#fizzles streams

[popfizzles]

I'm doing the thing satyr do best on Saint Patrick's Day:

Drinking and drawing!!

[Come hang out on stream!!]

[soulflatter]

Made great progress on the asks, helps to have a lil dash thread to toss back and forth. Do a dash reply, do an ask.

[polecatt]

this convo is making me think of season 5 and joker arc and princetech batjokes and aaaaaaaaa i wish we had gotten smth like s5 lore this season. I love s5 so much maybe even more than eclipse its my fav arc (joker arc). Even with how little pb&j would reciprocate convos and rp it was so fun and cool and i love and miss it

[kirbythesixth]

weren't you kirby the fifth for a while? or am i stupid?

i am. so sorry to inform you. i think you're stuck in 2012.

[humanjarvis]

piece of you

synopsis: with his good looks, talent, and intellect, caleb is the aerospace academy’s golden boy. but he was yours first, and he’ll stay that way.

tags: possessive clingy spoiled reader manipulates caleb, college party, reader handles their jealousy in an unhinged way, crocodile tears, caleb is attentive and sweet and unsuspecting, inspired by “piece of you” by shawn mendes

word count: 1.3k

a/n: i’ve been holding onto this mental music video for years and now i finally get to bring it to life :3 was originally going to write this from his perspective but i was like wait a second. he's the "you" that everybody wants a piece of

Beer, music, and sweat. The typical college party.

To celebrate the end of the semester, one of the student groups at Skyhaven’s Aerospace Academy had rented out a club for the night. And Caleb, ever the giver, had thoughtfully invited you to tag along.

A chance to visit him, to have fun together, to make sure everyone around him kept their hands to themselves—who were you to refuse?

There was only one problem: he was running uncharacteristically late, held up by a final flight assessment that’d been postponed due to weather. Which meant that you were here alone.

His friends, Gideon and Patrick, had spotted you and called you over, but while they drone on about school and flit watchful eyes at you from time to time, it seems more like they’re babysitting. You’re sure he put them up to it.

“Professor docked me on the last turn. I nailed it over and over in practice, but I totally choked on the real thing—couldn’t get it tight enough.”

“Same, man. I honestly think there was something wrong with the test aircraft. It’s so old, all the controls seemed laggy.”

It’s nice that they like planes. So nice. But you get enough of that sort of talk from your star pilot already. Where is he? you sigh in frustration as you unlock your phone yet again. 

Lucky for him, it chimes just before you can send a stream of angry faces.

special agent apple: Just pulled up :D I’m on my way.

Moments later, a beam of moonlight flickers by as the doors slide open. And when Caleb steps through, nodding casually at the bouncers, everyone’s chatter fizzles out into a hush. 

All eyes are on him. Because Caleb, still in his flight uniform, looks good.

Like, even better than normal.

With his unzipped jacket, windswept hair, and the leftover adrenaline boosting his confidence, he’s a fantasy come to life. And as the guests watch him like he hung the stars in the sky, you realize you’re not the only one who’s daydreaming. 

Neutral violet eyes scan the crowd and light up when they meet yours. Brushing off the people clamoring for his attention, including a disgruntled student body president, Caleb heads straight toward you.

“Sorry I’m late, pip-squeak,” he greets as he leans down to ruffle your hair. “Aced the flight after the storm passed, though. Everything alright here?” he asks, squinting at his gossiping friends behind you.

“Yes,” you huff, folding your arms over your chest. “You have some world-class babysitters. You should give them a raise.”

Caleb’s eyes twinkle. “I should, huh? Maybe it’s not that they did a good job, but that someone was on their best behavior while they were waitin’ for me.”

“You wish. I have a list of crimes to commit tonight. I was just saving them for when you got here so I could blame it all on you.”

“Oh? You tryin’ to get me banned, pip-squeak?” he chuckles. “I guess it would be my fault for inviting you. But if I’m guilty, then you’re my accomplice. We’ll get kicked out together.” 

“Whatever,” you sigh, rolling your eyes in pretend annoyance. The air feels lighter, now that he’s here. “How was the rest of your—”

“Hey, Caleb!” a deep voice interrupts. Trying to find its owner, your eyes land on Caleb’s basketball friends, all huddled at a table in the corner of the room. When he spots them, he waves briefly before turning back to you. “Just a sec,” he says, ruffling your hair again. “I’ll be right back. Keep yourself out of trouble, okay?”

***

Ten minutes. Ten whole minutes.

You could be obnoxious at times. Childish, demanding. Spoiled.

But at no point, under any circumstance, should Caleb spend ten minutes away from you when you’re in the same room. 

The guys on his team are talking his ear off, and he’s letting them! Joining! As if you didn’t fly all the way to Skyhaven just to see him. 

You’re already glaring at him so hard you’re surprised you haven’t gotten heat vision yet. But as some tall brunette—the sports writer for the student newspaper, you recall—saunters over to him, you decide those powers would really come in handy right now.

She enters the conversation with an ease that makes your jaw clench.

And as she rests a coy hand dangerously close to Caleb’s dog tag, laughing at some dumb joke he should be telling you, the intermittent twitch in your eye becomes constant.

This won’t do. 

Your bloodshot eyes are nearly unrecognizable in the chipped bathroom mirror.

You had to be thorough tonight. Since you were kids, Caleb had taken care of you when you were sick—meaning he’d seen your attempts to fake sickness and knew your tells like the back of his hand. One overdramatic sniffle, one exaggerated groan, and he’d know something was off. 

In the fifteen minutes since you’d been holed up in the club’s bathroom, you’d smudged your makeup, mussed your hair, coughed until your voice was hoarse, and disheveled your outfit. Now, only the finishing touch was left. Recalling the ending of a sad romance you’d watched last week—the husband never remembered his poor wife after the accident—you shut your eyes for several seconds, and the tears roll down your cheeks like raindrops.

Perfect.

Pressing one hand to your temple and the other to your stomach, you stumble out of the bathroom in feigned dizziness, a pout on your face as you search through the crowd. 

Caleb is still with his teammates, chatting casually with the sports writer, but the way his eyes frantically scan the room betrays his nerves. Once his panicked gaze finds you hobbling toward him, he immediately rushes forward, wrapping an arm around you and cradling your head. “What’s wrong? What happened? I was keepin’ an eye on you, but I looked away for one second and you were gone.”

“Hurts,” you mumble, slumping into his arms and clinging to his jacket. “Think I drank something bad.” If plain ice water counts.

Caleb’s face darkens for a split second before he masks it with a soft frown. Previous conversation—and conversation partner—forgotten, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you through the sea of students. 

They part for him with the urgency of subjects making way for their king. And as your body jostles from the force of his hurried steps, you know you made the right decision tonight.

Caleb didn’t need that kind of admiration. Not from anyone but you.

Thanks to the path cleared for him, Caleb reaches the exit in seconds. And as you lie there limp in his arms, about to get your way once again, a boldness overtakes you. Smugly, you raise your head to lock eyes with the pouting sports writer, throwing her a shameless wink that Caleb would never think you capable of. Not when you were in dire need of his care. 

Her mouth dropping open in outrage is the last thing you see before the doors slide closed behind you. 

Satisfied, you nuzzle into Caleb’s neck as he carries you to his car and buckles you into the passenger seat. 

“You did the right thing, findin’ me right away,” he murmurs. “Just a few more minutes, and I'll get some medicine for you. I'll take care of you, just like I did back then.”

“Thank you,” you mumble feebly. “I didn't mean to ruin your night. I just don’t know what happened,” you whimper, using his short trip to the driver’s side to force fresh tears into your eyes.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says firmly, gaze fixed on yours as he switches on the ignition. “How could you have known you’d get sick? It’s not like you planned it.”

“I guess,” you sniffle, hiding your smile with your shirtsleeve. “Still, though, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, pip-squeak. Now, let’s get you home.”

As his doting smile gives you butterflies, you can see why people like him so much. But unfortunately for them, you like him more.

[lecsainz]

A headcanon of Percy Jackson x reader daughter of Zeus, where he has been in love since the first day he saw her, and he had also recently arrived at the camp, please

˒ ⌕ SHE IS LIKE THUNDER

parings: percy jackson x zeus!reader

an:I know I disappeared, forgive me 🤧, but picture me writing this at 3 AM, dying of sleepiness after watching the last episode of PJO, AND ANNIE USED THE NICKNAME 😭 THIS EPISODE IS STILL TOO MUCH FOR ME TO PROCESS!!!!

summary: the one where you're a daughter of zeus, exploring your relationship with percy.

( my last work || my last work for riodanverse || go to main masterlist )

You and Percy crossed paths during one of your training sessions. Luke was giving Percy a tour of the camp, and when Percy laid eyes on you, he halted abruptly, as if struck by lightning. For some inexplicable reason, he felt an urgent need to know who you were, as if the gods themselves demanded it.

Percy's eyes widened as he observed you from across the training grounds. "Who's that?" he asked, pointing a finger in your direction. Luke suppressed a chuckle, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Her? Oh, that's Y/N, daughter of Zeus." Percy squinted, trying to decipher your actions, as you accidentally summoned a small lightning bolt that fizzled out near your feet. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Does that happen often?" Luke grinned. "Only when she's particularly excited, which, by the way, is most of the time. You should see her during thunderstorms!" Percy blinked, watching as you waved sheepishly, causing another faint spark to crackle in the air.

