#Conquer clutter

[mexicanistnet]

Tired of spice cabinet chaos? Conquer clutter with these simple tips. Organize by cuisine, label clearly, utilize drawers or clever hacks like sheet pans. Maintain order by checking expiration dates, keeping an inventory, and rotating your spices. Enjoy a tidy spice haven and happy cooking.

[owastie]

archives room robert/bob reynolds x fem!reader (fluff) synopsis: you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat m.list \ wc: 1.5k

   "you- uh you mind starting here, divide and conquer?” you look over at bob, hands resting on your hips. 

  the archives room has always been a cluttered mess, avoided by all and enjoyed by none. boxes stack higher than you stand and knick knacks cover the flooring, leaving little room for comfortable movement. however, as rumors of a former adversary flutters throughout new york, you all knew it was time to start checking. and you drew the short straw, literally, along with bob. 

  bob purses his lips, hands clasped behind his back. sallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobs up and down, one foot rubbing behind his ankle. “sure, just, check every box on this side?” he rewords your sentence, clearly making sure every little thing he does is acceptable.

  “yeah, let me know if you see even a mention of this guy’s name,” walking off towards your side, you take a peek back at him, eyebrows furrowing.

  everyone on the team cared for bob, understanding his problems more than anyone else could. you feel that same pull towards him, an unmistakable magnetic pull that he drags out of you. however, you’re still not particularly close to him. even after nearly a year of living together, the room is still awkward when it’s just the two of you. tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  even now, you look back towards the problem at hand, hair standing on the back of your neck. at first you wondered if it was his powers that made you feel this way. you were afraid of feeling the same emotions you felt fighting him. now, though, you feel as though you have nothing to fear, besides an awkward conversation that could ruin months of progress.

  grabbing a box down, you flip through the different pages, finding nothing of relevance. tapping the top of the box, and then the bottom, it quickly floats to the ceiling. bouncing off of the concrete, it settles into a comfortable spot. “sometimes i forget how interesting your abilities are,” bob looks over at you, seemingly having watched you send it upwards.

  looking back at him, you give him a half smile. “thanks, i mean it’s just gravity, not nearly as interesting as some of the others,” your shoulders move before you can even think, shrugging absentmindedly at his compliment, eyes returning to your work. 

  bob nods, still pursing his lips, as though he wants to say something but is simply too in his own head to do so. looking back at your portion of the boxes, you get back to work, trying to play some melody in your head to drown out the silence. yet every noise bounces off the walls like an echo. the windowless room feeling stale as you grab each box, dust brushing off against your fingers.

  sending another box towards the ceiling, you pull out a new one, lifting off the lid and setting it to the side. inside is a long list of papers, some envelopes shoved in the box. biting the inside of your cheek, you begin to flip through each page. the process is long and boring, each one filled with bureaucratic nonsense. until your eyes scan the very thing you needed, information on norman osborn’s rising empire.

  “robert- uh bob! i think i found what we were looking for,” you look back towards him, grabbing out the multiple stacks of stapled documents, “this is some of the research that tony stark was building on him- this could totally help us.”

  stepping over a few of the strewn items and papers along the archives room flooring, you head for bob. he’s looking up from a position he took sitting on the floor, immediately dropping a glowing crystal of some kind from an old box. standing up, bob steps over one of the taller boxes. as his foot lowers, he doesn’t notice the small upside down sticky note. 

  pressing his foot down, it takes away the grippy feeling of his shoes, instantly causing him to fall forward. reaching out for him, your hand grabs a hold of his sleeve, dropping the papers you were holding. your powers activating as it slowly starts moving him upwards, you along with him. “oh fuck no!” your feet start swaying back and forth, the loss of flooring beneath your feet instantly messing with your mind.

  “y/n- thanks for the save, but could you bring us down now,” bob looks over at you, unsure if he should grab your hand or not, initiating touch that may make this situation even worse.

  “uh, i’m not sure. my abilities work well with inanimate objects,” looking down towards the floor, you reach your other hand to a painting on the wall, grasping against the frame, “but i don’t really understand how it works with living things…”

  you’ve tried multiple times to fully grasp every nook and cranny of your abilities. worked with the new avengers to try to understand every aspect of it. and yet you could never fully grasp the process of causing a person to float. much less one you’re not entirely close with. “okay, so could you use what you have to lower yourself to the ground? pull me with?” bob suggests, looking over at you, his hair swinging in front of his face.

  “no… because our forces will equal out and we will be stuck in one spot.. until i eventually pass out and we fall to the floor. which is not ideal with how tall stark built the ceilings,” you look back at him, pursuing your own lips apologetically, “i’m sorry. i haven’t quite gotten the hang of this yet. not everything at least.”

  bob lets out a deep sigh, laughing in an attempt to brighten the mood, “at least you’re not trying to kill me, so this isn’t too bad.”

  “right, it could be worse,” you laugh with him, trying to ignore the feeling of weightlessness that’s affecting you. you’ve never quite had a fear of heights, especially with your powers, but right now it feels like the scariest thing there is. “okay, how about i grab your sleeves and you grab mine? maybe it’s emotion based? get me to calm down and we lower.”

  bob looks over at you, unsure what to say. it wasn’t his first time in the air, but he really doesn’t want this to be his last. making eye contact with you, his eyebrows lower, softening from his usual wide eyed expression. “okay, let’s try it,” holding out his other arm, you wrap your hands around his covered wrists, him doing the same.

  staring over at him, you take in deep breaths. “what’s your favorite movie?”

  “what?”

  “your favorite movie? just to calm me down.”

  “oh- right. uh, i’ve always quite liked uh the original jurassic park. it was a good movie, i haven’t watched it in a long… long time,” bob tilts his head, looking away as he seemingly searches his mind for such information. nodding your head, you try to think of something to ask him, only to be asked a question that he poses, “what’s your favorite thing to have for breakfast? you usually seem to favor bagels.”

  he looks back towards you, face seemingly warming up as a slight blush crosses his cheeks. smiling, you wonder how he noticed such a thing, when the two of you are hardly friends. “yeah, my grandma used to make homemade ones when i was younger. none are ever quite as good, but slathering them with cream cheese definitely helps some. sorry we don’t talk as much, i’m just now noticing that we’re not as close as the others.”

  “it’s okay, i’m used to that by now.”

  “you shouldn’t have to be though. you really are nice, anyone would be lucky to be your friend bob,” you nod, hands tightening around his wrists, only for you to look down and see your mere feet from the floor.

  bob looks down with you, smiling. letting go of each other’s wrists, you situation your feet against the flooring, finally feeling the sweet floor again. “oh i have never been happier to feel this tile flooring again,” letting out a deep sigh, you look towards bob, who’s already looking at you.

  “thanks for what you said,” he nods, looking down towards the ground. 

  “i meant every word,” nodding, you wait patiently for him to look up, only for your attention to slip from the boxes above, all of them loosing your effect on them as they fall to the ground. 

  slamming around you, they fall into piles of mess, covering the papers you had previously found. dust barrels back into the air, the overhead light revealing every little particle of dust spreading through the open air. “shit,” you press your hands against your hips, looking around the room. peering back at bob, you can see he has a smile on his face, making the idea of searching again not too bad. 

[lilyprettyremy]

Polished and Productive: The It Girl Playbook for Organization. 💋☕️

- The Power of a Chic Planner 📄 Your planner is more than just dates and deadlines, it’s your daily sidekick. Opt for one that’s stylish and functional—think sleek leather covers, minimalist designs, and plenty of space for your goals. Use it to jot down tasks, appointments, and those brilliant ideas you get on the go.

- Create a Morning Routine That Sets the Tone 📋 Start your day with a quick, five-minute planning session. Outline your top three priorities, a to-do list, and a motivational quote. This mini habit keeps you focused and ready to conquer the day ahead.

- Declutter Your Digital Space 💻 Your phone and laptop should be as chic as your outfit. Organize your apps into folders, clear out your camera roll, and set a wallpaper that inspires you. Keep your inbox clean by unsubscribing from emails that no longer serve you—it’s like a digital detox.

- Capsule Wardrobe, but for Your Desk 🖋️ Keep your workspace minimalist and clutter-free. Think of it like a capsule wardrobe: only the essentials, but each item should be purposeful and aesthetically pleasing. A sleek pen holder, a chic planner, and a scented candle are all you really need.

- Time Blocking: Your Secret Weapon 🗓️ An It Girl knows that multitasking is out, and time blocking is in. Set specific times for studying, working, and breaks. This method keeps you in control of your schedule, so you can slay your to-do list without feeling overwhelmed.

- Organize Your Thoughts with Brain Dumps 📓 Feeling overwhelmed? Do a quick brain dump—grab a notebook and write down everything on your mind. It’s like a reset button for your brain, clearing the clutter so you can focus on what truly matters.

- Weekly Reset Ritual 🕊️ Dedicate one day a week to reset. This is your time to clean your space, plan for the week ahead, and refresh your mindset. Light a candle, put on a playlist, and make this ritual something you look forward to.

- Stay Inspired with a Vision Board Keep your goals front and center with a vision board. Whether digital or physical, fill it with images, quotes, and aesthetics that align with your dream life. It’s a daily reminder of what you’re working towards and why you’re putting in the effort.

[aisquaredchoco]

Advent gifts out in the wild! Thank you everyone for participating!

To the ones who missed out the 12-day event, or just wanted to revisit the goodies, here's everything under one post. Enjoy! 🎅

More info below the cut..

🎄 DAY 1: 2to3 Kitchen & Bath "Tres Rugs by Sleek Sensations"

This rug actually has five presets (I said only four in the advent post *facepalm*), where one preset has only one channel, three have varying color channels, and another one that is not recolorable. Found in Decor > Rugs, costs §430.

🎄 DAY 2: Cozy Patio Table

I made this table using the legs from the "Deluxe Cozy Terrarium" from Outdoor Living, then put a glass top and voila! A cozy patio table. Five slots as with any 1x1 dining table with one channel. Found in Surfaces > Dining Tables, costs §200.

🎄 DAY 3: 4to3 Snowy Escape "Bamboo Forest Fence"

Yep, we are still lacking various fences in TS3, hence converting this gem from Snowy Escape. Three channels, costs §25. Found in Build mode > Fences.

🎄 DAY 4: 4to3 "RAW Utensil Holder"

For the clutter lovers, here's something for your kitchen, if you also love the industrial accents from TS4 like me. Four channels, costs §430, found in Decor > Sculptures, Misc.

🎄 DAY 5: 2to3 Kitchen & Bath "FaceBowl by Sleek Sensations"

This conversion took almost a year in the making and thought would never get finished, but here it is, finally ready to conquer your bathrooms! Four channels, costs §670, found in Plumbing > Sinks.

🎄 DAY 6: Outdoor Living "Class-E Dining Table" Unornated

I love the stuff from Outdoor Living, but why didn't EA make un-ornated versions of the furniture for variety? And so I did the work. Same channels and slots as the original, only differs in price which is now §825. Found in Surfaces > Dining tables. Outdoor Living not required.

🎄 DAY 7: 2to3 Apartment Life "BLOK Jr. Block from COGnition"

I miss the industrial/gearhead aesthetic from TS2:AL and this wall is one of those, so I converted it. Three channels, costs §11, found in Walls > Panelling.

🎄 DAY 8: Outdoor Living "The Poet's Respite" Unornated

Another un-ornated piece of furniture from Outdoor Living (I just couldn't stand the cursive elements sometimes @.@). Lowered the price to §300, everything else is left intact. Outdoor Living is also not required.

🎄 DAY 9: 2to3 Kitchen & Bath "Pots Descending from Ceiling"

I hate repeating myself, but yeah it's nostalgia that's the main reason why I convert 2to3 items. Especially from this stuff pack, I'd love to convert everything else left unconverted from it (but the counters stop me from doing so). Two channels, costs §160, found in Decor > Sculptures, Misc.

🎄 DAY 10: 4to3 Max20 Shark Plush Toy

I've been pondering if I should put this one up for download, because I couldn't find the original cc post to link. But having seen this 4to2 conversion, I figured I should also share it. Two channels, costs §100, found in Decor > Misc, Kids > Misc. Credits to Max20 for the original TS4 creation.

Fun fact: I own a real life counterpart of this plushie (I got this as a secret santa gift), and now my cat has already claimed it as his property. 🐱🦈

🎄 DAY 11: Ambitions "Le Sconce" made fully CAStable

I hate it when EA decides to make an object part unrecolorable when there are actually many ways to redesign it, like in this default replacement I did on a mirror. This wall lamp now has the emblem CAStable, and also edited the mask into three channels for a more versatile recolorability. This is a default replacement, so you need Ambitions for this to work properly.

🎄 DAY 12: 4to3 "The Centurion"

Need something to fill your dining room but too lazy to decorate it using shelves and clutter? Say no more! This pre-decorated hutch from TS4 is now also available for TS3! Three channels, costs a hefty §1880 (why EA?), found in Decor > Sculptures.

POLYCOUNT INFO:

Tres Rugs by Sleek Sensations: 80 (hLOD)

Cozy Patio Table: 526 (hLOD)/220 (mLOD)

Bamboo Forest Fence: 44 (main)/48 (diagonal)/12 (post)

RAW Utensil Holder: 250 (hLOD)/220 (mLOD)

FaceBowl by Sleek Sensations: 1356 (hLOD)/877 (mLOD)

Class-E Dining Table Unornated: 750 (hLOD)/257 (mLOD)

The Poet's Respite Unornated: 994 (hLOD)/360 (mLOD)

Pots Descending from Ceiling: 2122 (hLOD)/1190 (mLOD) (!!!)

Max20 Shark Plush Toy: 750 (hLOD)/444 (mLOD)

The Centurion: 420 (hLOD)/360 (mLOD)

DOWNLOAD FOLDER: Simfileshare | Mediafire

*All converted items contain catalog descriptions from their respective original games.

**I would also like to thank @simlicious for her wonderful selection of Christmas themed patterns, one of which I used on the wall in the previews, found here. Please check out her website if you haven't yet..

