OBSESSED WITH PLUS SIZE NIBBLY!

OBSESSED WITH PLUS SIZE NIBBLY!

NIBBLY REDESIGN ANYONE? 👀

it's the 1950s. your name is owen carvour. you're a spy with mi6. you are gay. this is a secret that could end your career.

you frequently are partnered on dangerous missions with an american named curt mega. he's handsome and charming and cocky to the point of recklessness. sure, it makes the work all the more dangerous, but it also makes it fun. it's... playful, the rapport you have. if you didn't know any better you might even call it flirtatious.

but you do know better. that's not what's happening. that can't be what's happening... can it? no, no, of course not. curt would never.

... would he?

you're staying in a nameless inn, you and curt, somewhere in the european countryside-- curt can never tell all the little countries apart, the names change too fast and they're all the same anyway-- and you've had a bit to drink. curt's had a bit to drink. curt's had a lot to drink, actually, he must have had far more than you thought, because there's no other explanation for the way he leans in close and says, "can I tell you a secret?"

and you say yes, of course, of course he can tell you a secret-- the two of you experts in the field of secrecy, who know more about trust and paranoia and confidentiality and the value of information than anyone else in the world. if there's anyone he can tell, he can tell you. so yes, you say, he can tell you a secret. you say this knowing you have your own secret, a secret you haven't told him, and maybe that's cruel and maybe that's unfair, but you're a spy. you have the capacity to be cruel and to be unfair and to be greedy, you feel greedy, but whatever his secret is, you want to know it. you want to hoard it, to keep it as preciously as you keep your own. he is offering to give you something of himself; you will gladly take whatever piece of curt mega he will allow to be yours.

and then he tells you his secret. and his secret is the same as your secret.

you feel like you can breathe-- maybe for the first time in your life. you can breathe. you tell him your secret in return and there's such unadulterated hope in his eyes, such adoration, such joy. you kiss curt mega and you are alive.

your secret, singular, becomes your secret, plural. its danger does not abate for being shared; if anything, it increases. now it isn't just the thoughts and proclivities that lie hidden in your head-- now it's demonstrable actions you and curt are taking, things people might hear, things people may see. it's dangerous.

it's dangerous, yes, but everything you do is dangerous, and you always do it better when you do it with him. he makes it more dangerous by being curt mega, the overconfident. he makes it less dangerous by being curt mega, the man you trust, the man you love.

you love him. oh, fuck, you love him. and he loves you. and you're so happy.

it's going to get you killed. you know it. you know that this cannot end any other way. it's too good, too good to keep. you can't hold a gun and a case file and his hand at the same time. you're going to have to let one of them drop.

for a world-class spy, curt can be shockingly naive sometimes. you raise these concerns with him and he brushes them aside. after all, you two are the best spies in the world. people have been trying to take you down for years. nobody's succeeded yet. and they're never going to. you'll have some close calls, maybe, but you always get away clean.

and you do have some close calls. there are nights while traveling you can't keep as quiet as you should. another agent notices a hickey on your neck and spends two days grilling you about your mystery girl. the worst, though, comes when an arms dealer shoots out curt's kneecap. you don't remember anything in between the sound of curt's scream and the feeling of blood going sticky on your face and neck as you carry him to the car. in the reaming you receive from your boss the next day, you're told it was a fucking massacre. you're put on a month's probation for causing such a scene.

there's talk of reassigning you. they're worried you and curt can't be trusted together, that you've grown reckless, that you've grown sloppy, that you're not the agent you used to be. if you can't control yourself, they'll find a partner who will do it for you.

and you can't control yourself. curt doesn't see it, but you do, fuck, it's plain as day. you love him too much. it's superseding all else. it's impairing your judgment. the longer this continues, you risk losing your job, losing him, losing yourself. probably all three at once.

he doesn't understand when you tell him. he just doesn't. "I thought you were happy," he says. you were. you are. it doesn't matter. it's not sustainable. this happiness now won't be of any consolation in the face of grieving each other later. better to weather the small, brief pain now to save yourselves the large anguish later. he doesn't understand. he cries, though he tries to pretend he isn't. the apologies taste like tar in your mouth.

it's easier to keep the secret this way, when it isn't an unbearable weight pressing at your shoulders. it stings, a bit, not reaching for his hand while he drives, swallowing down the urge to kiss him while your blood is singing with the adrenaline of a job well done. the little agonies of little secrets are easier borne than the big delights of big secrets.

you're still the best spies in the world. you still do your best work together. you still get to be with him, even if you cannot be with him. he's still a cocky bastard. he still riles you up.

it's so loud when the warehouse blows that you can't hear anything, so loud you can't hear yourself screaming for him. when you come to, some hours later, you're certain you're dead-- that is, until the pain sings high and sharp. no, you can't be dead; only life hurts this bad.

it's dark and quiet in the wreckage, and there's no sign of curt when you crawl your way out. he isn't coming for you. backup isn't coming for you. mi6 isn't coming for you. nobody is coming for you.

again, you'd been so taken with him and his charm that you let it cloud your judgment. again, he challenged you and you indulged him. again. because you love him. again, and again, and again, you risk life and limb for him, because you love him. all your years working in international espionage, and the most dangerous thing you ever did was love curt mega. and what has it gotten you? nothing. it never got you anything but paranoid and afraid and hurt and nearly dead.

you loved him, and you gave him up so you could both have your lives. you care if he has his life. clearly he cannot say the same. he doesn't care if you have your life. he's never cared if you have your life. he wanted to stay together despite the risk because it was fun and it made him feel good and he didn't care about the consequences that you would face-- that you had faced-- for it. and now he won't come back for you, won't try to save you, would happily have let you burn here with the rest of the building. well, fuck him. fuck him and fuck all the time you wasted caring for him.

conventional wisdom says two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. you can do better than that-- two can keep a secret if the secret is dead.

and it is. the secret is dead. the love owen carvour had for curt mega is dead. and the version of owen who felt that love is right there in the ground with it.

fucking secrets. the world is rotten with them. none of this would have happened if you hadn't been forced to live with this secret. if you never had to hide. if there were no such thing as information powerful enough to ruin you. if you had never been a fucking spy.

there is a cold, bleak chasm inside you where your love once lived. you will see curt again, someday. you're sure of it. he thinks he knows how it feels to hurt. he's been hurt before. what you'll show him is so much worse than hurt. you'll open up your chest and show him the emptiness he left in you. you'll show him all that's been eaten away by keeping his fucking secrets. you'll show him true despair.

owen: I've been waiting for this moment for such a long time.

owen: you're finally mine.

owen: that secret died the night you left me for dead.

curt: you know you broke my heart.

’Tis a faithful squire I spy! Who shall accept this fine mouse into thy service? One last illumination comes on the morrow…

AHHHH MONIQUE!!!!!!!! everyone my boyfriend is literally so talented. LOOK!!!

I FORGOT I HAD THIS APP TBH…

HERES SOME RTC ART❤️

ignore this im just manifesting that i win the giveaways corey is doing for the tinlightenment backers (im gonna win tinky yall, i feel it.)