You and Percy found common ground in venting about the gods upon his arrival.

"Hey, little thunder, how's it going?" Percy grinned. "Don't call me that," you replied, trying to keep a straight face. "I'm good too, thanks for asking, Lightning Rod," Percy joked, emphasizing his newfound nickname for you.

Attempts at using your powers together proved futile, as water and electricity didn't exactly make for a harmonious combination.

According to Percy, Cabin 3 was way too big for just him, and assuming you felt the same way about Cabin 1, he started a tradition. At 12:00, he'd show up at your cabin, asking to share it, turning into a routine of hosting pajama parties in each other's cabins.

After you discovered that your half-sister, Thalia, had been turned into a pine tree to save her, Percy couldn't resist teasing you about it.

"Do you think your dad would turn you into, what, a fountain? Or maybe a cherry blossom tree would suit you?" Percy grinned, enjoying the opportunity to rib you. "Jackson, shut up," you retorted, rolling your eyes at his antics. Later, when Grover and Annabeth intervened, trying to keep you two from frying each other, Percy couldn't resist a parting shot. He had soaked you with water from a nearby forest stream during the mission, leaving you drenched and fueling your desire to electrocute him. "Next time you want to electrocute Percy, make sure I'm not around," Annabeth teased as they separated you, noticing your soaked state. Grover, being the peacekeeper, started singing the song of friendship, encouraging both of you to hug it out and apologize. Percy, however, observed that you were shivering from the cold as you walked. Realizing this, he handed you his jacket, concerned. "You'll catch a cold if you stay wet like this," he said, offering you warmth amidst the chilly aftermath of your water-based altercation.

Since neither you nor Percy admit to having feelings for each other, you find yourselves in constant teasing and banter.

During a mission, you two start a squabble because you want to lead everything, and he just wants to do his thing or isn't paying attention to what you're saying. Grover and Annabeth exchange glances, seeking a way to mediate.

It takes a long time before you muster the courage to admit you have feelings for the son of Poseidon. You decide to confess first because, knowing Percy, it would take ages if you waited for him.

"Percy, I need to talk in case we don't get out of here." "Spark Plug, we're getting out of here; trust me." "I like you, Seaweed Brain." He stands there in shock, mouth hanging open, unable to believe that you like him back.

After Percy managed to confess that he also liked you, you enjoyed teasing him about his stunned reaction. But deep down, you were terrified that he might have said he didn't like you back.

Percy becomes incredibly protective of you.

"Touch her, and you'll be dead."

You love stormy days and spend hours on the beach with Percy because he can control the water, ensuring you both stay dry.

"Isn't it beautiful?" "What, little storm?" You pause, gazing out at the tumultuous sea, the waves crashing against the shore. "It's like the ocean is in harmony with this storm. It's as if they understand each other, finding peace in the chaos." "Maybe," Percy finally responds, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Maybe storms and the sea have a way of finding peace in chaos because they understand that even in the wildest moments, there's a certain kind of order."

You appreciate the profound simplicity of his words, and in that moment, he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. For the first time in a long while, you feel at home

[sapphicandgraphic]

Sick As A Dog—Chapter 4

Summary: You’re a dog walker. When your favorite clients notice you’re not feeling well, they insist on taking care of you.

Chapter: 4/? In which we discover the healing powers of Dr. Strange and finally get some clarity on where we stand with WandaNat.

Warnings: Mostly still fluff and sick!fic hurt/comfort with growing sexual tension and KISSING. That’s right. Also some allusions to parental abuse, family trauma, runaway experiences. Reader continues to struggle with accepting help, relying on others, and accepting self-worth.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading and commenting and getting in touch to request the next chapter! I’m planning to continue this story since it’s striking a chord with people. If you want to show me some love, please subscribe to my Patreon channel — you can vote on what happens next, and get early access to future chapter updates!

You woke in a warm tangle of flushed skin and heavy limbs. Sunshine was streaming in through the window, casting a bright, buttery column of light across the ceiling. The storm had passed, and you could hear a faint rumble of traffic outside. Horns honking, engines backfiring. For a few delicious, dumbfounded seconds you had no idea where you were—and you didn’t care.

You stretched, trying to shake off the tendrils of feverish discomfort. But as soon as you moved, you felt something tighten around your waist. You frowned in confusion, blinking sleepily as everything came into sharper focus. The blankets. The pillows. The toned arm flung across your stomach. Oh.

“Noooo,” the owner of the arm grumbled. “Too early.”

Lifting the corner of the blanket carefully, you discovered Natasha wedged beside you in the bed. Her face was half-buried in a pillow and she scrunched her nose in displeasure as light streamed into her carefully constructed cave.

“Too bright,” she whined. You felt a crooked smile working its way across your face.

“Someone’s not a morning person,” you said, voice scratchy and low.

On your other side was Wanda, looking composed and elegant and impossibly pretty even in her sleep. Her head was draped protectively across your chest, one leg slotted over your hips like a seatbelt holding you in place.

Most mornings you woke up alone, before the first rays of dawn stretched along the avenues. You had a ritual of sorts, moving through the shadows swiftly, mechanically��rolling out of bed, making coffee, exercising. Your routine had been your lifeline for the last decade, providing structure and stability and refuge. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept in so late. It was…really nice. Dangerously nice. Waking up with them felt like coming home.

Before you could examine that thought too deeply, a voice in your head issued an automatic, familiar warning: Don’t get used to it. This was just a one-time thing, you reminded yourself. The lazy grin slipped off your face, the warm, dreamy feeling in your chest fizzling.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered open. Her hand automatically reached up, touching your cheek, your clammy brow. The sensation of her fingers made you shiver. You couldn’t resist leaning in. You turned your head to face her in the same moment that she lifted hers, bringing you close enough to kiss. You froze, locked in the position.

“Morning,” you rasped.

Wanda shifted, bringing her knee up between your legs. Your hips jerked forward at the pressure and you inhaled sharply. Wanda glanced down at your mouth, exercising great restraint as she finally tore her gaze away.

“You’re awake,” she said, giving you a sleepy, sexy smile.

You swallowed thickly.

“When did we decide to have a slumber party?” You asked, trying to ignore the sensation of Wanda’s warm breath on your neck, her hairs tickling your cheek. “Not that I’m complaining...”

Wanda sat up. “You don’t remember?”

Her words made you go completely still, and a low-grade anxiety blossomed in your throat. Wanda noticed the shift in your body language—the tension that took root in your muscles, the way a shadow of doubt flickered across your face.

“Relax,” Wanda instructed gently. She laid the palm of her hand against your chest. Your heartbeat hammered beneath her touch, flighty and too fast. “Deep breath for me.”

You instantly complied, feeling the tightness ease a bit.

“Did I…” you trailed off, not sure how to ask the question. “Shit, did I embarrass myself? Or make you and Nat uncomfortable? I should have just gone back to my place last night. I’m so sorry—“

Sensing your agitation, Nat’s grip on your waist loosened. She finally emerged from the blankets, hair tousled and eyes narrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Wanda sat up straighter, shifting slightly to give you some breathing room.

“You fell asleep downstairs,” she explained. “We put you to bed in here. I decided to…watch you sleep.”

She rushed through that last sentence, becoming a bit flustered. You noticed an adorable pink tint to her cheeks.

“You watched me sleep?” You repeated, unable to resist teasing her just a little bit.

Natasha chuckled, yawning. “Told you it was creepy.”

“It was not creepy!” Wanda insisted, voice a bit higher than normal as she attempted to characterize her actions in the proper light. She buried her face in her hands. “I was just worried about you.”

You softened, reaching out to pull her hands away. “Hey,” you said, smiling as she finally glanced at you. “I’m sure it was creepy in a cute way.”

She glared at you.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Then your fever got worse in the middle of the night.”

You squinted, struggling to follow her version of events.

Natasha reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What do you remember?”

You frowned, realizing the previous night was rather hazy.

“I remember the movie,” you said. “And then…”

You concentrated. There were vague outlines of other memories: Natasha cradling you against her chest, carrying you up the stairs. Wanda tucking you in.

You felt your breath catch.

“Nat…took me upstairs,” you mumbled, feeling shy. “You tucked me in.”

Wanda smiled. “And then?”

You swallowed. There were a few vivid flashes of horrible dreams intermingled with snatches of real life….everything blended together so seamlessly that you struggled to differentiate what had really happened and what had been a figment of your imagination.

“Nightmares,” you admitted softly, eyes going wide and glassy. A shiver worked its way up your frame.

Natasha scooted closer to you, pulling you halfway into her lap and draping the covers over your shoulders.

“It’s ok,” she murmured, feeling protective.

“Do you remember what they were about?” Wanda asked, careful to keep her voice neutral. She didn’t want to pry, but seeing you so frightened had unsettled her. “They sounded…scary.”

You dipped your head against Nat’s chest, accepting the comfort she was offering. Her heartbeat was steady, soothing.

You had been in your dad’s house, running down the hall. You could hear the heavy fall of his footsteps thundering up the stairs behind you. He was drunk, furious. You had hidden in the closet, cowering behind cardboard boxes—a favored refuge of yours when you were younger. He had appeared in the doorway, shadowy and terrifying.