[triangularz]

SHOTA- PARALLEL

in-universe, 18+, nsfw- no detailed sexual acts, endearing, cussing, about 1.3k; reader is a UA faculty member, shota's adoring thoughts (in italics), parallel hers in ways she wouldn't expect (narration is primarily her perspective); est. relationship, both ~30 reader, Black/fem; as always, imagine what you'd most enjoy!

"Shota, I can help y-"

"No way," he grunts, clawing through a third, well-worn expanding file folder. "Gimmie two seconds- I know exactly where it is. Just don't go anywhere, so I can read it to you. Nezu's lost his mind this time."

Of course you'll stay put; you enjoy these hasty, haphazard hunts of his far, far too much to miss the next few minutes. Happily sidelined and sprawled on cool, jersey knit bedsheets, you watch the man you love do his thing: He shuffles through dangerously high stacks of loose paper and books, scoffing and mumbling in partial sentences, "Higari's not thinking... alphanumeric codes- for what? Ha... those kids'll... keh elevators? How's that gonna... about a hundred false alarms... no way I'm dealing-" You swear the friction from his spinning mental gears is exhaust producing.

... you in bed... in our bed... god, and I'm rummaging around like an idiot...

He's hell bent as usual on reading these procedures to you, excited and ready to scrutinize each word like a corporate lawyer buried in high-stakes litagation. All UA policies receive the same treatment, and when he's satisfied with his work, he pridefully plops them- covered in scribbled, illegible notes- on Principal Nezu’s desk, expecting full adoption of his revisions.

As a second-year UA student import, you'd become an oddly well-fitted fourth wheel for Shirakumo, Yamada and Aizawa, then spent the next 14 years in deep friendship, and effortlessly bantering with, Shota. Slow-burning, provocative romance finally conquered you both last year, for ages so longed for. But after its initial seismic release, you started to feel out- and worry about- whether what worked as friends still... worked. Those silly exchanges were part of what made you such an ideal pair, so you confidently continued your well-honed cadence of exasperating the shit out of him.

Shota, grumpy, nutty professor, is on full display, and by now he should know- he's begging to be teased. You quickly weaponize his top three most disliked behaviors in other people: Loudness. Cussing. Ridiculousness. And you'll absolutely add a side of pet names. Of course he'll be irate and hush you; he has a decade and a half's worth of experience tolerating your antics admirably.

"FREEZING... WARM... HOT HONEY, HOT!"

...thought I’d hate pet names... but these... from you... I love them... I love this...

"Be. Quiet. I've gotta concentrate. I told you I know exactly where it is, but you might as well help instead of bugging me..."

...your voice. I don't care about decibels or what you say, as long as I can hear it...

"A) Hell no- the window for aid closed five minutes ago baby, B) You aren't hunting a wild animal my darling, so I'll be as noisy as I damn well please, and C) I know ya wanna, but ya can't expel me... WAIT! Shit it's right

Shit there sweetheart! Under that book-"

...you sound so damn sexy when you cuss...

"Shut up, you. Geez, annoying me really is your secondary quirk, isn't it?"

"Yep." He glances your way briefly and witnesses your carefree, beaming smile. His grumblings rarely affect you; he knows he’s brusque, he knows he's impatient, but here you are, resting content and close.

...can't believe you put up with me- thank you...

He eventually, very roughly, drags a thin document from the pile, and sheets instantly fly in all directions, like a flock of birds shocked by a sudden thunderous boom. These routine search and rescue attempts tickle the hell out of you, and so does your dresser's surface- for years hardly used- now cluttered with piles, red pens, worn leather gradebooks, pink sticky notes and a dried out yellow highlighter. The cap is long gone, likely welcomed by a post-laundry missing socks society. Efficiency, environmental stewardship, not a single argument for anything digital wins against his stubborn choice to print any and everything, and mark it all up with Shota-speak comments and symbols. He bends over with a grunt to grab what’s fallen, accidentally losing again the very information he’d just found. You love him for all of it.

When he lived alone, stacks rarely plummeted to the floor, he never lost a cap, and he found what he needed in seconds. Not that your campus apartment together is the problem- the problem is you. Freshly showered, dark dewy skin, the room faintly scented with eucalyptus and coconut oils... you're his real, most worthy distraction, always.

...you smell so good, god you're beautiful...

“Don’t you laugh.”

"But Shota, I love to laugh at you." You never miss an opportunity to laugh at Shota Aizawa, so you do. And when Shota Aizawa's within arms reach, you never miss an opportunity to kiss him. After finding the copy, he plops down in bed next to you and you get him- a zillion kisses in rapid succession.

“Stop it... this is important!" You feel the hot skin of his cheek scrunch into a lopsided smile, and a quick snicker bursts from his mouth.

...it isn't important at all... you are...

“I win and now call to the stand a very vexed, high-brow professor. Please proceed,” you state plainly, thrilled to add laughter to his life.

...you're ridiculous ya know. I love that about you, I wish I were more- you're... wonderful...

“Procedures for Student Dormitory Access,” he announces formally, clearing his throat. But those kisses, and who you are, they scramble his brain.

...you're warm, you're always so warm...

"Gotta smooch you while you read it babe.” Your nose smashes into his cheek again. Just one. He'd wanted to finish shrewdly editing and ripping apart just one policy...

...rip you apart, destroy you, make you cum, cum inside you again and ag-

"Hello, hellooo... you there, my esteemed colleague- you've yet to begin over-analyzing, er reviewing-"

"Your British accent is still terrible-"

...dammit so damn sexy...

You're sure he's eager to dig his nerdy fangs into the meat of it, so you pause your badgering.

"I know, I know... I'll work on it. Alright, please read it. I'll stop being a pain in the ass, I promise. I can't remember, is 'ass' a no-no? Anyway I read it yesterday, and I've got a few notes too. Nezu has the right idea, but the whole process is more like an exercise in theory; far too cumbersome for stude-" Your head turns towards him as you speak, and you stop abruptly.

His eyes, typically sleepy and bloodshot, reveal overwhelming depth and feeling that few notice- but you do, every bit of it: Whether his pupils dilate, his blinks change in speed or his lids shift to shield one quarter or half of his eyes... And his face- a slight protrusion of the vein on his right temple, a cool reddish pink dusting his cheeks or a twitch of his lips, all have meaning.

Now, under soft yellow light, his hair piled high in a sloppy bun, Shota frowns, tilts his head slightly backwards and blushes differently- a warm, deep red. You know the look; it's seductive, smoldering, puddling you like warm jelly. He wants you, he wants you now, and you, beholding his expression, suddenly need his hands, his lips, his cock in or on every inch of your body, all at once. You've done nothing other than expertly irritate him for the last few minutes, the absolute opposite of alluring to you. Your eyes flash widely with surprise as his hands gently cup your cheeks.

"Shota. Fuck m-me," you whisper, absent of all humor. Embarrassment freezes your limbs; shit, you're sure you've ruined the mood.

"Shota- oh- I'm so s-sor-"

...still surreal... you want me... me...

"Mm. Yeah, I will. But say it again," his voice husky and so sincere, quietly turning the tables, now in full control. Your head leans to the side.

"I want you to- fuck me?" You must sound so awkward, so foolish; you brace for a bigger taste of your own medicine. He would never. Certainly not now. Instead, his eyes sparkle.

"Honey, sweetheart, baby... babe, was it? Call me anything. Be as loud and ridiculous as you want. Cuss. Cuss all the time. I love it and I love you. Now say it again." He kisses your open, jaw-dropped mouth, and continues to make you say it, while he fucks you with passion unparalleled.

...Shota- you stun me, you're beautiful, your voice, your brooding, your everything... I love you... this- this thing with you is wonderful... you love me, only me... thank you. fuck me. rip me apart.

[jnw1813]

Headcanons: Conquest & horror movies

A bit (okay a lot similar) to the previous chapter, but it's mainly focused on what movies I'd think he'd like and why.

First off, Viltrumites don't have cinema. They barely have art. And whatever art they do have is from being their purge. Afterwards, they were more focused on conquering and spreading the reach of their empire than anything else.

So with that said: this is new to him. He might not show it, might not act like it, but this is a completely new experience for him and he savours it.

Smartly, you start him off with the Alien franchise. It's a good introduction, what with it being a mature horror with good special effects, a unique creature he'd love to fight if it was real (and which he mourns that it's not), and is overall an amazing movie.

Instantly, he's interested. He rolls his eyes at some dumb decisions here and there, lightly sneers about some design choices (“Ships that dark and cluttered are a safety violation in at least three galaxies.”), but the second the chest burster scene happens? Eyes wide, tense, on the edge of his seat.

Once the credits roll, he stares off in thought, then mutters sadly that, “Shame it ain't real, would've torn that fucker in half, acid blood or not…”

After that, I imagine he'd be a big movie lover, but boy is he blunt with his opinions about space films. He'll point out every single inaccuracy like he's being paid to do so. A proper critic, this man.

On the type of movies I think he'd like a mix of things. Horror for the gore and absolute carnage, action movies are a hit or miss for him since some of the fight scenes are unrealistic, and comedies, while nice, he doesn't always get, but when he gets them, he gets them.

(Cut to him on the floor clutching his stomach after watching Scary Movie.)

But, oddly enough, he also loves family films and romances. (It's the loneliness)

Something about these simple, oftentimes silly stories about friendship and family and overcoming evil together… it soothes something in him, something he can't fully acknowledge yet; so he lies and says he watches them because he knows you like them. And yeah, you do, but you're only rewatching [insert favourite animated movie] for the 9th time for him.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Gale and Astarion with a reader who loves making stuffed animals?

Astarion

“What’s all this?” Astarion asked as he came to [Y/N]’s tent. Looking for a cuddle, or at least to get in their space as to not be ignored, but found the space cluttered with shirts, old cotton, and…bears?

“Oh, hey Astarion! I was just doing a little sewing.”

“A ‘little’ sewing.” He commented. Looking at the dozen bears just sitting across the bed like a little army. “This is more than a little. And they’re bears. What on earth is going on?”

“Well…I felt bad that the toys for the refugees had to get destroyed.”

Ah. Of course. He should have guessed. Astarion had to agree, it was pretty cruel to booby trap children’s toys. He’d done some pretty messed up things in his life, but nothing that disgusting. Of course [Y/N] would feel bad and try to fix it. Like they tried to fix everything.

“Surely you’re not going to replace all of them yourself. And none of this better be my shirts.”

[Y/N] chuckled. “No. It’s just some of the rags and clothes we’ve found around that have been cluttering the packs. I wouldn’t take your lovely shirts.”

“Well, you can take them, darling.” He cooed. “Just not to make toys.”

He tried to lay on the charm a bit more, but their focus seemed transfixed on their work. He wasn’t going to win. “Well, come find me when you’re done with this chore. I don’t want to help, but I’m more than happy to help deliver them for you and get all the praise.” He said as he left the tent without another word.

One bear suspiciously missing from the pack.

Gale

“I didn’t know you were so adept at a kitting needle. You might have mentioned that when I asked before.” [Y/N] giggled at Gale’s teasing but continued to focus on their work.

Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. In Gale’s eyes they were good at everything. And just a good person.

When they found out about the rigged toys, they had all been shocked and upset. Gale felt sick to his stomach. He knew the followers of Bane were cruel, but to target children? No one more innocent. To trick their innocence with something that should be for fun & play to foster it, not destroy it, was something that Gale could not abide. He was glad they were able to stop them, but the children were still without toys, in the end.

“I just hope these will be alright. They aren’t exactly ‘professional’.”

“A gift made with love holds more value than one made of rubies.” Plus, these children had nothing, which made it all the more upsetting to think what was taken away. “I’m sure they will love them.”

“I don’t know….”

Gale smiled and sat beside them. “Well, let’s give them something a little more magical then, eh?” He waved his hand, enveloping the dolls & bears in purple, and they stood up.

The plush creatures began to dance and move all on their own. “Wow! That’s amazing Gale!”

“It’s nothing really.” A simple spell. But the look on their face when they saw it made his heart swell with pride like he had conquered the Netherese cantor all on his own. “They’ll do that for the foreseeable future. You can add a lock word to shut them off, or, conversely, turn them back on. That part if rather critical in a spell like this.”

“You seem to be speaking from experience.”

“Well…I may have enchanted my own toys as a child to play back with me. Being an only child, and one of considerably brilliance, can be quite lonely. The problem was they’d never let you get a full night’s sleep after that. Eventually it got so bad my parents had use their own counter-spells to turn them back to normal. I never liked my toys as much after that.”

[Y/N] laughed at his story, but then gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure the kids will love them. And their parents will appreciate the ‘off switch’.”

Gale smiled. Then sat back with them as he watched them finish making the toys. Gald he could help in what little way he could.

[sycamorelibrary754]

Happy Thanksgiving

Summary: You invite Natasha’s family to join you for Thanksgiving. Holiday cheer and a surprise awaits!

Genre: Fluff

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader, Yelena Belova x reader (platonic), Alexei Alanovich Shostakov x reader (platonic) Melina Vostokoff x reader (platonic)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: None

A/N: This was a fun one. Happy Thanksgiving!

When you first broached the subject with Natasha of inviting Yelena, Melina, and Alexi to your home for Thanksgiving, you weren’t sure how your wife would respond. True, things were better. Their relationship had gone through something of a healing process since they took down Dreykov and the Red Room together, but her family was still a lot to handle. Most of the team was going to Iowa to spend Thanksgiving with the Barton’s. Clint had gotten it into his head to deep fry the turkey this year. It was going to be can’t-miss-entertainment according to Sam. However, you and Natasha were looking forward to a more intimate holiday.

“You really want my family to join us for Thanksgiving?” Her eyes met yours as you snuggled up on the couch together.

“I think it could be really fun. Plus, you deserve to spend quality time with them that doesn’t involve death, destruction, or pigs,” you joked. 

“You don’t like mom’s pigs?” She smirked.

No, love. I do. They’re adorable. Especially once Yelena made them those personalized piggy vests,” you giggled.

“Oh, yeah… Pests!” Natasha laughed recalling the image. 

