites, making her moan into your lips.

“Mine!” She squeezed your clit between her fingers, making you scream and burst into a strong orgasm. “Cum, sweet girl, cum on my cock.”

You trembled around her, throwing your head back, making it irresistible for Wanda not to bite the spot hard. When you returned to your natural state, Wanda gave you no rest—making you kneel again.

“I need something, Dekta…” She let out a shaky sigh, finally exposing her real needs. “Mommy's pussy is sore seeing her baby girl so naughty and needy, fix it now, Y/n.”

You were mesmerized by the way Wanda was rocking her hips in front of you—your excitement gradually building again.

You could smell the woman’s arousal in front of you, intoxicating you. Hungry, you attacked Wanda’s pussy—as if you were kissing her. Hearing the woman exasperate in approval, you continued to do it harder.

“A little more pressure, darling… Oh!” She exclaimed as you reached her burning point. With her eyes rolled back and a deep, guttural moan, Wanda came—having to sit down quickly because her legs were shaking.

You sat up and looked at each other—the insecurity still growing in your eyes at not knowing her thoughts.

“Let’s go, little one.” She said, her voice still hoarse. You followed her, of course—but no words were exchanged on the way home.

[…]

The hot water cascaded down, filling the bathroom with steam. The sound was soothing, drowning out the world outside. You sat in the bathtub, your knees pulled up to your chest, while Wanda gently washed your hair. Your eyes were downcast, avoiding hers, your face marked by the weariness of the turbulent night.

“Do you want to tell me what happened today? Last chance.” Her voice was low, without the harshness of before. She was calm now, and her tone sounded almost motherly, which only made the knot in your chest tighten more.

You hesitated, feeling her hand slide through the strands of your hair, her fingers methodical as she applied the shampoo. “I don’t know where to start,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Start with what bothered you,” she suggested, unhurriedly, her fingers still working gentle circles on your scalp.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes to let yourself feel the comfort of her touch. “It was lunch. It was… you and Vision.” The confession came out shaky, and you hated how vulnerable it sounded.

“Me and Vision?” She paused for a moment, her hands stilling before returning to work. “What exactly?”

“I don’t know…” you began, trying to gather your thoughts. “I know he’s your husband. I know that. But I can’t…” Your voice trailed off, and you bit your lip, trying to stop the tears from falling. “I feel like I’m alone… here. Like a shadow. Something you use when you want, but that will never be enough for you.”

Wanda stopped washing your hair and knelt beside you, ignoring the hot water that was soaking your clothes. She took your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes were softer now, but they still held that intensity that always made your heart skip a beat.

“Look at me, Y/n.” The order was gentle but firm. You obeyed, even if reluctantly. “I never want to hear you say that again. Do you hear me?”

You blinked, surprised by the seriousness in her voice.

“Do you think I would do all that for just anyone? Do you think I would lose my control, risk everything, for something that meant nothing to me?“

But I—” you tried to argue, but she interrupted, her voice lower, almost a whisper now.

“You’re not something I use. You’re… my refuge. My chaos and my peace at the same time. And yes, I’m selfish. Because even though I know it’s wrong, I can’t let you go.”

Her words disarmed you, taking you completely by surprise. You’d never heard her speak like that before, so open, so raw.

“But Vision, the twins… They’re your life,” you whispered, doubt still heavy in your voice.

“I love my boys, I would die and kill for them… But they, all of them, are my responsibility,” she corrected, her eyes burning into yours. “You are my choice, understand?” You felt the tears start to run down your face, mixing with the water from the shower. Wanda wiped them away with her thumbs, never looking away.

“I know I can’t give you what you deserve,” she continued, her voice almost breaking. “But you need to know that, to me, you are not replaceable. You are unique. And I would do anything for you, darling.”

You wanted to believe her, wanted to hang on to every word, but the doubt still lingered. Wanda seemed to sense this, because she leaned in close, her lips touching your forehead.

“Stop thinking.” She whispered, “Let me be in charge of everything, darling. Mommy will take care of everything.” Wanda helped you up from the tub carefully, holding your hands tightly as if you were going to break at any moment.

The water was still falling, warm against your skin, but you felt the heat of her hands more. She turned off the tap, wrapped a towel around your body and, with infinite patience, began to dry the wet strands of your hair.

The silence between you was filled only by the sound of the fabric rubbing against your skin, a moment as intimate as anything else you had shared.

“Raise your arms,” she asked, with a softness that contrasted with the undeniable authority in her voice. You obeyed without question, letting her put on a light nightgown on you, which seemed too big, probably hers.

As soon as she finished, Wanda took you by the hand and led you to her room. The bed was impeccable, the room perfumed with the soft scent of lavender. You hesitated for a moment at the door, but Wanda, noticing, gave a light tug on your arm for you to follow.

She laid you down carefully, adjusting the blankets around you, and then sat on the edge of the bed, watching you as if she were checking every detail to make sure you were comfortable.

“Am I still going to be punished?” you asked softly, your voice filled with a mix of nervousness and anticipation.

Wanda’s smile was barely noticeable, but you saw it. She tilted her head, her fingers caressing your cheek with the same lightness as a feather.

“Without a doubt,” she replied, her tone soft but full of promise that made your heart race.

You swallowed hard, but before you could think of a response, Wanda lay down next to you, pulling you closer. Her arms wrapped around you, firm and protective, and she began to run her hand through your wet hair again, an almost hypnotic rhythm.

“Now, close your eyes for me, kitten,” she murmured, her lips close to your ear. You obeyed, feeling her warmth envelop you completely.

She began to rock you with slow, deliberate movements, small, gentle pats on your bottom, following the rhythm of your breathing. It was an unexpected gesture, but strangely comforting, and you felt your body begin to relax.

“You are mine, Y/n,” she said softly, as if she were speaking more to herself than to you. “And I will make you understand that, in every way possible.”

Your eyes grew heavy, the tiredness and the feeling of absolute security finally overcoming the tension of the day. The last thing you felt was Wanda’s comforting touch and the soft melody she hummed, almost imperceptibly, before falling into a deep, peaceful sleep.

In that moment, as she bathed you, Wanda felt her own anger melt away, transforming into something more tender, but equally selfish.

The care she offered you was not just out of compassion; it was confirmation that you were hers. Every touch, every soft word, was a way of reaffirming that dominance.

And as she rocked you, she felt a peace that almost frightened her.

There was something deeply comforting about seeing you so surrendered, so vulnerable. As if, in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered except you, there, in her arms.

But at the same time, Wanda knew that she still had a long way to go.

Because as she tucked you in, she was also making plans. Plans to show you, slowly and deliberately, that you would never need—nor should—seek comfort anywhere else.

~*~

Y/n don't cry, your mommy is here.

UREVISED CHAPTER

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580 @valentine585

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @bees-for-brains @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @i-luv-w1menn @lesbiansweet

[secriden]

Style in episode 4 made me soft in a way that I truly did not expect. I’ve used the word “guileless” (def: innocent and without deception) before to describe him but I don't think that has been shown more clearly then in this episode.

He tries to be manipulative and lasts for all of one single morning and then comes running to Fadel the second he hears about Fadel asking about him. He's so excited, so exuberant at the thought that Fadel misses him, so happy that his little (terribly obvious and juvenile) plan worked.

Which is why I think he was genuinely taken aback when Fadel only had harsh words for him as a reply (this is not a criticism of Fadel; in this he has been consistent. Doesn't mean they weren't hurtful though). Look at the way Style's grin slowly dies. Watch the way he straightens and backs away a bit, like he wasn't expecting the clawed swipe of Fadel's dismissal.

But Style is resilient. He's tenacious. We see him rally and steel himself to resume his pursuit: because Style is nothing if not determined to hold on to the thinnest thread of hope that he's breaking through Fadel's shell. And can I just take a moment to get emotional about Style offering forgiveness even when Fadel hasn't asked for it?

This, though. I do think this was uncalled for (this is a criticism of Fadel). You can make the argument that Fadel has tried honesty and blunt rejection and it hasn't worked, but I would have respected Fadel more if he'd stuck to his guns and kept rejecting Style in the same manner. Especially when everything else about his character shows he's actually very up front and direct. With Bison, with Kant, hell even with himself.

Fadel is mocking Style's clear and wanton desire for him. Look at the sardonic little grin Fadel gets right before he says, "You won't ever get what you want." Consider the way he was touching Style with that gentle, focused intensity; how he cuts up his shirt and tears it open and leans in close in a way that suggests purposefulness while having zero intention of seeing it through. Fadel knew what he was doing and he did it on purpose, to hurt.

And you can see that Style is genuinely hurt here. I think he has always been prepared for Fadel's rejection, but not his cruelty. Not Fadel making sport of him and his very real emotions and desires. Because Fadel has been rude and condescending before, but he's never been contemptuous like he is here.

And I wonder, partly, if this is because both times we see Style and his dad, his dad is scolding/chiding/correcting him to some extent. Perhaps that's just how they interact. Or perhaps, as implied by the way Style sarcastically said "Thanks, dad" as Fadel drives away in episode 1, Style doesn't enjoy the way his father scolds him and always has criticisms or corrections for him. Perhaps Style just wants to be accepted for who he is, especially by the man he is starting to have real feelings for.

@lazzarella made a post recently about Dunk's phenomenal acting in this scene (among others) and I concur so hard about how intense and scorching and "both fiery and steely" Style's anger feels in this scene. He's furious and wounded and you can see it in his gaze, the tension in his jaw, the way he bares his teeth up at Fadel when he says "...punch me in the face? Go on!"

And honestly, he is justified. Fadel's incredulity has no basis here: he stooped back to using public humiliation, something which Style very pointedly has not engaged with since his conversation with Bison in episode 2. Every instance of approaching Fadel since then has clearly been aimed to involve himself in Fadel's private life*.

*Yes even or maybe especially the support group in episode 3. Because while Style may have been treating the whole thing too lightly, all of it is directed privately to Fadel with his secret looks and winks. As far as the other support group members are concerned, Style was a somewhat overdramatic new member that had no connection to Fadel.

But what Fadel did by cutting up his shirt and sending him out in shame regressed them back to their early dynamic, which was far more antagonistic.

This is why Style lashes out at the support group again. Look at the anger simmering in his eyes. The way he makes direct, insistent eye contact with Fadel as he speaks, returning again when he talks about feeling used. Style, overall, is a character that doesn't take anything too seriously so it's almost shocking to see him this visibly angry and so pointedly challenging Fadel in a space where Fadel cannot easily brush him off.

But even now, even in all his rage and hurt, Style is true to himself and his heart. He doesn't want revenge or an apology, he wants Fadel to acknowledge that the thing between them, fragile as it is, matters; that what they did meant something to the both of them.

And this is why I was so broken about Style offering forgiveness without Fadel asking for it earlier: because all it took was Fadel admitting that he missed Style for him to unreservedly offer reassurance and safety for Fadel's heart. There is nothing ambiguous about what Style says at the jeep: he makes his own intentions clear by offering certainty, taking responsibility, promising the very commitment he was asking Fadel for.

He makes himself vulnerable to and for the man who literally just mocked and humiliated him that morning. Style really just let all his anger go immediately like that.

And no, I don't think he was doing all that for the car. This is just how Style talks. He has a flair for the dramatic, and this was the perfect way to reveal his news to Kant. But look at how delighted, how filled with boyish glee he is while he tells Kant the news about Fadel agreeing to be his boyfriend. Consider the way he reacted in the moment: the joy in his voice and the wonder in his eyes when he said "Really? We're dating now?", the way he covers Fadel's cheeks in a hundred butterfly kisses.

Also, a thought that occurred to me - could this be Style's first relationship? We know from episode 1 that he sleeps around, but there's seemingly no mention of a previous serious/committed relationship so far. His dad seems surprised to hear Style is seriously pursing someone. Could Fadel be the first person to capture his interest for long enough that Style developed actual feelings?

Which is also why his fear is now so visceral. He is genuinely terrified of Fadel, but I don't think it's just because he's realised how dangerous Fadel is (after all, he's known that to some extent since he watched Fadel break a man's arm with his thighs). No, his fear stems from the fact that Fadel now has reason to hurt Style.

In the face of the betrayal of his own trust, Style answers Kant's plea to friendship and entangles himself with Kant's lie willingly... and thereby forfeits all rights to the safety he was so confident of in the middle of the woods by an abandoned factory. Because now Style knows that if Kant gets found out, it won't matter that Style didn't intentionally mislead and take advantage of Fadel's vulnerability in the forest. Because he still chose Kant over Fadel here, and that makes him undeserving of the open door he asked Fadel to give him.

Style is incredibly transparent in all his thoughts and emotions and this is why I say that Style is guileless: he is incapable of true deception. His heart is too close to the surface, his desires too obvious, his thoughts too clearly broadcasted on his face.

He is the perfect foil; not only to Fadel (who until this episode held everything so buried inside his chest that we only understand his true feelings in snatches of memories or moments when Fadel is certain that he is truely alone) but also Kant (whose deception, whilst cracking under pressure, is intentional and calculated - thinking about that bowling alley accomplice right now - in a way Style never could be).

And this means that any success on his part in the upcoming episode(s) in deceiving Fadel is going to fall on either Fadel's own willful blindness or the suspension of disbelief the genre requires of the viewer -- but it won't be because Style is actually any good at playing the role now that he knows the full truth.

This is why my heart breaks for Style. Because Kant forced a burden on him that he was in no way prepared to bear. And eventually Style will have to choose between his loyalty to Kant and his burgeoning feelings for Fadel and, regardless of his choice, the narrative demands that Style sacrifice a piece of his own heart in the process.

[komelliko]

manipulative!boss!sunday x timid!secretary!reader

summary: You accept the dinner invite, but can't shake the feeling that Sunday had alternative motivations. Well—you can't seem to get yourself to ignore it as well as you usually do, at least.

part 1 / part 2 / part 3

---

To say you’re surprised that Sunday knows something almost feels on its way to an insult. Ever since meeting him, you’ve felt the notion that Sunday fills every room he’s in with a sort of omnipresence—a watchfulness that extends beyond his direct gaze, an invisible cloud of eminence curling in the corners of space like steam. Sure, you collect information for him in your manila folders and papers and electronic mails… but you often wonder if it’s merely to organize, not to present. That he is already aware of all things, and only wishes for it to be in proper order. 

All this to say: The dress fitting you perfectly is entirely logical. Sure, maybe it’s a bit too perfect, but to show concern feels almost sacrilegious. 

Of course Sunday knows. It’s normal for an employer to know such things, isn’t it?

Regardless, you find yourself out of place in this Blue Hour restaurant. Your only companions seem to be the objects in your old clutch: Your phone, and a metal tin of your favorite mints. Bringing along a wallet or even a few credit bills was out of the question, Sunday had assured you. Even at your protest, he insisted it would be taken care of. 

You press a mint against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. You had been too anxious to remember the name of the restaurant, only hearing the erratic pace of the jazz music echoing from the band’s main stage. Only seeing the satin of the tablecloth. Only feeling the gnawing pit in your stomach.

“About today’s report, sir—“

Sunday would only keep his clasped fists against the table, maybe his forearms, but never his elbows. He was a man with remarkable, old-fashioned etiquette. 

“Please,” he corrects you. “Call me Sunday.” “Mister Sunday,” you reiterate. But something tells you to stop talking anyways.

Your eyes glance around the room, wondering from what other angles he seems to be watching you, ridiculous as it may sound. You curse yourself at how easy it is to ‘pay it no mind’, ‘give it no thought’ in any other occasion. During work, at meetings, or when his presence is invisible to you. The sentiment feels like the most logical thing in the world then, but now? It’s a ridiculous notion. 

But you can at least pretend to pay it no mind, and you find that to be enough for the time being. The band plays on, a saxophone wailing out its melody over double bass and the hiss of the drum kit.

"Jazz as a term for Penaconian music is a fairly recent construction," he begins to speak, at first seemingly to nobody but himself. "Popularized by my dear sister, naturally. Do you know what the term comes from?" 

You shake your head. 

"'Jats', more commonly phrased as 'the jats', also known as spirit, moxie, joie de vivre—Now, it's been corrupted to mean something closer to restlessness," he sighs. "But in its inception, to have 'the jats' was to be blessed by Xipe with a certain euphoria, and the style of music that many associated with such a feeling was said to be played by 'Jats bands'." Sunday takes the smallest sip of his drink before adding "But Jazz rolls off the tongue better, doesn't it?”

You laugh, a rictus showing on your face. “Indeed it does, Mr. Sunday.”

He smiles no wider than he would at any other person. Your certain vulnerability seems to almost leak onto the floor, rivulets flowing down the legs of your chair—Sunday relishes in the image, watery anxiety beading off the skin of your back and running down the curve of your spine. Underneath his gloves, his knuckles pale as he laces his fingers together tightly. The vision before him is everything he’d ever hoped for—what he’d been picturing when he selected the venue, the dress, the time. A plan perfectly orchestrated.

“I worry sometimes that you have the wrong idea of me, [Y/N],” he posits, glibly. “You seem tense.”

You stop yourself from placing another mint in your mouth to look him in the eye. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Sunday,” you lie, “It’s just been a while since we’ve been seated, and we’ve only been given drinks.”

“I have an inclination that our food will be out shortly.” “…But sir,” you question, “We haven’t ordered.” “Our reservation asked for orders at the time of scheduling,” Sunday smiles. “As I said before, everything is being taken care of for you.”

Your eyes drift to the other patrons: A patchwork mass of Halovians here, Pepeshi there, many of which are discussing unknowable things over their large menus. You tell yourself it’s nothing to worry about. Logically, Sunday must know something you don’t. Sunday must know a lot of things that you don’t. 

Sunday watches the slight movements of your jaw as your tongue curls around the next mint in your mouth. The first mint in your mouth had lasted two minutes, the next forty seconds, and the final only twenty-five. Perhaps there was something you were trying to purify within yourself—the unease he found so tantalizing at this moment, a symptom of your delicious eagerness to please—that you hoped to extract from each mint, your cheeks sucking in a nearly imperceptible degree as you drained each one dry. Sunday could imagine himself reaching over across the table to open your mouth with his thumb, saliva pooling in your mouth from the way you were siphoning the little white tablets greedily, the delicate muscles in your face spasming and twitching as you shudder beneath his velvet touch.

If he was a lesser man...

"Don't spoil your appetite on those mints, darling," Sunday jokes. He can immediately see you tense up from the name, swallowing the tablet in your mouth. "My apologies, Mister Sunday."

...Boss or not...why the hell were you apologizing to him?

"I told you, Sunday is fine," he smiles. "...Do I frighten you?" "Excuse me?" Sunday tilts his head to the side the slightest bit, his cranial wings drooping. Still, even as he expresses his supposed concern, his smile doesn't fade.

"You seem frightened, dear," he coos. "If I'd known you would hate dinner with me so much, I wouldn't have asked you." Initially, you feel yourself overcome with guilt. He was spending all this money on you just for you to be so skittish... But that was never the point of the dinner meeting, right? You bite your lower lip, mulling over the possibility of getting the topic of tonight's dinner back to that of your work. You look askance, to the lack of plate right before you, and then to him. "It's just a concern I had regarding budgeting for the venue," you lie, "Some of the cost estimates you'd previously requested have changed since—" You stop when you feel something touch your ankle. Sunday has leaned in closer to you to place his shoe between your feet. You look down to where his shoe must be under the table—hidden by the long tablecloth—then to him, with that static smile still on his face. Not a hint wider than he would smile at anyone else. "Isn't it peculiar?" he asks. Sunday hasn't been listening to you whatsoever. "Look around the room. Each and every table here is surrounded by strangers. These figures around us are unknown to us, and likewise we are unknown to them." Even when it's not the point of what he's saying, you can still feel that sense of malice hidden behind Sunday's teeth when he refers to the folk of Penacony. Avaricious, calloused, snobbish and cruel. Corrupt is often the term he uses, with a bite that seems to imply he finds himself distinct from it. Like a single healthy cell surrounded by cancerous tumor. The outer side of his shoe draws a line up your calf, and he continues.

"Don't you find it fascinating that all these people may glance at us—pay us no more mind than what we pay to them—and have no idea what we are to each other? Most don't even know I have a secretary," he grins. "Perhaps I enjoy keeping you as my little secret." What he says is enough to keep you silent until your food arrives.