And then…Wanda’s voice, soft and anchoring, calling you back to the present moment. Wanda’s hands curling around the back of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours, murmured whispers. You’re safe. We’ve got you.

Your cheeks flamed with a mix of humiliation and desperation. It had felt so good to wake up in her arms, to be held like that, to be watched and cared for. But knowing they’d both seen you in such an unguarded state—so pathetic, so weak—made your stomach roil unpleasantly. You disentangled yourself from Natasha, fighting for some semblance of control.

“No,” you lied, hating the way your voice shook slightly. You cleared your throat, grimacing at the sharp pain when you swallowed. “Can’t remember.”

Wanda glanced at her wife, clearly concerned and thoroughly unconvinced. Before she could press the issue, you were peeling back the covers and crawling toward the edge of the bed.

“Sorry you had to deal with that.” Every instinct in your body was telling you to retreat. “I better get dressed. It’s almost noon. I’m sure you have —“

Natasha realized you were shutting down, running way. So she did the only thing she could think to do, and clapped her hands together. “Who wants pancakes?”

The abrupt question caught you off guard. You blinked at her slowly, foggy brain trying to catch up to the shift in conversation.

“Oh, how silly of me,” she said, slapping her palm against her forehead. “Little wolves don’t eat pancakes, do they? Cinnamon rolls, then? Or maybe…French toast?”

You ducked your head, trying to hide the reluctant smile that was fighting its way onto your face.

“Nooooo,” you moaned, glancing at the ceiling. “You don’t have to make me breakfast.”

Oscar raised his head from the foot of the bed, wagging his tail at the sound of his favorite word. You reached out instantly, scratching his ear. Natasha took advantage of your distraction, snaking a hand out to tickle your ribs playfully.

“But it would be cruel and unusual, sending a little starving wolf out into the world on an empty stomach!”

You laughed, squirming away from her and collapsing onto your side. The mattress bounced and Oscar barked happily, entering the fray and licking your face.

“Mercy!” You pled, laughing so hard that you started coughing. “Have mercy!”

In a matter of seconds you were wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Even that minor exertion tired you out. Wanda intervened.

“Enough, Nat,” she said, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you upright, away from the other woman. “No rough-housing! I swear, you’re like a teenager sometimes.”

“I’m fine,” you said as soon as you could speak, hating the matching looks of concern on their faces. Wanda handed you a glass of water from the bedside table, and you took a few grateful sips.

“You’re not fine,” she said. “But you will be.”

Wanda insisted you take a hot shower while Nat got busy in the kitchen. The redhead clapped her hands together again, waggling her eyebrows at you.

“Waffles for the little wolf!” She howled quietly before padding out of sight.

Wanda watched her disappear with an expression halfway between exasperated and besotted. Then she extended a hand, pulling you gently out of the bed.

“Come on, detka,” she murmured. “The steam will make you feel better.”

She was right. You stepped out of the bathroom about ten minutes later feeling marginally refreshed, the pressure in your head and chest lessened. Wanda watched as you toweled off, laying out a fresh set of clothes. Oscar started barking downstairs and the doorbell rang.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving you one last lingering look before she disappeared into the hallway. The heat from her gaze made your skin tingle. It almost looked like she wanted to eat you alive.

Whoa, where did that come from? A furious blush worked its way up your chest and neck. You buried your face in the damp towel with a groan, trying to forget the feeling of her leg pressed between yours, the traitorous way your hips had bucked against her firm thigh.

Once you were dressed, you hung your towel up on the hook in the bathroom and then sank onto the edge of the bed. This was partially out of obedience (Wanda had told you to wait here) and partially out of exhaustion. The shower had wiped you out again.

Downstairs you could hear Wanda speaking faintly, and then an unfamiliar voice—a deep baritone. A few moments later, there were footsteps on the stairs. The sound reminded you of your dream, and you pushed down an anxious shudder as the door to the bedroom swung open.

Wanda reappeared. She smiled gently, happy to find you right where she’d left you. A tall pale man with a dark beard lingered in the doorway. A stethoscope was draped around his shoulders.

“This must be the patient?” His eyes glittered with curiosity. Wanda nodded.

“This is Dr. Strange,” Wanda told you. “He’s a friend of mine and Nat’s, and an excellent physician.”

You raised a weary hand in greeting. The man in the doorway regarded you for a long moment, like his diagnosis was already underway, then closed the distance between you in a few efficient strides.

He knelt, opening a small leather medical bag, and retrieved a thermometer. As he started his exam, Natasha wandered back into the bedroom. She leaned against the far wall, watching the doctor silently.

“Symptoms?”

“I’m fine,” you said, wincing as he placed the thermometer in your ear. “Just feeling a little under the weather.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “She has a fever, a cough, muscle aches, sore throat, and that’s just the symptoms I’ve been able to observe so far.”

Strange snorted. “That explains why you look like death warmed over.”

Your legs and arms pulsed dully with a persistent ache, and a throbbing pain had started to manifest again at the base of your skull. Still, you shot the man a weak glare.

“Nice bedside manner,” you growled.

“Thanks.” His lips quirked upward, clearly delighted at the barb. “It’s taken me years to perfect.”

The thermometer beeped and he glanced at the readout. “102.6,” he said, frowning. “Quite high.”

He reached toward you, palpating his fingers gently against your throat. You flinched. He noticed. “Does that hurt?”

You glanced at Wanda, hating to see worry shining in her eyes, then Natasha, who gave you an encouraging smile.

“Don’t look at them,” Strange said bluntly. “Be honest.”

You pressed your lips into a stubborn line, not wanting to cause more problems. But then you relented, nodding once.

He donned the stethoscope and pressed the diaphragm against your chest. “Breathe in,” he instructed. “And out.”

You did as you were told. In the silence, you watched Wanda. You noticed the little crease in the middle of her forehead, the way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying the soft pink flesh. You gave her a lopsided smile, and even mouthed the words totally fine.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation at your antics, and you realized it was a look eerily similar to the one she’d given Nat earlier. The thought sparked a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest.

Finally, Strange rocked back on his heels, giving you an appraising look. “You’re fighting off a pretty nasty viral infection,” he said. “Something’s going around the city right now. Fever, muscle aches, cough, it all tracks. But I’m worried about your chest—there’s a rattle in your lungs, a shortness of breath. Could get worse if you’re not careful.“

You opened your mouth—to disagree, to argue, you weren’t sure—but Strange lifted his hand, silencing you. “I’m not finished.”

Your mouth snapped closed. The doctor quirked an eyebrow, clearly relishing the dramatic pause.

“You’re also,” he added, jabbing an accusatory finger against your chest. “Very dehydrated.”

“Ouch,” you muttered resentfully, rubbing the spot on your sternum.

Wanda crossed her arms, clearly disliking this news. “What can we do?”

Strange sighed as he considered the options. “I can give her an IV,” he said. “Replenish her fluids and her electrolytes.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Wanda was nodding her head. “Do it.”

He bowed sarcastically. “Yes, ma’am.”

Wanda smiled. “Sorry,” she said, reaching out and fiddling with the hood of your sweater. “Is that alright with you? I just hate seeing you like this.”

You felt that familiar tug in your chest as the other woman stared at you, eyes brimming with an enormous unspoken affection. You couldn’t help but feel unworthy, undeserving of such kindness.

“‘Course,” you said.

Strange glanced from Wanda to Natasha and then back to you, an unnerving expression on his face. “How did you say you knew each other?”

“I’m their…dog walker,” you said, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment lick its way up your throat.

Nat watched you carefully, noticing the way you swayed toward Wanda, like a flower seeking the sunshine. Only to freeze up at Strange’s question, relegating yourself to something small and unimportant. The second you started to retreat, to withdraw, she intervened.

“She’s more than that,” Natasha corrected, fixing you with a stern look that dared you to contradict this clarification.

You ducked your head.

“Fascinating,” Strange said, closing his medical bag with a snap. “Let me run out to my car and get my equipment. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was gone, Wanda joined you on the bed. You leaned against her shoulder instinctively, gazing across the room at Natasha. For a beat, the three of you regarded one another silently. Then…

“Do you really believe that?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Being ill had worn you down, shredded your normally strong defenses. “I’m more?”

Wanda turned to face you. Her hands covered yours, her fingers drawing random shapes over your palms. You realized she was nervous.

“You’re so much more.”

You felt an impossible swell of hope and longing in your chest. It was almost painful.

“You’re just saying that because we slept together last night.” You meant it as a joke, hoping to cut the tension. But the air seemed to thicken even more. Wanda settled her hand on your thigh.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Wanda asked, voice soft. “How we feel about you?”

You drew in a shaky breath, refusing to let yourself believe they could possibly be interested in you like that.

“You feel sorry for me,” you guessed, dreading the confirmation that would shatter the fragile magic of the past 24 hours. You didn’t belong, you never belonged.

Then you felt soft fingers under your chin and you braced yourself for the terrible kindness that would no doubt be painted across Wanda’s pretty face as she let you down easy. But when you looked up, it wasn’t Wanda. It was Nat. She had crossed the room and crouched between your legs, staring at you with something fierce, something furious in her expression.