“So what do you think? A Romanoff family Thanksgiving?”

She thought for a moment before a smile reached her lips. “Okay, let’s do it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it could be fun,” caressing your cheek softly. 

You went into planning mode upon receiving Nat’s approval and confirmation that all three were available and would be there with bells on. You were determined to make it a memorable holiday for everyone.

*^~^*

You left early to hit the grocery store the Monday before Thanksgiving. It was crucial to avoiding the out-of-stock items and the rush of “fucking annoying slowpokes who don’t know a shallot from an onion,” you eloquently informed your wife after wiggling out of her warm hold. 

Nat mumbled something akin to, “See you later, detka,” her head buried in her pillow as you hurriedly put on your coat, scarf, and beanie and rushed out of the house. Your car keys and shopping list clenched purposefully in your fist.

*^~^*

The front door slammed shut a couple of hours later, alerting Natasha to your arrival.

“I’m home, love!” You called out.

“The conquering shopper has returned! How was the store?” Looking around at the mountain of groceries cluttered around you like presents under the Christmas tree. 

“It was good! I managed to get everything on the list,” removing your warm attire and running your hand smoothly through your hair. 

“I can see that, y/n. Did you leave anything for the other shoppers?” Nat smirked. 

“This is all necessary for the traditional Thanksgiving feast I have planned for us,” you explained. “Your family has never had an American Thanksgiving, so I thought, why not go all out?” 

Your wife stepped carefully around your grocery maze and wrapped her arms lovingly around your neck. “Have I told you how much I love you?” 

“Not in the last twenty minutes,” jokingly glancing at the imaginary watch on your wrist before planting a tender kiss on her lips.

Natasha offered to unpack the groceries for you. Meanwhile, you set about creating a cooking timeline for the meal preparation. You were so in your element your wife couldn’t help but smile. As you typed away on your laptop, your adorable expression reminded her of your demeanor in the field. You were focused, engaged, and confident. 

*^~^*

A creature of habit, Natasha awoke the following morning for her daily run. She groggily reached over to turn off her alarm until she realized the alarm hadn’t gone off. No, the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen tore her from her blissful sleep. Nat rolled over to your side of the bed only to find it empty. She groaned softly and sat up, cracking her neck and stretching her arms over her head as a yawn escaped her lips.

Natasha padded down the hall toward the kitchen, still clad in her pajamas and the fuzzy socks you bought her. She turned the corner to find you floating around the kitchen in a whirlwind—dishes in the oven and stove.

“Moya lyubov? You’re already in the kitchen?” Rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“No rest for the wary, sweetheart. I’ve got to get the pumpkin pie out of the way so I can get started on the sides by this afternoon,” you explained, fervently whisking your pumpkin puree into your custard mixture. You glanced around the counter like you were looking for something. “Oh, can you hand me those spice jars behind you?”

She picked up the cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger, stacking them precariously on top of one another like blocks before appearing at your side.

“Nicely done. You missed your calling as a professional Jenga player.”

“Take your damned spices,” she snarked.

You sprinkled the spice mixture into the filling and let it sit. “Okay,” you said, wiping your brow. “I just need to grab the pie crust out of the oven. It should be par-baked by now.”

“I got it, detka,” pulling on the oven mitts and removing the pan from the oven. 

Perfect, now we’re just going to fill the crust,” carefully pouring the custard filling. “Then this is going back in the oven at 325 for 45-60 minutes.” 

Nat carefully placed the pie back in the oven. “Shall I close, doctor?”

“Please,” in your most professional voice before lapsing into giggles. 

“Now, that’s in. We can get started on the sides. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry feta salad,” you listed.

Two types of potatoes?”

“Oh, it’s a must, love! You get both the salty and the sweet. It’s potato perfection.”

“Hmm, just like you,” she said suggestively.

“Smooth,” you replied.

“I try," putting her arm around your shoulder.

*^~^*

You were still in the kitchen when Natasha returned from her run. 

“Have you taken a break at all since I left?” She removed her running shoes and placed them by the front door.

“No time for breaks. Your sister just texted me and asked if Mac and Cheese was part of the American Thanksgiving tradition, so I’m whipping up one for her.”

Your wife rolled her eyes. “For God’s sake, that’s not necessary, malyshka. Yelena will survive one meal without her precious Mac and Cheese.” 

“It’s no problem. I want your family to feel comfortable! That’s why I also have a sparkling Vodka cocktail planned,” you winked. 

“That is so sweet, but there is no need to stress over it, y/n. They are going to love it no matter what you make. Plus, you know if you feed them this well, they’ll never leave, right?”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” You joked.

“No, it wouldn’t,” she deadpanned.

The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing the stuffing, cranberry sauce, garlic green beanies, and gravy. By the time you finally laid down on the couch Tuesday evening, still in your apron, you were pleased with your progress. Your legs lay across Natasha’s lap while she massaged your aching feet. She wasn’t surprised to look over and find you sound asleep five minutes later as the television glow illuminated your features. Your wife could only smile at your sleepy form before gently picking you up and carrying you to bed.

*^~^*

Wednesday morning Natasha decided to let you sleep in, so she made the executive decision to turn your alarm off. Truthfully, she felt guilty for how hard you had been pushing yourself this week for the sake of her family. Nat was nursing a cup of tea and reading a book in the family room when she heard you down the hall.

“Oh, crap!” You shouted.

“3,2,1…..” Natasha counted down.

“Nat, why didn’t you wake me up!” Throwing on your favorite cardigan as you entered the room. “I’ve still got to make the pretzel bread and raspberry jello today.”

“You needed the sleep. I can’t tell you’re exhausted, and you were sleeping so soundly when I got up.”

You had a look of panic in your eyes.

“It’s okay, y/n. I found the jello and bread recipes on the table and got the jump on it for you. The jello is done and in the fridge, and the bread dough is under the towel rising.”

You blinked a couple of times as if she was speaking Latin. “You cooked?” 

“Are you questioning my abilities?” Raising an eyebrow. 

“Well.… yeah? I love you, sweetheart, but the only thing I’ve ever seen you make is a peanut butter sandwich.”

“See for yourself,” smiling proudly and removing her reading glasses.

Opening the fridge, you were pleasantly surprised to find a gelatinous raspberry jello staring back at you. You then peeked under the towel on the counter to find the bread dough had just about doubled in size.

“Well, turn me upside down and paint me blue!”

“Hmmm, tempting, but let’s save that for after my family leaves,” Natasha smirked as she kissed the side of your temple from behind. 

“This is awesome, my love. Thank you so much,” turning around in her hold. “I have to say, the thought of the Black Widow cooking Thanksgiving dinner is incredibly sexy.”

“Is it now?” She said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Very, I may have to get you your apron,” you teased as Natasha gently grasped your ear lobe between her teeth before placing soft kisses down your neck. Her phone dinged with a text notification on the counter beside you a few moments later. You glanced down at the screen out of the corner of your eye.

“It’s Yelena, sweetheart...”

“Is she on fire? Otherwise, I’m not stopping.” Moving the tender kisses to your lips. 

“No, she wants to know if she should bring anything,” you replied between kisses.

She feels terrible we’re doing all the work,”

“She’s bringing our parents, that’s a shit ton of work.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

*^~^*

The next day, you and Natasha got started on the crown jewel of your Thanksgiving dinner: the turkey. After letting it thaw in the fridge all week, your twenty-pound bird had been marinating in a salt brine for twelve hours. You placed the turkey in the oven at 425 degrees for 35 minutes, which gave you two just enough time to get ready before it needed to be basted.

You heard the doorbell after showering and putting on your best fall colors.

“Baby, they’re here!” you called, opening the door to welcome your guests.

Alexi was sporting a plush turkey hat while Melina held a freshly made appetizer. Standing in front of both of them, Yelena had Fanny at her feet. She quickly stepped inside first with a warm hug and a peck on your cheek. 

“Happy Thanksgiving, y/n! Thank you so much for inviting us. “Now,” placing both hands on your shoulders. “Where is the booze? I just had to spend the last 20 minutes in the car alone with them, listening to Alexi ramble on about his stupid hat.”

You point toward the coffee table, holding the sparkling Vodka cocktails as your sister-in-law gives you a cheeky smile. “I love you.” 

“Haha!” Alexi exclaimed. Greetings, my wonderful daughter-in-law. I am ready for turkey!” Wrapping you in a giant bear hug.

“Could’ve fooled me, Alexi,” you joked. “Ooh, Melina, what do we have here? It looks delicious.”

“A traditional Russian appetizer, Mushroom Julienne. Mushrooms and onions cooked in cream sauce, cheese, and sour cream.”

“My mouth is already watering. Here, let me take your coats. You can place them on the coffee table,” you offered. 

After tending to the coats, you rejoined the group as everyone settled in the family room for appetizers and cocktails. Holiday music played softly in the background, setting the scene perfectly. You sat on the sofa beside your wife while your in-laws treated you to numerous stories of Natasha and Yelena’s all-to-brief childhood in Ohio. Some of which you had yet to hear. 

“Y/N, has Natalia told you how she and Yelena used to stay up late on Christmas Eve to try and catch Santa Claus?” Melina asked. 

“Now, that was fun. You know, he comes down the chimney, girls. Look out! Where is he? You wait for him, and when the cookies are gone, you see he’s there.” Alexi recalled.

Yelena smiled fondly at the memory while Natasha turned red as Santa’s suit and hid her face in her hands.

“Aww, honey,” rubbing circles on her back. It’s precious! I’m sure you were adorable.” 

“As adorable as you can be with bright blue hair. You looked like cotton candy,” Yelena laughed. 

Nat threw a pillow across the room, barely missing her sister’s head.

“Ha!! Missed!” Yelena snarked.

“Girls, behave,” Melina ordered.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sisterly teasing and family banter. This was exactly what you were hoping for, and the evening was just getting started.

“Oh, detka, you don’t have a drink yet. Let me get you one,” Natasha offered, standing up, but your hand on her arm stopped her. 

“Oh, no thanks, love. I actually need to go check on the turkey.” 

“I’ll join you,” Yelena announced. “I want to see this bird you Americans are so crazy about.”

You opened the oven to reveal your delectable 20-pound turkey. “Do you want to brush it with the honey glaze for me, Yelena? I’m going to check on the side dishes.” 

“Just call me DaVinci!” She declared.

You turned around to find your sister-in-law had finished the glazing by painting a smiley face on the turkey. 

“Wow, I didn’t know our turkey had such a charming smile,” you joked. Reducing the heat to 325 and setting the timer for another 75 minutes. 

“Thank you again for including us today, y/n. While it would’ve been fun to watch Barton sear his eyebrows off trying to deep-fry a turkey, it's been nice to see Natasha so happy. We didn’t have any family holidays growing up. Not real ones, anyway.”

“Well, you always will now,” placing an arm around her shoulder. “I will spend the rest of my life trying to make your sister happy. That’s a promise.”

*^~^*

While the turkey finished cooking, you decided to share as many of your Thanksgiving traditions as possible. You watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, took in some Turkey Day football, and even played a rousing game of Pictionary.

“What the hell is that?” Yelena shouted as Nat was diligently engaged in her drawing.  

“Oooh! Ooh! A ladybug doing the Macarena!”You screamed just before the timer ran out.

“Yes!” Nat shouted.

“Unbelievable, what is that? Five in a row,” Melina remarked. No wonder you two are such a good team.”

“Well, it's no surprise you're a pro at Pictionary. Who needs talent when you can just doodle like a 5-year-old?” Yelena retorted.

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game, Lena,” dropping the marker like a microphone.

“Trust me, I do. It will be perfect for when I want to torture Kate Bishop.”

“With that, I think it’s time for dinner,” you announced happily. 

*^~^*

It only took a few minutes before your Thanksgiving feast was lovingly displayed on the dining room table. The sight and aroma of the food was a gentle massage to the soul.

“Before we dig in,” holding up your glass for a toast, “I just wanted to say how happy Nat and I are that you could join us today. We love you, and I’m so thankful to be a part of your family.”

Natasha grasped your hand and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles. 

“We feel the same way,” Melina concurred.

“Yes, we’re so happy that you and our little Natalia found each other,” Alexi added.

“Yes, y/n is a saint. It’s all very touching. Can I carve the turkey now,” Yelena groaned, holding up a sharpened carving knife. 

“You may proceed,” you declared with a Queen’s wave of your hand. 

Dishes were passed around the table like musical chairs. Wine filled everyone’s glasses while you opted for your favorite - Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider. You pretended not to notice Yelena sneaking a few scraps to Fanny under the table. The chatter rose and fell, every few moments dispersed with laughter. It was the kind of occasion most aren't aware they're genuinely enjoying yet look back at in warm nostalgia.

After hibernating in your Thanksgiving food comas, you returned to the family room for dessert. You were excited to finally bring out the homemade Pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

“Ah, now this is a beautiful pie.” Look at this, girls. I love America, you cannot get this back in St. Petersburg.” Alexi gushed. 

“Y/N made it from scratch,” your wife bragged, causing you to blush at the compliment.

“Did y/n also split the atom?” Yelena teased. She earned an eye roll from her older sister. “Could you BE more whipped?”

“No, I honestly don’t think I could,” Natasha looked at you like you had hung the moon and the stars. 

*^~^*

As the evening wound down, the hustle and bustle of the past week was starting to catch up to you. Your wife didn’t miss your heavy eyelids or the tiny yawn that escaped your lips as Fanny hopped up on the couch to lay down beside you. 

“Well, we should probably get going. Traffic will be annoying when crossing back over the bridge,” your sister-in-law said.

“Before you go, I have gifts for all of you!” You exclaimed, jumping up off the couch. 

“You do?”A bewildered expression on Nat’s face. 

“I do!” You’re voice trailed away as you padded down the hall toward your bedroom.

Natasha turned around to her family with a shrug of her shoulders. She had no clue what you were talking about. You returned a moment later with small autumn-gold gift bags. 

“This is just a little something for each of you,” clasping your hands together in front of your smiling face. Natasha was even more confused when you handed her one as well. “Go on, sweetheart,” you encouraged.