--- a/n: thanks so much for all the notes on the last installment, everyone! hopefully a bit of worldbuilding isn't a turn-off to any of you, i'm obsessed with penacony's jazz age inspirations just as much as i am with sunday xD just for the sake of keeping things cut up right, we'll end things off here lolol tag list: @j1yu425 @crepezinhos

[lexirosewrites]

this is a No Upside Down AU & Not Nancy Wheeler Friendly bc I needed drama

O!Steve is a prolific knitter, his grandma Harrington taught him a thing or 2 but when she passed away she left him all of her unused yarn & knitting needles & without his grandma to guide him thru knitting mistakes he ends up finding a knitting circle tht meets weekly at the Hawkins Public Library made up of knitters of all sorts of genders & ages

It's at this group tht he learns abt The Sweater Curse, for those unfamiliar its a superstition within the knitting/crochet community tht if u begin making a sweater for a significant other the relationship will end before the project can b finished or shortly after the project is finished, so widespread is this superstition tht many won't make anything for their partner till after the 2 r married

Steve learns this but then he starts dating A!Nancy & he feels so in love, so he learns everything he can abt her like her favorite colors or favorite material to wear etc. all in the effort to make a sweater for her for their approaching one yr anniversary,

Only to b blindsided when one day a beta he only knew in passing from Nancy's work, Jonathan Byers, comes to him at his own work when he's locking up the used bookstore to tell him tht Nancy has been cheating on him w Jonathan for several months now & tht Jonathan didn't know the two were together bc Nancy always brushed Jonathan's questions off & tht Jonathan had only learned they were together tht morning & he came by to tell Steve bc Jonathan thinks Steve should know if he doesn't already & tht Jonathan will b ending things w Nancy tht night... Steve cries but thanks Jonathan & accepts the comforting hug the other offers & then........ then Steve & Jonathan hatch a poorly thought out plan

When Nancy gets to Jonathan's apartment tht night Steve is sitting on the couch unraveling the project he'd undertaken for Nancy while Jonathan cooks him & Steve dinner, Jonathan hands Nancy the small bag of things she'd "forgotten" in his apartment & tht he won't say anything at work unless she makes this a problem, then Steve hands Nancy three much bigger bags full of the half-assed courting gifts she'd given him & everything he'd encouraged/allowed her to keep at his own place & tht he wasn't interested in hearing anything she had to say, the 2 then tell Nancy she should leave & she does but not without getting a snide remark out abt Steve being clingy & Jonathan being oblivious

Steve cries after she's left & Jonathan does too but they lean on the other & eat the food Jonathan made them & begin a friendship

A friendship tht slowly morphs into something more & leads to a kiss on Steve's couch almost half a year later & when Steve's heat approaches after the kiss he asks Jonathan to join him & it's full of so much care & Jonathan tells Steve he loves him the day after his heat cools & Steve says it back, they end up exchanging mating bites 3 years later & Steve makes Jonathan a sweater of his favorite colors & the softest cotton yarn & Jonathan is ecstatic to receive it especially when he unfolds it & a positive pregnancy test tumbles out onto his lap

🥰 my stonathan agenda has shown itself

awwwwww🥺 way back when ST first came out, I used to indulge in a stonathan fic or two! then it became harringrove and suddenly it was steddie, but i still love all the Barbies I’ve smashed into (literally) Steve🤭

[lostbookmark]

MDNI🔞

Main Masterlist here 

Whispered Vows Masterlist here

Summary: You thought planning your wedding was going to be a magical memory. You didn't realize that it might make you second guess everything. 

Pairing: Fiancée Yoongi x Insecure F. Reader

Genre: Romance, Angst, Smut, Hurt-Comfort

Warnings: Explicit Sex, Toxic Family Dynamics, Arguments,  Sex Toys, Self Doubt, Over Thinking, Yoongi Overworking Himself, Reader Needs To Speak Up

A/N:  It's my birthday today! So, I shall give you the epilogue. I also want to give a big thank you to all you beautiful readers who have gone on this journey with me. Thank you so much!

SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

Five months later….

Your reception was held inside the winery that you found seven months ago. Round lights were strung around the beams on the ceiling, emitting a warm amber glow. Round tables with white table cloths were scattered about the floor where your guest could rest and talk amongst themselves as they enjoyed the wine, water, beer, or whatever their drink of choice was. Mingling with one another as they enjoyed their night.

You…you were on the dance floor with Yoongi enjoying a moment between the two of you. Him in his perfectly pressed black tux and you in the monstrous marshmallow tulle dress with beaded bodice. The rough surface of the bodice slightly scratched your inner arm as the two of you swayed slowly together. Dancing closely together as Seungkwan and Jungkook belted out a song on a small makeshift stage with bright lights shining down on them. You smile up at Yoongi as you take in the moment. This perfect moment, that you wouldn't actually believe worked out the way it did. 

You and your sister had grown even closer following your wedding at the apple orchard. The two of you had many talks about your mother, who was still trying to take over wedding decisions while also planting small seeds of doubt in your head about Yoongi being a good husband. You just couldn't take it anymore. With your sister by your side, the two of you showed up on her doorstep unannounced. You mustered enough bravery and finally confronted her. You told her Yoongi wasn't going anywhere, and if she wanted to be a part of your new family, she needed to respect that. No more talking bad about him. No more pushing herself into your life. No more trying to control your wedding. She needed to let you and your sister be and let you live your lives. 

Your sister had stepped in, telling her that if she did not adhere to these boundaries, then she could forget about seeing the two of you. She could forget about meeting any future grandbabies and being called grandma. The two of you would cut her completely off. You were quite surprised that she didn't fight back. Your mom had just sat down on her couch, not saying a word as she stared at the floor. It took her a couple of minutes before she agreed. 

The three of you got on a waitlist to start therapy together the same day.

The weeks that followed were busy, and your mom stayed true to her word to back off. You and Yoongi started moving into your home, which didn't leave a lot of time for you to continue with the wedding plans. When you approached your mom for help, she was hesitant but stepped in when you needed her. You let her choose that tableware for the reception along with the table placements for the reception.  She had constantly checked in, making sure you were happy with her decisions before finalizing them. She never tried to overstep and always did what you asked of her with no extra suggestions coming from her. She even found you a photographer who gave you a great discount. She introduced him as a friend of hers, but you think they might be dating. You were happy to accept his offer. 

You got the shock of a lifetime when your sister delivered you a handwritten letter at lunch one day from your mother addressed to Yoongi. When you gave it to him, he disappeared for a while in his home studio. You wanted so badly to follow him, but instead, you gave him space and waited for him to come to you. Eventually, after an hour, he appeared again and let you read it. It was an apology. She apologized for how she treated you. Apologized for how she treated him back when he was with your sister. She thanked him for always taking care of you. 

He said he could work on trying to forgive her, but he needed to do it on his own time. You didn't push him. No, you gave him a kiss and thanked him for all the years he was patient and understanding. 

Later that night, you sat on your bed, looking at your wedding dress bag that was hanging in your closet. You loved that dress, but you were willing to take one for the team.  You texted your mom if her offer still stood on buying you the dress she loved so much.  You laugh when she sends you a picture of it hanging in her own closet. Of course, she bought it anyway.  You wouldn't expect anything different. 

“Will I be able to tear this one off you?” Yoongi whispers against your ear. 

“No,” you say with a laugh. “However, you might be able to tear what's underneath it off.”

“Oh?” He asks with a smirk. “And what exactly is underneath this.”

“You'll have to wait to find out,” you tease and press your lips against his. 

Yoongi chuckles, spinning you out and back into his arms. Your wedding was beautiful. Your dad walked you down the aisle. Yoongi had finally settled his groomsmen problem. Jimin, his best man, walked with Lisa of course.  Due to Jin and Hobi not being able to settle who gets the second spot, Yoongi recruited Seungkwan. You think he might have started to cry when he accepted the offer. In the end, he was able to walk with Jisoo. It was perfect. 

“I didn't know Seungkwan could sing,” Yoongi comments.

“I did,” you say, looking at the two men on the stage, giving it all they had as they sang into the microphones. 

“I should try and get him in the studio,” he comments, and you slap his shoulder. 

“No talking about work,” you tell him with a  small smile. 

“Okay, okay,” he surrenders with a smile, but his eyes flicker over your shoulder. “Lisa and Jisoo are trying to get your attention. 

You turn and look in the direction of Yoongi stare. You two best friends, who are actually more like your sisters, were waving frantically at you. You nod your head at them and wave back in acknowledgment. With a sigh, you turn back to your husband. 

“I have to go talk to them,” you say. “You should go mingle.”

“I don't want to mingle,” he pouts.

“Too bad,” you tell him, and you look around. “Look, Mingyu's getting a drink. Go say hi and bond over something.” 

You give him a quick kiss on the cheek and walk away before he can say anything else. You smile and wave at guests as you pass by them quickly. You didn't want to mingle either. You were on a mission, and you didn't want to be slowed down. When you reach your two friends, the three of you walk out of the reception area and down the hallway. Lisa opens a heavy wooden door and turns on the light. The bathroom wasn't that big considering there were three of you and one big dress crammed in there. 

“Hurry, I've been holding it for like an hour,” you say as you grit your teeth. 

“Sorry, traffic was bad, and there was a long line,” Jisoo apologized. 

Lisa pulled a flattened box out of her dress and slammed in on the counter. The three of you look at it and don't say a word. You couldn't believe that you were doing this here. Suddenly, a knock on the bathroom door made the three of you jump and look at the closed wooden door. 

“What's going on in there?” your sister's voice asked. 

Lisa opened the door and grabbed your sister's arm, pulling her into the room. She looked at the three of you like you were crazy. It wasn't until her eyes landed on the box that her eyes widened.  

“Oh my…” she started, but Lisa cut her off. 

“Can it,” Lisa said. “Stay and be supportive or leave and say nothing. Now, let's lift that dress and pee on the stick.”

You open the box, taking the testing applicator out before moving over to the toilet. Jisoo and Lisa gather your dress, lifting it up as you pull your underwear down. Peeing on a pregnancy test wasn't on your bingo card for the wedding, but yet here you were. It was weird urinating in front of people, but in the end, you wouldn't choose anyone else to do it in front of. Pulling the test from between your legs, you place the cap on it and set it on the sink. 

“Three minutes,” Lisa says, setting a timer on her phone. 

“I've been on birth control for years,” you say as you wash your hands. “I don't understand.” 

“He must have some strong swimmers,” Lisa comments with a nod of her head. 

“The pill is only 99% effective,” Jisoo says. “There's plenty of reasons for you to miss your period. This doesn't mean you are pregnant.”

“You've been moving and planning the wedding. Stress can definitely cause a late period,” your sister explains. 

You wish that helped ease your worry, but you can feel it in your guts that it’s positive. You've been extra tired. Peeing more than normal. Your boobs hurt like a bitch. Even the wedding dress seems to fit just a tad bit more snug than it did two months ago. You can't explain everything away being caused by stress. Lisa's alarm going off snapped you out of your thoughts and looked at the test on the sink. 

“Two lines means positive,” Lisa says, and she watches you. 

With a shaky hand, you close your eyes and pick the plastic applicator off the white porcelain sink. You don't think that you have ever been this nervous. Nervous doesn't even cover what you are feeling right now. Your first time with Yoongi, you were nervous. Your weddings, you were nervous. Right now, you are utterly terrified. Opening your eyes, you look down. 1 line…2 lines. There were two goddamn lines. Two perfectly straight pink lines. Two very bold pink lines. 

“Oh my god,” your sister whispers as she looks over your shoulder. 

“Y/N,” Jisoo says softly. 

Your vision blurs with tears threatening to fall. What will Yoongi think? How did this happen? You don't think that you missed any pills. Your little foil packet was on track. Those two pink lines just changed everything. 

“Sweets?” Lisa questions. 

“Do I tell him right now?” You ask. “We leave for our honeymoon tomorrow. We leave early. I…I…”

“Don't tell him now,” Lisa says, shaking her head. 

“You should absolutely tell him,” Jisoo says, disagreeing. “I thought you guys agreed to open and honest communication.”

“He probably won't want to go to Italy if he knows. He will be too worried about her traveling,” Lisa argues. “Don't tell him.” 

“Tell him on the honeymoon,” your sister suggests. “It would be special.” 

She's right it would be special. You can see the two of you inside the secluded stone faced villa. Surrounded by the green hills of the countryside, just the two of you. The only thing you can't see is his reaction. What if you ruin it all?

“We should go back out there before people notice that I'm gone,’ you say quietly as you hide the test and box in the trash can.

Trying to act as normal as you can, the four of you walk casually out of the bathroom and down the hall. Your eyes scan the room. They land on Yoongi and Mingyu in what appears to be a serious conversation. Your sister links her arm with yours, and you take off for your men. You just can't believe that you are here right now. Married to your sister's ex-boyfriend. Pregnant. Pregnant with your sister's ex-boyfriend's baby. Above all this, she is happy for you. What a wild ride!

“What's going on here?” Your sister asks as she wraps her arms around her fiance.

“Just talking about a possible nonprofit organization,” Yoongi answers, as he pulls you close. “Everything okay?” 

“Perfect,” you lie and steal a glance at your sister, who is giving a stiff nod. “How much longer is this party going to last?” 

“You have about another hour,” your sister answers, looking at her watch. You and Yoongi groan at the same time, causing the other couple to laugh. “Start making your rounds for goodbyes. Then you will leave quicker when it's over.”

Agreeing with your sister, you and Yoongi bid them a goodbye before moving onto the other guests, which were mainly Yoongi's family. They were sweet, but they wanted to talk your ears off. The both of you just stood there awkwardly nodding your head as they went on and on about how beautiful the wedding was. Thankfully, his mom ushered the two of you away when the conversations went on too long before sending you to your next guests. Your father and his girlfriend gave you hugs and handshakes before your dad slipped Yoongi an envelope. When he opened it, you saw money inside. 

“You already gave a wedding gift,” you said as you looked between the two of them. “You got us new furniture.”

“Well you wouldn't let me contribute to the wedding. So, have fun in Italy,” he smirks, clapping Yoongi on the back before they walk away hand in hand. 

Yoongi shrugs his shoulders and pockets the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket. Your mother approaches you next. She wraps you in a big hug before she moves away to hug Yoongi but pulls back at the last minute. Yoongi looks at you for a moment before he opens his arms for her. You want to cry as she steps in again to give him a quick hug. 

“You two take care of each other,” she says,  pulling away. “Let me know when you make it to your rental.” 

With a kiss to your forehead, your mother leaves you alone to continue your goodbyes. Tae and Jungkook pull the both of you into a group hug, much to Yoongi displeasure. You just laugh happily, enjoying it all. Hobi steals you away from the group, picking you off your feet as he wraps his arms around you. Yoongi was still stuck between the other two men. Jin, not wanting to be outshone, kisses your hand telling you how beautiful you were before spinning and dipping you. Yoongi was still stuck between the two younger friends. Namjoon comes next, giving you a quick side hug before pulling your husband away, rescuing him.  Yoongi hurries to you while glaring at Tae and Kook. Everyone besides him laughs. 

“Well, you better take a lot of pictures,” Lisa says, coming to stand by you with Jimin at her side. “I want to live vicariously through you since someone won't take me anywhere.”

“Hey, I took  you out to eat last night,” Jimin said, defending himself. 

“Vicariously? That's a big word for you,” Yoongi comments, ignoring Jimin to get a jab at Lisa. 

“You are so funny,” Lisa deadpans. Lisa wraps her arms around you tightly as Jimin and Yoongi do some bro hug thing. “It's going to be fine.” She whispers in your ear, and you nod. 

Finally, you make your way to Jisoo and Seungwan. She looks between you and Yoongi with a slight question in her gaze. You subtly shake your head no, and she nods in understanding before hugging you securely in her arms. 

“Make sure you try as much food as you can,” Seungkwan says. “I'll send you a list of restaurants that have glowing reviews.”

“Thank you, Seungkwan,” you say, pulling away from Jisoo and hugging him next. 

“When we get back, we need to talk about getting you into the studio to record something,” Yoongi tells him seriously. 

“Well, sure,” Seungkwan says as he turns red at Yoongi words before he turns to look at his girlfriend. “I could be famous.” 

“Thanks Yoongi,” Jisoo said with a shake of her head. 

Yoongi just laughs and pulls her into a quick hug. Jisoo pats him on the back awkwardly in return. You laugh at her before you let your eyes scan the room. After all the stress and drama this wedding brought you were completely happy with the result. You were married to the love of your life. You mended your relationships with your family, and now you're growing your own little family.  Now, the only hurdle is to tell him, and you will. Eventually. You place your hand on your stomach. Eventually. 

You didn't let him tear off your dress. As gaudy as you thought it was, you wanted to preserve it just like your first one. You thought maybe your future children would like to keep them. A little piece of the two special days that you could hand down to them. A small part in your love story that they could possibly keep forever in whatever capacity that may be. 

Yoongi kneels at the end of the bed, staring at you in contemplation. It makes you feel nervous. It feels like he knows that you are hiding something. You watch as he bites his bottom lip and smirks at you. Hovering over you, he rubs your bottom lip with his thumb before slowly running his hand down your chest and squeezing your breast confined in your new white lacy bra.  Pressing his lips to yours, he groans lightly into your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “I think your tits are bigger.” 

“That's silly,” you whisper against his mouth. “It must be the bra.” 

“Maybe I should take a closer look,” he jokes and kisses down the path his hand just took.  Pulling the lacy cups down Yoongi takes a nipple in his mouth, curling his tongue around your hardened peak before massaging your neglected breast before licking a wet tail across the middle of your breast and nuzzling your bare breasts.  “I don't think it's the bra.” 

“If you say so,” you say breathlessly, denying his comments. 

“I swear you get more and more beautiful every day,” he says as he unhooks your bra and flings it somewhere off to the side. His fingers venture down to the front of your matching lace panties, and he grips them tightly as he fists the material. “You said I could tear them off, correct?” 

“Yes,” you moan out in anticipation.

With a firm grip and a heated gaze, Yoongi yanks hard, and the material bites into your skin as a tearing sound fills the room. The right side of your undergarment falls away from your body. He proceeds to pull them off, pulling the ruined fabric down your opposite leg and tossing them carelessly.

Chuckling lightly, Yoongi rubs his face against the meat of your inner thigh. Pressing his lips to your soft flesh, he trails his lips up and over the white garter with a little black bow that adorns your left thigh. Smirking at you, he moves to hover over your body before molding his mouth to yours. Slipping his tongue into your mouth, you moan as it presses against your own. His hand runs up and down your leg before stopping at snapping your garter.

“We will leave this on,” he whispers against your lips. 

Yoongi's fingertips ghost over the skin of your leg as he makes his way to your most intimate spot. Using his middle finger, he rubs your entrance up and down before settling on your bundle of nerves. You gasp as he makes contact with his finger. His digit lightly drawing figure eights against your clit as he shoves his tongue back in your mouth.  He adds his ring finger, applying more pressure and speed as he circles them round and round. Pulling away from your mouth, he sits back on his knees before he finally enters your core with the same two fingers. 

“I need you,” you say breathlessly. “Yoongi please, I need you.”

“Are you sure you're ready?” he asks as his brow furrows slightly in concern. 

“Yes,” you whine. 

“You've become a demanding little thing, haven't you?” He teases, laughing a little bit. Leaning over you, he kisses your jawline up to your ear. “I like that,” he growls before giving in to your demands. 

You arch your back as you feel his hardened member enter you slowly and shallowly before Yoongi pulls back, leaving only the tip in place. You see his eyes flicker over your face to gauge your reaction before slowly pushing back in until you are completely joined. You close your eyes at the feeling of complete fullness. The push of his hips is slow and gentle after he pauses for a couple of seconds, giving you a moment to adjust to him. It was cute how he took such great care of you. However, that was not what you wanted at this exact moment. No, you can save for another day when he will probably be too worried to hurt you and the little one inside of you. Nope, not today. 

Placing your hands on his chest, you gently push at him until he pulls out of you. You quickly move to your knees and point to the bed. He raises his eyebrow at you, but he follows your silent command. You wait as he settles down against the pillows on your brand new bed. Throwing your leg over his hips, you grab his hard cock and sink down onto him. Yoongi's tongue presses to the side of his cheek as his eyes focus on your chest.  His hands trail up your side and lightly grasp your fuller breasts. They are quite tender but you don't stop him. 

Grabbing onto the headboard, you start to grind your hips back and forth against his own. His head tilts back as you gain speed as his mouth falls open slightly in pleasure. You close your eyes and let your own head fall forward, causing your hair to fall over your face. 

“Fucking look at me,” Yoongi demands and your head snaps up to look at him. “Hold on tight.”

You grip the dark brown wood as he plants his feet flat on the bed. With his hands on your hips, he thrusts up into you. Using all the strength you could muster, you meet each of his thrusts. Your ass hastily meets his thighs as his hips pound into you from below. The sound of your skin slapping, both of you panting with heaving chests. It was erotic. It was dirty. It was everything that you needed.

“Yoongi…I…I need..” You need something. What is it that you need? You have no idea. He feels too good. It's so good that you can't even form a complete sentence. 

“Keep riding me,” he growls. “I got it.”

Pressing his thumb on your clit, he hastily rubs harsh circles making you bounce a little faster trying to reach your high. Your thighs start to burn, sweat starts to drip down from your hairline but you refuse to lose focus. Moving your hands back to rest against his knees, you move to rest on your feet. Knees wide, your sway and rock your hips as fast as you can while leaned back, supporting yourself with your arms.

“Fucking, perfect,” he pants as his fingers still work thier magic rubbing against your clit. 

“Oh, god, yes,” you moan, leaning back further. His tip kisses your sweet spot with every drag of his cock against your hot wet walls. You fight the urge to close your knees at the feeling but you were losing the fight. Your knees finally start to give into the urge but Yoongi knocks them open with one his hands so they don't obstruct his view of his cock sinking into your wetness over and over again “I…can't…”

Yoongi is up in a flash, pushing 2 pillows under your hips as he lays you back. Yoongi grabs the back of your knees, spreading you wide open as he continues to thrust inside of you, not missing a beat. His pelvic bone hits your bundle of nerves with every slap. He continues to  catch your g spot with each expertly angled thrust that sends tingles shooting up your spine. You look up at him. His hair wet with his sweat, swaying over his forehead. His teeth biting into his bottom lip, trying to hold off for you. He is the pure embodiment of every fantasy that you have ever had. You're living, breathing fantasy.

Yoongi suddenly moves and crosses your ankles around the back of his neck while holding your legs straight against his body. The change causes your body to raise off the pillows, angling his hips for even deeper penetration. You cry out and grab at one of the pillows by your head as you feel yourself start to tighten around him.  

“Shit, baby,” Yoongi grunts breathlessly. With the sound of his raspy voice,  your world explodes, and your body stiffens. The stars, the fireworks, the flames all hit at once as your pussy grips his cock, pulsating and coating him in your sweet essence. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

You feel his body still in your haze as your legs fall limp. Lips pressing against your cheek finally brings you back to the moment. You can feel the sweat from his hair mingle with your flushed face. Panting breaths start to slow, his body collapsing at your side. His hand reaches out and  cups your face. You turn to look at him with a small smile. You're met with his half lidded gaze and a satisfied smirk. It makes you giggle a bit. His hand trails down your body before settling  on your stomach. Your heart jumps a little bit. You sigh, resting your own hand on top of his.

“Yoongi?” You ask quietly.

“Hmm,” he hums tiredly in response.  