“How could you think that?” She asked, her voice a low, loving growl. You blinked hard, suddenly fighting back tears.

You shrugged, breath hitching at the raw confession. “I’m not used to…”

You trailed off, gesturing at the air between you. Not used to what, Natasha wondered, half-afraid to hear the answer. Kindness? Love? Comfort? Each possibility broke her heart more than the last.

But Wanda nodded, sensing you were close to articulating something important. She squeezed your hand, encouraging you to keep going.

“But I love being here,” you whispered, terrified at how true the words rang. “When I woke up this morning, I felt so safe, like I was right where I’m supposed to be.”

“What if you are?” Natasha traced her thumb over your jawline, hanging on your every word. “What are you so afraid of, little wolf?

Now that you had started to talk, your true feelings came rushing to the surface, spilling out in a flood of honesty and desperate surrender.

“I’m scared of how good I feel when we’re together,” you said. “Scared of wanting too much, getting greedy, and then…having it taken away.“

“You deserve to be greedy,” Wanda sighed, threading her fingers through your hair. “You deserve to feel safe, to be taken care of, to feel like you belong.”

“And you do belong,” Natasha added, gripping your chin firmly between her fingers. “Right here. With us.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the claim, the possessive touch. Your head was spinning.

“What if you change your mind, realize I’m not worth it?” Your voice was barely a whisper now, eyes still closed like you couldn’t bear the answer. “That I’m too much, too messy, too broken—?”

“Impossible,” Natasha said, cutting you off firmly.

“You’re not broken, milaya,” Wanda breathed, leaning forward and resting her forehead against yours. “Whoever told you that was…sorely mistaken.”

You cast around for another argument, another evasion. But you found it harder and harder to resist what they were offering, the acceptance in their expressions so open and honest. Gradually, the stiffness receded from your shoulders.

“Okay,” you sighed, curling closer to them both. “Okay.”

Natasha smiled, feeling the tension seep out of you. “Good girl,” she breathed, relief flooding her chest.

And in an instant, something shifted. Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, catching yours. All that vulnerability was still pooled around you like gasoline, and those two words were a match, catalyzing the dynamic, igniting your attraction. You could tell they both sensed it in the way they shifted closer to you, gripped you just a little bit tighter.

You licked your lips, entranced by the feeling of Wanda’s warm breath against your cheek, Nat’s gentle touch on your jaw.

“So good,” Wanda sighed in agreement with her wife, eyes darting down to your mouth. Your breath caught in your throat as those words washed over you again, the praise lighting up something desperate and beautiful in the very core of your being. They both watched, transfixed, as their claim stoked the fire, heating you up from the inside out.

Then, moving slow, giving her plenty of time to pull away, you brushed your lips against hers. The kiss was impossibly soft and inquisitive, like you were figuring out how to ask the ultimate question. Is it ok to want this too? At first she didn’t move, afraid to shatter the moment. Then she turned her head slightly, giving you better access. She sighed.

“Been wanting to do that all day,” she whispered. You could feel the shy curve of her smile where your lips met.

Wanda wanted to lean in even closer, but she paused, fighting to keep her own desires in check, needing to make sure you were ok. Natasha watched, hardly daring to breathe as her wife swayed back just a fraction, searching your face, saying your name softly. You didn’t respond, and her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“Are you—“

You rocked forward, claiming Wanda’s lips again, interrupting whatever question she had been about to ask. The only thing you cared about was this feeling, and making sure it never ended. You felt Natasha’s hand drop away from your face, moving to the back of your neck, guiding you, supporting you.

“Our perfect girl,” she said softly, the edges of her voice roughened by desire. “So fucking pretty when you let us take care of you.”

You whined, tearing yourself away from Wanda and gripping Natasha’s shirt. You were desperate to feel them both, to soothe the awful ache in your chest, the emptiness that suddenly seemed like it could only be filled by being with them, belonging to them. You pulled her onto the bed. She didn’t resist, pushing you backward, her strong arms bracketing either side of your head.

This kiss was different, messier. Where Wanda was tender and careful, Natasha crashed into you. She licked against your lips, seeking entry into the warm cavern of your mouth. You opened for her immediately, arching your back, melting into the hot, wet feeling. Her hand skated up along your ribs, your chest, your neck. You moaned in surprise when she bit you, pain blooming along your lower lip.

“Nat,” Wanda warned, pushing her wife off you like she was a wild animal. She muttered something in Russian. “Be gentle, she doesn’t feel good.”

“Yes, please be careful with my patient,” Dr. Strange said dryly. He had reappeared in the doorway holding an IV and a needle kit. “She requires rest and rehydration, not…whatever this is.”

Natasha blushed, pulling away from you and standing up in one smooth motion. You missed her instantly, craving the warm, rough feel of her hands on your body. She reached out, tangling her fingers in your hair before giving you a wink.

“I’m going to check on the waffles,” she announced, wiping her mouth delicately and then shoving her hands in her pockets.

Wanda helped settle you back in the bed, arranging the pillows and pulling the blanket up over your legs. You leaned against the headboard, sinking down into the soft sheets.

In a few swift motions, Strange had set up the IV drip and inserted the needle in your arm. He was surprisingly gentle. You barely felt a thing. Wanda hovered nearby, watching the entire process hawkishly.

“This should help her rest,” he explained. “And I’ll write her a script, something to bring down the fever.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said. “Stay for breakfast? Natasha’s —“

“Making waffles,” he interrupted drily. “Yes, I heard. Sounds lovely.”

She swatted him on the shoulder and he ducked out of the room, heading downstairs to interrogate Natasha.

“Wanda?” You mumbled blearily. “Gonna fall asleep.”

She smiled. “I’ll be right here.”

“Creepy,” you sighed, eyes drifting shut. “But cute.”

She rolled her eyes, running a hand over your forehead. “Brat.”

“Yours,” you added softly just before drifting off. And you had never meant anything more in your life.

Taglist: @boowhobabe @lizziescutiepie @lizzieslover129 @tvseries-writings @natascharomanoff21 @marvelwomen-simp @loverluzer @tomy5girls @annya05xtreme @unholyhelbig @lesbianexistence @upsidedowndanvers s @eatingouturmomrn @tobeawriter98

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo just did a Q&A for his newly announced Realm SMP!

Here are some key takeaways and highlights from it:

Tubbo emphasized that the "team" behind Realm is just himself and Tangofrags. It's a chill server so friends have a sandbox to tell stories, do lore, and have fun.

Tubbo: "I just wanna have fun with my friends, dude. I'm not trying to be the big 'bringing communities together guy'. I just wanna play with my friends. That's a lot of pressure." (57m 12s into stream)

These are the initial 25 players, but he plans to add more people in the future, and he already has 5 people in mind to add for the next event.

There is NO mod pack! Realm SMP is vanilla, it's just custom texture packs and plugins.

There are no set DND classes, but people can use their skill points to unlock certain things on skill trees and build their own classes. Realm SMP won't be 100% accurate to DND.

Tubbo hopes to have an event every week, but he reminds people to "manage their expectations" because he's only one guy – he can't do events like Purgatory because he doesn't have a massive team like Quackity had for that.

[ Continued ↓ ]

—

He has a 6 month timeframe in mind, but if the server fizzles out in a month, then it fizzles out in a month. Realm SMP will last as long as people play it!

There's no plans for an in-game translator because it's expensive and also Tubbo "doesn't want to step on Quackity's toes" :(

Lore is dependent on what the people on the server do, he likes more freestyle flowing RP.

There IS a life system! Players have 3 lives, but it's only "semi-hardcore" because other players can craft an item to bring people back at 1 life. When a player dies, their stats are set to 0 and they go into spectator-mode. When they're revived, they are brought back at 1 life with all their stats back.

The Nether IS enabled, but the End isn't enabled yet because Tubbo wants to make a cool custom boss fight.

There's no big team behind the server, it's just Tubbo and Tango helping him with some things he might not understand (however, he has a team he wants to use for the New Year Event he has in mind). He may look into getting some admins to help enforce rules.

Tubbo says he's happy to do anything himself, but if people really want to be an admin, it'd be voluntary like a Twitch mod kind of deal. (He already has a team of people he goes to for admin stuff, it wouldn't be random people being admins). However, he says if his merch does well, maybe he can get 1 or 2 people to help.

Tubbo says he's been overwhelmed by the amount of support it's received so far, but he's a bit nervous too.

He says the Realm SMP concept came to him in a dream.

Realm SMP will have proximity chat.

Events won’t be all PVP-based because he wants people to enjoy the events even if they aren’t a huge Minecraft player.

The only two banned items are mending books and elytra, which will be tied to future events (elytra can be won in one event).

An hour before the server launches on December 5, he'll be showing off more features.

Please note that many details will likely change / be clarified / updated by Tubbo at a later date!

Check out this post for the rest of his Q&A and more details.

[popfizzles]

I've finally finished my first batch of ten emotes with Fizzy's new design!!

Heart, Hype, Lurk, Pet, and Wave are completely free to use in chat when you follow, while the other five are set for tier 1 subscribers!

[mainstreamangel]

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT

P. Bueckers x Fem!Reader

Summary: You love your girl, your girl loves you.

Genre: Fluff

Warning(s): for the sake of this fic she's on the dw team but the uconn players if that makes sense?