Natasha removed the delicate tissue paper. Her solid and calloused hands met the soft cotton hiding inside. She pulled the gift out and held it up in front of her. A tiny onesie that read “Mommy’s Little Turkey” was staring back at her. 

Natasha stared at it speechlessly, wide-eyed. A first for your relationship. Finally, her brain caught up with the moment. “Moya lyubov—what? We—you…you’re pregnant?”

You nodded vigorously, starting to cry. Natasha’s hands cupped your cheeks. Her lips met yours in a heartfelt kiss, not caring that her family was watching. You gently combed your fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, returning the kiss.

Melina, Alexi, and Yelena held up their onesies to find variations of Natasha’s: Grandma’s Little Turkey, Grandpa’s Little Turkey, and Auntie’s Little Turkey.” 

“I knew it!”Yelena shouted.

Melina turned to Natasha and whispered, “You see what can happen when you keep your heart,” holding her lovingly in her arms.  

Vashe zdorov'ye! (Cheers) Alexi exclaimed. If it is a boy, you will name him Alexi. It is a strong and honorable name!” Kissing you on both cheeks.

“Oh God,” Yelena muttered under her breath. “For the love of Fanny, please don’t do that,” wrapping her arms around you. “I would love to babysit. I’m looking forward to passing on much to my niece or nephew.”

“Yeah, that’s not terrifying at all,” your wife mumbled in your ear. 

The shock was wearing off. Natasha reached down and gently placed her palm on your stomach. You weren’t showing yet, but just knowing that your child was growing inside you awakened a dream that she had put away in the Red Room long ago. 

*^~^*

Once her family left, Natasha insisted that she would handle the post-holiday clean-up, confining you to the couch with many pillows and a fluffy blanket. Foreshadowing what was to come for the duration of your pregnancy. 

“Sweetheart, those dishes go in the top right cupboard,” directing her from the couch.

“No worries, malyshka. I got it! You take it easy. The baby needs rest after all of this Thanksgiving cheer,” her protective instincts appear.

“The baby is the size of a plum, my love,”

“A very tired plum!” 

*^~^*

Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was clean, and you both were ready for a good night’s sleep. You would never admit it to your wife, but boy, were you tired. You donned your coziest pajamas and joined Natasha in bed. Snuggled into the covers, you found comfort and peace in your safe space. Nat rolled over to face you, your foreheads touching in a beautifully intimate gesture of love and affection. 

“This has been the best day of my life. Not only did you give my family an amazing Thanksgiving, you gave me a gift I’ll never forget. Though I have to admit now that I know you’re pregnant, I’m replaying the last week in my head in a loop of horrifying anxiety.” 

You giggled at her confession, “It’s alright, Nat. I’m ready for a nice long rest, and I just had a check-up with Helen last week.”

“Wait, does the team know?” 

“Dear God, no. You think that group can keep a secret?”

“We can tell them at Stark’s Christmas party in a couple of weeks if you’re comfortable with the idea.” 

“Perfect. I need time to prepare for the onslaught of attention from our little one’s aunts and uncles.”

Natasha reached over and grabbed your hand. “I love you, y/n. I can’t wait to welcome our little plum into the world,” she smiled.

“I love you too. You are going to be an amazing mother, sweetheart.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, y/n”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Natasha.”

[route22ny]

Here's the Lake Theater with its ancient neon sign in Baker, Montana as seen in September 2024. The small & terrible b/w pic shows the same scene in 1924 and is sourced from the cinematreasures website. The theater got its name from Mr & Mrs Edwin Lake, the theater's owners.

Coincidentally these photos were the last ones I posted on instagram before deleting my account today. I guess I'd joined in 2013--about the time I started my Tumblr blog. Somehow (and I guess the pandemic had something to do with it) I leaned more heavily into insta while letting my Tumblr languish. Tumblr had gone through some things, gotten cluttered & complicated and I lost interest.

Zuck's decision to go full MAGA was my signal to leave insta. Maybe a futile gesture but each to their own. Someone wise once said, "Evil cannot be conquered in the world--it can only be resisted within oneself." I think it was one of the Shaolin masters in the "Kung Fu" television series. Regardless, the concept resonates and here I am again.

[leovenuslatina]

Dear you 💖

⋆˙⟡��⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

a love letter from your fs 💝

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

psa - this PAC is a little different this is more a channeled message than a tarot reading enjoy!

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ

* take a deep cleansing breathe

and pick a pile that calls to you *

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

pile 1

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ

Dear pile one, I am absolutely thrilled to express my utter joy and excitement at the mere thought of being in your presence. It feels like an exhilarating adventure filled with endless possibilities. When I am with you, time seems to stand still as we embark on an enchanting journey of love and inspiration. Your warmth and comfort embrace me like a cozy blanket, providing solace to my weary soul. Every moment spent together is cherished, as we create unforgettable memories and share the deepest of conversations. Your companionship brings out the best version of myself, igniting a flame within that cannot be extinguished. In your delightful company, I find solace, encouragement, and a sense of belonging that surpasses all expectations. Pile one, you are my safe haven where happiness thrives and dreams come alive – and for that, I am eternally grateful.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

pile 2

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ

Oh "Dear Pile Two, You Complete Me" - how you fill my life with joy and clutter! As I gaze upon your haphazardly stacked papers, misplaced knick-knacks, and random odds and ends, I can't help but feel an inexplicable sense of fulfillment. You are like the missing puzzle piece to my organized chaos. Who needs a meticulously tidy workspace when they can have the delightful chaos of a well-curated pile? From bills that need paying (eventually) to notes scribbled on Post-it's, you hold the irreplaceable treasures of my forgetful mind. Sure, some may scoff at your seemingly disorderly nature, but little do they know the hidden wisdom within your disarray. So here's to you, oh magnificent dear pile two - although your tidiness might be questionable, your charm is unmatched.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

pile 3

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ

Dear pile 3, it's only you and me against the world. As I stand here, overlooking the vastness of our existence, I can't help but feel the weight of the universe pressing down upon us. It is in this moment that I realize the magnitude of our relationship, for within your embrace lies all that we hold dear. The world may attempt to tear us apart, but we shall prevail. Our bond is forged through the trials and tribulations we have faced together; a stronghold against adversity. As the tempest rages around us, threatening to consume all that we hold sacred, know that I am steadfast by your side. Our unity imbues me with an unwavering strength; no longer alone in this tumultuous journey through life's torrential storms. Together, pile 3, we defy fate and conquer uncertainty as champions of love and resilience.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

pile 4

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ

Dear Pile 4, you are my perfect person. The mere thought of your existence fills me with an indescribable mix of joy and longing. Every fiber of my being yearns for your touch, for the sound of your voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear. In this chaotic world, you are the anchor that keeps me grounded, the lighthouse that guides me through stormy waters. Your presence brings clarity to my thoughts and purpose to my existence. From the deepest depths of my soul, I believe that we were destined to be together - two halves of a whole seeking solace in each other's arms. Yet, fate continues to test our resolve, placing seemingly insurmountable obstacles in our path. But fear not, for I shall endure any hardship and surmount every challenge to be by your side. For you, dear Pile 4, are worthy of every sacrifice and every drop of blood spilled in this epic battle against destiny itself.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

[movingmusically]

Caught Feeling: A Stroke of Intimacy - One Shot

Author’s Note:

I’ve been seeing some set pictures pop up again, and it’s made me miss Hank, so here’s a piece I’ve had sitting in drafts for a while.

Word Count: 5,304

Masterlist

The attic at my mum’s house smelled like old wood and dust, with just the faintest hint of lavender from the sachets she insisted on hiding in every corner. It had been years since I’d been up here, but it looked almost exactly the same—a time capsule of mismatched furniture, faded holiday decorations, and boxes full of forgotten treasures that Mum had always sworn she’d sort through “one day.” That day had apparently come.

Mum had roped us in to help her with a long-overdue clear-out, claiming she’d finally reached her limit with the clutter. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is anymore,” she’d said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the mess. “It’s time to let go.” Whether or not that would actually happen remained to be seen, but Hank, of course, had jumped at the chance to help.

Now, a couple of hours in, I was starting to think he regretted it. From my spot on the landing, I could hear him shuffling around up there, the occasional curse muffled by the beams as he ducked and dodged low-hanging obstacles.

“You alright up there?” I called, grinning to myself.

“Never better,” came his reply, tinged with sarcasm. “Your mum’s got enough Christmas decorations to start a department store, by the way.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Tell me something I don’t know. Did you find the box labelled ‘mystery trinkets’? That’s her favourite.”

There was a pause, followed by a muffled groan of exertion. “If by ‘mystery trinkets’ you mean twenty different snow globes, then yes. Got it covered.”

Mum appeared at the bottom of the stairs just then, holding two mugs of coffee. “Is he still alive up there?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye.

“Barely,” I replied, loud enough for Hank to hear. His exaggerated sigh echoed down to us, making us both laugh.

It had been Hank’s idea to turn this into a full-day event, complete with lunch breaks and frequent coffee runs. “Might as well make it fun,” he’d said with that easy smile of his, already rolling up his sleeves before Mum could even ask for help. It was one of the things I loved most about him—the way he made everything feel lighter, even tedious chores like this.

“I’m almost done!” Hank called down, his voice slightly breathless. A second later, there was the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floorboards, followed by an impressive thud.

“Hank?” I called again, my tone edging toward concern.

“Fine!” he shouted back. “Nothing broken. Except maybe my pride.”

Mum chuckled, shaking her head as she handed me one of the mugs. “He’s a keeper,” she said with a knowing smile before heading back to the kitchen.

By the time Hank finally emerged, hauling the last box down to the landing, he looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a particularly vengeful spider. Cobwebs clung to his hair and shirt, and there was a faint smudge of dust on his cheek. Despite the state of him, his grin was full of smug satisfaction, like he’d just conquered some great feat.

“Last one,” he announced, dropping the box with a dramatic flourish. He wiped his hands on his jeans, glancing at me with a twinkle in his eye. “You’re welcome.”

I bit back a laugh, stepping closer to brush a stray cobweb from his shoulder. “You look like you just survived a horror movie.”

He swiped a hand through his hair, only managing to make it worse. “Pretty sure your attic’s haunted. I’m half convinced I heard something whispering ‘leave while you still can.’”

“You’re fine, drama queen,” I teased, plucking another cobweb from his shirt before reaching up to brush the smudge of dust from his cheek. “It was probably the lavender sachets.”

His expression softened, and for just a moment, he leaned into my touch, his cheek pressing lightly against my hand. The simple act sent a pang of warmth through me, but before I could dwell on it, he straightened, flashing me a lopsided grin. “Don’t know what you’d do without me.”

“Get the boxes down myself?” I quipped, earning a mock glare.

As I glanced down, my attention caught on the label of the box he’d carried down—my name, scrawled in my teenage handwriting. “Hang on,” I said, crouching beside it. “This one’s mine.”

Hank followed me down, crouching behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his curiosity palpable as he peered over. “What’s in it?”

I shrugged, peeling back the tape. The smell of old paper and charcoal wafted up as I opened the flaps, revealing a stack of sketchbooks, some loose papers, and a few half-empty tins of pencils. “Looks like my old art stuff.”

“You used to draw?” he asked, his voice soft with interest.

I nodded, flipping through one of the sketchbooks. “Yeah, all the time. I took art class in school—actually thought about pursuing it for a while before vet school won out.”

He kissed my shoulder, his lips warm and soft against my skin. “Why’d you stop?”

I hesitated, skimming through the pages. “Life, I guess. Vet school took up all my time, and then… I don’t know. I just kind of fell out of the habit.”

Hank didn’t say anything, just hummed thoughtfully, his breath brushing against my neck as he studied the page I’d turned to. It was an old drawing of a bowl of fruit, complete with the wonky shading I’d never quite mastered. I laughed softly at the memory, tracing a finger over the edge of the paper.

“That one’s not bad,” he offered, his chin nudging my shoulder.

“Not bad,” I echoed with a smirk. “Wait till you see the next one.”

I turned another page, showing him a rough sketch of a model seated on a stool, her pose casual but elegant. “We did a lot of life drawing back then.”

“Life drawing?” he repeated, his brow arching with interest. “Like people?”

“Yeah. We had a different model every week. It was… fun. Relaxing, in a way.”

Hank hummed again, his eyes lingering on the sketch. “You’re really good.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I was okay. It’s been years, though.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t still be good.” He pressed another soft kiss to my shoulder, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You ever think about picking it up again?”

I shrugged, closing the sketchbook. “Maybe. Life’s been busy.”

Hank didn’t say anything else, just nodded thoughtfully, his arms giving my waist a gentle squeeze before he stood. I could see the gears turning in his head, but at the time, I didn’t think much of it.

A week later, I came home to find the apartment eerily quiet.

“Hank?” I called, stepping into the living room and setting my bag down on the sofa. My voice echoed slightly, the usual hum of music or clatter from the kitchen conspicuously absent. “You here?”

“In the bedroom!” His voice drifted down the hall, warm and inviting, with a trace of something that made me pause. Curiosity piqued, I slipped off my shoes and followed the sound, my steps slowing as I approached the door.

When I opened it, I stopped in my tracks.

The space had been transformed. The bed had been pushed to one side, replaced by a single stool set in the centre of the room. A soft, golden glow came from the table lamp in the corner, bathing the space in warmth, the light catching on a makeshift easel positioned at the perfect angle to the stool. Beside it was a neat stack of fresh paper and an array of pencils and charcoal sticks, all arranged with careful precision.

And then there was Hank, standing by the stool in nothing but a pair of black boxers, his arms crossed over his chest, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He looked like something out of a magazine, the sharp lines of his body softened by the warm light, his posture both casual and confident. My breath caught as I took it all in.

“What… what is all this?” I asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind me, the words tumbling out in a mix of awe and disbelief.

He shrugged, the grin widening just a bit. “Thought I’d surprise you. You said you liked life drawing, and I figured… well, I could use a bit of sitting still. Not something I’m particularly good at.”