“I…,” you start, but the words get stuck in your throat. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he answers before he kisses your cheek once more. “So fucking much.”

Yoongi rolls out of the bed and makes his way to the bathroom. You can hear him start the shower and tinker around in the cabinets. You look up at your ceiling and gently rub your stomach. Soon, you will tell him soon. 

Tagged Readers:

@mggv97 , @kam9404 , @svnbangtansworld , @futuristicenemychaos ,  @notarshia , @busanbby-jjk , @bontensbabygirl , @aretha170 , @granataepfelchen

[fiber-optic-alligator]

GOING TO TRY AND SLIP THIS IN REAL QUICK

Uh can I request some first contact au soft vore swindle (any) with a human he found maybe when humans first started getting taken?

It took me ten years and I am absolutely exhausted but HERE IS THE SWINDLE FIC!!! I, um, forgot to add vore, but there is an allusion to it, so I hope you'll still enjoy this! I'm so sorry it took me so long to write :(

How To Discover A New Species And Make Money Off Of It (Totally Ethical Strategies Which Break No Laws)

Pairing: Swindle x Human Reader (First Contact Au)

Word Count: 2462

Summary: After traveling to Earth on a mission to locate rumored Energon deposits, Swindle discovers a new species in which he quickly realizes he can make quite a big amount of money off of...and they are called humans. Capturing you and deciding you will be the ambassador of his newest endeavor, you have no choice but to let Swindle rope you into a twisted plan where he hopes to turn humans into the popular Cybertronian pets.

  The planet is a small, diminutive thing: a piece of space rock cast out into far reaches, reeking of organic growth that shows itself in shades of dark green, desolate brown, deep blue, and patches of puffy white swirling above everything else in the form of physical moisture. Its closest neighbors are all wastelands, either long abandoned by their inhabitants, or completely devoid of anything to begin with. Earth, as it is registered in Cybertron’s database, is the only planet in this backwater area of the galaxy to host life. It’s an insignificant sphere, circling an insignificant sun, in an insignificant solar system. No one would be caught here, simply because there is nothing to see.

  Yet, here Swindle is, doing just that. Staring out at the mud puddle planet, he wonders how he ever thought accepting a job here would turn out to be profitable. The talks of Energon deposits being found on Earth had been too much to ignore. Such claims are typically rumors started by mechs with far too much time on their servos: fables of the purest Energon ever discovered hiding deep beneath the soil of places such as this one. If he were younger, Swindle would have fallen for the stories on the spot. Many newbies do. They think they’re making it big, wasting energy blasting off to no-name systems, ready to pour their resources into expeditions that always yield no crop. Fads fade. Stories end. And Swindle is not new to his trade.

  He does his research. He interviews those he deems noteworthy. He takes notes. He’s careful. Ultimately, results prove Earth definitely has something. Energon? Eh, he’s not too sure. But his intel tells him it's something he can make shanix off of. A boon. A land mine of opportunity.

  So he’s taken the chance. But now that he’s here, with his ship gradually getting closer and closer to the planet, he’s beginning to believe his research might have yielded false information. Earth is looking far from profitable, and he can tell no Cybertronian faction has made contact with its surface yet. It surprises him; Autobots and Decepticons, despite their countless differences, are extremely good at the art of colonization, whether accidental or intentional. It seems like practically every planet in the universe has been touched by his species in one shape or form. But no such thing can be found here. His ship’s systems aren’t picking up on a single Cybertronian satellite or base. It might very well be possible that he is the first to ever lay optics upon Earth.

  This was a bad idea, he thinks. High chances will be that his search will bring up nothing. He could turn his ship around now and head off to places where his time will be better spent. He won’t regret it. Probably.

  He continues looking at Earth and vents a frustrated exhale through his intake. Whatever. He’s here anyway. Might as well take a look around.

 ��The forest his ship lands in has various creatures frantically darting out of harm’s way when it makes contact with the ground and stabilizes its support footing. With a hiss, the bay doors open, and he steps out slowly, his optics quickly adjusting to take in Earth’s light. It's all…very green. There’s a slight wind whistling between the leaves, making them rustle with a strange noise Swindle isn’t used to. He cringes and considers retreating back aboard the ship, then decides against it. His external diagnostics register no visible threats in the immediate area. He’ll be fine. After all, what organic would pick a fight with a giant alien robot such as himself?

  He types some instructions into his data pad. A panel opens on the side of the ship, and out comes a scouting drone, the perfect way for him to get a Seeker’s eye view of the terrain. “Alright,” he murmurs to himself. “Here we go. Let’s see what this planet is hiding.”

  The drone cycles and whirrs, then darts up into the air. Its video feed translates onto the data pad, giving him a clear aerial picture. At this vantage point, he can see that this forest he’s landed in stretches on for a long time. The drone picks up on various sorts of metals: his universal translation tool registers these as iron, copper, even gold. Sounds quite expensive, but they aren’t what he’s looking for. He types in a primary locating directive. Find Energon.

  A few cycles pass, and still, he locates nothing. Just more green and strange lifeforms he couldn’t care less about. Swindle grumbles and wishes he brought some drinks with him to pass the time. There definitely isn’t any Energon here, and that frustrates him beyond measure. But it is a big planet by organic standards…just because Energon isn’t in this immediate location doesn’t mean his search is a total loss. He worries at his lower derma in thought. Perhaps he should check the polar caps next…or maybe the equatorial region?

  Snap.

  His audial processors immediately pick up on the noise. Intrusion. Whipping around, he has his gun out in an instant, the barrel revving up with pulsing energy, eager to incinerate whatever is in its path.

  What stands before him-or below him-is a lifeform. A strange, fleshy being standing on two skinny legs with equally skinny arms. It stares up at him with big, alien eyes, and it’s flappy mouth parts in what he can only assume to be surprise. Swindle blinks, then slowly lowers the gun.

  “Well, well, well,” he says, snapping the weapon away and crouching down with a curious tilt of the helm. “What…are you?” All of the natives he's seen so far are either quadrupedal or avian. This animal is neither; it stands like he does, yet clearly displays the qualities of subpar intelligence. It hasn’t done a single thing so far. It’s just…there. Staring. Perhaps a fright response? Does it think he can’t see it because it’s so still?

  “You certainly aren’t Energon.” He clicks his derma, thinking. “But you are interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite like you before.” He wonders, is it friendly? He does a quick scan and comes to the satisfying conclusion that the creature-you-doesn’t harbor any natural defenses against his kind. He could break you in half like a stick with little-to-no pressure required. He extends a servo, intending to be friendly.

  You finally snap into action and stumble back, letting out a yelp. He can’t help laughing when you fall over onto your aft, minuscule digits digging uselessly into the forest floor. Primus, you are pathetic. No claws, no antlers, no wings…what purpose do you serve for this planet? Your species definitely must be at critical risk of extinction.

  Yet…he feels his spark soften when he observes your trembling body and listens to your soft squeaks. You…you’re adorable. Swindle is a hardened soul, one who doesn’t fall for the idea of cute easily. Yet you’ve managed to make him want to say “Awww” after looking at you for less than five cycles. Is this your way of self-preservation? Can you somehow influence the feelings of others in order to escape danger?

  He wants to know more. He’s intrigued by you. Snapping his digits, he reaches forward. “C’mere, little thing. Let’s get a better look at you.”

  Your face contorts into an expression of pure panic, and you fumble away from his looming servo, a startled shriek leaving you. But unfortunately for you, he’s far too quick, and snatches you into a fist before your tiny brain can keep up with his movements. You immediately begin struggling, letting out these sharp squeaks and desperate chatters. Swindle sighs and gives you a very patient look. “Quit squirming, alright? I swear I’m not going to hurt you as long as you don’t hurt me. Though I’m guessing you probably can’t. You’re barely taller than my index digit. Why are you so small, huh?”

  He turns you over and observes you from every angle, being careful not to rough you up too much. You wear fabrics over your body and a weird sort of bag against your back. Swindle easily slips it off of you and holds it to one optic, scanning its inner contents. Just paper books and a weird ocular device. He snorts and throws it away, disinterested. You don’t seem to like this and begin pushing at his digits with a frantic desperation that has him chuckling.

  “That’s not going to do much for you.” He brings you closer to his face and inhales your scent. A pleasant, woodsy aroma that only seems to permeate from organics fills his olfactory sensors and makes him shiver with delight. “How wonderful. You smell amazing. Almost on par with Energon.”

  Oh. That reminds him. He’s here to find Energon, not ogle at weird little Earth creatures. He sighs and shifts you to his left servo so he can recall his drone. “Not much here to see besides you, pipsqueak,” he mutters as he watches the vessel speed back over to his ship and return to its charging panel. “Let’s go do some further exploring of this planet, alright? I think I’d like to hold onto you for a bit longer.” He smiles down at you. “You’re kind of cute. You don’t mind hanging out with good ol’ Swindle, do ya?”

  You certainly do mind, with the way you continue to wriggle around with your arms flailing. Scared squeaks turn into angry growls, with you narrowing your eyes and puffing up to express your indignation. He watches you, then revs his engine and bares his denta, growling back at you with such a loud rumble, it sends a frenzy of avians flapping from the tops of the trees.

  You snap your mouth shut and shrink back, any rebellious bravado previously displayed disappearing with the avians. Swindle grins satisfactorily. “You try and bite,” he says. “I bite back harder. Now be a good Earthling and enjoy the ride, alright? I’ll let you go once I’m bored of you.”

  He walks slowly, taking his time not to accidentally knock a tree over or step on an accidental organic. You are quiet and oddly still, except for your constant vibrations which almost have him feeling rather guilty for scaring you into submission…almost. Glancing down at you, he watches the way you lower your head to hide your face beneath the cover of your hair. Liquid drips down onto his digit.

  Ah. You’re leaking from your eyes. Crying. He didn’t know Earth animals could do that. He raises the end of his thumb and runs it lightly over your cheeks, wiping them away. “Don’t do that, little one, come on,” he says in the most soothing tone he can muster. “You don’t have to be scared of me. I’m just your friendly neighborhood salesbot, yeah? Just a guy trying to survive like every other punk in the universe. Why would I hurt you?”

  You sniffle and peer at him with those big, soulful eyes. And oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve struck an arrow straight into his spark. A soft gasp escapes him, and he tilts your head back further. “By Primus, I have never seen something as cute as you. So soft…so small…” He ruffles your hair and earns himself a chirp as you swat his digit away. “Ha, and feisty too. I wonder…just how much would a bot pay to buy you as a pet?”

  The gears begin turning. A new idea shows itself to Swindle as the prospect of a tantalizingly lucrative step into an industry he hasn’t bothered contemplating until now. Cybertronians, for all of their ingrained brutality, love pets. He thinks it's because his kind are so war-torn, so used to the bloody, the disgusting, the traumatic. So many veterans on all factional sides own cuddly therapy companions which aid them in their long road to recovery. Helio hamsters, cyber dogs and cats, even glitch mice and turbofoxes…not to mention various other non-Cybertronian native animals hailing from other planets across the cosmos. Yes, the pet trade for mechs is quite popular, and he knows it won’t lose its momentum any time soon.

  So why can’t he get into it?

  If Swindle was to suddenly return to Cybertron with a new creature…a tiny, delicate lifeform from the distant Earth, advertised as the perfect companion for any bot…he could begin a whole business. Gentle, squishy, and oh-so cute! A lifelong companion who engages with you and offers the ultimate form of loyalty! Buy one for your sparklings, your conjunx, or yourself! Yes, yes, he can see it now! He could make millions if he plays his cards right! Perhaps even billions if it really takes off!

  He brings out his data pad and holds it over you. If you’re going to sell, you’re going to need a proper name to sell with. “Scan lifeform,” he orders. “Identify.”

  The data pad is slow with it. Its light casts over you and makes you wince, giving a long, contemplative hum as its AI races through the Cybertronian web and searches for a clear species identification. When it finally lets out a pleasant beep and reveals all found information, Swindle swears he sees shanix flashing before his optics.

  Species: human. Homeworld: Earth. Status: Critically endangered. Not protected by the Prime Universal Protected Organisms Law. Known clients are estimated to start at…20,000 shanix.

  “20,000!” He whistles and grins delightedly. “Good Primus, you’re worth that much? Who knew I had such an expensive little twerp sitting right in the palm of my hand?” He laughs, ecstatic. Forget the Energon. What he can make off of you and the rest of your kind is twice as much as a regular run would get him. This is what has been hiding on Earth. This is the boon. The opportunity.

  He leers at you, not even seeing you as just a fascinating animal anymore. You’re a product to take advantage of, to sell, to milk for all of your worth. Swindle’s done it before. He likes to say it’s nothing personal, because it isn’t. After all, he’s just surviving, trying to earn a life like anyone else. When he looks into your terrified eyes and sees the way you go pale at the sight of his nearly crazed expression, he thinks about how many bots will be won over by this face, how he’ll be rolling in dough by the time he’s through with Earth.  “Listen to me, little one,” he says. “You and I are going to be very good business partners from now on. I think I’ll keep you as a showcase specimen. Which leads into my next question…where can I find more of you?”

[4nyangnyangz]

Derrière le Masque 🪷

synopsis: while looking around at an art exhibit, you encounter a masked stranger whose enigmatic presence leaves you captivated. when fate brings you together again, you begin to uncover the secrets behind his mask. as his hidden world unfolds, so does an unexpected connection—one that could either bring you closer or reveal truths that change everything.

pairings: painter!huening kai x fem reader

tags: strangers to lovers(?), fluff, a bit of angst IF YOU SQUINT, slightly suggestive towards the end, implications of the reader being older than Kai(he calls her noona once), huening siblings are mentioned!

wordcount: 7k (there might be typos/grammatical errors, this isn't proofread!!)

a/n: made this while I was listening to wave to earth and having a hyuka brainrot,,, got the idea of painter hyuka after looking through the minisode 3 romantic ver. concept photos, HE IS JUST SO BEAUTIFUL GOOD LORD. PS. the title translates to "behind the mask" in english!! (I CAN'T SPEAK FRENCH SO THE TITLE COULD BE INACCURATE!)

fic below the cut!

-------------------------

You looked around, trying to settle in to the unfamiliar environment around you. A gentle hum of conversations mixed with the echoes of soft footsteps on polished floors fills the air of the museum. You wander through the galleries while passing by groups of people observing each artwork, each person lost in their own interpretation, sharing knowing smiles or animated discussions.

“Y/N! Over here!”, an excited voice calls out to you from a distance. You turned to the direction of where the voice came from and you were greeted by a familiar face which made you sigh in relief.

You carefully passed through the small crowds as you walked towards your friend, Winter, who was one of the artists showcasing their works in the art exhibit that took place in the museum. You accepted her invite as a way of showing your support to her, since she has been one of your closest friends since high school.

“I'm so glad you're here!”, Winter exclaims and immediately pulls you in for a hug. You hug her back with a smile on your face, feeling proud of your friend's achievements.

“I thought you wouldn't come, since you didn't text me or anything.”, she mutters while she rests her chin on your shoulder,embracing you tightly.

“Don't be silly, of course I'd come! I just wanted to surprise you.”, you chuckle, hugging her tighter.

The both of you pull away from the hug after a few minutes and immediately started the conversation like you had just spoken yesterday, catching up on what you missed. It's been months since you last saw each other and you had only communicated with her over the phone, so it made you emotional to see your friend again like this.

Your conversation with her didn't last long however, as she needed to attend to the guests exploring the exhibit, but the both of you promised to meet up again soon when you had the time.

After bidding farewell to your friend, you had no other plans in mind. Aside from coming there to support her, you didn't really know what else to do. You weren't exactly an expert when it comes to art, but you certainly wanted to keep looking around the exhibit more.

“I should probably just look around while I'm here...”' you muttered while looking down to check the time on your phone. You slowly put your phone back in your purse and proceed to walk down the hallway, admiring the various paintings that were being displayed as you passed by.

Something catches your eye—a row of paintings by the same artist, lined up in perfect harmony. Each piece was unique, yet there was a thread of continuity that tied them together. You felt drawn in, as if the paintings were whispering their stories directly to you. You were captivated by the way each painting felt like a window into the artist's soul.

Clusters of people surrounded you and you were in awe from a wide range of people that had the same thought, admiring the row of paintings that were being displayed. Gasps of admiration rippled through the audience, punctuated by murmurs of awe and appreciation. A group of art enthusiasts were gathered beside you, discussing their thoughts as they observed the paintings thoroughly.

“It seems the artist chose to remain anonymous this year, too.”

“If only we knew who were behind these beautiful paintings, we would love to give credit where it's due.”

“It’s a shame we can’t know who created this. I want to understand the person behind these emotions.”

As the discussions swirled, an art critic stepped forward, passionately defending the artist’s choice.

“Art can exist without the artist's narrative dictating its value. This is a statement about the work itself, challenging us to find meaning within the canvas rather than through a biography.”

The crowd shifted between admiration and frustration, some nodding in agreement, while others remained resolute in their disappointment. The air was thick with the opposing reactions—curiosity, appreciation, and a longing for connection. You were intrigued, but also starting to get overwhelmed by the contrasting emotions from the crowd.

The vibrant colors of the artworks blurred into the background as you focused on finding a way out of the crowd. You walked away in a hurry, squeezing through the groups of people surrounding the area.

You suddenly bumped into someone—an unexpected encounter that halted your hurried steps.

You mutter a small apology as you look up to face the hooded figure standing in front of you. A mask covered the lower half of his face, and he had wavy blonde hair resting on top of his forehead that was slightly covering his eyes. You were quick to notice how he had defined features that were evident despite his face being covered. The fabric of his hood framed his face, adding an enigmatic quality that made it hard to look away.

You took a step back as you felt your heart quickening, catching yourself studying him. As you shifted to move past him, your eyes locked for a fleeting moment. You noticed how his eyes looked somewhat empty, yet you felt that his gaze was soft, concealed by the lack of emotion displayed in his eyes. In that instant, you felt an electric connection, a shared understanding of the allure of concealment. He was a figure shrouded in mystery, yet somehow, you sensed a depth beneath the surface—a story waiting to be told.

You apologized once more and immediately excuse yourself, walking away as you placed your right hand on your chest. You let out a sigh of relief as you stepped out of the museum, while the encounter continues to linger in your mind like an unfinished painting, leaving you both intrigued and curious about the identity behind the mask.

--------------

The air was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee as you stood behind the counter of the bustling coffee shop. The vibrant glow from the street lights outside streamed through the large windows, casting warm patches of light on the polished wooden surfaces.

It was Friday, almost a week after you went to the art exhibit that your friend invited you to. The café was typically crowded on weekends, but today it was quieter and less crowded than usual. You glanced around, catching a glimpse of the customers that were seated. A student sat in the corner with their earbuds in, furiously typing away on her laptop with a half-finished latte cooling beside her. On the table across her was a couple huddled over a shared pastry, laughing softly as they shared stories, their eyes sparkling with affection. You smiled to yourself, enjoying your daily routine of observing the people that would come to the café.

You glanced towards the entrance of the café to see a figure approaching, their presence strikingly different from the usual crowd. They wore a dark cap pulled low over their eyes and a mask that obscured the lower half of their face, giving them an air of mystery.

Despite the disguise, something about them felt familiar, like a fleeting memory hovering just out of reach. You greeted them with a warm smile as they glanced through the menu that was being displayed on the screen behind you. They turn their attention to you after a few seconds, seemingly after deciding what to order.

“Hey,” they said, their voice slightly muffled but still warm. “I'd like a medium strawberry acai lemonade to go, please.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, trying to mask your curiosity. As you prepared their drink, you couldn’t help but study the details—how the cap cast shadows on their features and the way their eyes flickered with intrigue. It felt like they were hiding something, but you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or just part of their aura. The mysterious stranger meets your eyes, as if they noticed that you were taking quick yet not so subtle glances at them while you were preparing their drink. You immediately look away and attempt to focus at the task at hand, feeling heat rush up to your cheeks.

As you continued to prepare their drink, thoughts still racing from the recognition, you hear a familiar voice again, tinged with curiosity.

“Sorry to bother, but are you free after this?”

You glance up at them, surprised but intrigued. The stranger stood there, slightly leaning against the counter while holding their phone, their cap slightly askew, revealing a few strands of their blonde hair. The mask still obscured part of their face, but their eyes sparkled with interest. After exchanging eye contact and taking a better look at them, your eyes widened and you felt your heart skip a beat as the recognition washed over you. The same eyes you had seen at the art exhibit sparkled beneath the brim of the cap, and in that moment, everything clicked into place.

The memory flooded back, the familiar intensity of their gaze helping you come into the realization: it was the mysterious person you had bumped into amidst the paintings, the one whose presence had captivated you. It felt surreal to see them here, hidden behind a mask and cap, yet unmistakably the same.

“Y-yeah, I think so,” you replied, attempting to hide what you were feeling while trying to gauge the sincerity of the invitation. “Why do you ask?”

The stranger puts his hand in the pocket of his pants, rummaging as if he was trying to find something.

“I don't know if you can remember, but you dropped this at the exhibit last Saturday. I wasn’t sure how to get it back to you since I didn’t have your contact information, so I’m really glad to see you again here.” the stranger mutters as he opens his hand to reveal a familiar item that takes you by surprise.

A small customized keyring of Glaceon, your favorite Pokémon character rests on his hand. You had been looking for it ever since that day, and you eventually gave up after realizing that you probably dropped it somewhere along the way, so you decided to just get a new one. You never expected that the person you bumped into that day would be the one to pick it up and return it to you.

“Oh gosh, I thought I lost them forever! I was literally about to just get a new one pre-made because I couldn't find them anywhere.”, you exclaim, a mix of relief and happiness evident in your face.

“I figured this would be important to you so I tried looking everywhere, I'm just glad I finally found you.” the stranger fiddles with the keyring in his hand, “Glaceon, huh... that's cute.”

“Wait, you play Pokémon too?”, your eyes lit up after realizing that they just recognized the character.