WC: 1.6k

Reporters called your name. Microphones were shoved in your face, some asking about rumors and allegations, other asking about your career.

You kept your head down, holding onto Paige's hand as she walked in front of you, trying her best to push the paparazzi out of your guys' way.

"Paige, how does it feel to date a snake?"

"Paige, do you have any words for the media?"

A few reporters called your name.

"Where have you been the last year? You completely disappeared from the media."

"Rumors speculated that you were cheating on Bueckers. Is that true?"

"She didn't cheat and she won't ever cheat." Paige answered that one and made it crystal clear about her opinion.

You had disappeared off the media for a while after receiving bad backlash for your opinions on a certain male celebrity.

You weren't sorry for your opinions though. They were yours and you would go to the grave for that.

"Paige, what do you have to say about the rumours?"

Finally, Paige held the door open to your studio and security held the horde off.

"Thank you P."

"Anytime, ma."

My castle crumbled overnight. I brought a knife to a gunfight. They took the crown, but it's alright.

"Singer and songwriter [Name] continues to lie and damage her reputation. But with fizzled efforts, she continues to receive hate, his status seemingly untouched." You read.

"What a dick."

"I didn't even do anything wrong. They just hate when a woman threatens his legacy with just a few sparkles and a witty mind." You scoffed.

"It's going to be alright, you're going to come back from it."

"I hope so."

Paige grabbed your hand and rubbed it slightly.

"I love you."

You smiled and returned her love before reaching for your guitar.

"I'm almost done with my new album I just need one last song. Luckily I have my own personal muse that I can take inspiration off of." You smirked and Paige laughed.

All the liars are calling me one. Nobody's heard from me for months. I'm doing better than I ever was.

You tuned your guitar and started thinking of lyrics for the bridge.

"I have to say your song, 'So It Goes' is probably my favourite."

"Yeah just cause it's about you."

Paige smirked and you threw a pillow at her which she caught and hugged against her.

"You're amazing you know that? Your true fans will see right through that son of a bitch." Paige reassured.

You smiled and nodded. You knew this comeback was going to be intense.

You had felt anger and frustration throughout your time off, but Paige always made you come out of that state and she reminded you that revenge wasn't the answer. It would just prove the media right.

So you decided for your next album you were going to write a few songs addressing the rumors and the media but focus mostly on the love that you shared from your friends, family, and importantly, Paige. You wanted to address the gratitude you felt from those fans who stuck around, those who never listened to the hate.

'Cause my baby's fit like a daydream. Walkin' with her head down, I'm the one she's walkin' to.

Taking a guitar pick you started finding the right chords for the song and getting used to the movement.

So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to. My baby's fly like a jet stream. High above the whole scene, loves me like I'm brand new. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

You sang. Your voice filled Paige's ears as she listened to you.

You laughed as you sang because she stared so intensely at you with love and adoration, you knew that you guys were endgame. Unless stated otherwise by her, you knew she was it for you.

"Paige, what do you have to say about your girl's leak of her new album?"

"Paige, what can we expect from her when she comes back to the public eye?"

"Paige! Paige! Paige!"

Paige looked down and continued walking, her hair flew beside her, giving her some coverage from the cameras. She didn't want to answer any questions that weren't related to just her or her basketball career.

"Paige, we heard that your girl is going on tour when she drops the album. Do you think it'll be a flop tour?"

Paige finally got inside the gym and greeted her team.

"Hey P." Azzi greeted with a quick hug.

"Your girl alright? Got some nasty questions from the press on the way over here." Ice asked shooting baskets from different angles of the court.

"Yeah, sorry about that guys." Paige sighed.

"Nah, no worries, hope she's well. I know if I was her I wouldn't last a second."

"Yeah, she's definitely stronger than I am." KK laughed, mindlessly dribbling the ball.

"We don't believe those rumours though. She'd never do that."

"Thanks guys." Paige said, warming up.

All my flowers grew back as thorns. Windows boarded up after the storm.

You walked out onto the streets ignoring the press again, security doing their best to block the people off. You just wanted to go watch your girl's practice, but the public was making that very difficult.

Someone called your name. It was a mother with her young daughter.

"Can we have an autograph? Or a picture? My daughter really loves your stuff and it would make her so happy."

You smiled and bent a bit so that her mom could take the photo. After, you take the vinyl of your last album '1989', and sign your signature in black sharpie.

Adding a little heart you hand it back and say your farewells before heading into the court.

The sound of sneakers squeaking on the floor and the loud reverbs of basketballs entered your ears.

You put your sunglasses on top of your head again and sit off to the side.

She built a fire just to keep me warm. All the drama queens taking swings. All the jokers dressin' up as kings, they fade to nothin' when I look at her.

Sure being a public figure was hard. Both of you knew that. But everytime you looked into her eyes, you only saw her. It made you feel... regular. Like you lived a domestic life with Paige and didn't have to worry about judgmental creeps who always had something to say.

You got out your notebook and a pen trying to come up with your last song's bridge.

Your name was called and you looked up.

"Hey babe." You stood up and fell into her arms. Sure she was sweaty, but damn was she hot.

Her hair was slicked back into a ponytail and her jersey hung loosely on her figure.

"What're you doing here?"

"Needed inspiration so I came to stare at you." You half joked.

"Mrs. Bueckers!" KK joked.

The team always said Paige and you were like the parents of the team. Paige was the fun mother who always followed your lead and you were the mother who had run this game for a minute.

"Hey KK. Nice shots."

"Thanks."

Paige continued to talk for a bit then headed back to practice some more. You sat back down and continued to stare at the blank portion of your song.

I'm laughin' with my lover, makin' forts under covers. Trust her like no other, yeah, you know I did one thing right. Starry eyes sparkin' up my darkest night.

One reporter's voice stood out to you on your way here. "How does that make you feel?" It was perfect. You started to scribble something down and before you knew it you had come up with the perfect bridge. That would tie the song off and hopefully you and Paige.

"Can I see?" Paige had been so excited after you told her you finished your last song and inevitably the whole album.

"In a minute, I wanna run it by the producer before I confirm it."

"I can't wait, ma."

"I know P."

My baby's fit like a daydream. Walkin' with his head down, I'm the one he's walkin' to. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

"Sounds good. You did a good job." Your producer said.

"Thanks, worked hard on this one."

"I can tell, now go celebrate, we'll release your album at midnight."

You stared at the screen. The promotion banner would be released everywhere at midnight. Then your album shortly after.

HERE LIES [NAME]'S REPUTATION.

My baby's fly like a jet stream. High above the whole scene, loves me like I'm brand new. So call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

"Can I hear it now?" Paige begged.

You nodded and got your guitar out.

I want to wear her initial, on a chain 'round my neck, chain 'round my neck. Not because she owns me.

Paige's initial necklace hung around your neck. It had been an anniversary gift, a token of her love.

But 'cause he really knows me. Which is more than they can say, I, I recall late November, holdin' my breath, slowly I said:

"You don't need to save me, but would you run away with me?"

You sang your heart out, feeling the music and the emotion you conjured from simple lyrics and a simple lover. You closed the song with the final verse and Paige tackled you into a hug.

"This album is going to be so great, ma." You smiled and hugged her back.

Call it what you want, yeah, call it what you want to.

[ultravioletrayz]

KINKTOBER

╰┈➤ DAY THIRTEEN: EDGING (more like squirt training) w/ SHIU KONG

"That's it, princess." Shiu whispers, lips brushing against your ear as he leans himself further against your side, using his knee to keep your thighs spread.

You're no longer able to keep track of how long you've been at it; Shiu laying on his side and nibbling at your neck with two long, relentless digits burrowed deep in your cunt, pumping against your sweet spot rapidly. Yet you haven't cum once. Shiu won't allow it. It's all too familiar— the way your legs shake, your moans become breathier, your eyes squeeze shut.

No, he's craving the sight of you completely flustered, to the point where you entirely lose yourself to the feeling of his digits churning your gooey core, and let it all out. Every last drop. Shiu wants to see you in that raw, overwhelming state, and be there to lap up the evidence.

"Shiu..." You whimper softly as his fingers curl deeper inside you, tracing the sensitive spots that make your insides clench and quiver with need. Each stroke of his fingers against that silky spot sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, leaving you breathless and panting, your entire being aching to cum. Your legs tremble uncontrollably as Shiu leans in closer, his lips caressing your hairline in gentle teasing. You can feel yourself getting close, so very close, but he doesn't let up.

"Relax." Shiu murmurs, his free hand resting on the pillow behind your head as he cages you in, totally in control of your mind-numbing pleasure. His mind is so full of faith, faith that your cute little body will come through and leave his forearm soaked in your sweet juices. He wants you to squirt so hard that the metal of his fancy watch tarnishes within your essence.

Unable to contain yourself any longer, your walls start to pulse around Shiu's fingers as you approach the edge of orgasm once again. Just like before, your legs shake, your moans become breathier, your eyes squeeze shut. There's nothing new. Nothing that tells Shiu you're about to fucking explode all over him.

And with that, Shiu drags his fingers out of you with a slick squelch, leaving you crying out and bucking your hips in need and frustration, your orgasm fizzling out yet again. You can't even muster any words, choked sobs dying in your throat as you look up at Shiu through teary lashes.