I blinked, my heart swelling with affection. He wasn’t joking—he’d really gone through all this trouble just to recreate something I’d casually mentioned in passing. My throat tightened as I struggled to find the words. “Hank…”

“It’s no big deal,” he said quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “Just thought it might be fun. You’ve been working so hard lately, and… well, you deserve a break.”

The lump in my throat made it hard to speak, but I managed a small, wobbly smile. “This isn’t just ‘no big deal,’ Hank. This is… really thoughtful. Thank you.”

His grin softened, and he gave a little shrug, suddenly almost shy. “So… you up for it?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I crossed the room to run my fingers over the pencils. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

“Yeah, but it’s only fair,” he said, his tone teasing but genuine. “You’ve always got my back. I just wanted to do something for you.”

The warmth in his words settled over me, filling the space between us with something soft and intimate. I reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face, my fingers trembling slightly as I picked up a sheet of paper and placed it on the easel. “Alright,” I said, my voice steadying. “Let’s do this.”

Hank’s grin returned, this time with a playful edge. He stepped over to the stool, dropping onto it with an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, coach. How do you want me?”

“Comfortable,” I said, smirking as I selected a pencil. “But… maybe sit a little straighter. Hands on your knees.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, adjusting himself with mock reluctance. Finally, he settled, his posture relaxed but composed, and the sight of him made my breath hitch. The light from the lamp painted soft shadows over his shoulders and chest, highlighting the lean definition of his muscles. There was something about the way he sat there, completely at ease under my gaze.

“Like this?” he asked, his brow arching in a way that made my heart flutter.

“Perfect,” I murmured, swallowing hard as I brought the pencil to the page. My hand trembled slightly, the weight of the moment pressing on me, but before I could make a single mark, Hank spoke again.

“Draw me like one of your French girls.”

The laugh bubbled out of me before I could stop it, loud and sudden, and I had to put the pencil down for a second, wiping tears from my eyes. “Oh my God, no talking.”

He winked, leaning back slightly. “Gotta keep it fun.”

Still smiling, I picked up the pencil again, letting the familiar rhythm of sketching take over. At first, it felt awkward, my strokes hesitant, my mind too caught up in the fact that I was sketching him. But as the lines began to take shape, the old familiarity returned, the movements soothing and exhilarating all at once.

Hank stayed still, his eyes soft and steady as they followed my every movement. The quiet stretched between us, comfortable and filled with the sound of pencil on paper. Every now and then, I’d glance up, my gaze lingering on the curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks, the way the light played over his collarbone.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured after a while, his voice breaking the spell.

“Hmm?” I glanced at him, blinking as if coming out of a trance.

“Drawing. You’ve got this… focus.” His lips curved into a faint smile. “It’s kind of hot.”

I laughed, shaking my head as heat crept up my neck. “You’re supposed to be still.”

But the longer I worked, the harder it became to focus. The lines blurred as my mind wandered, and I found myself watching him more than the page. There was something intoxicating about the way he sat there, so open and vulnerable, he looked so effortlessly beautiful it made my chest ache.

I set the pencil down and stepped around the easel, my feet carrying me to him without a second thought.

Hank’s eyes met mine, a spark of curiosity lighting up his gaze as I stopped in front of him, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “Finished already?”

“Not quite,” I said softly, reaching out to brush my fingers along the curve of his shoulder. His skin was warm, his muscles taut beneath my touch, and the way he leaned into it made my breath catch.

“You’re supposed to be drawing me,” he murmured, but his voice lacked any real conviction.

“I think I’m done with that for now.”

I closed the distance between us, my hands finding their way to his jaw as I tilted his face up to meet mine. His breath hitched, and then his hands were on me, sliding around my waist, pulling me into his lap in one fluid motion. The warmth of his skin seeped through my clothes as our bodies pressed together, and I couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped my lips.

His gaze flickered to my mouth before meeting my eyes again, I leaned in, my lips finding his in a kiss that was soft and tentative, a gentle exploration, slow and full of promise.

Hank’s lips parted under mine, the soft brush of his tongue coaxing me further, drawing me into the warmth of him. My hands slid up from his jaw to thread through his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as I tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His grip on my waist tightened, anchoring me against him, the heat of his bare skin beneath my palms sending a shiver down my spine.

He kissed me like he had all the time in the world—slow, deliberate, his lips and tongue exploring mine with a precision that made me forget everything else. The makeshift studio, the forgotten sketch on the easel—it all faded away, leaving only the quiet, electric intimacy between us.

I shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the warmth of his hands as they slid lower, settling just above the curve of my hips. His thumbs brushed against the hem of my shirt, teasing the skin there, and I felt his breath hitch as I broke the kiss, leaning back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Hank,” I murmured, my voice catching as his hands moved, slipping beneath the fabric to rest fully against my skin. There was something about the way he touched me—like he couldn’t bear to be separated by even a thin layer of clothing—that made my heart ache.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to the line of my jaw. His lips trailed lower, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear, and I felt myself melt, my fingers tightening in his hair as a soft sigh escaped me.

“Every time,” he murmured against my skin, his voice low and rough. “Every time, you undo me.”

His words sent a wave of warmth through me, my chest tightening with the overwhelming need to show him just how much he meant to me. My fingers slipped from his hair to cradle his face, gently guiding him to look at me. His eyes searched mine, softening as they held my gaze.

“Do you even realise what you do to me?” I whispered, my voice trembling with emotion. My thumb brushed over his cheek, tracing the faint stubble there. “It’s not just the way you touch me or kiss me—it’s everything. The way you care, the way you make me feel seen, the way you make me laugh when I need it most.”

His brow furrowed slightly, as though my words caught him off guard, but the corner of his mouth lifted in that lopsided smile I loved so much. “You know that goes both ways, right?” he murmured, his voice steady but tinged with something vulnerable. “You’ve changed everything for me, Y/N. You make me feel… whole. In a way I didn’t even know I was missing.”

Hank’s lips curved into a soft smile, his blue eyes holding mine as his hand brushed lightly over my back. “You know, I still think about that night you walked into Paul’s,” he said, his voice quieter now, reflective.

I tilted my head, my fingers idly tracing a line along his collarbone. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” he replied, his tone gentle but insistent. “It’s not every night someone like you walks into a place like that. You… stood out.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “I didn’t feel like I stood out. I felt completely out of place. I wasn’t even sure why I went in. I just…” I hesitated, the memory of that night still vivid. “I couldn’t face another night of being alone. I needed to do something different.”

His hand stilled against my back, and I glanced up to find him watching me, his gaze soft and unguarded. “Well, whatever it was, I’m glad you did. That night… it felt different the second you walked in.”

I raised an eyebrow, my lips quirking into a teasing smile. “Different, huh? What, you don’t get random women walking into your bar all the time, asking you to surprise them with a drink?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not like you.” His voice dropped slightly, taking on a more serious note. “You weren’t there to impress anyone. You didn’t try to be something you weren’t. You just… were. And I don’t know, it caught me off guard. In the best way.”

I felt my cheeks flush, the sincerity in his words making my chest ache. “I remember seeing you as soon as I walked in. You were leaning against the bar, looking like you owned the place.”

His grin widened. “What can I say? It’s my natural state.”

Rolling my eyes, I laughed softly. “You looked so at ease, like you belonged there. And then you caught me looking, and… I don’t know. It felt like you could see right through me.”

“That’s because I could,” he said simply, his hand sliding up to cup my face. “You walked in looking like you’d rather be anywhere else but there. But at the same time, you stayed. You didn’t turn around. You sat down, and you let me surprise you.”

I smiled, leaning into his touch. “It was a good drink.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “It was an Old Fashioned, not exactly revolutionary.”

“Yeah, but it was exactly what I needed,” I said, my voice softening. “And so were you.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the steady hum of the city beyond the window. Hank’s thumb brushed over my cheek, his gaze searching mine. “You know,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, “sometimes it feels like… fate.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “Fate?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his lips curving into a small smile. “I mean, think about it. You could’ve walked past Paul’s that night. You almost did. But you didn’t. You came in. And I just happened to be there. It feels like… like we were supposed to meet.”

I blinked, his words settling over me like a warm blanket. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes betrayed the depth of his belief.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You might be right. Maybe it was fate. Maybe I was meant to walk into that bar, and you were meant to be there, leaning against the counter, looking at me like you already knew me.”

His gaze softened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that was slow and full of unspoken emotion. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, his hands steady against my back. “Whatever it was, I’m glad it brought you to me.”

“Me too,” I whispered, my heart swelling in my chest.

I smiled, brushing my fingers along the curve of his jaw, my heart aching with how much I loved him. “It’s funny,” I said softly. “Sometimes I think I’m the one who’s got it all figured out. Then you go and do something like this—set up an easel in the middle of our bedroom just because I mentioned I used to draw. You always know exactly what I need, even when I don’t.”

Hank’s hands tightened on my waist, his grip grounding me as his gaze held mine. “It’s not hard,” he said simply, his tone filled with quiet sincerity. “Loving you? It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

The way he said it—not as a grand declaration but as an unshakable truth—made my chest tighten, my throat burning with the weight of my emotions. I kissed him, my lips brushing over his in a soft, lingering caress. His hands moved, sliding up my back as he pulled me closer, deepening the kiss until I was completely lost in him.

I broke away just enough to rest my forehead against his, my fingers tracing light patterns along the back of his neck. “I don’t say it enough,” I murmured. “But I hope you know how much I love you.”

The corners of his mouth curved into a soft smile, and he brushed his lips over mine again, the kiss tender and unhurried. “You show me every day,” he replied, his voice steady and full of quiet conviction. “And I’ll never stop showing you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I let out a shaky laugh, resting my hands on his shoulders as I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Hank let out a quiet chuckle, his hands moving to cradle my face. “Funny,” he said, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing since the moment I met you.”

I kissed him again, pouring every ounce of love and gratitude I felt for him into it, and his response was immediate, his arms wrapping around me like he couldn’t bear to let me go. The kiss deepened, his lips and tongue coaxing me into a slow, deliberate rhythm that made the world fade away. It wasn’t rushed or frantic—just full of quiet, unspoken promises, every touch and caress saying what words never could.

And in that moment, with his hands steadying me, his warmth grounding me, and his love surrounding me, I knew with absolute certainty that he was it for me, just as I was for him.

Hank’s hands slid up my sides, his thumbs brushing over my ribs before they settled on the buttons of my shirt. His gaze met mine, quiet and intent, as if asking for permission without words. I gave a small nod, my breath catching as his fingers deftly undid the first button, then the next, his movements slow and deliberate.

He leaned forward as he worked, his lips pressing soft kisses to my skin with each button he freed. The hollow of my throat, the curve between my ribs—his mouth left a trail of warmth that sent shivers cascading through me. By the time he reached the last button, my heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

The shirt slipped from my shoulders, pooling behind me, but Hank didn’t rush. His hands came to rest at my waist, his thumbs brushing over the bare skin there as his lips found the swell of my chest. He kissed me slowly, unhurried, his mouth lingering as though he wanted to savour every inch of me.

“Stand for me,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with need.

I did as he asked, my knees trembling slightly as I rose to my feet. Hank followed the movement with his hands, sliding them down to the waistband of my trousers. He knelt in front of me, his fingers hooking into the fabric as he began to ease them down. His lips brushed along my hip as he worked, his touch sending sparks dancing over my skin.

When the trousers pooled at my feet, he held onto my hands lightly for balance as I stepped out of them. His hands lingered, steadying me before trailing back up my legs. His lips followed, brushing kisses along the bare skin of my thighs, his gaze never leaving mine.

Once I was free of the last layer of clothing, Hank rose to his feet, his hands finding their place on my hips again. The heat of his skin against mine sent a rush of warmth through me, and when his mouth captured mine, it was slow and deliberate, his lips moving against mine with the kind of unspoken devotion that made my chest ache.

We didn’t speak as we shed the final barriers between us. My hands moved to the waistband of his boxers, my fingers trembling slightly as I pushed them down. He stepped out of them easily, his hands steady on my waist as though he could sense my nerves and wanted to ground me.

Together, we made our way to the bed, the world narrowing to just the two of us. Hank lay me back against the sheets, his body following mine as he settled over me. His hands moved with a tenderness that felt all-encompassing, tracing the curve of my waist, the line of my thigh, as though committing every part of me to memory.

His lips found mine again, their movements slow and deliberate, a quiet exploration that deepened with each passing second. He kissed me as though we had all the time in the world, his touch reverent, his body pressing into mine with a warmth that left me breathless.

When he finally aligned himself, the tip of him pressing at my entrance, he paused, his eyes meeting mine with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver through me. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed inside, the stretch of him filling me completely, stealing the air from my lungs. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, his jaw tightening as he stilled, letting me adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against mine.

The warmth of his breath fanned over my lips as he exhaled shakily, his hands tightening on my hips as if grounding himself. His voice was low and rough when he finally spoke, the words barely audible. “Perfect,” he murmured, his tone filled with reverence.

He began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm, every thrust deliberate and precise, the pressure of his body against mine igniting a fire that spread through every nerve. My fingers found their way to his back, tracing the hard planes of muscle as they flexed beneath my touch. His movements were unhurried, each one coaxing a soft sound from deep in my throat, a sound that only seemed to spur him on.

I gasped softly as his lips found the curve of my shoulder, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed his way up my neck. His hips pressed forward again, a little more insistent, and I couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped me, my head tipping back to give him more access.

His lips traveled down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, pausing to suck gently at the sensitive skin there. Each touch of his mouth sent a jolt of pleasure through me, and I could feel the way his breath caught against my skin whenever I moved beneath him. My fingers dug into the broad expanse of his shoulders, holding onto him as the slow, steady rhythm of his hips began to build.

“God,” he groaned, his voice low and gravelly, the sound making my stomach tighten. His hands shifted, one sliding up to cup the side of my neck, his thumb brushing over my jaw as he tilted my face toward his. His other hand gripped my thigh, pulling it higher around his waist, anchoring me closer as he moved. The sounds he made—soft groans and low, broken murmurs—wrapped around me, adding to the symphony of the moment: the creak of the bed, the rustle of sheets, the whispered breaths that passed between us.