You hear a muffled chuckle come from the stranger before responding,

“Kind of. Just when I have free time.”

You were about to respond back and start gushing about one of your favorite games when you hear your co-worker clear her throat, interrupting your conversation.

“Ahem, y/n.”, the barista next to you, a tattooed woman with vibrant hair calls out to you, reminding you not to get too carried away with your conversation. You were still working, after all.

Your lips form into a small 'o' as the realization hits you and gets you flustered. You quickly pick up the Strawberry Acai Lemonade that you prepared and hand it over to the customer standing in front of you.

“I'll hold on to Glaceon for now. What time do you get off?”, the stranger asks as he take the drink from you and stuffed the keyring back in his pocket.

“My shift ends at 7, so...”, you paused and looked at the watch strapped to your wrist before continuing, “That's 2 hours from now.”

“Great, I'll be waiting for you at the park nearby. See you later then.”, the stranger says and you nod, accepting their invitation. He waves at you one last time before heading out of the café. You can’t help but smile after the interaction, you weren't expecting that you'd get your keyring back like this.

Your coworker leans in with a teasing glint in their eye. “I've seen people ask for your number but I haven't seen anyone get straight to the point and just ask you out like that before. Should I be worried?”

“He didn't 'ask me out', he just wanted to return the keyring that I lost.”, you reply as you sighed, fighting a grin.

“If you say so, but I wouldn't be surprised if he started coming here often.” they say, chuckling.

You rolled your eyes at them and the both of you laugh together.

-----------------

The fluorescent lights of the café buzz overhead as you finish up your last task, a mix of excitement and relief washing over you. You grab your jacket, toss it on, and make your way out of the building, the cool evening air greeting you like an old friend.

The city is alive with the sounds of laughter and chatter as you make your way to the park. You look around to see families picnicking, couples walking hand in hand, and kids running around with joy. You turn towards the sprawling oak tree and you started to get nervous after spotting a familiar figure kneeling on the sidewalk.

You felt your heart skip a beat, not just from their presence, but from the sight of them gently cradling a small bowl of cat food. A scruffy stray cat, fur matted and eyes wide with curiosity, approached him in a cautious manner. Curiously, you lean against a nearby lamppost, watching as they softly cooed to the cat, coaxing it closer with soothing words. Their kindness drew you in, and you felt warm after seeing them care for the stray cat.

After a few seconds of hesitating, the cat finally took a tentative step forward and began nibbling at the food. You slowly approach the both of them, taking careful steps to not startle the cat.

“Hey,” you say in a whisper, kneeling beside him and he turns to you after noticing your presence.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

He shrugs before responding.“Not at all, I haven't been waiting long. I just came across this little one and I had a pack of treats with me, so...”

You smiled at him before turning your direction back to the cat and he does the same. The both of you shared a glance, and you felt the connection deepen. It was as if the world around the both of you faded, leaving just the three of you in that moment—two people and a stray cat enjoying a simple act of kindness.

After a few minutes, the cat finished its meal and scurried away, leaving you both with lingering smiles and a sense of shared purpose. The both of you stood up, brushing your knees off. He grabs the Glaceon keyring out from his pocket and hands it over to you.

“Thank you so much, I got so upset when I couldn't find them anywhere. This just made my whole week,” you smile as you gently take the keyring from his hand. The slight touch of your skin makes your heart flutter. “Do you want to stop by somewhere? Let me get you something to snack on, at least.”

“Sure, I don't mind, but it's fine. You don't have to get me anything, really,” he replies.

“No, I insist. I'm starving, so let me get something for you too.” You say as you step forward to lead the way, determined not to give him a chance to decline.

You hear a muffled chuckle come from under his mask as he nods, muttering a small, “Okay.”

As you walk down the street, the bright lights of a nearby convenience store come into view. It’s small and cozy, the kind of place that feels like a treasure trove of late-night snacks.

“Do you have any favorites?” you ask as you push the door open, the familiar jingling of the bell overhead announcing your arrival.

He scans the aisles with crossed arms, a slight frown creasing his brow. “I usually go for pizza, but ice cream would be nice at this hour too…”

You chuckle, trying to ease the tension hanging between you. “That’s okay, just grab what you feel like eating. It’s on me.” His hesitation is palpable, a moment of uncertainty flickering in his eyes before you offer a reassuring smile.

As you both wander the aisles, the air is filled with the scent of snacks and the soft hum of the store. You steal a glance at him—his mask covers part of his face, but his eyes seem contemplative, guarded. He finally picks up a pint of mint chocolate ice cream from the freezer and turns to you, catching you observing him.

“Mint chocolate, huh?” you tease lightly, trying to break the ice. He raises an eyebrow, and you could almost see the confused expression he's making behind the mask.

“Yeah, it’s my favorite flavor,” he replies with a hint of pride.

You can’t help but grimace slightly. “Really? I’m not a fan. The mint just doesn’t sit right with me.”

His eyes widen a little, clearly surprised. “Seriously? What’s wrong with mint? It’s refreshing!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Refreshing, sure, but it feels like I’m eating toothpaste. I prefer something richer, like chocolate fudge or cookies and cream.”

He leans forward, intrigued. “So you’re a chocolate purist? I can respect that.”

You both chuckle before you continue browsing, the shared laughter and small conversations feel just out of reach, heightening the mystery of each other. Still, as he tosses a pint of mint chocolate ice cream into his basket, there’s a flicker of connection—a shared moment in the late-night glow of the store, where the outside world fades away, leaving just the two of you, uncertain but curious.

After making your selections, you step outside the convenience store, the night air cool against your skin. You find a small table nearby, the kind that’s seen better days but still feels welcoming under the glow of the streetlights.

“Mind if we sit here?” you ask, gesturing to the table. He nods, a hint of relief in his posture as he takes a seat across from you.

You unwrap your snacks, the sounds of crinkling wrappers filling the silence. He carefully sets his cup of mint chocolate ice cream down, glancing around with a hint of uncertainty, as if he was making sure there wasn't anyone around to see him. You look around, and turn to face him once you saw that the coast was clear and there wasn't anyone else around.

“You know, it’s going to be a bit tricky to eat that with the mask on,” you point out playfully, leaning back in your chair.

He looks at you with hesitant eyes, his fingers brushing against the fabric of the mask. “Yeah, but...”

“You could just take it off for a minute,” you say, your voice light but encouraging. “Nobody's around, and besides, I promise I won’t judge if that's what you’re worried about.” You offer him a smile, trying to make it as reassuring as possible.

He hesitates, clearly wrestling with something. Then he sighs, shoulders relaxing a little.“Alright, I guess you have a point.”

He pauses, studying you for a moment, as if deciding whether to trust you with whatever he’s about to reveal. The tension lingers in the air—just a heartbeat of silence—before it disappears as he slowly pulls the mask down, revealing his face.

You freeze, completely caught off guard.

It’s like everything else in the world fades away for a second as you take in his features. His face is almost striking yet gentle at the same time, in a way that feels almost effortless. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. The kind of face you’d expect to see on the cover of a magazine, but somehow more real in person. His eyes are warm and dream-like but a little guarded, there’s something about them that feels... genuine. A trace of a smile plays at the corners of his lips, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve been staring too long.

“Sorry for the late introduction," he says, his voice a bit hesitant. "I wasn’t sure how to go about it earlier.”

He pauses for a moment, studying your reaction, before continuing, “I’m... Kai—”

“Huening Kai. From the Huening family, right?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You blink a couple of times, mentally scrambling to catch up.

He nods slowly, holding your gaze with a slight intensity. There's a brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he adds, “Yeah... I’m Huening Kai. But you can just call me Kai, really. You probably know me because of my sisters.” His voice drops slightly, almost apologetically, as he looks away, an awkwardness settling in.

Your mind races as the pieces fall into place. His sisters. The models. The towering figures in the fashion world whose faces grace billboards and magazines everywhere. You've seen them countless times, admired their poise and style from a distance. But sitting across from you now is the brother—the one who’s always kept himself out of the limelight, the middle child who stays hidden behind a veil of mystery. The one you’ve never seen before.

“Wait a second,” you murmur, still trying to wrap your head around it. “You're... really him? I didn’t realize I was sitting across from someone so... famous.”

He lets out a small chuckle, but there's no warmth behind it. “Well, I’m not exactly famous. Not in the same way they are,” he adds, his tone a little defensive, a little tired.

You raise an eyebrow, sensing something deeper. “What do you mean? Your sisters are huge. You're part of that family. How are you not as well-known?”

He shifts uncomfortably, glancing down at his ice cream cup as though it holds some kind of answer.

“That’s exactly why I don’t like being in the spotlight. I...didn’t want to follow the path they set for me.” His fingers absently trace the rim of the cup.

“My family’s been in the public eye for ages. My sisters, they're everywhere—billboards, magazines, the runway. But I... I never really wanted to be part of all that.”

You lean in a little, intrigued by the rawness in his voice. “So, you... chose a different path?”

He nods, his eyes briefly flickering with something hard to pinpoint—frustration, maybe, or regret.

“Yeah. My family’s always had these big plans for me—training, appearances, all that stuff they thought was best for me. But it wasn’t for me. So I stayed out of the spotlight. I didn’t want that life. I wanted something else—something more... personal, I guess.”

There's a quiet sincerity in his words, a weight that hangs in the air between you. It's a side of him that doesn’t quite match the image you'd imagined, and it makes you want to know more, however you didn't want to dwell on the topic too much.

You realize you're treading dangerously close to territory that feels too personal for a first meeting, especially with someone like him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable, so you quickly clear your throat and shift gears.

“Well, I guess it's only fair I introduce myself too,” you start, trying to keep the mood light, “I'm y/n, you probably know this already, but I work as a barista on the café just down the street, where you saw me. I like to play games during my free time, but you might've already guessed that after seeing the Glaceon keyring.” you say with a chuckle and Kai laughs, you notice the way his shoulders relax a little.

“So, what brought you to the art exhibit last week?” he asks, taking a small scoop of ice cream.

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, I got invited by a friend. She was one of the artists there. I haven’t seen her in a few months and I was free, so I figured I’d drop by to support her.” You smile, taking out a chocolate chip cookie from the wrapper and taking a bite. “How about you?”

Kai’s eyes flicker with a brief change, like a shadow crossing his expression. You almost miss it—he’s quick to cover it up—but you see the subtle shift. He clears his throat and takes another bite of ice cream, suddenly looking just a little bit more uncomfortable.

“Oh, I just… I went for the atmosphere, I guess,” he says a little too casually. “It seemed like a nice event. I, uh… I like paintings and I go to art galleries sometimes. So I thought I’d check it out.”

You nod, not thinking much of it.

“Yeah, it was pretty cool. Some of the pieces really blew me away, though. There was this one collection—landscapes, mostly—I can't find a way to describe them since I'm not really an artistic person. I think I spent most of my time just standing there, taking them in. They were so vivid. It's a shame the artist chose to hide their identity, though.”

Kai’s hand stiffens for a split second. His eyes flicker to you, then quickly away, his face flushing just a bit, and he suddenly becomes very interested in his ice cream cup.

“Oh… really? That's a bummer..” he says, his voice just a bit too quiet. “You, uh… you liked those pieces?” His tone is a little uncertain, like he’s trying not to let on too much.

“Yeah, it’s a real shame, honestly,” you say, taking another bite of your chocolate chip cookie, enjoying the taste as you talk. “I mean, the art was just so powerful. You could tell there was so much emotion behind it. Especially with the landscapes—like the mountains at sunset? There was this depth to them that was almost… haunting. I wanted to know more, to understand what the artist was feeling when they created it, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” he mutters, his voice softer now. He glances at you briefly before quickly looking away. “It’s always interesting to try and figure out what the artist was thinking, especially when they’re not around to explain it.”

Kai’s gaze drops to his cup, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge. There’s a strange unease in his posture now, like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or not. The words hang in the air, unspoken, before he finally clears his throat.

“Sometimes, though, it’s better to leave things open to interpretation. People see art differently, right?”

“I guess that’s true, I think the best artists aren’t afraid to share their vision. It’s not about just putting a painting out there—it’s about sharing a piece of yourself.” you say thoughtfully, “But I think if the art is good enough, it can speak louder than the artist ever could. Sometimes it’s better to let the art stand on its own.” You smile at him, clearly passionate about the subject.

Kai seems to relax just a fraction, though there’s still a subtle tension around him. He forces a small smile, but there’s something in his eyes—a mix of guilt, embarrassment, and something deeper—that you can’t quite place.

“Yeah… I guess you’re right.” He glances at you, his face a little flushed. “I mean, it’s just art, right? Not everything needs a big explanation.”

You nod in agreement, though you still can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story.

-------------------

It's Saturday, and a week has passed since your unexpected encounter with Kai. In that short span of time, so much has happened, yet the days seem to have gotten a little easier, a little brighter. The usual hustle and bustle of working at the café remains, but there's a noticeable lightness to your routine now.

After exchanging numbers, you and Kai started talking more—texting, calling, and meeting up when you could. Slowly, you both opened up, and you began to get to know each other in ways you hadn't anticipated. Kai turned out to be full of surprises. You discovered he was of mixed ethnicity: his mother is Korean, and his father is German-American. That blend of cultures explains his striking features, with sharp eyes and a unique, almost ethereal look.

He also revealed something that made you smile: he was two years younger than you. A fun fact, but it only added to the growing sense of camaraderie between you two. And, to your delight, Kai had a quirky side—you learned that he has a collection of plushies and stuffed animals, something you never would have guessed from his usual cool, laid-back demeanor.

But the best part? The two of you seemed to share so many interests and hobbies. From the same taste in music to mutual love for quirky movies and favorite games, it felt like the more you discovered, the more you had in common. And somehow, as the days went by, it was as if you’d known each other far longer than just a week.

It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that you’d originally just wanted to befriend Kai. After all, he was kind enough to seek you out just to return your keyring, a small gesture that had caught you off guard. But as you spent more time with him, getting to know him better, you couldn’t help but notice that little flutter in your chest whenever you saw him, heard him laugh, or felt the quiet spark between you two. Before you knew it, a small crush had started to form—a soft, hesitant thing that grew each time you connected.

Well, that was the case… until he asked you to hang out with him on the weekend. You remember the moment clearly, as if it had just happened yesterday.

It was a Wednesday night, and you were walking side by side with Kai after your shift. The streets were quieter than usual, the park just a few blocks away offering a peaceful backdrop to the end of a long day. You were lost in conversation, laughing about something silly when suddenly, he said something that made you stop in your tracks.

Kai took a few more steps ahead before noticing you weren’t following. He turned back, his brows raised in quiet curiosity.

“Wait, what?” you asked, not quite trusting your ears. You had heard him correctly, but you needed to be sure your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you. You looked up at him, waiting for some sort of clarification.

Kai’s lips curled into a soft, amused smile, and he let out a low chuckle. “I said, do you want to come over to my place this weekend? We can play Genshin, Pokémon, watch anime, or… whatever you feel like doing. I just want to hang out with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could filter your words, they spilled out excitedly. “Sure! I'd love to—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing how quickly you’d agreed. You tried to recover, clearing your throat and regaining some semblance of composure. “I mean… I’m off that day, and I don’t really have anything better to do, so... yeah, sure. Why not?” You laughed awkwardly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. You were hoping that he wouldn't notice that state you were in.

Kai smiled at your response, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “Cool, I’ll send you the address when I get home then,” he said casually, but the soft smile he gave you made your heart race again.

Now here you are, standing nervously in front of his apartment door. Your fingers anxiously toy with the hem of your shirt, the weight of indecision hanging over you. Should you ring the doorbell now, or wait just a little longer? You pull your phone from your pocket once again, unlocking it to check your reflection in the camera, making sure your makeup is still on point.

You catch yourself wondering if you’ve overdone it, but can’t help the doubt creeping in. It is your first time meeting up with him on the weekend, so why settle for the usual work clothes when you can dress up a little? So that's exactly what you did. You chose to go for a simple, casual yet cute vibe for your outfit, a reflection of your personality. Still, the thought of being alone with him in his space makes your stomach flutter with nerves.

After a long, drawn-out moment of hesitation, you take a deep breath to steady yourself, then press the doorbell. Your heart pounds as you wait, counting the seconds, the anticipation building with every beat. Finally, the door clicks open.

You look up and find Kai standing in the doorway. He’s dressed casually, wearing a loose gray hoodie and black sweatpants. It’s nothing extravagant, but the moment your eyes meet, a rush of warmth floods your cheeks. You’ve seen him dressed in something similar before, but there’s something about seeing him in these comfortable, almost cozy clothes that sends your thoughts spinning.

Lately, you've noticed that it’s been harder to keep those stray thoughts at bay. You can’t help but think about him at the oddest moments. You catch yourself re-reading his texts when work gets stressful, and somehow, it always makes you smile. It’s gotten to the point where your co-worker has noticed you spacing out, daydreaming in the middle of a shift. Your little “crush” on him has turned into something more… something that you can’t quite shake off.

“Hey, Y/N! Sorry if I kept you waiting,” Kai says, running a hand through his hair as he gestures for you to come inside.

“Hey, Kai. Not at all, don’t worry!” You force a smile, trying to steady your racing heart, and step inside.

Your eyes quickly scan the unfamiliar space as he shuts the door behind you. You flinch slightly at the sound, the soft click of the door locking behind you amplifying the tension in the air.

As you step inside, you immediately notice how spacious the apartment feels. The high ceilings and open layout give it a sense of freedom, like the space was designed to breathe. Natural light pours in through large windows, casting soft beams that highlight the simple yet creative details of the room.

It’s clear that this place reflects Kai in every corner. The furniture is minimalistic, but it’s carefully chosen, with a mix of modern lines and vintage pieces that feel both comfortable and intentional.

It’s really happening. You’re alone with him now... in his house. But it’s just to hang out. Nothing weird about it. Just play some games, maybe have a laugh... You try to convince yourself, but the fluttering in your stomach refuses to settle.

Kai turns to you with a quick glance, then smiles softly. “Follow me. I have something to show you.”

You nod, feeling your heart pick up its pace, and follow him as he leads you down a short hallway. After a few steps, he stops in front of a closed door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. You pause too, standing beside him, your gaze lingering on his hand as he slowly, almost cautiously, wraps his fingers around the handle.

“I...”, he looks at you for just a second, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he looks away, his hesitation hanging heavy in the air.

The nervousness in your own chest grows with his. What’s going on? You think, worry creeping in as you watch him falter.

“What's wrong?” you ask, your voice soft, but the concern evident in the way you step closer to him.

The earlier tension shifts, replaced by a different kind of unease. It’s not about you anymore—it’s about him. You don’t want him to feel uncomfortable, especially if something is making him hesitate this much.

You gently reach out, placing your hand on his free one. A small, comforting smile pulls at your lips as you give his hand a reassuring squeeze. His fingers loosen slightly on the doorknob, but he doesn't pull away from your touch.

Kai looks at you, his eyes softening, and for the first time since you arrived, he seems to exhale, a quiet calm settling over him. The tension in his shoulders eases, and you can almost see him relax, if only just a little.

“You're probably going to hate me for this, but I didn't want to keep any secrets from you.” he says, a light laugh escaping him, though there’s an edge of uncertainty in it. You shake your head, not needing to hear more.

Your heart races. It dawns on you then: whatever lies behind that door, he’s kept it hidden. And now, he trusts you enough to share it. There’s a mixture of excitement and anticipation building in your chest, but also a growing sense of wonder.

What could it be? What secret does he keep in that room? You think to yourself.

Kai’s hand tightens around yours for a brief moment before he takes a deep breath and slowly pushes the door open, revealing the unknown inside.

The door creaks open, and you step into the room, immediately struck by the soft, golden light pouring in through the large window at the far wall. The sunlight spills across the space, bathing everything in a warm, almost dreamlike glow. It feels intimate, personal—like you’ve stepped into something that is deeply, intrinsically Kai.

You take a few steps further in, your gaze drawn to the walls. The paintings are everywhere—some framed and hung meticulously, others leaning casually against the walls as if still waiting for their final placement. The works range from precise and vivid to rough and abstract, but they all share a raw energy, a depth of emotion that’s impossible to ignore.

Some of the paintings are finished—brilliantly detailed and vibrant with emotion. Others are in progress, the brushstrokes thick and loose, as though caught mid-thought. And the way the light catches on the unfinished works, highlighting the vivid streaks of color, you get the feeling that each piece was crafted here in this very room, in that same soft, intimate light. The unfinished ones don’t feel incomplete—they feel alive, as if the artist is still in the process of giving birth to something profound.

Your heart beats a little faster as your eyes take in the sight. The realization hits you like a wave.

These paintings—they’re the ones you saw at the exhibit. The ones that had captivated you, left you wondering about the mysterious anonymous artist behind them. You remember standing in that gallery, looking at the work, feeling a strange, magnetic pull to it, wondering about the artist—who they were, what their story was, why they had chosen to remain faceless, unknown.

And now you know. The artist—the one who had everyone buzzing, everyone desperate to know their identity—is Kai.

The pieces on the walls now are familiar, but they’re so much more than you expected. You had been amazed by them at the gallery, but standing here in the room where they were created, the connection to each brushstroke, each layer of paint, feels much deeper. This is where it all started. This is where Kai has poured himself into every canvas, shaping emotions and stories in silence. And now, it feels like the weight of that silence is finally being lifted.

You turn to Kai, and for a brief moment, you can’t speak. The air between you is thick with the unspoken truth.

He’s watching you, his posture tense, but his eyes—the vulnerability in them is unmistakable. His gaze flickers over to the paintings, then quickly shifts back to you, as if he’s bracing himself for your reaction.

“I never thought I’d show anyone this side of me,” Kai says quietly, his voice almost lost in the stillness of the room. “But the world... they wanted to know who I was. The anonymous artist, the one behind these paintings... I didn’t want to reveal it. Not like this.”