"C'mon, don't give me those pretty eyes. I told you to relax, and you didn't listen, silly girl." Shiu chuckles, giving your puffy pussy a few gentle strokes before dipping his fingers back inside, your gummy walls immediately sucking them in with an almost pathetic eagerness. Shiu starts moving his fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, circling your clit with his thumb in perfect sync. You feel yourself starting to tremble as you hover on the edge of oblivion, every nerve ending screaming for release. You know he won't let you go over without giving him what he wants though— you can feel it building up inside you already.

Your entire body is tingling, like pins and needles mixed with an electrifying rush of pleasure as the muscles in your abdomen spasm and your pussy flutters. Shiu almost moans and cums in his boxers at the sight of your parted, panting lips and knitted brows. You look gorgeous, almost as gorgeous as the sight of your pretty little cunt spurting glistening streams of your cum all over Shiu's sheets, drowning his hand in the liquid.

Shiu slowly pulls his fingers out of you, marvelling at how wet his hand is, instantly sucking his digits into his mouth with a groan at your taste. Your head lulls to the side against his bare chest, chest heaving as you glance up at his satisfied grin.

"Knew you had it in ya. Think you can give me another?"

[shikai-the-storyteller]

A few notes about Realm SMP:

Tubbo hopes to have an event every week and ideally thinks this would be a 6 month server

There's a "level up" system but it will be tailored so people won't be left behind if they can't log in much

Armor and Combat is DND inspired, but it's not 100% accurate to DND

Tubbo looked at the 5 main MCYT communities he's been in / watched and that's the "pool" he chose people from

There's no plans for an in-game translator because it's expensive and also Tubbo "doesn't want to step on Quackity's toes" :(

Tubbo says he doesn't have a lot of Spanish-speaking streamers on his Discord friend list so there was a limit to how many people he could message, but he wants to add more people (he has 5 planned already)

Lore is dependent on what the people on the server do, he likes more freestyle flowing RP

There's no big team behind the server, it's just Tubbo and Tango helping him with some things he might not understand (however, he has a team he wants to use for the New Year Event he has in mind). He may look into getting some admins to help enforce rules

He made it so players can play Realm SMP with default Minecraft, he doesn't want to overwhelm people with too many mod downloads.

There is NO mod pack! Realm SMP is vanilla, it's just custom texture packs and plugins.

Tubbo says he's been overwhelmed by the amount of support it's received so far, but he's a bit nervous too

He says he doesn't have Missa added on Discord but he tried to contact him (?)

No set classes, but people can specify their skill points to unlock certain things on skill trees and build their own classes

There IS a life system (😰) but it's a bit different. There's 3 lives — if you die 3 times you're out, but it's only semi-hardcore because when you die, your stats are set to 0 and you're in spectator-mode, but players can craft an item to bring you back at 1 life and you get all your stats back.

There's no "downing" system, if you die you did, you can't be picked back up like on QSMP

No "keep inventory" on death

There's no limit to the amount of times you can be resurrected (thank god) Tubbo says it would kinda suck otherwise because then people would just get banned off the server at some point after dying x amount of times

The Nether IS enabled, the End isn't enabled yet because Tubbo wants to make a cool custom boss fight.

There will be proximity chat

Etoiles (in chat) asked about armor and Tubbo tells him he'a really glad Etoiles agreed to join, even though he wasn't planning on doing much Minecraft stuff anymore

Streamers can play off-stream

Tubbo says he has a "Badboyhalo Contingency Force" (it's Tubbo and Tango)

Tubbo says the Realm SMP concept came to him in a dream

Mob strength will scale as players "level up"

Deaths to a bug or glitch don't count, but all othet deaths will

Events won't be all PVP-based because he wants people to enjoy the events even if they aren't a huge Minecraft player

Two banned items: mending books and elytra, which will be tied to future events

Tubbo says he's happy to do anything himself, but if anyone really wants to be an admin, it'd be voluntary like a Twitch mod kind of deal since it's just him and Tango. (He already has a team of people he goes to for admin stuff, it wouldn't be random people being admins)

In the hour before the server launches, he'll be showing off server features

He reminded people in the player Discord it's just for fun, the life system isn't meant to be competitive and he doesn't want sweats to be dicks about it since not every player is a big Minecraft player

He has a 6 month timeframe in mind but it'll last as long as people want to play, if it fizzles out in a month then it fizzles out in a month, it lasts as long as people play it.

There will be NPCs "When he gets them sorted" but he's a one-man army doing everything

He reminds people to "manage their expectations" because he's only one guy – he can't do events like Purgatory like Quackity because he doesn't have a massive team like he did.

He says if his merch stuff goes well then maybe he can get 1 or 2 people to help with the Realm project

Tubbo is still answering Q&A stuff on stream right now, but these are the biggest things he's said so far!

[mashtatosworld]

4 seasons

summary: the 'back to you' series masterlist

the four albums of y/n :

new muse debuted in 2015, shortly after y/n appeared on the music scene with a sudden drop of her first single on GDragon's social media. The album went on to top the charts and the pair performed their hit song together as romance rumours spiralled.

In 2018, y/n released a heartbreak album, burning heart, which catapulted her into music history even as her artistic partner, GDragon, took a step away from the spotlight. y/n found her own success and made a name for herself. She performed the album for the next year before taking a hiatus to focus on other projects.

After launching a successful jewellery collection with Cartier, rumours began to swirl that y/n was dating her fellow brand ambassador. She wouldn't confirm these allegations until 2022.

However, things seemed to fizzle out between them. Fans point their fingers to ex-partner, GDragon, and his release of 'Still Life' just months after the public statement. We would never get to know the truth as both stars went silent until 2024.

y/n's next album, love struck, was her comeback to the music scene after six years of silence. However, she did not perform any songs from the album that year, except one stage appearance with new husband, GDragon. The couple's swift reconciliation shocked fans but they were delighted to see the couple were expecting their first child together.

golden is the last of y/n's four current albums. It details her life now, of which fans label as her 'golden era'. The songs have a more positive vibe as they depict y/n as both a mother and wife. Reports flood in that not only has GDragon starred on the track, but their young daughter has a sweet feature hidden amongst the music.

Stream the songs now and tell us which one is your favourite!

THE MASTERLIST:

drama (back to you series timeline)

new muse

the pursuit

burning heart

you're losing me everything i wanted … with you

love struck

back to you to my lover... little star

golden

calm in the chaos hopelessly devoted the greatest gift number 1 i'll be there 7 years heiress of my heart love and let go insta famous tiny dancer lust for life in your arms i want it, i got it angel of my dream the distraction 08/08 game, set, match a good day to be loved power the end of the beginning

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford

[etheraltides]

Drunk Confessions

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Best friend!Reader

Summarize: Rafe Cameron drunkenly texts his best friend

Warning(s): mention of alcohol use.

A/N: a bit tempted to write a part two… Feedback makes a writer’s day! <3

The party was a whirlwind of music, sweat, and dizzying lights. Rafe was deep in the chaos, the sharp tang of alcohol mixing with the hazy, sweet scent of smoke. His laughter was a little too loud, his movements a touch clumsier than usual as he draped an arm over Kelce, swaying with the beat. But even through the fog in his mind, he couldn’t shake one persistent thought – you. His best friend who decided to pull an all night studying session instead of having some fun.

As the night wore on, Rafe found himself leaning against the wall, the pulse of the beat reverberating through his chest. The room spun slightly, and he ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to steady himself. His eyes flicked down to his phone, thumb idly swiping through notifications until he saw it – your latest Instagram story. You were at your desk, hair loosely pulled back, wearing a soft, oversized sweater that fell gracefully off one shoulder. The late sunlight streamed through the window behind you, casting a warm glow that lit up your features. There was something about the way you looked – focused, yet serene – that made Rafe's breath hitch in his chest.

He stared at the photo, the noise of the party dulling around him. A pang of longing cut through the haze of alcohol, sharp and insistent. Without thinking, he was typing out a message.

“Im drunk but listen”

He smirked at himself, the boldness of his actions thrilling and terrifying him at once. The alcohol buzz made it easier to push past the doubts that would usually hold him back.

“Im gonna wife you up one day”

He laughed under his breath, amused and slightly shocked at his own nerve.

“Thats all”

A deep breath. He could almost see your expression – the way your brows would draw together in that endearing way, your lips parting as you read his words. He felt a mix of exhilaration and vulnerability wash over him.

“Good night, princess”

Before he could dwell on it, Rafe pushed himself off the wall and made his way through the crowd, bumping shoulders with partygoers as he moved. Near the bar, a scuffle broke out between two guys over something trivial – a spilled drink, maybe. Shouts erupted, and Rafe’s eyes narrowed as he watched the chaos unfold.

The tension fizzled out as quickly as it had sparked, and Rafe’s adrenaline was now pumping for a different reason. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before heading over to join a group playing pool in the corner. The texts faded into the background, left to simmer until morning.

You sat at your desk, highlighter in hand, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and notes. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of your desk lamp and the occasional rustle of paper as you turned a page. You had been studying for hours, your eyes strained and mind teetering between exhaustion and determination.

When your phone buzzed, you barely glanced at it at first, assuming it was another notification from one of the countless study apps telling you to take a break. But the name that lit up the screen made your heart stutter.