I couldn’t hold back the sounds escaping me—the soft cries, the whispered breaths of his name. His hips pressed deeper, the angle sending a rush of sensation through me that made my toes curl. His mouth captured mine in a kiss that was all-consuming, his tongue sliding against mine with a deliberate slowness that made my entire body tremble. The air between us was thick with heat, each shared breath feeding the fire that burned between us.

His pace quickened slightly, his movements growing more insistent, the tension building with every roll of his hips. My body arched into his, chasing the friction, the heat, the undeniable connection that bound us. His groans grew louder, mingling with the broken whimpers that spilled from my lips, the sound of us filling the room, raw and unfiltered.

When we finally reached the peak together, it was like the world stopped for a moment. His body tensed, a low, guttural moan escaping him as he buried himself deep, his grip on me tightening as he shuddered against me. My own release followed, a wave of heat and light that left me gasping, my fingers clutching at his shoulders as my body trembled beneath his.

He stayed there, his weight a comforting pressure against me, as we both caught our breath, our bodies still entwined. The room was quiet save for the sound of our breathing, the stillness wrapping around us like a cocoon, the steady beat of our hearts slowly evening out as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my lips. His hand brushed along my side, his thumb tracing idle patterns over my skin, grounding me in the warmth of him.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, his lips curving into a soft, almost shy smile. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, his hand brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “I love you sweetheart,” he murmured, the words carrying the same quiet sincerity as every touch and kiss that had come before.

I smiled, my hand sliding up to cup his face as I leaned in to kiss him again, slow and tender. “I love you too,” I whispered against his lips, the words a quiet promise, an anchor in the aftermath of the moment we’d just shared.

“Can we stay like this?” he murmured, his voice hushed and filled with quiet wonder.

I nodded, wrapping my arms around him, holding him close as we sank into the stillness together. My fingers traced light patterns along his back, a quiet rhythm that mirrored the way we moved moments before. The world outside faded into nothingness, and I found myself wishing I could capture this feeling somehow—every curve, every line, every breath—like a sketch I’d never forget.

[whencyclopedia]

Roman Art

The Romans controlled such a vast empire for so long a period that a summary of the art produced in that time can only be a brief and selective one. Perhaps, though, the greatest points of distinction for Roman art are its very diversity, the embracing of art trends past and present from every corner of the empire and the promotion of art to such an extent that it became more widely produced and more easily available than ever before. In which other ancient civilization would it have been possible for a former slave to have commissioned his portrait bust? Roman artists copied, imitated, and innovated to produce art on a grand scale, sometimes compromising quality but on other occasions far exceeding the craftsmanship of their predecessors. Any material was fair game to be turned into objects of art. Recording historical events without the clutter of symbolism and mythological metaphor became an obsession. Immortalising an individual private patron in art was a common artist's commission. Painting aimed at faithfully capturing landscapes, townscapes, and the more trivial subjects of daily life. Realism became the ideal and the cultivation of a knowledge and appreciation of art itself became a worthy goal. These are the achievements of Roman art.

Art for All: Rome's Contribution

Roman art has suffered something of a crisis in reputation ever since the rediscovery and appreciation of ancient Greek art from the 17th century CE onwards. When art critics also realised that many of the finest Roman pieces were in fact copies or at least inspired by earlier and often lost Greek originals, the appreciation of Roman art, which had flourished along with all things Roman in the medieval and Renaissance periods, began to diminish. Another problem with Roman art is the very definition of what it actually is. Unlike Greek art, the vast geography of the Roman empire resulted in very diverse approaches to art depending on location. Although Rome long remained the focal point, there were several important art-producing centres in their own right who followed their own particular trends and tastes, notably at Alexandria, Antioch, and Athens. As a consequence, some critics even argued there was no such thing as 'Roman' art.

In more recent times a more balanced view of Roman art and a wider one provided by the successes of archaeology have ensured that the art of the Romans has been reassessed and its contribution to western art in general has been more greatly recognised. Even those holding the opinion that Classical Greek art was the zenith of artistic endeavour in the west or that the Romans merely fused the best of Greek and Etruscan art would have to admit that Roman art is nothing if not eclectic. Inheriting the Hellenistic world forged by Alexander the Great's conquests, with an empire covering a hugely diverse spectrum of cultures and peoples, their own appreciation of the past, and clear ideas on the best way to commemorate events and people, the Romans produced art in a vast array of forms. Seal-cutting, jewellery, glassware, mosaics, pottery, frescoes, statues, monumental architecture, and even epigraphy and coins were all used to beautify the Roman world as well as convey meaning from military prowess to fashions in aesthetics.

Artworks were looted from conquered cities and brought back for the appreciation of the public, foreign artists were employed in Roman cities, schools of art were created across the empire, technical developments were made, and workshops sprang up everywhere. Such was the demand for artworks, production lines of standardised and mass produced objects filled the empire with art. And here is another factor in Rome's favour, the sheer quantity of surviving artworks. Such sites as Pompeii, in particular, give a rare insight into how Roman artworks were used and combined to enrich the daily lives of citizens. Art itself became more personalised with a great increase in private patrons of the arts as opposed to state sponsors. This is seen in no clearer form than the creation of lifelike portraits of private individuals in paintings and sculpture. Like no other civilization before it, art became accessible not just to the wealthiest but also to the lower middle classes.

Continue reading...

[itsvelyria]

"alternate universes w the f1 drivers"

Charles Leclerc

A tense atmosphere hangs in the still air of the conference room. The guards of the neutral faction glance at each other, be that in trepidation or anticipation, you couldn't give two hoots. If you had a little more presence of mind, perhaps you would have scoffed at the sight of such timidity. But your attention had been focused on one thing even before you stepped foot into the room - Leclerc, the commander of your universes' nemesis and your self-proclaimed enemy. Even as both your universes teetered on the brink of a cosmic conflict over some glowing orb of unfathomable power, you could see nothing but his equally unwavering stare boring into you. It was a battlefield of carefully chosen words and tempered anger, the kind you were terrible at, and a desperate attempt to find common ground in the midst of interdimensional tension. Memories of recent battles played like vivid flashbacks in your mind – your successful conquering of New York, and then counted with major loss suffered in the faraway battlegrounds of Thailand at his hands. The friction between you two mirrored the larger conflict, a reflection of the cosmic struggles that had engulfed your universes. Each word uttered by your superiors and his felt like a strategic move on a celestial chessboard, with the stakes higher than ever. The table, littered with holographic projections and tactical maps, became a battlefield of its own, an arena for diplomatic warfare. Amid the charged atmosphere, you two stood tall as commanders of your respective armies, your universes hanging in the balance, and the fate of countless lives rested on the outcome of this uneasy negotiation.

Carlos Sainz

You can't stop the sly smile from spreading on your lips when one of your maids discreetly places a charcoal-coloured envelope next to your plate. The conversation about the northern harvest abruptly fades as your eyes lock onto the crimson seal adorned with an embossed helm, an unmistakable insignia of authority. The seemingly simple package, however, emanates opulence, from the shimmering paper to the vibrant pigment of the wax. It speaks of a wealth only a king could possess - the Ruler of the Underworld, your husband. Beside you, your mother's disapproval is palpable, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the letter from your elusive beloved. Despite her repeated skepticism regarding the legitimacy of your marriage, a quiet rebellion has taken root in your heart, growing into a conspicuous flower that refuses to be overlooked. In a huff, your mother excuses herself, unable to endure the presence of the offensive missive on her table. Meanwhile, you handle the delicate task of peeling the seal with utmost care. The pages that spill out consume your entire morning, each carefully chosen word and artfully crafted sentence nurturing the burgeoning emotion within you, a fervent longing for the man. Tracing the signature at the end, the cursive letters spelling Carlos's name evoke the vivid memory of him signing his name on the palm of your hand that teary evening before your departure.

Danny Ricciardo

Your workshop is beyond cluttered. You know this. And on usual days, you don’t mind it in the least bit. But when you can’t find the only wrench that works, it is basically hell for you. You rifle through bags of nails and bolts, wondering if it is possible for a black hole to open at random to steal one’s only good tool. The plastic baggie of sequins that you bought to adorn Danny’s suit as a prank explodes as you toss it to the ground harshly, decorating the air with pink metallic confetti. Your hands pause over the table, eyes pressed closed in the hopes that your temper will settle itself magically. It doesn’t. But the door to your workshop does open, and the cheery voice of your partner asks if there is a party going on. You turn to him with the deadliest expression you can muster, telling him that you aren’t in the mood for jokes. “Will coffee help?” he asks, his unruly curls pushed up by the goggle on his head, holding up a mug. You feel the tension in you jaw loosen and nod, taking the metal cup from him gratefully. The amazing coffee smell wafts into the air as you open the lid and take a sip. He asks what you were looking for, already sweeping up the sequins from the floor as you collapse into your stool to enjoy the caffeine. You tell him in-between mouthfuls of the precious liquid. “I told you to keep your station clean,” he wags a finger at you in mock lecture. “And I told you I’d do it when you clean out your closet,” you shoot back bitingly. He sticks out a tongue at you as he dumps the collected sequins into the trash. Danny holds his hand out for the empty mug like he does on the coffee run he insists on doing for you every day. “Your wrench is right there by the way.” You swivel in the direction the pilot points, spying the goddamn tool right there beside the toolbox. A curse spills from your lips. “Love you too,” your boyfriend presses a kiss to your cheek as he leaves the door, already late for his practice session.

George Russell

The colossal estate towers over you in a show of intimidation, even more so than 17 years ago when you were deposited at the front door and it was introduced as your new home. Perhaps it was the fact that in the room with the round window on the second floor, sat the very man who had shaped you into the officer you were today, someone you would forever be indebted to and the folder in your hands had to power to ruin his life's work. Your feet propels you forward, the duty you were sworn to uphold taking charge over the fog that clouded your perception now. In the ancient study room, you greet your adoptive father whose eerily calm composure hints at his awareness of the purpose of your visit. And so you lay it out. The mosaic of the photographs and documents, the tangled threads of your past and his lay out in the open. Taking out the last photograph, you pause to study the profile of the man who should have been in your place, the cheeky look in his eyes and the impish charm glaring through the still image. You slide the photograph across the desk, utterly still as the man behind it scrutinizes it. The air hangs heavy with the unspoken words, the undeniable connection that lingered between you three, and imaginary weight of your disclosure pressing down on your throat at the very moment. You were well aware of the ruin that could be brought upon you with this discussion and yet you were still here, confessing the sins of his child to him. His response is stoic, the same measured tone that rings through your ears when you screw up. "Do what you must." The words hang over your head as you exit the manor, already on the phone with your superior officer for a warrant request for a George Russell.

Lando Norris

The daily Elemental assembly meeting was something you dreaded with a passion. 6 elements, all with wildly different personalities and priorities engaged in what you can only describe as immortal combat. Today's battle amongst the jewel-toned silks emblazoned with your crests was over the luscious piece of untouched land up north. You slammed your hands on the table as the Head of the Fire elements begins detailing the plan his council had drafted for the beautiful plot of soil. If he wanted to build a fucking heat machine, he could do it over your dead body. The unjustified stare he shoots you should send normal people back-pedalling into their opinions, except you were not "normal people". Unlike all the other heads here, you have had the terrible misfortune of being Lando's classmate all throughout your schooling years. It has been ruthless threats and one-upping each other since your first childhood memory. When he was elected head of his kind, you too were appointed leader of yours. And thus started a new chapter in your rivalry that continued to this present moment. You slam the car door angrily, muttering under your breath at the infuriating man and his stubborn opinions. "I thought we agreed not to bring work outside of the building." Your husband slides into the seat beside you, his scarlet orange suit blinding your vision as you shoot him a dry look. "Let's get lunch before my council meeting with the fire elders." The nonchalant tone rings through your ear drums and you feel it water down the rage that was blazing in you. "You have a community session right?", followed by "Shall we watch that movie you've been talking about tonight?" and the fire washes away completely.

Lewis Hamilton

Lewis doesn’t like this. The lumpy seats provide no support and the intrusion into his life is not something to just get used to. But it means he can continue to chase the dream of playing bass around the world, so he settles into the interview. Surprisingly, the interviewer was interested in more than his gym routine and the rockstar life, posing a question about his time in music school, more specifically the conservatory where he played the violin. And so, he recalls the late-night practice sessions and composing classes where is almost tore out all his hair, all his memories leading to the same person. The interviewer brings the topic to his final year showcase, the culmination of his studies and the last fond memory of sharing the stage with his favourite musician. “I understand you are friends with the pianist of the San Francisco Symphony,” the leading statement loaded with intention even as the interviewer shoots him her most brilliant smile. Lewis laughs. He can’t help it as he thinks of how you were probably watching this and spamming him with messages right now. He agrees with the interviewer, thinking of his confidante all the way in a different state at this moment, staying up late to watch the interview. “Just friends then?” The prompt sends him into a fit of giggles even as he answers. But he thinks of the flowers he sends for every single one of your performances and concerts, receiving a call from you afterwards with a selfie and he knows, that deep down, even as his lips define it as a friendship, his very soul knows it wants more than that with you.

Max Verstappen

You would kill Yuki one day. And if you didn’t, you would turn yourself a ghost and push him into a hole somewhere for ditching you at lunch. He knew damn well how you felt about being alone in a crowded Great Hall and the little spitball was still nowhere to be found. Damned betrayer. Gripping your books tightly, you wondered if it was too late to escape to the library. The sudden pressure around your wrist comes out of nowhere and you jump, instinctively glaring at the offender. Max releases your wrist at the sharp look and suddenly, you miss the warmth of his palm on your skin. You mentally slap yourself as you glance to the side and meet a familiar pair of eyes. Your sister sends a small smile in greeting, her canary yellow-trimmed robes rustling as she does. “I need a favor,” your friend poses the statement at you once the sharp look softens into something you won’t name. “What is it?” you ask, not trusting your voice. “Tutor me in runes tonight,” his reply comes instantly, though it sounds more like a demand. Your sister reacts to this by grabbing her boyfriend’s arm in confusion. “You are having trouble in runes?” Watching the exchange, you feel yourself inching away from the potential couple fight. What stops you, is Max turning to you and repeating the question. You can see your sister roll her eyes out of the corner of your mind and determining it as an okay sign, you agree before your brain can point out everything wrong with this scenario. You collapse onto the empty bench at your house's table, and like the devil he is, Yuki appears. At the sight of his happy beam, you are once again reminded of why you do not lunch alone.