Your breath catches, and you feel a tightness in your chest. The mystery, the anonymity—it all makes sense now. Everyone had been so desperate to uncover the artist behind the work, but Kai wasn’t ready to give that part of himself away. Not until now.

You move closer, your hand instinctively reaching out for his, a silent gesture of comfort, of connection.

“But you’re ready now,” you say softly, the weight of his words sinking in. “You’ve already shared your work with the world, but this... this is something deeper, isn’t it?”

Kai nods, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. There’s something almost relieved in his expression, like the burden of secrecy is finally lifting.

“I wasn’t ready to face what it would mean to have everyone know. But I think...” His voice falters for a moment, as if unsure of what he’s saying, but then he exhales deeply, as if coming to terms with it. “I think I’m ready for you to see it. For you to know.”

Your heart races as you take in his words. The paintings—the ones that had left you breathless, the ones that had sparked so many questions—are his. This whole time, you had admired them from afar, but now you see the artist behind them. You see him.

“They’re incredible, Kai,” you say, your voice soft, but full of awe. “The world deserves to know you did this. They deserve to see the person behind these works.”

He smiles, a slow, hesitant curve of his lips, and for the first time, you see the weight of the secret lifting from him. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll let them know. Maybe I’m ready.”

The room feels smaller now, not in a confining way, but in a way that draws you closer to him. This moment, this revelation, it’s like the light in the room has shifted, casting everything in a new, softer glow.

The paintings aren’t just paintings anymore—they’re pieces of Kai, of his journey, and they’re now part of something shared between the two of you.

You stand there, overwhelmed by the beauty of the room, the paintings, and the connection between them and Kai. It all feels so personal, so intimate. The realization hits you like a wave: Kai, the anonymous artist behind the work that captivated you, is standing right beside you.

Before you can stop yourself, your tears start to fall, unbidden and unexpected. You quickly wipe at your eyes, laughing nervously. You’re not sad—far from it—but overwhelmed, moved by the beauty of it all, and by the knowledge that Kai, the man you’re standing next to, is the one who created these masterpieces.

As silly as it may seem, it felt like fate had woven your paths together. From the moment his paintings first captivated you at the art exhibit to the chance encounter with him later that same day when you dropped your keyring, everything seemed to lead to this. Then there was that moment at the café when he finally returned it to you after searching for you for so long. And now, discovering that it was Kai behind those paintings all along, you’re overwhelmed with emotion. His presence beside you feels warmer than ever, like everything finally makes sense.

You don’t even realize it until Kai’s voice breaks through the quiet of the room, filled with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, his eyes instantly narrowing as they scan your face. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

You quickly swipe at your face, trying to clear the tears, but they keep coming, one or two slipping past your efforts.

“I’m fine,” you insist, shaking your head as you laugh nervously. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

But Kai is unconvinced. He steps closer, his brow furrowing with concern, and he gently takes a step toward you, his eyes searching yours. “You’re crying, y/n.” he points out, teasing but with an undercurrent of worry. “Is this because I’m the artist behind all those paintings? Was it that dramatic for you?”

You freeze, blinking up at him, and before you can catch yourself, you let the words slip out.

“I… I just think I’m falling for you, okay? You keep surprising me.”

The words escape before you can stop them, and you freeze, horrified by your own slip. A sharp blush spreads across your cheeks, and you take a step back, raising your hands defensively.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean—”

Kai blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and then he grins, a teasing smirk creeping onto his lips. “Falling for me, huh?” he tilts his head slightly, his voice taking on a playful tone. “Was it the art that did it? Getting you all emotional like that? Here I thought you were crying because you were upset.”

Your face burns with embarrassment, and you’re about to stammer out some kind of awkward excuse when Kai steps forward, his grin softening.

You open your mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches, and the embarrassment makes your chest tighten. You look down at your feet, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. You want to say something—anything—to fix this, to undo the slip. But before you can even manage a breath, Kai’s hand gently lifts your chin, his touch soft but firm.

You glance up at him, trying to gather your thoughts, but before you can speak, Kai leans in and closes the distance between you, slowly tilting your face upward. Your breath hitches in your throat, and before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

You freeze, the suddenness of it making your heart skip a beat. The world seems to blur around you, and for a few seconds, you don’t know how to react. But then, slowly, your nerves ease, and something inside you unravels. You find yourself responding, your hand moving to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens, soft but full of unspoken emotion.

When you finally pull back, your chest is tight, your breath shallow. You look at him, a little dazed, unsure of what just happened but feeling the heat of it all. Kai’s smile is softer now, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your heart race even more.

“You’re not the only one,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I’ve been falling for you too, y/n.”

The moment he confirms that he feels the same way, something inside you shifts—like a switch has been flipped, igniting something deep within you. You're not sure what it is, but it’s electric, a surge of warmth that floods your chest. Slowly, your hand, which had been resting on the back of his neck, moves upward to gently slide through his hair. The sensation of his softness beneath your fingers sends a thrill through you, and your breath catches as you look at him with dazed eyes.

Heat spreads through your body within seconds, an intense pull toward him that you can’t ignore.

Everything feels sharper, more vivid, the air between you charged with something undeniable.

“You can't just stop there, you know...” you murmur softly, almost like a whisper, your voice barely breaking the silence. The words feel delicate, but there’s a quiet hunger in them that you didn’t expect.

Kai’s gaze shifts instantly—deeper, more intense. His eyes darken, and something in the air between you changes, as though the entire room tightens around the both of you. You feel it in the way he looks at you, like he’s reading you, understanding what you need even before you do.

“Who told you I was going to stop there?” His voice drops lower, laced with something darker, more deliberate.

“We're just getting started, noona.”

Oh well, I guess we're saving Genshin and Pokémon for next time.....

------------------

[taojjang]

𐙚 winter cleaning ᯓ l.cy.ᐟ

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ advent calendar, day fourteen! pairing: bf!anton x reader, genre: fluff! warnings: anton is the most endearing bf ever im sobbing

synopsis: anton can’t stand seeing you so pouty while it’s snowing so prettily outside. when you're forced to clean up the house, anton tries to lift your spirits by helping you out. while you take out the trash, it turns into a mini snow-battle.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧

spring cleaning was the most tranquil part of the change in weather. you loved clearing out the clutter in your bedroom as you refresh from the cold winter to the fresh spring sun. but this year, you had to finish it a bit earlier. you were moving apartments and had to ensure every crevice of your home was spotless or else you'd never hear the end of it from your landlord. but the cleaning process was everything but tranquil.

anton hated seeing you so stressed while the snow was coming down so prettily. all he wanted was to cuddle you while watching the snow fall from your window, but you were preoccupied with cleaning up the kitchen :( so when he helped you take out the trash, he cooked up this little plan for turning your mood around.

you gasped feeling the impact of the cold snow hitting your back. you turn around to see anton staring back at you with his guilty grin. "you can't catch me!" he teased, turning around to run away from you. that smug smirk on his face soon faded as he tripped and fell face-first into the snow. "what a loser.."

anton shook his head in anticipation as you gathered up a ball of snow from the ground. though your fingertips were freezing at the contact, you couldn't let that punk get the best of you. and so wham!

"hey! i didn't even hit you that hard!" anton cried, sitting up on his elbows. "that's payback, loser!" the sudden insults provoked anton into standing up and dusting the snow off his chest, picking up yet another snowball. the competitive tension rising, you followed him gathering all the snow you could.

before you knew it, the two of you were having a full blown snow fight despite only wearing your pajamas in the freezing cold. though he initiated the fight, anton was losing terribly, getting hit left and right yet not being able to hit you. chasing after you, anton whined, "ah, it's not fair! stop running!" you scoffed and tossed another snowball. "that's how you play, dummy!"

anton surrendered, holding his hands up while walking toward you with a defeated pout on his face. "let's end it here." you laughed and shook your head. "you started it, you should end it!" you teased, prodding at him with your cocky grin. anton whined and slugged over to you, wrapping his arms around you and resting his head on your shoulder. "come on, love, it's cold out!" he whined, tugging you closer to the door. you sighed and followed him inside, groaning, "fine, but i won!" anton shook the snow off of his hair and whined, "okay okay, you get bragging rights. just come inside already, i'm freezing!"

the two of you sat in front of the heater to recover from the past 20 minutes of running around in the freezing wind. sitting beside each other with your shoulders touching, you held your hands in front of the heater, thawing your frozen fingertips. "since you lost, what should your penalty be?" you asked, teasing him with a sly smile. anton scoffed and rested his head on your shoulder, holding onto your arm. "we never agreed on punishing the loser!" you laughed and rested your head atop his, cooing, "this is what happens when you start a game you can't finish! breakfast is on you tomorrow~" anton laughed and held onto you tighter, nodding and accepting his fate.

he didn't mind being punished as long as he finally got to see your smile after your long, tough day.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ˚ ۪ ⋆ ୨୧

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tag list! (ask or comment to be added!)

@endtostartbreathin @gacktsa @hanninova @ramyeonzprincess @taroddori

[lvnleah]

— christmas date | lia wälti 🎄

find the twelve days of Christmas masterlist here!

You and Lia had been looking forward to this evening for weeks, a chance to escape the whirlwind of the holiday season and focus entirely on each other. Christmas Eve had arrived, and the city was alive with twinkling lights, the streets bustling with last-minute shoppers, and the air cold. But tonight, none of that mattered. All that mattered was you and Lia, together.

You’d planned a surprise date night for her, one that you hoped would be full of warmth, laughter, and unforgettable moments. Lia, as always, was a little too suspicious, already guessing that something special was in the works, but you could see the excitement in her eyes when you told her to get ready. She didn’t ask questions, instead just giving you that knowing smile of hers. 

The evening started with a casual walk through the nearby park, hand in hand. The air was crisp, the streets damp from an earlier rain, but everything felt magical under the glow of streetlights. It was one of those rare winter nights where everything seemed perfect, as though the world had slowed down just for you two.

Lia squeezed your hand as she pointed out a set of Christmas lights in the distance, sparkling from the branches of a tall, proud tree. “Let’s go see that,” she suggested, her eyes lighting up with childlike wonder, even though you both had seen dozens of holiday displays by now.

You both strolled closer, taking in the beauty of the decorations as they danced in the chilly breeze. Lia’s laughter rang out as she tried to twirl in the snow that had started to fall lightly, her movements graceful and effortless even in the cold. You couldn’t help but laugh with her, catching her in your arms when she nearly lost her balance on the slick sidewalk.

“I swear, you could dance anywhere,” you teased, feeling the warmth in your chest as her laughter softened into a smile.

“I’ve got a good partner,” she replied, leaning into you for a brief moment of quiet before continuing your walk. Her arm found its way around your waist, and for the rest of the journey, you both simply enjoyed the beauty of the night, the peace of the world around you, and the joy of being together.

Next, you led her to a nearby ice skating rink, a small outdoor setup nestled between two shops. You had rented skates for the two of you earlier, and now, with the rink almost empty save for a few skaters, it felt like the perfect spot to share a slow, intimate evening. Lia raised an eyebrow when she saw it, but she didn’t protest, only accepting your hand as you both walked toward the rink.

“I can’t believe you got me skating,” she joked, a smirk on her face. “You know I’m terrible at this.”

“You’ve got me, don’t you?” you teased back as you took her hand and led her onto the ice.

At first, the two of you wobbled and laughed, arms flailing as you found your balance. Lia’s grin was wide, and her laughter was contagious. Eventually, the two of you found a rhythm, skating slowly in circles, your hands clasped tightly together. The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the soft scrape of skates against the ice and the gentle rhythm of your breaths.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Lia said, her voice full of delight as she managed a smooth glide around the rink.

“I knew you would,” you responded, a sense of pride in your voice. You had always known that no matter how many challenges life threw her way, she’d rise to meet them. This was just another example.

You skated for a while longer, gliding in sync with her, then pulled her aside to warm up by the firepit nearby. The warmth from the flames made the cold air feel bearable, and as you sat side by side, you found yourselves wrapped in a comfortable silence. You let your fingers intertwine, feeling the familiar sense of closeness and love that had become second nature between the two of you over the years.

“I’ve missed this,” Lia said softly, her head resting against your shoulder. “Just us. No distractions.”

“Me too,” you whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “We need more nights like this.”

The final part of your evening took you both to a Christmas market, tucked away on a quiet side street. The soft glow of lights and the scent of warm mulled wine and roasted chestnuts filled the air as you wandered through the stalls, hand in hand. You bought hot chocolate, letting the warmth seep into your bones as you stroll between the shops, stopping every so often to admire the handmade ornaments and trinkets.

Lia was practically glowing, the soft light from the market stalls reflecting in her eyes. You could see how content she was, how she revelled in the simple joy of the evening. And it made your heart swell, knowing that you were the one who had made it all happen. This was your Christmas gift to her: a night of laughter, love, and memories that would last far beyond the season.

As you walked, Lia pulled you to a stop in front of a little booth selling mistletoe. You laughed as she grabbed a sprig, holding it above your head. “Guess we have to,” she said with a cheeky grin.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You leaned in, your lips finding hers in a kiss that was slow and sweet, lingering under the mistletoe. For a moment, everything else faded away—the lights, the sounds, the cold air. There was only you and her, wrapped in love and contentment.

When you finally pulled back, your hearts beating in sync, Lia gave you a soft, dreamy smile. “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered, and at that moment, you knew she meant it.

And you did, too. Because no matter how many Christmases passed, the best part would always be sharing them with her.

[sunny-superstar]

dont make me tap the sign

i know it ultimately trails back to the corporations but i just wanna say i think it’s heinous that old heterosexual men are STILL seemingly always in showrunner positions for major television shows, or at least they are always the ones getting their ideas greenlit. and so the most accessible popular media (the narratives we collectively see) are determined by these dudes who do not relate to You. they don’t care about what or who You’d like to see represented onscreen. sometimes this is affected by diversity in the writer’s room, etc., but for the most part everything must be dumbed down to what THEY THINK an average middle-american audience member can tolerate—and it’s insulting to everyone’s intelligence! It’s nearly 2025 and we’re all supposed to accept that certain kinds of stories are not worth telling (on that scale) because why? because it’s potentially alienating to a demographic that already has decades of screen representation to enjoy?

SO let’s talk about how showrunners/networks are well aware of viewership demographics and the profitability of fandom. Take a show like wwdits, where a lot of its notoriety had to do with its general edginess and, importantly, its appeal to LGBTQ audiences: the creators intentionally featured a mlm will-they/won’t-they at the center of their show, to the point that it was arguably the driving force behind continued viewership. It’s the carrot on a stick. “How will we keep profiting off of these queer viewers? Make them hope. Textually suggest the prospect of a fully realized gay romance and then tease these viewers for making ~homoerotic fanart and fanfiction~ like that wasn’t the plan all along!”

Your fanwork, whether it’s drawn or written, is free publicity for the source material. You Need To Know that. Because the corporate bastards Have Known That. that’s why supernatural was on for 15 seasons. Not because the plot itself was worth that much, but because the supporters of the central gay ship MADE it profitable. And baiting them only fans the flames (basically, it drives people crazy. spn still trends on here like once a week, 4 years later). & they want you crazy. they want online engagement. they want it trending on tumblr and twitter. They believe that if they give you what you want (canon gay rep) then the show will instantly lose profitability.

So. That’s what it comes down to. Your dedication means nothing to them but job security... and if you dare to take the bait and hope for the writers to fulfill what they VERY deliberately set up, they’re gonna straight up mock you. In the end, they’re just gonna fumble all of it, because they never cared about You or even the characters and their stories. Why bother if it doesn’t seem profitable anymore, right?

God it’s all so cynical. Keep writing fanfiction. Keep making fanart. Keep engaging in fandom spaces. Do it because YOU have passion. Do it because YOU care about a story or characters that mean something to you. Do it because we, as the folk, as the common people, need to have some way to control these narratives. We need to create our own hope, even if we get belittled for it. It’s all we have to combat the cynicism.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Sacrifices (Book 2 of 3 BTR Series) a Jhea Fanfic.

Chapter 25: Maybe..

March 1st, 2025 2:11 PM

Jey worked out in his home office, sweat dripping down his back as his feet pounded rhythmically against the treadmill. He’d set the incline high and pushed himself hard, his focus on maintaining his stamina and strength despite his limited in-ring schedule.

Rhea was out with her parents, shopping in Stamford. It wasn’t often her parents visited, so Jey had encouraged her to spend the day with them. Meanwhile, their home buzzed with its usual chaos. Jesse and Jeremy made their rounds outside the property, ensuring everything stayed secure. Jeremiah watched as Bella and Barry, the playful dogs, were running around the yard, occasionally barking at nothing in particular. Storm, the aloof cat, was nowhere to be found—probably off scheming in some hidden corner of the house.

Jey’s focus was abruptly shattered when his phone began to ring on the desk next to the treadmill. He slowed the speed to a walk, breathing heavily as he grabbed a towel to wipe his face before glancing at the caller ID. Jonathan’s name flashed on the screen.

With a sigh, Jey accepted the call. “Hey, bro,” he greeted, his voice still slightly breathless.

“Hey, man,” Jonathan’s voice came through, casual but warm. “We were thinking about coming up to visit for a bit. Trinity said a weekend wasn’t enough time, so we figured we’d come up.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Jey said, stepping off the treadmill and stretching his arms. “I don’t mind. What day you thinking about flying in?”

Jonathan hesitated for a moment, as though gauging Jey’s reaction. “We were thinking Tuesday. Jaciyah’s birthday is Friday, so we figured we’d stay till Sunday.”

Jey froze, the words hitting him like a freight train. “Fuck!” he blurted out, his hand immediately running over his face in frustration.

On the other end of the line, Jonathan’s tone turned incredulous. “Wait, wait, hold up—you forgot your firstborn son’s 18th birthday?”

Jey groaned, pacing the room now, his frustration with himself growing. “Man, it’s been so hectic lately. Between Rhea’s pregnancy, Rhea still not opening up, her parents being in town, and everything else going on, it slipped my mind. Damn, Jon, I feel like shit.”

Jonathan laughed softly, though it carried a tone of disbelief. “I get it. But come on, this is Jaciyah’s 18th. We gotta do something good.”

“I know, I know,” Jey muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll make it up to him. I’ll plan something special.”

“You better,” Jonathan said, his voice lighter now. “We’ll help out when we get there. Trinity’s already thinking about what to buy for him.”

Jey let out a breath, grateful for his brother’s understanding. “Appreciate it, man. I’ll figure out how to make this the best birthday he’s ever had.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Definitely.” Jey said, cracking a small smile. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

After hanging up, Jey leaned against the desk, staring at the blank wall in front of him. Guilt gnawed at him. Jaciyah was his firstborn, his pride and joy, and forgetting his birthday—even amidst all the chaos—was a blow to his own sense of responsibility.

Jey began to pace around his office, phone in hand, as he called his son Jaciyah. The line rang a few times before Jaciyah finally picked up. Jey paused his pacing briefly..

“Hey, Dad,” Jaciyah greeted, his voice casual but warm.

“Hey, son,” Jey replied, his tone light. “How’s everything over at your mom’s?”

Jaciyah chuckled. “It’s going good. Mom made brownies the other day, and man, I had a dang sugar attack. I was bouncing off the walls.”

Jey laughed, the image of his son hyped up on sugar making him smile. “I bet you were. Listen…” Jey hesitated, trying to find the best way to steer the conversation. “So, I hear someone’s got a birthday coming up soon.”

There was a pause before Jaciyah cut straight to the point, his voice brightening with excitement. “I want Rhea to make a triple-layer yellow cake with chocolate icing, I want a BBQ, and I want you to meet Daya.”

Jey blinked. “Hold up—who’s Daya?”

Another pause hung in the air before Jaciyah’s sheepish voice returned. “The girl you caught me with.”

Jey leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, so that’s her name. Alright, alright.” He chuckled softly, but his tone shifted to something more serious. “You sure about introducing her to the family? That’s a big step.”

“Yeah, Dad, I’m sure,” Jaciyah said confidently. “She’s important to me, and I want her to meet everyone.”

Jey nodded, respecting his son’s decision. “Okay, I hear you. So, no big party? Just a BBQ and cake?”

“Yeah,” Jaciyah replied. “Just something small with the family. Nothing too crazy.”

Jey smiled, a wave of relief washing over him. A smaller gathering would make things easier to manage, and he liked the idea of keeping it intimate. “Alright, son. I’ll make it happen. It’s gonna be a birthday to remember.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jaciyah said warmly. “Oh, and tell Rhea I’m counting on that cake.”

Jey chuckled. “I’ll let her know. Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Hanging up, Jey leaned back in his chair, already making mental notes of what needed to be done. He’d need to talk to Rhea about the cake and reach out to Trinity and Jonathan about the BBQ. And then, of course, there was Daya. Meeting his son’s girlfriend for the first time felt like a milestone of its own.

Jey couldn’t help but smile to himself. This birthday might’ve caught him off guard, but he was determined to make it a special one.

—

Rhea entered her and Jey’s house, bags of baby clothes in tow, her heart light with the excitement of the day’s shopping. The air felt comfortable and familiar, but there was a slight tension in her chest as she walked toward the living room, where Jey was waiting for her. He rose from his seat and kissed her cheek as she handed him the bags. Jey smiled as he saw all of the contents and set the bags gently on the coffee table.

“How was the trip to the mall?” Jey asked, a soft smile on his face.

Before Rhea could answer, her mother interjected, holding up a small onesie with a white and grey dinosaur design. “Oh Joshua, I brought the perfect onesie for my grandbaby.” Rhea’s mom was beaming, her eyes filled with love as she held up the gift, a pair of white booties and a matching beanie in her other hand.

Jey took the items from her mother and examined them with a smile. “It’s cute,” he agreed, his tone affectionate. He put the items into the bag and sat down on his spot on the couch.

Rhea, feeling the weight of the day catching up with her, collapsed onto the couch next to Jey. Her body ached from shopping and the long day, but seeing her parents’ happiness made it worth it. Her mother smiled at them both before excusing herself and Rhea’s dad, taking them to the guest room for some rest. The house settled into a peaceful quiet, just the two of them now.