‘Chaos king 🏄🏼‍♂️’

Your brows knitted as you set the highlighter down and picked up your phone, worry already growing in your chest. The messages appeared one by one, their simplicity almost mocking in contrast to the chaos they unleashed inside you.

“Im drunk but listen”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Im gonna wife you up one day”

Your eyes widened, a flutter in your chest making it hard to breathe. You read the next messages.

“Thats all”

“Good night, princess”

You stared at the screen, mind racing. It was unlike Rafe to say something so bold, so candid. The rational part of your brain whispered that he was drunk, that he probably had sent it to the wrong contact. But a deeper part of you, the one that had held onto lingering glances and shared smiles, hoped it meant something more.

The coffee shop was buzzing with the morning rush, the scent of espresso and pastries mingling with the chatter of early risers. Your eyes found him instantly – Rafe Cameron, always drawing attention even in his rare moments of quiet. He sat at a corner table, his broad shoulders hunched as he nursed a cup of coffee, eyes fixed on a point far outside the window. Even from across the room, you could see the tension coiled in his posture, the restless tap of his fingers against the ceramic mug.

You weaved through the tables, slowing as you neared him. His hair was still tousled from the night before, an unruly mess that paired almost too well with the dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t notice you, too wrapped up in whatever storm was brewing behind those baby blue eyes.

Perfect.

You slipped behind him and covered his eyes, leaning close enough that he’d know it was you without needing to guess. “Morning, trouble.” you whispered, the playful lilt in your voice daring him to react.

For a split second, his shoulders tensed, the instinctive edge of caution rippling through him. But then he recognized the scent of your shampoo, the soft laugh that always signaled your arrival, and he relaxed, a grin breaking free. “Sneaking up on me again, huh?” he drawled, that mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

You let out a scoff, playfully rolling your eyes as you slipped into the seat across from him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cameron. I’m just here for the free coffee.”

He smirked, fingers drumming lazily on the side of his cup as he leaned back. “Sure you are. I was just about to put your name on the ‘Most Wanted’ list for skipping out last night.”

“Right, because the party wasn’t complete without me dragging you away from your own chaos” you shot back, eyebrows raised.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a touch of that signature arrogance. “Admit it, it’s the highlight of your night,” he teased, voice dipping into a rough chuckle that made it hard to tell if he was joking or testing the waters.

You bit back a grin. “Please, Rafe. You wish.”

“I have to admit… I’m to see you upright at his ungodly hour for someone who’s supposed to be hungover.” you said, folding your arms on the table and leaning forward with a grin. “Heard last night was wild, even by your standards.”

He smirked, but there was a guarded edge to it, the kind that never quite left him. “Yeah, well, you know how it is. A couple of idiots thought they’d turn the house into their personal boxing ring. Had to step in before things got out of hand.”

“Rafe Cameron playing the hero?” You arched a brow, letting the disbelief seep into your tone. “Should I be worried about you?”

You reached for his forehead, leaning across to table to dramatically feel the temperature in his forehead before he slapped your hand away.

He scoffed, leaning back and stretching his legs out under the table, boots brushing yours. “Don’t get used to it.” he said, eyes glinting with a familiar mix of challenge and amusement. But then his gaze softened, just for a moment. “Still, you should’ve been there. Nights like that… they’re not the same without you.”

The words hung between you, heavy despite their casual delivery. You felt your heartbeat quicken as you remembered the messages he sent you but masked it with a smirk. “Well, someone has to keep their GPA intact, or we’re both screwed. And let’s be honest, being your wingwoman every weekend isn’t exactly a scholarship-winning gig.”

For a moment, Rafe’s smirk faltered, his eyes searching yours for something unspoken. But then the mask was back, a lazy grin stretching across his face. “Fair. But don’t think that gets you out of next time. You’re coming, even if I have to carry you over my shoulder.”

You laughed, a sound that dissolved the tension in an instant. “Deal, Cameron. But I swear, I’m not babysitting you if you pick another fight by the bar.”

“No promises.” he said, lifting his coffee cup as if in a toast. The gleam in his eye told you he’d make good on that threat, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Deal, Cameron. But try not to make me play referee, alright?”

“No promises.” he said, the grin morphing into a full-blown smirk as he took another sip of his coffee.

The drive back to your house was filled with the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of the wind slipping through the cracked window. You fiddled with the radio until you found a station that played your favorite songs, the ones you always sang along to with abandon. A smile crept across your face as the first notes of a familiar tune began, and you launched into singing, your voice filling the small space with unapologetic energy.

Rafe glanced over, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite himself. “God, not this one,” he groaned, feigning annoyance. But the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

“Oh, come on, Cameron!” you teased, rolling your eyes and turning the volume up. “You secretly love this song. Just admit it.”

He shook his head, trying to suppress the laugh that threatened to escape. The truth was, he didn’t care what song it was, as long as you were there next to him, carefree and radiant. The way your fingers drummed against your leg, the way you threw your head back with that infectious laugh – it made something in his chest tighten, a feeling he didn’t dare name.

“Maybe if you sang on key, I’d consider it.” he shot back, but his voice was warm, laced with that teasing lilt only reserved for you.

“Ouch. Rude” you retorted, giving him a playful shove on the arm before returning to your one-person concert. He glanced at you again, the streetlights casting brief flashes of gold over your face. His heart gave a familiar flutter, one he stubbornly ignored, convincing himself for the hundredth time that it didn’t mean anything. It was just you. Just his best friend.

As the song faded, so did the moment of playful banter, leaving a comfortable silence in its wake. Rafe’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel as he tried to steady the thrum of nerves in his chest. You were close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from you, close enough that every stolen glance made his pulse race in a way that confused and frustrated him.

When he finally pulled up to your house, the sun was setting behind the trees, casting long shadows over the quiet street. Rafe killed the engine and turned to you, an easy smile ready on his lips, but before he could speak, you beat him to it.

“By the way, you better think of a better proposal than that, Cameron.” You teased, biting your bottom lip as you felt the heat travel to your cheeks. The streetlight flickered, catching the way your eyes glimmered with mischief.

Rafe froze for a heartbeat, the words sinking in like stones. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, caught off guard by the sudden rush of hope and panic colliding in his chest. A slow, uncertain smile tugged at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find something to say that wouldn’t betray him. “You read it, huh?” he managed, the usual confidence faltering.

The air felt charged, the tension humming between you both, loud and unmistakable. He watched you carefully, trying to read your expression, to see if this was a game or something more. But before he could figure it out, you laughed, the sound breaking the moment and scattering it into the night like leaves in the wind.

“Yeah, don’t get too cocky, Cameron.” You pushed open the door, stepping out and turning back to flash him a grin. “Take care, alright? Don’t forget that green juice I’ve made you. It’s supposed to help with hangovers and stuff, just ask Rose.”

He watched as you walked up to your front door, a strange, hollow ache settling in his chest. He wanted to say something, anything to keep you from disappearing behind that door without knowing how his pulse still raced from the way you said his name. But you turned the key and slipped inside, leaving him alone in the glow of the streetlight.

Rafe exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face as he leaned back in his seat. The smile you left him with lingered, and he tried convincing himself, yet again, that it meant nothing. Just his best friend, he reminded himself. Just his best friend.

But as he drove away, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was lying to himself.

[bitterrfruit]

Houndtooth [5]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 5.1k words cw: torture. waterboarding. sexual harrassment. 18+ mdni

you don't have answers.

You can see it in his eyes, in the shadowed window of his mask, that disdain.  

They always carry it, don’t they? That pure, vitriolic contempt for the power you hold over them, the sway you have on their mind and body just by existing in your cursed vessel. Just by having your cunt, so he calls it, that he both scorns and hungers for.  

It must be tiring, you think, having to walk that tightrope. Having to hate and want you in the same breath.  

But you take quiet pride in your small victory. His silence, his glower, are proof enough that you have left him with nothing to say. He simply drums the armrest of the steel chair in impatient contemplation, scrutinising you with his glare.  

“Sold my body, you reckon?” He probes, coarse and bitter.  

Your agitated teeth gnaw at the inside of your lip, you stifle your instinctive urge to bite. Careful. It’s satisfying to get your digs in, to prod and to irritate. But you don’t know how short his fuse is.  

So you nod, cautiously, shooting a glance at the Union Jack patched on the shoulder of his jacket. “To the Crown,” you muse softly.   

A shift in his skull-painted mask, a tug in its knitted cheek. Is he smiling?  

“You think I do this for money?”  

Your brows tighten. “What, then, for glory?” 

He leans forward in his seat, widening his legs, propped up by his elbows – his predacious stare lingers, impaling you, it forces you to swallow a restless gulp.  

“For fun.” He mutters, through his teeth.  

An uneasy scoff jumps from your throat. “I don’t believe that.”  

“No?” 

“You don’t seem like you’re having much fun.” You huff, tone gentle, still careful not to set him alight. 

He tilts his head with a flick, conceding. “Not yet.”  

With that, too close to a threat, you fall silent. Adjust in your seat out of disquieted reflex.  

“That must be where our similarities end, Mia,” he continues, sneering. “I can’t imagine you sell yourself to that hideous cunt for fun, eh?”  