[dickgraysonweek]

The two week buffer starts now! Welcome to the DGAW COMMENT STARTER BINGO! 🎉

The Dick Grayson Anniversary Week 2025 has entered it's two week buffer period in which we encourage everyone to finish the fanworks that weren't done on time! 💙

Which is to say, the 85 Years of Dick Grayson celebration is far from over! Let's focus on giving some love to the participants. After the week is before the week!

💌 The bingo aims at making people comfortable with leaving 3-5 sentence comments that enrich the community experience of sharing fanworks.

📬 You can leave comments on any type of fanwork, but to not clutter the bingo squares some placeholder vocabulary is about fanfiction or fanart. You can easily transfer the phrases to fit other fanworks, though!

🎲 HOW TO PLAY

Use one comment starter to write a comment beneath a Dick Grayson Anniversary Week fanwork that you enjoyed. Every participating fanwork of the last six years is eligible, which means you have about 150 fanworks to choose from. Find them on the blog (fanfiction, fanart, fanedit) and/or in the parent collection on AO3.

There is no reason to aim too high and get stage fright. A 3-5 sentence comment is a perfect middle to conquer the hearts of fellow fans.

Leave comments beneath five individual fanworks to get a horizontal, vertical or diagonal bingo.

If you're an overachiever, aim for a blackout, which means checking all squares!

If you want, use fancy Nightwing brushes to check your squares. (How To Install for Photoshop or Gimp)

🏆REWARDS

The first bingo receives the power to veto one prompt into the 2026 week.

The first blackout receives the power to determine an optional extra challenge for the whole 2026 week.

📩 SUBMIT YOUR BINGO

To receive a reward and to keep it fair, please submit your bingo via this Google survey. It will require you to link to the comments you left. To find the link, simply click on the "Thread" button of your comment and copy your browser's URL.

[u6is]

feed the flame 'cause we can't let it go.

While you dream of connection, of tenderness, he was bound to a world where those things didn’t matter, and you were just another fleeting desire amid his relentless pursuit.

part 2

— aurélien tchouaméni x reader: angst

The smell of freshly cut grass wafted through the open window of the cluttered office. Above the desk, a solitary light bulb flickered rhythmically, casting a dim, yellow hue over the piles of newspapers and empty coffee cups.

Amid of chaos, a sports journalist sat steady, fingers dancing across the keyboard as your eyes locked onto the screen, absorbing each moment with a quiet, unshakable focus.

You were deep in thought, trying to piece together a puzzle of words that would capture the essence of the game you had just watched.

Your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen illuminating with Aurélien's name. Your heart skipped a beat. You knew that call was coming. It always did after a big game, especially when Aurélien had played exceptionally well. You picked it up, swiping your thumb across the screen, and brought the phone to your ear.

"You watched?" Aurélien's smooth voice echoed through the speaker.

You nodded before realizing he couldn't see that.

"Of course," you replied, trying to keep the excitement out of your tone.

"You were unstoppable tonight."

Aurélien chuckled, the sound as rich and warm as the victory he had just secured for his team. "Good."

There was a pause, filled with the unspoken tension that always lingered between the two of you. It was a dance you had performed countless times before – a dance of desire and denial, of power and submission.

After that last time, beneath the cold light of day in the parking lot, where the car windows fogged with the heat of your stolen passion after his monumental triumph, he told you this could never happen again.

Yet here you are, the two of you, running in circles that always end the same. Night after night, you collide like stars burning out, fucking as if it’s the only language you both know. Days stretch into a haze, and you wait, like a loyal dog at the door, ears pricked for his return.

Every match ends the same. You stand there, not as his lover but as a journalist, all smiles and carefully chosen words, your applause echoing louder than the crowd’s. You welcome him like a soldier coming home, his victories written across your face.

You know your love deserves the roar of stadiums and the fire of cameras, but it’s tucked away in the shadows, surviving only in stolen nights and unspoken truth.

This time, the stadium’s echoes distant, drowned beneath the demands of your unrelenting schedule. Leaving only your voice through his phone, a distant embrace of congratulations.

You wonder how long this can last—this love he refuses to name, can this even be called love?

"I want to see you," Aurélien said finally, his voice dropping to a low murmur. Your pulse quickened. It was the same script, but the thrill was never old.

Despite the towering weight of obligations, you carved out an exception, racing toward him with all the urgency your heart could muster.

You agreed to meet at his hotel. Aurélien had a knack for keeping their encounters private, a luxury that came with being a star football player.

You arrived, heart pounding like a restless drum, your hand trembling as it knocked. The door swung open, and there he stood—Aurélien, dressed casually in sweatpants and a white tank top, his muscles rippling in the soft light. He was leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket. His eyes were cold, assessing, as if you was just another challenge to be conquered.

He didn't say a word as you entered the room, his gaze traveling up and down your body. You felt both exposed and desired under his scrutiny, a heady mix that sent shivers down your spine. You knew the drill.

He didn't do small talk.

He didn't do relationships.

But he did do passion, and that was enough to keep you coming back for more.

Those words still linger on you...

"It's just... I can't do this again. I'm sorry."

Haunting like a whisper that refuses to fade.

Yet there you were, both lost in each other's arms once more, sprawled across his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth that spoke louder than any words ever could.

Oh, the lengths you’d go, the battles you'd face, just to keep his lingering presence a moment longer.

Once more, you find yourself in his arms—the man who speeds through, leaving traces of himself woven into your bones.

—

The next day, Aurélien didn't call.

this was just how it was with him.

You had hoped he would, maybe bask in the afterglow of last night's victory, but your phone remained silent. You tried to focus on your work, the words on the screen blurring as you wondered if he was okay, if he was busy, or if he was with someone else.

You told yourself it didn't matter;

this was just how it was with him.

But deep down, you felt the sting of rejection, the cold emptiness that always followed your secret rendezvous with the football legend.

You went about your day, conducting interviews with other players, watching their training sessions, and sipping coffee that had gone cold.

Your mind kept wandering back to the hotel room, the way Aurélien's eyes had burned into yours before he had kissed you, the way his hands had felt on your skin. You tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to you like a stubborn fog. You knew better than to expect more from him, but hope was a stubborn weed that grew in the cracks of your heart.

By the time the evening rolled around, you found yourself checking your phone every few minutes. You had convinced yourself that Aurélien was just busy with his training schedule, that he would call when he had a chance to catch his breath. But as the night grew darker, and the stars began to peek out from behind the clouds, your hope dwindled. You had been through this before, the endless cycle of wanting and not having. It was a dance you had grown all too familiar with.

The clock on your office wall ticked away the final moments of the workday, the hands moving with a maddening slowness that mirrored your thoughts.

You had been waiting for Aurélien's call all week, but it never came. Your mind was a fog of half-written articles and forgotten deadlines, the thrill of the football season lost in the haze of his absence. You sighed, pushing aside the empty coffee cups and notes scribbled with potential leads, none of which seemed to matter anymore.

Then, just as you were about to shut down your laptop and call it a night, your phone buzzed to life in your pocket. You pulled it out, heart racing, and saw Aurélien's name on the screen. He had invited you to a party at a club, an exclusive gathering of the football elite.

It wasn't a surprise that he had only remembered you when it suited him, but the prospect of seeing him again sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You knew it was a bad idea to get tangled up in his world again, but the allure of his charm was too strong to resist. Plus, he had a point - it could be a goldmine for your journalist career.

You took a deep breath and texted back,

"I'll be there."

The anticipation of the evening ahead filled you with a strange mix of excitement and dread. As you dressed for the night, you couldn't help but wonder what he was up to. Was this a genuine attempt to include you in his life, or just another ploy to use you for his own ends? The tight dress you chose clung to your body, a silent promise of the thrills you knew lay in wait. You applied your makeup with careful precision, each stroke a declaration that you would not be a mere pawn in Aurélien's game.

The club was a cacophony of lights and sound, a throbbing heart in the city's nightlife. You pushed through the crowded entrance, flashing your invite to the bouncers with a confidence that was only slightly feigned. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the electricity of competition. The football players and their entourages mingled like sharks in a glittering sea, eyes scanning the room for their next conquest. You spotted Aurélien immediately, his tall frame and brooding presence impossible to miss. He was holding court in the VIP section, surrounded by adoring fans and hopeful groupies, but when he saw you, his gaze sharpened, and he beckoned you over with a crooked smile.

As you approached, the music grew louder, a bass-heavy anthem that vibrated in your chest. Aurélien's teammates greeted you with a mix of curiosity and hostility, sizing you up with the same calculating look they reserved for their opponents on the field. You felt a flash of irritation at being treated like a trophy to be claimed, but you kept your smile in place, nodding and making small talk as Aurélien slipped an arm around your waist, claiming you as his own.

He leaned in close, his breath warm in your ear, and whispered, "You look amazing." It was the first kind thing he'd said to you in weeks, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

The party was a blur of flashing cameras and plastic smiles, the air thick with the scent of ambition and desperation. You found yourself playing the role of the supportive girlfriend, nodding along to conversations about upcoming games and tactics, all the while keeping one eye on Aurélien. His charisma a gravitational pull that drew people in and spit them out as quickly as he grew bored. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride at being the one he'd chosen to bring tonight, even if it was only for show.

As the night wore on, the drinks flowed freely, and the tension between you grew palpable. Aurélien's hand would rest on the small of your back, his fingers tracing lazy circles that sent shivers through your body. You knew the game he was playing, the dance of power and seduction that had become your twisted routine. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the potential scoops and insider gossip that floated around like confetti, but the pull was too strong.

Aurélien leaned in, his eyes gleaming with something other than alcohol.

"I've missed you, you know," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You searched his face for any hint of sincerity, but all you found was the same cold detachment that had come to define your relationship.

"Don't start," you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Not here, not now."

Aurélien's smile grew wider, "But why not? We both know what we're here for."

You felt a knot form in your stomach. "This isn't just about us," you protested, glancing around at the sea of faces watching you two. "What about your reputation?"

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate. "You think I care about that?" He tipped your chin up with his forefinger, his gaze holding yours captive.

"You're the journalist, aren't you? Spin it however you like. Just remember, I'm the story everyone wants to read."

The music grew louder, the lights more disorienting, and the whispers more insistent. You knew you had to get away before the night spun completely out of control. Aurélien was playing his game, and you were the prize he had no intention of letting slip away.

You excused yourself to the sanctuary of the bathroom, escaping the weight of his yearning stare. In the lavish restroom, you kindled your cigarette, savouring its transient solace.

Yet he trailed behind, his gaze aflame with something deeper than the wine's intoxication.

"Why didn’t you call?" your voice, a sharp blade, cut through the haze.

He smirked, pride shielding him like armor.

"You know I’m too drunk for words right now," he murmured, stepping closer, his breath warm with whiskey's ghost.

An arm found your waist, pulling you into his gravity. He took the cigarette from your hand, snuffing out its ember with a careless flick into the sink.

"Take that dirty thing away from your beautiful face." he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly across your cheek.

"So beautiful..." his words heavy with a drunken tone.

But he dodged the question, ignored the ache of your abandonment, weeks of silence left unanswered, buried beneath his drunken need.

"You know what I should get rid of?"

"You, you jerk."

you snapped, turning your face away, not wanting to face him.

Yet his hands still lingered on your waist.

He chuckled softly, gently guiding your face back to meet his gaze.

"I'm busy. And you were too. I didn’t want to disturb you," he murmured.

You searched his eyes for a trace of honesty, and though you found it, doubt still lingered like a shadow.

You crave the disturbance, and if he is the cause, you would welcome it willingly, surrendering to the chaos with open arms.

The bathroom was a welcome reprieve from the crushing weight of the party, the walls muffling the music to a dull throb.

You remove his arms from your waist. "Yeah, I know," you said, bitterness creeping into your voice.

"That's what you say every time," you retorted, your heels clicking against the tiles as you paced.

"I've been busy, you know that." his tone now edged with something darker.

You couldn’t bear it anymore, the desperation for him aching deep within you.

"What do you want?" you asked, your voice trembling with a quiet plea.

"What do you want from me, Aurélien?" You’re losing yourself, spiraling over his senseless game, the one that once caught your attention, ignited your curiosity. But now, that spark has long faded. The thrill is gone, replaced by a tired indifference.

He leaned against the sink, his expression unreadable. A heavy silence falls between you, the kind that clings to the air, suffocating in its weight.

The weight of his silence was too much to bear.

"You want to know what I want from you?" you whispered, breaking the silence that felt like it was drowning you.

Your eyes locking onto his. "I want you to actually care," you said, your voice shaking with the weight of your own words. "To stop using me when it's convenient for you."

Aurélien's expression grew stormy.

"Using you?" he echoed. "I don't use you, I give you access." He took a step closer, invading your personal space. "You're the one who keeps coming back for more."

You swallowed hard, his proximity doing strange things to your insides.

"Don't pretend like you're not familiar with this—with us," he snapped, his words sharp with anger.

"Tell me, what are we even doing? We’re both chasing pleasure, hiding behind our excuses, so don’t pretend I’m the only one. I crave this shit, and so do you."

His words hit hard, uncaring of the hurt they left behind. You bit your bottom lip, swallowing back the tears, your heart aching.

You once believed it was something special, but now you saw it for what it truly was—a mere game of fleeting passion, nothing more than a hollow illusion.

"Is that all I am to you?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. "A means to an end?"

Aurélien's eyes narrowed. "You're more than that," he said, his voice low and intense. "But don't fool yourself into thinking we're something we're not."

The air between you crackled with tension, his words a slap in the face that brought reality crashing down around you.