Jey’s gaze was lingering on her with a mixture of affection and concern. “I forgot Jaciyah’s birthday,” he said, his voice tinged with guilt.

Rhea looked at him, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the underlying frustration. “I know you did, but I didn’t,” she replied softly.

Jey looked at her, confusion flickering across his face. “How?”

“I remember birthdays better than you,” Rhea teased, but the humor didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her tone held a hint of frustration, an emotion she had been carrying for days now.

Jey ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “What would I do without you?” he asked, his voice sincere, though a little playful.

Rhea’s smile faded as she leaned back against the couch. She exhaled deeply, her gaze distant for a moment before she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “I don’t know… maybe think about that before you say something stupid like what you said to me in Titusville.”

Jey’s expression softened, his eyes searching hers. “Babe, I love you, but you’re still not over it?” His voice held a trace of frustration, but more than that, there was concern. He didn’t understand why this one thing was still lingering in her mind.

Rhea looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Joshua, what you said really hurt me,” she said, her voice steady but thick with emotion. “If you can’t see why I’m not letting this go…” She trailed off, feeling the weight of her words.

There was a long, heavy pause. Jey opened his mouth to say something, but Rhea cut him off, shaking her head. “Forget it,” she muttered under her breath.

Without waiting for his response, she stood up from the couch, her movements brisk as she grabbed the bags and turned away from him, heading toward the stairs.

Jey watched her, his heart sinking as he processed her words. He had hurt her, and despite his love for her, he couldn’t understand the depth of the pain she felt. He heard her footsteps fade as she ascended the stairs, leaving him alone in the quiet of their home.

Rhea, on the other hand, made her way to the bedroom, her thoughts racing. She didn’t want to let the hurt fester between them, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that what Jey had said in Titusville had exposed something deeper. Something he didn’t fully understand about her—about their relationship.

She laid the baby clothes on the bed and sat down beside them, her mind still on the conversation. She needed time. Time to process, to breathe, and to find a way to heal from the hurt.

For a moment, all she could think about was the weight of everything—the baby, her future with Jey, and the small things that seemed to pile up without resolution. Rhea sighed heavily, trying to find a way to center herself.

Meanwhile, Damian descended the stairs, his casual demeanor slightly dampened by the weight of the conversation he knew was coming. He took one look at Jey and, with a shrug, said, “What’s up?”

Jey sighed, his frustration clear. “Rhea again.”

Damian couldn’t help but laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement, as he grabbed a Sprite from the fridge. He sat down on the loveseat across from Jey and took a sip. “You really pushed her with that shit you said,” Damian remarked, his tone more serious now. “And you know what? I don’t blame her.”

Jey ran a hand through his hair. “I fucked up,” he admitted, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “I know that. I’ve admitted that. But why can’t she just forgive me and love me?”

Damian set his drink down, the weight of his words catching Jey’s full attention. “You do realize this is like the fourth time you kinda fucked up, right?” he said, his voice even but firm.

Jey shot him a confused glance. “What the hell do you mean?”

Damian leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “Well, first there was Portland, where you pushed her. Don’t even try to deny that one. Then there was keeping Jeyce from her after Takecia threatened you. She almost killed herself, Jey. She nearly ended it all because she thought she’d never have a chance to be your wife or be a mother to Jeyce. That’s not just a fuck-up. That’s something you need to really own. Thirdly, there was that argument back in January, when you called her out… if I remember correctly she needed to learn how to stop running away from shit.” Damian paused, his eyes narrowing. “Fourthly… Titusville.”

Jey looked down, guilt washing over him as each instance rolled off Damian’s tongue. But Damian wasn’t done. “And that’s not even mentioning the shit you did when you two weren’t together,” he added. “Like asking her to leave Matt while you stayed with Takecia. That shit? Took the cake. It was messed up.”

Jey winced, his chest tightening as the full weight of his mistakes hit him. “Okay,” he said quietly, trying to process everything.

Damian sat back, his tone softening. “Man, I get it. You love her. I can see it, but the way you’ve been treating her—it’s been a lot. And she’s been through enough shit already. She doesn’t deserve to keep dealing with your mistakes. You have to show her, not just tell her, that you’ve changed. That you’re not going to keep repeating the same shit over and over.”

Jey didn’t respond immediately. The silence between them was heavy, filled with the weight of everything Damian had just said. He wanted to argue, wanted to justify his actions, but he knew Damian was right. Every word cut deep, and he couldn’t pretend that things were as simple as just saying “sorry” and hoping things would go back to normal.

Finally, Jey spoke, his voice hoarse. “I just want her to forgive me, man. I don’t know how much more I can do.”

Damian sighed, his expression a mixture of frustration and sympathy. “You can’t just expect her to forgive you because you say sorry. You have to prove it. You’ve hurt her in so many ways, and she’s been loyal to you through it all. But now, she’s at a point where she’s probably wondering if you’re ever going to change. If you’re going to keep breaking her heart.”

Jey slumped further into the couch, the weight of it all bearing down on him. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I love her, but… I don’t want to lose her.”

Damian gave him a stern look. “Then stop making excuses. Stop taking her for granted. You’ve got to show her that she’s your priority. And more importantly, you’ve got to show her that you’ve learned from all this.”

Jey nodded slowly, taking in the advice. He knew deep down that Damian was right. He had taken Rhea for granted more times than he could count, and now it was time to prove that he was capable of doing better. If he didn’t, he feared he might lose her for good.

“I’ll do better,” Jey muttered, more to himself than to Damian. “I just need a chance to show her.”

Damian stood up, stretching out his arms. “Well, it starts with not making the same mistakes again. She deserves better than that, and if you really love her, you’ll show her that.”

—

Later on in the day, Jey gently tended to the roses in the greenhouse, carefully trimming away the dead petals, when he heard the familiar creak of the door opening behind him. He turned around to see Rhea’s father stepping inside, a look of quiet admiration on his face as he gazed at the barely-blooming sunflowers.

“I hear from my daughter that you have a green thumb,” Rhea’s father said, a slight smile on his lips as he took in the rows of plants.

Jey chuckled softly, wiping his hands on his jeans before straightening up. “Yeah, my mother was the gardener. Had me and my twin helping her every weekend morning growing up. It’s a bit of an inherited skill, I guess.”

Rhea’s father nodded, a look of understanding crossing his face. “Where’s your father in all of this? Was he around to help?”

Jey’s expression shifted as he thought back to his childhood. “My father was having a wrestling career,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I only saw him about two months out of the year. So it was mostly my mom, us kids, and the garden.”

Rhea’s father frowned sympathetically. “I can imagine how that must have been tormenting.”

Jey shrugged slightly, trying to push the old memories aside. “I managed,” he said simply.

The two stood there for a moment, the peaceful hum of the greenhouse filling the air as Rhea’s father moved to admire more of the plants. After a beat, he looked at Jey again, his tone a little more somber. “I believe you are the one for my daughter.”

Jey froze, a curious but cautious look in his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

Rhea’s father glanced over at him, his eyes softening. “A few years ago, Rhea took care of her mom by paying for her entire cancer treatment,” he said quietly. “That woman was on her last leg, and Rhea… she did everything she could. Every month, without fail, she sent money for everything. I couldn’t afford it on my own because my retirement wasn’t enough to cover the medical bills. But Rhea, she kept us afloat. She did all of that without ever asking for anything in return.”

Jey’s expression turned somber, his gaze shifting to the ground for a moment as the weight of the conversation sank in. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t realized how much Rhea had been shouldering on her own, all the while dealing with everything in her life.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Bennett had cancer,” Jey said quietly, his voice full of genuine surprise and sorrow.

Rhea’s father looked at him, his eyes distant for a moment as he remembered the hardship. “Breast cancer. Almost took the love of my life away,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Rhea’s father sighed, taking a step back to admire the plants again, as though the memories were easier to face this way. “My memory does serve me right.. yup.. for about four years, every month, Rhea would send money. We couldn’t have made it without her. She worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known, and she never let us feel like a burden. Even when it was hard for her, she never let it show.”

Jey stood quietly for a moment, processing the gravity of what he was hearing. Rhea’s strength, her loyalty, the burden she carried all on her own for so long—it made everything that much more profound.

“She’s in remission now?” Jey asked softly, almost afraid of the answer but needing to hear it.

Rhea’s father smiled, though it was a bittersweet smile. “As of April 2022. Thank God,” he said, his voice heavy with relief.

Jey let out a soft breath, the weight of it all sinking in. “Thank God,” he repeated, as if to himself. He could hardly imagine the pain Rhea had gone through, and now it made so much more sense why she was the way she was, so fiercely independent, always carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“She’s a hell of a woman,” Jey said quietly, his voice filled with admiration.

Rhea’s father looked at him, nodding slowly. “That’s why I trust you with her,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “You love her. And I can see it, Jey. But you have to understand, there’s a lot of hurt she’s carried. She’ll never show it, but it’s there.”

Jey met his gaze, understanding the silent warning. “I know,” he said softly, his voice determined. “I won’t let her down again.”

Rhea’s father studied him for a moment longer before giving a slow nod. “Good. She deserves everything, Jey. Don’t forget that.”

Jey nodded back, his heart heavy with both the responsibility and the love he felt for Rhea. This was his chance, not just to prove himself to her, but to truly understand what she had been through—and do whatever it took to make things right.

Jey stood there, the weight of the conversation pressing deeper into him. Despite hearing the story of Rhea’s strength, something still gnawed at him—something he couldn’t quite shake.

“Did Rhea ever speak of me when she was with Matthew?” Jey asked quietly, his voice filled with curiosity and a hint of lingering doubt.

Rhea’s father paused for a moment, his gaze distant as he seemed to search through his memories. Then, with a slow nod, he responded, his tone thoughtful.

“She did,” Rhea’s father said, his voice laced with a heaviness Jey hadn’t expected. “I didn’t know this at the time, but at their wedding, my daughter asked us if she chose the wrong person.”

Jey’s breath caught, his heart tightening as he processed the words. He could almost hear Rhea’s voice asking those questions, torn and uncertain, just like the woman he knew.

Rhea’s father let out a long sigh, his expression softening. “I didn’t have it in my heart to tell her yes,” he continued. “So, I just told her that whatever she decided, we would be beside her.”

Jey swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in his chest.

Rhea’s father walked over to one of the sunflowers in the greenhouse, absentmindedly brushing his hand over the petals as he spoke again, his voice low and reflective.

“On her 27th birthday, I tried to talk to her about Matt’s behavior. I tried to tell her she deserved better, but she didn’t listen. She was stubborn, as always,” he said, a slight chuckle escaping his lips despite the seriousness of the conversation. “I love my daughter, I do, but sometimes she has to make a mistake in order to learn. And when she falls, I’ll always be here to help her get up, to help her learn from it.”

Jey absorbed the words carefully, understanding the deep care and frustration in Rhea’s father’s voice. It was a painful reality—that Rhea had to go through that period of uncertainty and heartache on her own, trying to find answers, trying to make it work with someone who wasn’t right for her.

Jey’s heart began to sink further. He had always believed in Rhea’s strength, but hearing how her family had witnessed her struggle, her father’s silent support, it hit him harder than he had expected.

“You did the right thing,” Jey said quietly, his voice full of sincerity. “Sometimes we have to let them make their own mistakes.”

Rhea’s father turned to face him, his gaze hardening slightly but filled with understanding. “I believe that, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I could see it in her eyes when she married him. She wasn’t fully sure. She was still running from the choices she had made, even though she was trying to convince herself she wasn’t.”

Jey nodded, the truth sinking in deeper. The guilt of not being there for Rhea when she needed him was still a heavy burden, but he knew now more than ever that he couldn’t dwell on the past.

“I’ll make sure she never has to feel that way again,” Jey promised, his voice firm.

Rhea’s father studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod of approval. “I hope you do, Jey. But remember, it’s not just about the promises you make now. It’s about showing her every day that she can trust you, that she can count on you when it matters most.”

Jey’s chest tightened with resolve. “I understand.”

Rhea’s father gave him a nod of approval, then returned his attention to the flowers in front of him. “Good. I can see she’s in good hands. Just don’t break her heart, Jey. I’ve seen her hurt enough.”

Jey stood still for a moment, reflecting on the weight of his words. He knew what he had to do now, not just to make things right with Rhea, but to prove to her family, especially her father, that he was the one she deserved.

—

Later on in the night, Jey was searching for a good birthday gift for Jaciyah when he heard laughter. He put his iPad down and got up, heading down the hallway. He spotted a room door ajar and quietly peered inside. He could hear Damian and Rhea talking, and although he didn’t want to eavesdrop, the soft sound of Rhea’s voice made him stop in his tracks.

“That little thunderstorm you have brewing in your stomach is going to be in style,” Damian said, his voice playful.

Rhea’s laughter echoed through the hallway, and Jey smiled to himself. “You would get my baby a Judas Priest onesie,” she responded, amusement in her tone.

Damian chuckled. “Have you thought at all about who would be the godparents?”

Rhea sighed. “I wanted you and Kayden, but more than likely Jey is going to convince me for Jon and Trinity.”

Damian’s voice grew softer, and Jey’s curiosity deepened. “You have a say in this, you know. It’s not just Jey’s kid, it’s your baby too.”

Rhea’s response was filled with an unspoken sadness, and Jey felt his chest tighten. “I know, but I might as well just do what Jey says. Don’t want to get him angry.”

Damian’s tone became more serious, concerned. “Rhea… mamas’, you have to start caring about yourself.”

Jey stood frozen in place, listening intently, unable to tear himself away. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do with the thoughts racing through his mind.

Rhea sighed deeply before replying, her voice quieter now. “I know, I know… but it’s not just about me. It’s about Jey and his kids.”

Damian’s response was firm, a steady reassurance in his voice. “They are your kids too, Rhea.”

Jey felt the weight of those words. His kids. He hadn’t realized that Rhea might still feel like an outsider, even now. The thought of her doubting herself hit him harder than he expected.

Rhea’s voice broke through the silence, her vulnerability more apparent now. “I just don’t feel enough anymore. I honestly think my hormones are getting to me… everything makes me feel sad.”

Damian’s voice softened, a comforting presence. “Don’t blame your doubts on your hormones, Rhea. You’re allowed to feel what you’re feeling. But you have to start listening to yourself too. You’ve been so focused on everyone else—maybe it’s time you focused on you for once.”

Jey’s heart ached hearing that. He could feel his own guilt gnawing at him. He truly hadn’t realized how much Rhea was carrying on her own.

Just as he was about to step into the room, he stopped and Damian’s voice grew more distant as Rhea responded.

“I don’t know, Damian. I just… I can’t seem to get it right. It’s like everything is slipping away from me, and I’m just trying to hold on.”

Jey closed his eyes for a moment, pain and concern flooding him. Maybe today was the wake-up call he needed. Maybe he’d been so focused on his own guilt, on his own issues, that he hadn’t truly seen what Rhea was going through. He knew he had to make things right, and that started with understanding her—truly understanding her.

“Thank you for the gift, Damian, honestly,” Rhea said, her voice still carrying the warmth of their earlier conversation.

Jey quickly ducked back into the bedroom, hearing Rhea’s footsteps approach. He scrambled back onto the bed, grabbing his iPad, trying to act casual. He could hear her moving down the hallway, but didn’t know how much time he had before she’d come back.

A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Rhea stepped inside, holding the onesie in her hands. She walked to the dresser and gently laid it down without saying a word. Jey could see her silhouette in the soft light from the hallway, her movements deliberate but quiet.

She didn’t glance his way as she undressed, changing into her pajamas with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. Jey watched, his heart aching as he realized just how distant she seemed in that moment. She climbed into bed on her side and immediately reached to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The space between them felt suffocating.

Jey set his iPad down, staring at the back of her head as he lay beside her. He reached out tentatively, his hand moving toward her shoulder, hoping to pull her close. But just as his fingers brushed against her, Rhea’s voice cut through the stillness.

“Not tonight.”

Jey froze, his hand hovering in the air. His throat tightened, but he swallowed, trying to fight back the hurt. “I need my button nose back…” he murmured, trying to make light of the situation, hoping she’d soften.

But Rhea didn’t respond with the usual warmth. Instead, she swatted his hand away, her voice cold. “Jey, I’m not in the mood right now at all. Just don’t touch me.”

Jey felt a sharp pang in his chest, the weight of her words settling heavy in his stomach. “Rhea, please,” he pleaded softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m trying here. I just… I miss you.”

Rhea didn’t move, her body still facing away from him, the space between them growing. She exhaled deeply, her voice barely above a whisper but laced with something raw. “I don’t have the strength right now, Jey. Just please… leave me alone.”

Jey’s chest tightened, but he couldn’t let it end like this. He needed to hold her, needed her to know how much he loved her, even if she couldn’t feel it right now. He reached out once more, but the distance between them felt so insurmountable. “I love you, Rhea,” he whispered, his voice thick with vulnerability. “I love you so much.”

Rhea’s voice came out sharp, a small quiver of emotion beneath the anger. “I love you too, Jey, but don’t fucking touch me right now.”

Jey pulled his hand back slowly, his heart sinking. He wanted to respect her space, to give her what she needed, but the ache inside of him was unbearable. With a deep sigh, he turned over onto his side, his back to her, and let the silence fill the room.

Both of them were there—physically, at least—but emotionally, they felt a world apart.

—

The next day, Rhea said her final goodbyes to her parents at the airport, hugging them both tightly. “I’ll send pictures of the bump soon,” she promised, her voice thick with emotion. Her mom kissed her forehead, telling her how proud they were, while her dad gave her a final piece of advice to take care of herself.

After parting with her parents, Rhea hugged Damian, wishing him well on his return to RAW. “Take care of yourself, D. I’m proud of you.” Damian smiled, patting her shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, and I’ll be keeping an eye on that baby bump.”

With the goodbyes said, Rhea made her way to the entrance of the airport, ready to head home. She walked out into the crisp air, spotting Jeremiah pulling in with her plum-colored Tahoe. She got into the passenger seat, offering him a tired but grateful smile. “Let’s go to Trader Joe’s,” she said, her mind already thinking of what she needed. Jeremiah nodded and quickly set the address into the GPS, pulling away from the curb.

Meanwhile, back at home, Jeyce and Jaciyah were glued to the PS5, completely absorbed in their game. Jey, on the other hand, was outside, making his way through the greenhouse, carefully tending to the roses. He wasn’t sure why, but he found comfort in the act of nurturing something. Maybe it was because it was something he could control in a time where everything else felt so uncertain.

As he focused on the roses, he heard small footsteps approaching. Turning around, he saw Barry, Rhea’s dog, trotting over to him with his tail wagging. Jey bent down, offering the dog a smile and a pat on the head. “I hope your mom forgives me soon,” he murmured to the dog, his heart heavy with the weight of his unresolved tension with Rhea. Barry let out a soft bark, as if in agreement, and Jey couldn’t help but smile.

Shaking his head, he returned to trimming the roses, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text message from Jon. It read: “Hey, we’ll be flying in on Tuesday. Our plane lands at 9 pm.”

Jey quickly typed back, offering his help: “I’ll pick you guys up at the airport. See you then.” After sending the message, he sighed, wishing he could find a way to make things right with Rhea. But for now, he focused on getting ready for Jon and Trinity’s arrival.

He glanced back at the roses, hoping that one day things would bloom again between him and Rhea.

—

Flashback: August 9, 2018 - 11:57 PM

The air in the hallway was thick with tension as Morris opened the door to the dimly lit room. Inside, the fiery redhead, Valerie, was lounging on a bed, her legs crossed and her attention focused on her phone. She didn’t look up immediately but continued texting as if the world around her didn’t exist.

Morris stepped into the room, his presence commanding attention, and the moment Valerie glanced up, her sharp green eyes locked onto his. “Why do you have so much regard for Black Mamba?” she asked, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something dangerous.

Morris chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, and leaned against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. “When did you think it was okay to start asking questions?” His tone was casual, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable.

Valerie shrugged nonchalantly, though her eyes flickered with the same intensity she had in her earlier question. “I’m just saying… my sister knows her, and she isn’t all that great in the—”

Before she could finish, Morris moved with lightning speed. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back, pulling her face dangerously close to his. His breath was hot on her skin, and his grip tightened painfully.

“No one speaks about Mamba,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice low and threatening, the weight of his words hanging in the air like an iron chain. “Am I clear?”

Valerie froze for a moment, her eyes wide with the realization of just how serious he was. She swallowed hard, her defiance fading as fear crept into her chest. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, her voice strained but obedient.

Morris held her gaze for a beat longer, then slowly released her hair, stepping back as if nothing had happened. Valerie, still shaken but attempting to maintain her composure, quickly looked away, her phone now forgotten in her hands.

Morris gave a nod, his smirk returning as if nothing had transpired. “Good,” he said, turning to leave the room. “Remember, Valerie… some things are better left unsaid.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, the room was left in silence, the air heavy with unspoken tension.

[ninjagood4]

Uh, hey! I've already decided what style FotP is going to be, but I can't decide on the other artwork. I like to draw in many styles, but really don't like the chaos that happens in the profile because of it, want some stability.

A lot of people have said that the LMK based on Ninjago is the best thing I've been able to draw. It's really gaining huge momentum everywhere. I rarely do it, so…. why not make LMK my main content? What if my artwork looked like this forever? Example…

Plus it means I'll start drawing not only redraws, but individual artwork as well! It's a great opportunity to master the LMK style and raise activity, as other works are less good and remain in the shadows. I can leave the opportunity to parody styles for commissions, for example, and do it just for fun not as intense. Really I just don't understand what's going on in my profiles, one work looks completely different to another… It's not good. Maybe parodying styles is cool, but it's best not to overuse it. I'd really rather leave that skill for commiss, and if anyone wants something other than LMK and FotP, I'll do it.

Btw the FotP style is something I have yet to showcase, I've only recently been able to draw good sample frames and a poster, and will now be releasing all FotP content in this style (but☝️ will tweak it up a bit to make it all look proportional and not so blurry). Just a reminder that it's a combination of The Lion King animation and my old style. I also like that it reminds me of LMK in some ways, so that's another reason to focus on just those two styles! :D And and and… this style works really well in animation, and considering I'm going to start making animations in 2025 it's just fine.

It's still weird for me to say this. I started with no line and did something similar to WildBrain for years, and it's weird to completely abandon it and start something completely new. LMK and FotP are really better, they are easier to do and the result is not inferior. The main thing is to master both of them at the highest level.

I don't want 2025 to continue with the current chaos and uncertainty that 2024 has had. I really spent the entire year just trying to come up with the style for FotP and fulfill the requests, and all this greatly affected the quality of the content. Everything was constantly changing, some looked terrible, some looked good. Activity dropped off a lot and stopped growing, and I personally got confused on what to focus on. So now I'm going to follow a new tactic! >:D

And finally … I have very ambitious plans for 2025! In addition to starting to draw animations, I want to actively release concept art for FotP, improve its drawing and, most importantly, start drawing the comic itself! Yes, yes, I will finally start it, since I have been working on it since 2022 and in 2024 I was delayed by the lack of style. I just didn't have the ability to visualize all these ideas 🥲 As for other works, I will start developing the LMK style, drawing redraws and just fanart ^^

If about commissions, then I would like to increase the activity of orders and will try to cooperate. I don't know if it will work out, want to connect my profession with drawing without any changes and orders help me stay here (I literally can't imagine myself in another role). I avoided collaboration, but it turned out not to be so scary, so in the future I will try to be more open 🙃 The rest of the styles that I drew before, again, you will be able to request in the commission (FotP and LMK will also be available), and in addition, you can offer your own style (let's say you wanted to see your character in the style of Lilo and Stitch, Phineas and Ferb, Avatar etc. 🤷‍♂️). By the way, I plan to start accepting commissions not only for Ninjago, but also for various series in general. This was only the first year of commiss, and during this time I made several mistakes that I will now avoid, and began to understand this system better. Hope that next year I will open up better. Think for the first year the result is basically good :3

Thank you for reading to the end, see you soon! Let the changes be only for the benefit <3

[narcjsistx]

𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 | OS

rin itoshi x fem reader ; words: 1.4k (1492)

coming from this event, first day, 18/12

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

plot: falling in love with Rin Itoshi, the captain of the national team, was not in your plans, it never had been. you hadn't done it, or at least you had hidden it well, when you were a child, but doing it now that he was about to get married? damn

You didn't know whether to feel like a slut. Or maybe a whore. Why not a bitch?

Were you? Weren't you?

Fuck Rin Itoshi and all of himself

The dress you were wearing was damn tight, and you didn't even like the color: that pastel yellow looked like the same color as kindergarten kids' smocks. You didn't know why the bride had chosen such a shitty color for her wedding, but you didn't really care that much. You were more interested in the sight of Rin, perplexed, sitting on his chair in his dressing room. It was supposed to be the happiest day of his life, yet why did he seem so out of step with everything?

“Tie too tight?” you joke, walking over to him. He looks up from the floor, staring at you standing in front of him “If only that were the only problem” he says annoyed, and you take his hand, tugging lightly as you massage his knuckles “Don’t be so ruthless. It’s your wedding day" you say tilting your head, giving him a reassuring smile, which however doesn't match so much with what you really think. If it were up to you, Rin might have even done without knowing that girl, all those years ago. You didn't even know how your best friend actually survived all those years with that rude but well bred girl. The biggest mystery was why he had agreed to marry her

Oh, well. You actually knew that, but admitting it out loud would have been like admitting you were stupid, and damn, you were. You knew very well that this wedding was being celebrated only thanks to you, and that the bride had to thank you if her future groom had not abandoned her the night before the wedding

The girl's happiness had cost the damnation of your heart. And now, seeing Rin who was about to go up to the altar to wait for his girlfriend, you wondered if last night it was right to become egoist for you too for the first time in many years

“Not that I care" he says, rolling his eyes, and you chuckle slightly at his gesture “At least try to be. You don’t have to succeed, but try” you encourage him, and he almost seems to relax under the gentle touch of your hand against his

"You know I don't really love her, right?" he says, and you nod "I know" you say in a static tone "You still have time" he says, and you look down

Do you still have time to accept the offer he made you last night? You have time, yes, but do you want to accept it or not? You don't know

You don't even know how much courage you had last night not to kiss him, you think you probably broke a world record in emotional self-management. And he broke the record for finding the last minute to tell you what, according to him, is the feeling he has had for you all his life: love. But saying that the night before your wedding isn't exactly a smart move, Rin Itoshi

It's just that everything, literally everything, was slipping through your fingers, and you didn't know how to put it all back together

Rin had called you last night before dinner. You were home alone, and he said he needed to meet you because he had something to tell you; you had mistaken it for simple prewedding anxiety, and you had told him that in less than half an hour you would be waiting for him outside your house, to hear everything he wanted to tell you. He hadn't made you wait long actually, it's not like him to be late, it's a habit he's had since he was a child, but since he arrived he seemed very uncomfortable. And so, out of breath from the cold and embarrassment, he had said something to you that you would never have expected

"If you tell me you love me now, I won't show up to the wedding tomorrow"

He was serious. He was dead serious, you knew he would never joke about something like that. He said he had loved you since he was a child, since Sae had told him he could be the best in the world after him, since Rin Itoshi had understood that his best friend was not just a best friend. And you, you didn't know anything. Anything

"Don't joke like that... you're getting married tomorrow, Rin. If you really thought that, you would never have been with that girl. You wouldn't have even agreed to get married"

Rin had been with that girl for at least three years. He couldn't feel something, according to him, that strong if he had loved that girl for so long

"I never told you because you're elusive, Y/n. You're never in the same place for long, you don't like things that feel like forever. I would have only made things worse by telling you sooner, and so I searched for your gaze in her"

You didn't know if you ever loved Rin. You knew that you loved running in the park with him since you were kids, that you loved watching him laugh the few times he did, that you loved watching him play soccer and look so inhuman. Maybe you loved him too, but after his declaration, reality had made you realize that maybe you too had repressed something much bigger than yourself until now. Maybe you really loved Rin Itoshi

You could have thrown it all away, said yes to the guy in front of you. Tell him that yes, you loved him, that he could fuck off his marriage and let himself wallow in your love. But as much as you hated that girl, you had a modicum of respect for things like that. Being egoist wasn't on the to-do list this time. And if it was Rin, it would never have done it.Because he was just your best friend, or at least that's what you wanted to make out

"Go home. See you tomorrow at the wedding"

Notice the time the clock says, in less than a minute Rin should technically leave the room to go wait for his future bride at the altar. He would go up there as the only Itoshi and two Itoshi would go down there. Rin was really going to go out there and win not only the role of the best striker in the world, which he already was, but also the title of the first captain of the Japanese U-25 national team to be married to someone

"You should go" you say, letting go one of his hand, which falls lazily between his open legs. When you look up, his eyes were already looking at you, screaming with the same intensity with which they had told you they loved you yesterday

The boy stands up, looking at himself in the mirror one last time before walking toward the exit of the room. He puts his hand on the doorknob, but doesn't push it to get out

"You still have time. I don't care if you decide now, but please, think about what I told you" he says, his tone almost sounding like a plea. You had time, you could have seriously told him that yes, you wanted to leave this place with him, the destination didn't matter if he was by your side. You could have told him that the answer had always been yes, from the beginning; that no matter how elusive you were, you would keep this habit of yours in check if it was him

"See you after the wedding. Congratulations"

But no, you don't say that. You don't say that because you know that you love that boy too much to make him make such an important choice because of you, that you love that boy so much that seeing him fall at your feet and have his reputation ruined is not part of any of your most personal secrets. You don't say you love him, because that would be like killing him. Because you know, you know very well, that you wouldn't last, that you're not cut out for someone as good as him, good as your best friend. There is silence. Rin walks out the door, a sharp thud as it closes. You made the right choice, or at least you hope so. You really hope so, because it hurts

It doesn't matter if you're crying now

TAG: @natmagaesp

[sludge-saturday]

crossing the line we walk

pairing: arthur morgan x charles smith (charthur)

summary: arthur morgan is a simple man with simple needs. he doesn't see himself fit for doing much else than the dirty work of others - and he likes it that way. though used to working alone, he will accept working with other gang members when dutch deems it fitting. this includes the help of the group's newest addition, charles, who has caught arthur's eye since the day he joined. but why? was this admiration? respect? ...attraction?

whatever it was, arthur is confident he can take care of it on his own. we'll see how long that lasts.

tags: nsfw, +18 (MDNI), flirting, yearning, secret hard-on, confessions, fervent kissing, heavy petting, frotting/dry humping, spit as lube, mutual handjob, mutual orgasm, cum eating, slight angst

warnings: brief mentioning of murder/robbery, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, arthur's typical self-hatred, bar fight ensues, brief mention of homophobia, internalized homophobia, possible ooc

word count: ~7k

a/n: hoooowheee this is a long one! first time writing for them AND my first time writing a fic this long, i hope you enjoy! i tried to make it seem more official and professional by actually using capitalization so if it seems out of place from my usual stuff that's why! i also know some parts could have been elaborated upon more and seem a little rushed but this thing is so long already i didn't want to be boring lol. i love my gay cowboys so much these two are so special to me, as always feedback is encouraged!! hope you enjoy love you <3

A “plan.” That’s what Dutch van der Linde always had. No elaboration, no questions asked. And he expected his disciples to follow along. So, for the past week, Arthur and Charles have been tirelessly working towards carrying out his orders as they were always sent to do. They performed stake-outs, planned hits, and executed their take-downs—whatever it took to adhere to their leader's will—all while staying hidden and keeping a low profile. Far away from the rest of the gang and from their home, they couldn’t screw this one up. And come the day of the big hit, they had everything scheduled to a tee. Where they needed to be, who they needed to meet, how it all had to happen was rehearsed and memorized by the two of them on the days leading up to it. The stakes couldn't have been higher, but they trusted each other. They knew each other's capabilities and were confident they would succeed.

With a few distractions, stealth kills (much to Charles’s disapproval), and a bit of thievery and shootouts here and there, Arthur and Charles would walk away from this mission with bruised bodies and bundles of cash. Dutch would be pleased, which is all that really mattered. He gets what he wants, and today was no exception. The ride back to their camp was quiet, a comfortable silence as they both decompressed after the dust had settled. Arthur rolls his shoulder and winces, a reminder of how close they were to defeat today. The sunset was nothing short of beautiful as it cast long shadows across their path, the hoofbeats of Boadicea and Taima being the only sound breaking the quiet. Arriving at their camp which was carefully tucked away beneath the thick boughs of forest, they made sure that they left no trace behind. The smell of pine and dirt clung to their noses as they packed up, saying goodbye to the small sense of safety this area had to offer. Charles turns to Arthur with a quirked corner of his mouth as he stows his belongings on Taima.

"Want to celebrate over a drink or two?" he pulls out a map from a satchel, studying their whereabouts. "The town nearby is sure to have a bar, only about ten minutes from here."

Arthur smiles softly. "You read my mind. C'mon, now. Let's get going so we can get the goods back to camp soon as we can." 

The two mount their horses as he finishes speaking, taking one last look at where they stayed to make sure nothing looks suspicious. Satisfied with their clean-up job, Arthur nods and the two of them take off. The shimmer of the fireflies around them become ambiguous specks in the evening dim as the men leave the forest edge. They traveled along the roadside packed dirt that crunched under the hooves of the horses, who occasionally would spook at the barking and howling of coyotes.

The repetitive nature of watching their surroundings passing by prompts Arthur to become lost in thought. The donations in the van der Linde gang’s collection box were slim to none, and time was running out to do something about it. Skipped dinners and under-equipped operations could only last so long before things took a turn for the worse. And he wondered just what Dutch was going to do about it. He always spoke highly about their future as a group, but Arthur—and the rest of the gang—still has yet to see those claims come to fruition. He would never, ever question Dutch or falter in his loyalty, though, so he lets this thought float away in the wind blowing past him. Instead, he watches Charles’s form as he steers Taima from right to left on this winding path they tread. With eyes glued to his broad shoulders, his thick black hair hanging freely, and his hips moving smoothly with the horse, Arthur's heart flutters the same way it did when the pair first met. 

But if Charles ever knew about his secret infatuation… it would be over for them. Images of his betrayed face and a future of nothing but distance between the two flashed through his mind. He knew he could never bring it up, so he needed to be careful. Careful about his lingering gaze in camp, careful about the confessions in his journal, and careful about the heaving sighs and quiet gasps coming from his tent when everyone else is asleep and Arthur can't stop thinking about him. He struggled to fight off a feeling of hopelessness that settled into his chest and tightened his grip on the reins. Could he really keep this a secret forever? 

Shaken from his thoughts, Arthur could see the small town come into view, alight with the glow of oil lamps and the bustle of nightlife. The moonlight casts white highlights on the picturesque scene of orange, yellow, brown, and black. They slowed their pace as they approached the town, scanning the buildings for any sign of a bar. Their eyes landed on one in the middle of town with "SALOON" painted in a giant white font across the front. Hitching their horses at the designated spot in front and feeding them in appreciation for their hard work, the two make their way to the front doors and swing them open.

The first second of entering the saloon is a blur of light and noise. The pianist in the corner’s lively tune struggles to compete with the dozens of overlapping conversations. Angry fists bang on tables as they face an unlucky round of poker and drunken bursts of laughter popcorn throughout the room, which was near-full. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the yeasty tang of spilled beer. The floors creaked probably a little more than they were supposed to as Arthur’s gaze brushes past a few wanted posters. Luckily, no one he recognizes has their face plastered on the frayed yellow paper. He hears snippets of different conversations, some chatter about rival gangs here and rumors of undercover Pinkerton agents there. Walking up to the bar Arthur slaps two coins onto the counter, worn with dried rings of ale and knife gouges. Stories from past patrons. 

“Two mugs,” he says lowly. 

Charles shoots him a look and goes to replace one of the coins with one of his own when his hand is shooed away. "Easy. 's on me tonight."

Before Charles can respond, the barkeep has already taken the two coins and is beginning to pour them both a pint of beer. He slides the mugs towards the men and they grab their respective handles. Arthur raises his glass. 

"To a job well done. Ya did good work out there t'day." Arthur gestures with it, tilting the mug towards Charles slightly. 

Charles smiles and it's genuine. Warm and thankful. "You did too, Arthur."

The two smack their glasses on the bar before tilting their heads back and taking a large gulp. Arthur sucks his teeth and exhales on the swallow. "Strong stuff!" 

Charles hums in acknowledgement and chuckles. "The taste is good, though. Malty and dark."

Arthur watches Charles's eyes close as he savors the flavor and thinks that he has never looked more handsome than in this moment. His pulse quickens when he studies Charles’s face. The warm lamplight of the saloon casts beautiful shadows across his nose, cheeks, and lips. He looks content, relaxed. It’s a refreshing deviance from his usual weathered and stoic appearance. The two sip from their mugs again.

Scanning the crowd Arthur wonders how many of these people are regulars. “These folks, blowin’ their coin on drinks and cards… how d'ya think they do it?”

Charles sighs. “Out of desperation. They’re tryin’ to forget.”

“Forget about what?”

“That they’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Arthur pauses for a second. “Reckon you’re probably right.”

Charles has now joined Arthur in watching the sea of people. “See that woman at the poker table?” He covertly points in her direction. 

“Yeah.”

“She’s better than the whole lot of ‘em.”

“Really? Wasn’t payin’ attention.”

“You should have been. She’s sharper than most men.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Arthur raises his glass once more. “Reckon the world would be a whole lot better if we quit underestimatin’ folks.”

Looking down at his now empty mug, Arthur palms another two coins to the barkeep as a silent request for a refill. He’s buzzing, sure, but he’s looking for just a little more. “Make two whiskeys,” he notifies the man behind the counter with the wave of his hand. Within seconds, two glasses are pushed their way and Arthur wastes no time in letting his curiosity get the best of him. But not before their fingers brush each other as they reach for their glasses. Arthur hesitates for a brief moment and, unbeknownst to him, Charles notices. They sip from their glasses quietly and refuse to acknowledge it.

Arthur tries to break the ice. “Y’know, you’re good at this—blendin’ in. Not everyone can do that without landin’ themselves in some kinda trouble.”

“You’re makin’ it sound like a compliment.”

“Maybe it is,” Arthur says quietly. He turns to face behind the bar and takes another swig. He notices that Charles smiles more when he’s drunk. It's a refreshing deviance from his usual weathered and stoic demeanor.

His thoughts are paused when the screeching of chair legs and abrupt shouting clamors behind the two. By the time they turned around, two of the men who were sitting at the poker table were now throwing punches at one another and spitting obscenities in each other’s faces. Within seconds, the saloon becomes a flurry of pandemonium. People either joined in on the fight, stood and watched, or hurried out the door. Tables crashed and chairs were thrown as Arthur and Charles exchanged a shared look that read: we need to get out of here. The only problem was that in order to get out of the trouble they needed to go through it. 

They decided their best bet would be to stay on the outskirts of the calamity. If they didn’t initiate they wouldn’t get involved, right? That was the assumption as they quickly walked along one of the saloon walls. Charles led the way and the procedure was going smoothly until one of the inebriated brawlers lunged towards him. Without thinking, Arthur moves to shield Charles from his assailant and pushes the man away with brute force. “Don’t even think about it, partner!” He growls. The man falls into a table that managed to stay upright, shouting at the two who are now jogging out of the completely upturned saloon. The doors fly open as Arthur and Charles mount their disgruntled horses as fast as they can. 

“Hyah!” Arthur urgently knicks Boadicea with his stirrups. He can’t help but think about what they would have done to Charles had they gotten their hands on him. His stomach coiled at the thought. The bluster from the saloon fades into the background as Charles follows Arthur to the nearby post office, which was a safe enough distance from the town. Adrenaline is still surging through Arthur’s body when he hops off his horse, still panting. Charles does the same. 

“You’re damn lucky that didn’t go worse. Try explainin’ that one to Dutch.”

One of Charles’s eyebrows raises in amusement. “You worried about me?”

Arthur mutters under his breath as he looks back in the town's direction. “Someone’s gotta keep you in one piece.”

He paws at his pockets in search of his cigarettes. He needed to distract himself and singe the hell out of these hidden feelings until they finally left him alone. Finally, his fingers settled on the box of cigarettes he kept inside his jacket and he pulled it out, selecting one from the bunch. 

"Want one?"

"No, thank you," Charles waves a hand toward Arthur and he nods in understanding. 

Reaching into the pocket where he usually keeps his matches, Arthur's hand comes up empty and he sighs. 

"Dammit..."

"What's wrong?" he hears from beside him.

Turning towards the other man with just a hint of bashfulness, Arthur's eyebrows raise when he sees that Charles’s hand is already holding a match. 

"Need a light?"

He exhales in relief. "I owe ya." 

Arthur goes to reach for the match but Charles moves his hand away, almost teasingly. 

"Let me." 

The smile playing on his lips is something Arthur can't make sense of. It seemed playful, frisky, maybe even seductive. Like he knew what he was doing. But surely it had to be the drink talking. Surely Arthur was reading way too far into things, like he always did. Surely there was no way Charles was trying to do what Arthur thinks he’s doing. 

He strikes the match against the bottom of his boot and the flame flickers to life. Stepping toward Arthur, Charles holds the open flame up to the cigarette hanging off of his lips. He cups the side of the flame to shield it from the wind and Arthur cannot take his eyes off of him. The flame in between their faces, their proximity to each other, the subtle display of dominance, it was almost too much for him to bear. He has never been this intimate with another man before, let alone with Charles . For a split second, he was frozen in place and all he could do was stare. Luckily Charles was looking at the end of the cigarette—making sure his aim was right—briefly oblivious of Arthur's awe-stricken face. That is, until Charles's eyes met his.

Arthur's heart was in his throat as he sucks in, aiding the lighting of the cigarette. 

“There you go.” Charles shakes out the match.

Taking the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger and pulling it from his mouth, Arthur exhales the smoke with the slightest shake in his breath. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and Charles chuckles.

“What’s the matter, Arthur? Can’t handle a little closeness?”

He shakes his head. "We better get a move-on. We'll ride 'til we can't then find a place to sleep for the night." 

Charles nods, already mounting his horse. "Let's go, then."

As they ride along the pathways leading them back to the rest of the gang at camp, Arthur cannot shake the image of Charles lighting his cigarette from his mind. His half lidded eyes, his drunken smile, strands of hair falling in his face… he looked so, so handsome. Not only that, but he looked like he was doing it intentionally . And Arthur had absolutely no idea what to do with that information. Was this a subtle hint at something more than what they currently had? No, no. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t get his hopes up like that.

Arthur knew how people felt about men like him. He’d seen the way they were treated and heard the words that were spat at them: weak, dirty, shameful. And who was he to disagree? For all he knew they were probably right. How could someone like him feel something like this? It’s not right—it's not safe. For either of them. But when Arthur looks at him, laughs with him, it’s as if he finally understands what makes his being here worthwhile. What being alive means. It’s unlike anything Arthur has ever felt before. But if Charles ever found out, Arthur would be risking the loss of the most important person in his life right now. He didn't want to have to hide this forever, but he was preparing for that reality. Remaining hopeful could be the death of him, but so would denial. So hopeful he would remain. Hopeful that Charles felt it too. Whatever it was.

It was easy for Arthur to get inside his own head while traveling on horseback. The sound of the hooves on the ground and the wind in his ears served as white noise, making it way too easy for him to zone out. And when they rode like this for hours on end with little conversation, the circumstances couldn't be more perfect to start ruminating. To start wallowing.