You stepped back, needing the space to think, to breathe. The bathroom become too small, too suffocating, and his presence too overwhelming.

"I know you don't do feelings. But I'm not a toy to be picked up and played with whenever it suits you!" You said, your voice stronger now.

His gaze darkened, his handsome features twisting into something almost cruel.

"You want more than this?" he challenged.

"You want hearts and flowers from the man who breaks records, not hearts?"

You finally understood how consumed he was by his achievements and how little room there was for anything beyond his success.

The sarcasm in his voice cut deeper than you expected, as he made it clear that expecting anything remotely romantic from him was utterly foolish.

You took a deep breath, feeling the walls of the bathroom closing in.

"I want respect." You replied firmly.

With that, you pushed past him, the door swinging open to the chaos of the party. The music and lights assaulted your senses as you stumbled out, the stilettos you wore digging into the soft flesh of your feet. You wove through the crowd, bothering to hide the tears, a silent reminder that you were the latest chapter in Aurélien's story, easily forgotten when the next plot twist came along.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking we're something we're not."

The words echo over and over in your mind.

He had that said as if it was an undeniable truth.

And in that moment, it hits you—he wasn’t capable of offering what you longed for.

While you dream of connection, of tenderness, he was bound to a world where those things didn’t matter, and you were just another fleeting desire amid his relentless pursuit.

Outside, the cool night air hit you like a slap, clearing the fog of the club from your head. You hailed a cab, the city lights blurring together as you gave the driver your address, your mind racing with a cocktail of anger, sadness, and confusion. The silence in the backseat was deafening, the only sound the muffled bass of the club fading into the distance.

When you arrived at your apartment, you collapsed onto the bed, the weight of your emotions pressing you into the mattress.

The darkness of your room felt like a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the garish lights of the party. You stared at the ceiling, the patterns of the paint swimming before your eyes as you tried to piece together the shards of your dignity.

You wanted to hate Aurélien for reducing you to this, but the truth was, you had let him. For the height of his attention, you had become a willing participant in your degradation.

But now, in the silence of what remains, you realize that some things are never meant to stay. The flame has died, and all that’s left is the echo of what could have been.

Aurélien Tchouaméni, once the force that dominated your mind and body, a champion who never lost a match to your soul, still reigns as the best midfielder in the football world. His presence lingers, powerful and unwavering, yet you—you—were never his to claim.

You had a career to focus on, a life to live that didn't revolve around his whims. You were more than just a notch on Aurélien Tchouaméni's bedpost, more than a pawn in his game of public relations.

You were a journalist, with a voice rich with truth, a story that flowed with the rhythm of your own heart, untouched by the weight of being anyone’s conquest.

i leaned into the angst this time because i felt we started too intense with the smut in part 1.

now im torn between leaving it as is or diving into part 3 😵‍💫

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

Of Roses and Snakes

pairing: Oberyn Martell x OC!Female!Tyrell

summary: Ella Tyrell gets told what her family had decided against her will. Maybe it was not so bad after all

Word count: 2,5K

Warnings: Angst, fluff, hurt-comfort

Navigation

Ella grumbled annoyed as she rolled over in her bed, the sun had been hitting her face for several minutes by then but she had no energy to move until this moment when a banging on her disturbed her peace even more.

"What?!" She called out harshly. She lifted her head as the doors opened to see who had entered her room. She sighed when she saw Margaery walk into the room already all dressed up and ready to conquer the day and make the boy-king fall for her charm.

"Is it not too early, sissy?" Ella asked, sitting up with a pillow clutched to her chest. Margaery gave Ella and wavering smile, almost looking like a wince. The future queen sat down on the bed beside Ella and reached over to grab her hand, the expression on her face was some sort of apologetic which raised alarms in Ella's head.

"What is it?" Ella questioned curiously, she was not one to fear easily. She laughed in the king's face when he suggested wiping her when she expressed her disgust at the wine they had, apparently that insulted the taste of the mother king. Cersei smirked at Ella seeing her son defend her only for the smirk to be wiped off when Ella burst out laughing, smoothly she recovered and mentioned that she was not one for wine anyways but prefered ale in its stead, that satisfied Joffrey but Cersei hated her guts for that.

"The Queen mother has somehow convinced father of something, sissy" Margaery finally spoke, Ella was half relieved that she was not the only one holding the conversation between the two of them. However the other part of her wondered what queen Cersei had up her sleeve.

"What could possibly be so bad that you had to wake me so early?" Ella pushed her duvet off herself as she spoke. She sighed when her feet touched the cold tiles and she moved to the table a couple of feet away in her room. Her eyes squinted as she looked out of the window where the sun was rising, it had been for several minutes before Margaery had entered.

"It involves you" Margaery uttered looking down at her hands in her lap. Ella picked up her chalice, filled it with the disgusting wine they had in King's Landing, and took a huge gulp in preparation for whatever Margaery had to say. She did not fear wiping, no she feared Cersei using her cunning mind to hurt her, she knew she had the power to, it was no secret that Cersei was happy to abuse the power she had.

"What could she possibly have convinced the idiot?" Ella rolled her eyes. She filled her cup again but took a small sip this time. Margaery squirmed almost uncomfortable while the seconds ticked by, she was trying to form the words in her head, wondering how she could break the news to her sister, her unsuspecting sister.

"They plan on giving your hand away" Margaery's words were hurried Ella nearly understood nothing of them. The chalice in Ella's hands cluttered down on the floor in shock and the wine spilled all over the tiled floor. Margaery jumped at the sound of the metal piece hitting the floor.

"What?" Ella cried out in disbelief, she knew her father was dumb however she did not think him dumb enough to make such a decision without at the very least asking for her consent.

"Calm down, please, sissy" Margaery stood up from the bed and walked over to where Ella stood, making sure to not step on the wine and ruin her dress or shoes. One of her arms wrapped around her younger sister in comfort snapping Ella out of her shock.

"When did you find out?" Ella allowed Margaery to detour her towards an ottoman where the two of them sat down. Margaery trapped Ella's hands in between her own, trying to push her comfort through their touching organs.

"Just now, I came immediately after I found out however I could not hear well and do not know who they have in mind" Margaery sighed. She was heartbroken for her younger sister, the fact that they were born merely eleven moons apart led them to be the closest of friends and they rarely left each other's sides as children and adults. Margaery could only hope that the match would be less violent than her own and Ella would end up with a pleasant man.

"Thank you for warning me" Ella took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. "I should have known her silence never meant peace" Ella laughed at how ridiculous she sounded, Cersei and peace were polar opposites and could never meet.

"Should I expect you when we break our fast?" Margaery asked, her hand tightening over her sister's. Ella and Margaery always broke their fast together, whether it was at home at Highgarden, or whether it was family or merely the two of them alone.

"We shall see" Ella smiled at Margaery not wanting to worry her older sister, although neither really acted their age difference, many thought them to be twins.

Ella paused in the middle of her sentence to her sister when suddenly the sound of someone clinking their knife against their glass echoed around the room. Everyone who was invited for supper with the royal family paused, unsurprisingly Cersei wished the entire council and all the royalty that had traveled for Margaery and Joffrey's wedding to attend the supper. So everyone and anyone in court was in attendance and more.

"I would like to begin this supper by thanking you all for making the journey to travel this way whether it was long or short, and we welcome you with open arms and hearts. The king and I are very happy with your presence for his upcoming wedding to Lady Margaery Tyrell" Cersei's voice echoed throughout the room with false happiness, Margaery had told Ella all about what was conspiring between her and Cersei. Ella turned to watch Cersei with her eyes squinted suspicious of the Queen mother.

"I would like to use this opportunity to announce on behalf of Lord Mace-" Cersei turned to look at Ella's father who nodded with a stupid smile on his face which made Ella wince, how in the world did her father last so long she had no idea and she could not wait for her elder brother Willas to take over the Lordship of Highgarden and they be done with their father. "-that on the morrow two weddings shall take place in stead of one, both his daughters shall marry" Cersei's eyes slid over the crowd analyzing their shocked expressions.

Margaery reached over to grasp Ella's hand in shock, the two girls' eyes widened, they had expected a betrothal but not for her to be married the next day alongside her sister. Ella turned to look at her grandmother who was shaking her head in disappointment meaning she had no idea either. There was rarely anything that Olenna Tyrell did not know so this was near a miracle.

"Lady Ella Tyrell shall be wedded to Prince Oberyn Martell on the morrow" Cersei announced pointing at the handsome prince sitting near where Ella was sat with only her grandmother in between. Ella had met the prince before along with his paramour who seemed not to be in presence at the supper.

"What?" Margaery whispered horrified. Her eyes trailed to Joffrey who was grinning evilly. Ella's heart dropped, all her dreams of falling in love and finding a loyal and respectable man were thrown out of the window with one sentence from Cersei's lips. She was being given to a man known for how lustful he was, he took his paramour with him wherever he went, and he was literally residing at a brothel.

Ella swallowed thickly fighting every urge in her body not to drop the smile from her face, indifference hardly maintained on her face. Her hand was holding Margaery's in a death grip and the other one was engulfed in her grandmother's warm hands. Ella turned to smile at her grandmother as the people around them broke into applause and cheers.

Oberyn was way older than Ella was, he had eight children already all from different whores and paramours while she was barely into her tenth and fifth nameday. Ella allowed her eyes to finally trail to Oberyn at her grandmother's other side to find him already looking at her analyzing her, trying to read her. She gulped and nodded at him before turning back to Margaery not seeing his reaction.

Margaery attempted to give Ella a reassuring smile but failed when her eyes trailed to look at Oberyn who was siping his wine with a neutral look on his face

"Excuse me, grandmother, I feel tired and wish to retire for the night" Ella whispered to Olenna. Olenna gave her granddaughter a small smile and patted her arm as Ella pushed back her chair and stood up. Ella breathed deeply to calm her racing heart before plastering a sweet smile. She moved away from the table and weaved her way through several tables accepting congratulations with a polite smile and a squeaky-sounding "thank yous".

Once outside the hall Ella could not help but take a second deep breath. she leaned against the wall trying to regain her composure. The cold stone walls felt like heaven against her heated and sweaty skin, she was shocked no one mentioned how flustered and ill-looking she must have looked.

She had dreams that were thrown out faster than a horse dump would have been. She had dreams of touring all seven kingdoms and meeting as many families and people as possible during her journey. She dreamed of reading as many books as she could, filling a library of her own, and maybe even writing her own book or books but those dreams were just demolished by Cersei Lannister.

"I never expected marrying me would be such a dreadful thought" Ella jumped when a gruff voice spoke a couple of feet away. She turned to find Oberyn standing a couple of feet away from her watching her, studying her and trying to see her reactions, her intentions.

"Your Grace, it is not like that" Ella almost tripped over her skirt while trying to curtsy, her cheeks were turning from embarrassment. The prince of Dorne just caught her sulking over marrying him. Too many things wrong with this one interaction, first and most important was that the Ladies did not sulk.

"I would be honoured to be called our wife" Ella's mask fell back in place once the shock had worn off. Oberyn however looked annoyed but to the horror of Ella, she did not wish to offend him, she did not wish to have a miserable life more than it already was.

"Do not sugar coat the situation, we both know we are not the partners we wished to have" Oberyn walked over to where she was still standing and leaned back against the same wall she was leaning on before he interrupted her panicked thoughts.

"Your Grace?" Ella turned to face, her face showed just a little bit of how truly shocked she was.

"Ella I am way older than you, I am not an idiot to think you wished to marry a man my age" Oberyn crossed his arms, his eyes roaming all over her face much to her shock. She had expected that a man with his reputation would be delighted to marry a young thing like her, she was awaiting to see his eyes roam her body and see her figure and probably make comments like she's heard other men do to their betrothed including Joffrey.

"My Prince-" Oberyn cut her off by raising his hand rendering her silent. The move irritated her beyond measure but before she could voice that Oberyn opened his mouth and what came out of it shocked her.

"Call me Oberyn, only Oberyn"

Ella was baffled, she knew men loved their women either calling them by title or a nickname, they loved to boast, they were small-minded like that.

"Oberyn, I do not mean to offend you-" Ella sighed. Her eyes were fighting not to water, they stung and hurt and she was sure they were turning red as well. Her hands fisted her dress to keep her composure but it seemed her moment of silence to get her thoughts and words straight yet again was interrupted by the prince standing in front of her.

"I do not intend to cage you little rose, your place is not in a cage but a garden" Oberyn raised his hand to touch her cheek, his fingers were gentle but rough to the touch, calloused with decades of training. He may be known as a master of poisons but he was a warrior still and no less than any guard in the palace, Ella knew that, she had seen him train in passing.

"Just know that as my wife you will be free, free of this court and their expectations. I will not expect you at my beck and call for you are no servant. I will not expect you to welcome me into your bed whenever I please for you are no whore. I do not expect you to be bred and bear me children even sons for you are no breeding mare" Tears weld in Ella's eyes as Oberyn spoke. One of those traitorous tears rolled down her cheek but his thumb was already prepared to wipe it off.

"You say that now but then the court will pressure us-" Oberyn raised his other hand and placed his forefinger over her pouting red lips. He wished to kiss them, taste them, just a small taste but he forced control over himself.

"I will not listen to them, I am not some weak-minded Lord. I am a Prince of Dorne and I shall take you there with me after the wedding" Oberyn promised. Ella took a deep breath to control herself before speaking again.

"There are many things we need to speak of but no time, tomorrow I will become your wife whether we like it or not" Ella took his hand in her own and started to rub small circles over his knuckles, she felt like she should comfort him too, after decades he was being forced to settle for her when he had voiced time and time again that he wished not to marry.

"I promise to care for you, little Rose" Oberyn promised, raising their intertwined hands and kissing her knuckles gently. Ella could not help the blush that crept up her neck and on the apple of her cheeks turning them into what they were called, blood red apples. His lips were soft and his moustache scratched her hand but she found herself not minding it. Her mind even wondered if she would get any beard burns from it if she were to let him in her bed and she found herself not minding this match as much as she did earlier.