The hours came and went as the pair continued their trek until the moon was high in the sky, the only thing illuminating their path. It almost felt oppressive, urging Arthur to spill everything. The weather was comfortable, late July offering the occasional breeze amidst the humid air. It hung heavy, almost as much as the tension between them when Charles slowed his horse. 

“We should stop for the night. We’re close, but we need to stay sharp when we’re riding with all this loot."

Drowsiness settles into Arthur’s bones. He couldn't tell if the drink was starting to make him sleepy or if the day's events were finally catching up to him. Either way, Charles was right.

"Yeah," he mumbles, scanning a nearby wood. "Let's find somewhere to set up." 

He leads the way through the brush and the forest is alive with sounds of the night. Crickets chirped and leaves rustled, overlaid with the muffled clopping of their horses as they trod over the occasional patch of moss. Arthur thinks of Dutch again. Even when the two of them are this far away from the eyes that pry, he can’t get rid of the feeling that nowhere will ever be truly safe for people like him. Like the chances he and Charles have to be with one another grow slimmer and slimmer as Dutch’s plans grow riskier and riskier. He wonders if the freedoms that come with being in this gang are costing him his own. His thoughts tangled like the canopy above them.

"Good here?" he calls back to Charles.

Charles’s feet land to the ground with a gentle thud . “Perfect.”

The two of them hitch their horses and begin unloading their belongings: their bedrolls, their tents, and their earnings today which they kept hidden. The forest was dense here—its twisting branches and impenetrable lines of shrubbery making it the perfect location to occupy. Charles, ever the pragmatist, pulls out a knife and begins stripping a tree of some of its bark. While he does this Arthur looks for twigs and low-hanging branches to pull off. The jagged wood is no match for his calloused hands, hardened from years upon years of dirty work. Together the two of them build a cone-shaped construction of everything they’ve gathered and Charles takes out his set of matches. Arthur sharply inhaled a microscopic breath as everything about that moment at the post office comes back in an overwhelm of warmth. In his face, his neck, his chest, and, most unfortunately, his groin.

He panics. He cannot let Charles see this, can't let Charles know how much he is getting to him. The fabric around his crotch feels tighter and tighter as he sits down on his bedroll and takes off his hat. Maybe the change of position will act in his favor. Charles doesn't seem to notice as he lights the match with a spare piece of bark, striking it on the bottom of his boot just as he did before. If Arthur couldn't feel any more flustered, this is what pushed him over the edge. God, he was so enchanting. Charles doesn't seem to notice Arthur’s lingering gaze and with some maneuvering of the bark and a little bit of hope, the fire eventually becomes well lit.

“Should last through the night.” Charles takes a seat next to Arthur on his own bedroll and the two stare into the fire in silence. Arthur doesn't know what to say. He can't move, obviously, but Charles is the first to speak. 

"I've been thinking about what you said, Arthur. “About how you're proud of me 'n everything." O h god . Here it comes . He prepared for the worst. For Charles to question his sudden displays of affection, for him to see right through his façade, for him to understand Arthur for who he really was, disgusted and revolted. Charles turns toward Arthur, eyes cast down towards the ground. 

"I'm proud of you, too." He lifts his head and meets Arthur's gaze. 

As soon as he does Arthur looks away and involuntarily shakes his head, not conditioned to receive this kind of compliment. Or any compliment, for that matter. 

"You don't gotta say that, Charles. Ain't nothing’ I've done’s worth bein’ proud of."

"I disagree." 

Charles is leaning back on one of his hands, his whole body oriented to face Arthur. Now he has the man's attention. Arthur looks at him, unable to tear his eyes away from how tantalizing Charles looks in front of him right now. His normally buttoned-up-to-the-collar shirt is unbuttoned halfway, exposing just enough chest to get Arthur feeling even hotter under the collar. The moonlight reflects in his eyes and they shine brighter than anything this universe could offer. His face is sincere, with a twinge of admiration. 

"You've got a lot to be proud of, anyway."

Arthur sighs. How is he supposed to respond? All his life he has done nothing but steal, lie, cheat, and kill. And where has it gotten him? Sure, he had a place to sleep, food to eat, and a bit of money to spend, but at what cost? 

"I'm not a good man, Charles. There's plenty of things I wish I hadn't done."

"But you're not a bad one either." 

Charles scooches closer to him, closing even more distance between the two. Arthur stares at the fire, afraid that he won't be able to stop himself from confessing if Charles comes any closer.

"No one is perfect. No one is immune to making mistakes and realizing that it's okay to make them is part of being human. I know what you've done. I've seen what you're capable of." 

Arthur shrugs as if trying to shake off Charles's words. Getting this personal makes him more uncomfortable than he'd like to admit. It was like an involuntary aversion to expressing emotions. When it came to Charles, though, he craved it. He needed it like he needed air.

"But what you're capable of isn't all of who you are." Charles's voice is gentle, the soft crackle of the fire accentuating his speech. An owl hoots in the distance and Arthur can do nothing more than keep staring into the fire. 

"You take care of those you care about, even if you know it or not. You're loyal. Your wit is quick. You're as protective as they get and you're a hell of a shot." Charles lifts a hand in emphasis and Arthur turns to look at him. “You’ve got this grit, this air of determination that makes it hard not to watch you at work. With endurance as impressive as yours, it’s no wonder you’re this tough.” 

Arthur decided enough was enough. He needed to know Charles's intentions, if there were even any to begin with. 

"Why’re you telling me this?"

Charles sighs and, for the first time tonight, seems hesitant to speak. 

"Because..." 

Arthur waits with bated breath.

"Because you're different. I've met a lot of people in my life, good and bad, and I've never met one like you. At all. I don't feel that way about just anyone." Charles shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this. must be the drink talkin'." He turns his body back to face toward the fire and yawns. "I can’t stay awake for much longer anyway.." 

Charles moves to lay down on his bedroll and Arthur contemplates. It's now or never . This really could make or break them, but he just couldn't wait anymore. Months and months of this longing and no action meant he needed to grab the bull by the horns and accept whatever consequence may come of it. The knot in his stomach felt like dead weight as he prepared to speak.

"Charles-" his voice wavers.

He is attentive, ready to listen.. 

"I... thank you. I can't remember the last time someone talked to me like that. Feels different." Arthur gives him a half smile. 

"Don't worry 'bout it." Charles is the first to break the silence and leans on his palm, this time towards Arthur. 

"You mean a lot to me, Arthur. Whatever happens in the future, 'm never gonna forget you."

Arthur feels like he could cry. "Me neither." 

He says it quietly, scared that if he said it louder it could mean more than it already does. Heart in his throat, his gaze retreats back to the fireplace. 

"C'mere," Charles reaches out an arm to pull Arthur into an embrace. Arthur accepts the invitation and hugs back with a single arm, patting him on the back.

The pair stay like that for a second before pulling away, but Charles doesn’t release Arthur fully so that their heads are but inches from each other. They lock eyes and scan each other's faces for any hint of this being territory best left uncharted. Neither of them retreat. Arthur is frozen solid, sure that he already fell asleep and was dreaming at this point. He blinks in disbelief. Charles brings the hand that was on Arthur's back up to the side of his neck. His touch is gentle, unsure. His eyes flutter shut and he quickly leans in, pressing his lips against Arthur's.

Arthur's brain short-circuits. This wasn't happening. No, it couldn't be happening. What should he do? How should he react? He can't let Charles know how much he wanted this. How willing he was to accept this. Almost instinctively, he grabs a fistful of Charles's shirt and pushes him away before the kiss lasts too long. His eyes are wide and confused. Charles pulls back with a concerned expression, looking worried that he stepped too far.

"I'm sorry-"

Arthur is practically panting at this point. He feels wild and alive, unable to resist this temptation. but he still contemplates. What will come of this? Will this change the way they see each other for good? How are they going to keep this under wraps at camp, if things don't fall apart first? His thoughts are moving a mile a minute but he can't find it in himself to focus on anything except how Charles's lips felt against his. He needs another taste.

Arthur surges forward, overtaken by something stronger than he'll ever be. He pulls Charles towards him by the shirt his fist is still clenching and locks lips with him again. He was set on a mission of a new kind now. He needed this. He needed Charles . Arthur's other hand pulls him even closer by the waist, clutching the man like he was afraid he would wake up from this dream if he let go.

Charles does not hesitate to return Arthur's kiss and touch, one hand still resting on the side of his neck while the other grips his shoulder just as tightly. Their lips move together quickly and urgently as if every parting of them could have been the last. Taking initiative, Arthur moves on top of Charles and straddles him with his legs. Charles moves to lean back onto his elbows and the feverish kissing never ceases even with all of the movement. One of his legs is still propped up, though, and during the maneuver his knee brushes against Arthur's crotch.

It's at this point that Arthur does something that he is almost certain he has never done in front of another man before. Through parted lips, he moans into Charles's mouth. Sounding more adjacent to a groan mixed with a sigh, his knuckles tighten and he grinds onto Charles's thigh experimentally, just a little bit. Charles pulls away and grabs Arthur by the waist, pausing their interaction. Arthur feels another anxious pang in his stomach. Was he being too much? Was he taking things too fast? Is this not where Charles wanted this to go?

His nerves are soothed when he feels Charles lay down with one leg propped up and begins to move his hips for him up and down his thigh. "There you go, Arthur. 'S okay." He mumbles. Arthur's hair hangs in front of his face and he huffs in pleasure as he rubs his aching hard-on against Charles's leg. Any remnants of disbelief that this was what they both wanted have dissipated. This is real .

Arthur leans down to kiss Charles once more and he's so far gone that he doesn't give second thought to swiping his lips with the tip of his tongue. Now, it's the other man's turn to moan. It's low and rumbly, a grunt of pleasure. He brings his hands up to thread his fingers through the hair at Arthur's nape and he tugs slightly. Arthur moans, fully moans this time and shuts his eyes at the sensation. He rubs his cock against Charles's leg with more purpose now, desperate for something other than this fabric-covered friction. Hearing the other man’s noises was only fuel for the fire.

Charles takes note of this, sitting back up and lightly pushing Arthur back so that he's sitting on his ankles. He smooths a hand from Arthur's pectoral to his shoulder and rubs in that motion for a second while his eyes are directed elsewhere. Specifically, at Arthur's crotch. The print of his hardened cock stood out against his pants and Arthur swore he could have seen Charles's tongue wet his lower lip as he studied his lower half. The hand rubbing Arthur's chest moves down to the side of his waist and slides onto the top of his thigh to rub in circles again.

Arthur sighs and peers shyly at Charles, afraid to make another move. He never expected it to go this far, but he wasn't complaining. Just painfully hesitant. Charles looks back at him and flicks his eyes downward to Arthur's erection. 

"You're really somethin’, you know that?" a smile threatens to play on his lips. 

Arthur moves to close his legs. “Ah, I’m sorry Charles, I didn’t mean to-"

“Shh, let me help. It’s okay.” 

Butterflies swarm in Arthur’s stomach and a wave of heat pools into his cock. They really were about to do this. He slowly spreads his legs again. There was no backing down now. His breath shudders silently as he unclasps his belt buckle, unloops it, and unbuttons his pants. He reaches his hand beneath the fabric and palms himself, groaning at the feeling of his cock finally being touched. Charles hums in approval when Arthur unbuttons the bottom buttons of his union suit and finally frees his length. It springs up and presses against Arthur’s abdomen. 

“May I?” Charles asks, ever the gentleman. “...please?”

Arthur feels as though he could cum on the spot. Here before him was the man whose touch he has longed for for months on end, begging to put his hands on his cock. How could he refuse?

“Yes, yes. Please.” Arthur’s tone is teetering on one of pure desperation. He couldn’t wait any longer. 

Gingerly, gently, Charles takes Arthur’s cock into his calloused hand. He strokes it with his thumb to start and Arthur lets out a puff of breath he didn’t know he was holding. Charles moves his whole hand and pumps the shaft slowly. Arthur guessed that he wasn’t a fan of the friction, because he removed his hand not long after and spit into his palm, returning it to keep rubbing. He moves his confident grip down to the base of Arthur’s cock all the way up to the tip, thumbing the head in order to evenly spread the makeshift lubrication. 

Charles repeats this motion a few more times and Arthur is noisier than he thought he would be. Every movement of Charles’s hand, every time his fingers just grazed near his balls, every time he used his thumb to swipe the top of the head had Arthur squirming. His legs twitched and his abdomen was taut, knees occasionally folding and unfolding as he quietly moaned. 

“Charles, fuck- you’re really good at this. Haah- ah AH!” Arthur keened when Charles hit a particularly sensitive spot, the slit on his cock’s head, white pearls of precome beading at the tip. He was dangerously close to orgasming and didn’t want this to end so soonーnot when they were just getting started. He pries Charles’s hand away from his cock and moves to kiss him instead. Arthur leans into Charles and he is invited in, Charles spreading his legs for Arthur to come even closer. And when Arthur moves to his knees, cock bouncing freely, it’s his turn to accidentally brush his leg against Charles’s crotch. And the poor man is rock hard. 

Another swarm of butterflies flutter in Arthur’s stomach. Not only was Charles pleasuring him, but he was getting pleasure out of it too. He can’t help but smile and look down to the bulge in Charles’s pants.

“Looks like you need some help yourself there.” 

Charles’s face flusters and he looks at the ground for a second. “Maybe I do.” He peers up at Arthur through his lashes, subtly taking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

As if agreeing without words, both sets of hands fumble to undo the buttons and clasps on Charles pants. This time there is more tenacity in their motions, both eager to bring this moment to the next level. Within a few seconds Charles’s cock springs free from his pants and Arthur cannot believe what he is seeing. He lets out a low whistle as he eyes up and down the absolute monster that is the man’s cock. 

“Look at you…” he breathes. 

Arthur doesn’t want to waste anymore time on timidness. He spits into his hand just as Charles had done earlier and goes to grab the shaft. To say that he is amazed by Charles’s girth is an understatement when he feels the sheer weight of his erection. And it’s so long . 

“Ohmy- Arthur!” Charles is breathing heavily now and throws his head back as he moans. 

Arthur’s cock is leaking from the sound and state of Charles right now. Disheveled and drunk with pleasure, his chest heaving and his mouth hung open, Arthur wonders what else he could do to draw out a reaction like this. He never knew that Charles had this side to him, kept well-hidden underneath an inclination for silence and isolation ever since he met him. He never would have thought in a million years that he and Charles would be where they are right now. Whatever higher power is out there that allowed them to come together like this, Arthur thanks it silently. 

As aroused and excited as Arthur is, he is still just as nervous. He’s never held a cock in his hands that wasn’t his own. He gives a slow hesitant stroke from the base to just underneath the head, just like how he would do in his tent when he was sure there was no one left awake. Charles hisses through his teeth and Arthur shoots him a worried glance, his grip on his cock easing. Does he not like it? Does it hurt? Is he doing it wrong? Anxiously, he waits for Charles to say something.

“Please-” he breathes. “You’re teasing… just- just go a little faster. You won’t hurt me.” He makes intense eye contact with Arthur, eyebrows upturned as he pleads. 

Arthur leans in to kiss Charles and it’s reassuring for the both of them. A means to continue. With a more sure grip this time, Arthur strokes up and down Charles’s cock with a slightly quicker pace. Not too fast, but not too slow either. He knows it’s just the right pace with the reactions he’s pulling out of Charles, too. He bucks his hips, runs his hand through his hair and tries to cover his mouth with the back of it. Almost as if he wants to hide his face. And Arthur can’t let that slide. 

“Lemme see ya. Ain’t nothin’ to be hidin’ yourself for.” He pulls Charles’s hand away. 

Unbridled and unable to control himself following Arthur’s sweet words, Charles takes the hand that was covering his face and wraps it around the back of Arthur’s neck as his cock continues to be stroked. Arthur’s hand moves up and down, back and forth, and Charles squirms while trying not to touch himself too. Instead, he decides to release this energy by reaching for Arthur’s cock, which was red and drooling. Arthur doesn’t expect this at all, he was so focused on pleasuring Charles that he almost whimpers when he feels the contact. 

He laughs quietly at Arthur’s reaction. “‘M sorry, just couldn’t help myself.” 

Sound of slick skin and hushed moans harmonized with the night ambience surrounding them. Their lips were wet with spit as they kissed unabashedly now with open mouths. Arthur’s free hand paws at Charles’s chest, slipping beneath his shirt and squeezing his pectoral. Charles’s grip on Arthur’s waist is firm and shows no sign of loosening as his shirt hangs off of his left shoulder from Arthur’s incessant palming. His eyes squeeze shut. He’s close. 

“That feel good, big guy?” Charles smooths back some of the hair that fell into Arthur’s face. 

He whines in response and moves his hand to clasp behind Charles’s head, pulling their faces together until their foreheads touch. The way Charles was touching him had him dizzy and aching for release. And he could tell the feeling was mutual. Their strokes were faster now, both ready to push each other over the edge as they looked straight into each other’s eyes. The deep brown of Charles's irises as they reflected the moonlight was alluring, pulling Arthur further under his spell. 

“Charles, I-...’M gonna…”

“It’s okay,” he huffs. “Me too.”

With upturned eyebrows and mouths hanging open, the two reached their climax. Arthur threw his head back and looked down with Charles at the sight of their hands on each other’s cocks, spurting silky white ropes.

“Holy shit, Charles- ah AH! Fuck!” Arthur is groaning with each rise and fall of his chest.

Charles chokes out a moan, quieter than Arthur when he comes.

Their cocks twitch as the come lands on their stomachs and rolls down their hands. Milking each other for every last drop, their fingers are coated with a hot sheen of each other’s seed. Charles moves in to kiss Arthur as they come down from their high. They’re gentler now, as if to say: it’s alright, I’m here . He pets Arthur’s head and pushes back his hair to plant a kiss on his forehead. 

Arthur’s head is spinning, still in disbelief of what happened. Charles lifts his hand to lick the cum off his fingers and Arthur swears if he didn’t just orgasm he would have gotten hard all over again. He figures he should do the same, wanting to prove something he wasn’t sure of to Charles. His tongue makes contact with his sticky hand and it slides from the base of his fingers to their tips, and across the back of his hand. He makes a point to keep eye contact with Charles as he does this and he swears he can see Charles smirk. The taste is bitter but he doesn’t recoil, savoring the feeling of him—the very essence of him—in his mouth. He swallows every last drop and secretly wishes there were more. Maybe there would be, in due time. 

Charles’s voice breaks through his wishful thinking, wiping his hand on his pants. “We’ll change into fresh clothes in the morning.”

A yawn moves through Arthur’s chest and throat, his jaw dropping and his eyes drooping. He hasn’t come that hard in a while, if ever and it left him exhausted. But he couldn’t ignore this rising feeling in his chest, the kind of feeling he would get when Dutch was disappointed in him. Like he had done something wrong. The reality of what they had done set in quickly for Arthur and he scowls at the ground. All his life he’s been taught that encounters like this were reserved for between men and women. Any deviation from that and you were defective, in need of fixing. He felt broken . 

“Hey, you alright?” Charles reaches toward Arthur but his hand is pushed away. 

“Don’t you realize what we’ve done?” Arthur frowns. “We can’t tell anyone what happened here.”

Charles looks at him for a moment, taken aback by the sudden shift in mood. “And what exactly did we do, Arthur?”

“You know, Charles. You know damn well.” 

“No… tell me. What are you so afraid of?”

Arthur’s eyes welled up with tears, the lump in his throat threatening to spill them.

“I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

Silence.

“I can’t stop feelin’ like this and it's drivin’ me mad.”

“Arthur-”

“I can’t lose you, Charles.” A single tear falls down his cheek.

He tries reaching for Arthur again, slower this time as not to spook him.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere. I promise.” 

Arthur lets him in this time. He lets Charles hold him in his arms as he weeps and he lays them down on their bed rolls, sheltered by their shared tent and warmed by the fire beside them.

“Don’t know if I can keep goin’ like this,” he sniffles. 

“But now you know that you don’t have to do it alone.”

The two of them are facing each other as they lay, surrounded by the sounds of the night. It was comforting, tranquil and quiet. The fire crackled and popped and fabric rustled as Charles rubs Arthur’s arm, hand coming up to rest on his cheek. He thumbs his tears away and kisses it softly. “Lately I’ve been thinkin’ about what matters to me.”

Physically and emotionally exhausted, all Arthur can do is listen.

“It used to be family. Then it was survival. But now I’m certain of it, and it ain’t Dutch or the money or the goddamn plan.”

Arthur’s eyes threaten to close. 

“It’s you.”

The stars shone brightly above them as Arthur fell asleep in Charles’s embrace. He sifts through the speckling of white on the night sky to find the brightest one and he pulls Arthur closer, fingers threading through his hair. He isn’t one for making wishes, but as he stares he hopes that this is only beginning for them. The thin line they walked had now been crossed, and they were going to weather whatever storm may come—together. 

[evilfaggotyuri]

Looking at Gibson’s fate I think it really exemplifies how for many, with marriage you kinda have to dig just one grave.

Gibson in being married to Hickey is stripped of individuality because she accepted the proposal knowing Hickey had plans involving her, many of which would bring ruin to just everything. But maybe it was fantasy blinding her or she didnt care or tried not to care too much.

In her body being used for food she is stored within Hickey, buried in him. They die together as one when Hickey goes, Gibson's soul being sucked out of Hickey when Hickey encountered the Tuunbaq. Hickey is like Tuunbaq in that sense also, the soul eating.

Gibson saw the shovel Hickey held with the intention of just burying one grave for himself for Gibson to follow him into and she looked away or just accepted what would come.

She kept his ring close to her heart, tied on that string because she tried her shot at believing in him like a God, like everyone else. But when she died, Goodsir took the ring away, ripping that attempt of devotion away with her being used for something she assumably had no say in or had little idea of (if we assume Gibson didn’t know Hickey would kill her).

TLDR: Gibson gave up personal identity in marrying hickey and following through with him in his plans and cemented the fate that she would die in the grave he had buried just for himself.