Keep your lips sealed. He wants a reaction from you and you refuse to entertain him. 

“So that leaves the money, doesn’t it. And you know where his money comes from, don’t you?” 

You swallow.  

“Don’t you?” He barks – his sudden aggression makes you flinch like a frightened cat. Your eyes glue to him, refusing to blink, they sting with their dryness. Your heart flutters, barely pushing your cold blood through constricting veins.  

“I did what I had to.” You spit, though your attempt at animosity fizzles quickly, dampened by the whimpering terror in your throat. He must see the stream of tears that leak from your tired eyes. How could you ever dream of feigning strength? 

“Had to, eh? You had to spread your legs for a warlord? To what – buy a nice car? Live in a fuckin’ castle?” 

“To survive.”  

“Survive?” He scoffs, almost amused, “fuck, you poor thing. It must have been hard to endure the millions in pocket change. Survived by the skin of your teeth in that fuckin’ mansion of yours, eh?”  

His fury is hot, scornful, threatens to reduce you to quivering prey despite your desperation to maintain your defiance.  

“Do you sleep well knowing your fuckin’ wage is paid for by genocide, Mia? Do you sleep like a baby with that blood on your hands?”  

Your lips curl into a scowl, you taste the salt of the tears that dribble into the corner of your mouth. You croak out; “Do you?” 

The hunter bites his tongue. He squints at you sharply.  

“I do,” he murmurs, after a bitter pause, “because I don’t work for fuckin’ terrorists.”  

Your eyes jump once again to his Union Jack, proud and bold on his arm. “Yeah, you do.” 

He surprises you, when a huff of laughter escapes him, a quick jolt of his chest as he chortles at you. Leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms nonchalantly over his chest, for a moment he says nothing, only drawing in an ireful sigh.  

“You’re a smart-arse, aren’t you,” he remarks stiffly. “That’s not going to do you any favours, here.”  

You suck down a slow and trembling breath, deep into your chest, you hold it there like you’re about to plunge into deadly waters. “Then what will?”  

He chuckles under his breath. “You want me to help you?”  

You know your hunter has no interest in charity. Takes no pity on you. By the incredulousness in his tone, it’s clear he is amused that you even had the gall to ask. 

No, your pleas will not work on him. Your attempts to beguile with puppy eyes and wet lips will fail you. Your hunter is observant enough to see through any attempt to obfuscate your intentions. Best you remain translucent. 

“I – I want to know what I have to do to get out of this alive,” you admit, nearly a whisper, there’s a nervous squeak in your voice that you do your best to conceal. “You might be willing to die for your employer, but I’m not.”  

He laughs, again, and his apparent amusement only serves to enrage you. You swallow it, though, that bile of anger. Keep your cool. 

“Greedy and disloyal,” he hisses, taunting you.  

You lick your teeth. “I don’t think being loyal to Victor will help me anymore.”  

A lie when you uttered it, but as you sit with the statement it begins to ring true. Your husband is in no position to help you. And even if he could, would he? Might he suspect you of betraying him already? Leave you to be eaten alive by the soldiers who stole you from him? 

“Maybe not,” he shrugs, and you blink to look at him. “But it does make me question the value of any of your information.”  

“Why,” you squeak.  

“If you’re willing to do anything, who’s to say you’ll tell the truth, eh?” 

Your lips stiffen. “I’m not a liar.” 

“No?” He jeers, “You don’t strike me as an honest woman, Mia.” 

“You don’t–”  

“In fact, Mia, I think you’re a conniving slut.” 

Your brow crumples into a pointed scowl, letting his caustic insult fester in the heavy air for a beat.  

“You don’t know anything about me.” 

“No?” He goads, “Enlighten me.” 

What an intriguing little thing you are.  

Ghost watches you, meticulously – every movement of your legs, every flutter of your eyelids, every twitch of your lips. To read you, he tells himself. To better understand you. To learn how best to play you, how to get in your head.  

That’s his objective, now, for the brief time he has you alone. Once he’s in, once he can splay you open like a filthy book – he can take you apart, page by page, letter by letter. That’s when you’ll be useful to him. When you’re spread thin, desperate to please, fearful of his discipline. 

Though you seem determined to prevent him from finding any satisfaction in doing so. As if you have opened your book willingly, presenting your schemes to him in plain English. 

As you say, you want to survive.  

And you have made it clear, now, what you’ll do to ensure that. You’ll spread your legs for him. You’ll backstab your husband. You’ll blow your whistle. Or, you’ll lie.  

He’ll find out which soon enough. Not long until that Shadow Company wanker shows up. Perhaps you’ll resort to all four. 

For now, he toys with you. And he awaits your answer.  

Who do you think you are?  

You must know how much of a revolting little monster you are. What could you possibly say to prove him wrong? 

You hold your thighs together tightly and coil your white-knuckled fingers between themselves, tensed enough that they might snap. You keep your pretty eyes on him. 

Your lips part only slightly, just enough to inhale a minuscule gulp of air before you finally speak.  

“Where are you from?” You query, gently, apprehensively, you blink at him as you sniff.  

He frowns, bemused, his immediate reaction concealed from you by his balaclava. Leaves him flummoxed for heartbeat – not a witty retort, or some vitriolic insult – what, some attempt at conversation?  

No, he determines. You, little rabbit, must be playing your own game.  

He’ll play along. Licks his teeth in capitulation.  

“Manchester.” He answers, eventually, keeping his tone dull and irate. Doesn’t want you to detect how suddenly you’ve piqued his interest. 

He watches you chew your lip, careful gaze flitting about him, you assess him. Finds himself immediately regretting his decision to tell you his hometown, and questioning why he answered you at all. He can’t have you feeling empowered enough to question him, can he?  

“Nottingham.” You say.  

His breath hitches in his throat. 

Shit.  

He had undoubtedly noticed a faint accent in your suspiciously natural tongue, but he chose not to acknowledge it.  He didn’t want to. 

But you’re not his neighbour, he reminds himself. You’re not a girl-next-door.  

If you are an Englishwoman, as you say, then you’re even more of a treacherous creature than he had first assumed. Dismissive of the spates of blood spilt from your own countrymen at the hands of your Soviet husband and his ilk.  

Surely you’re not attempting to fraternise with him. You cunning little whore. He’s not that stupid. He can so easily detect your attempts to manipulate him. First with your body, then your eyes, now your tongue. You’re not subtle, not even slightly.  

Yet as he glares at you, wordless, regardless of how adept he is at identifying your influence – he finds that he is not immune to it.  

Not when you look at him like that, fluttering eyelashes over your glittering stare; so frightened of him, and yet so willing to challenge him.  

Not when he catches glimpses at the shadows that follow you, at their reflections in your fretful eyes, their silhouettes so perplexingly familiar. 

One question from you, one answer, and his long anticipated and carefully planned assault begins to waver. Proven now, especially, by the fact he is riddled with questions he feels compelled to ask you. A pathetic interest in determining who you are. What you are.  

But he gleans one thing from you, from your artful balance of fearfulness and bravery, of submission and retaliation.  

You’ve played this game before. 

Before he has the opportunity to respond, an impatient clatter echoes out from the door behind him. His gaze lingers on you as he listens to it open, the shrieking of old steel hinges resonating in the empty room. You jump at the noise. Your façade of confidence is quick to slough off from you. 

“Hey hey,” greets the visitor, intonation so casual he utters it as though they had crossed paths on a walk in the park.  

Commander Graves.  

Later than he had been expected to join you. He watches your eyes dart from him to the American, who eventually closes the door. Too arrogant to lock it.  

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” Ghost grumbles.  

Your pupils widen at his arrival, glistening black voids that anxiously track his every movement. You shrink in your seat. He senses the swift acceleration of your delicate heartbeat.  

Poor thing.  

Ghost knows what Graves is here for. By the look on your face, you do too.  

With not one, but two fifteen-litre water jugs in tow, the kind intended for drink coolers, he dumps them onto the vinyl floor beside the table. Seems like he’s being purposefully loud with them, threatening water sloshing around noisily in their plastic chambers as he drops them.  

Ghost watches as he saunters in your direction with an affected swagger, thumbs tucked into his beltloops. His lips pucker to sing out a low whistle. A real show pony, the yank.  

“Jee-zus,” He jeers, donning a snide grin. “Look at you.”  

You flinch like a spooked animal, resorting to your silent nature now that you are outnumbered, the prey you are. Your wide glare follows him, glued to him as he comes to a stop in front of you.  

With a gloved hand, he grabs hold of your face by your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker as he moves your head about to inspect your features.  

“No fuckin’ wonder you went solo to grab this one,” he chortles, swivelling on his heel to present your face to Ghost like a prize catch. “I get it, man.” 

Ghost bounces his knee. Impatient. Irritated. He rolls his eyes. 

He feels the need to busy himself as Graves continues his lecherous inspection of you, irked by the shamelessness of his needlessly grabby attention. So he pushes himself to stand, huffing in frustration. 

And you, poor girl, you catch his eye. You say nothing but your stare speaks for you. Have you decided he’s the lesser of two evils, hm? 

He keeps your gaze, down his nose, as he lumbers towards the corner of the room. He turns his back to you. You won’t find any help in him.  

Takes of his snow jacket. Slips off his gloves. Prepares. Listens.  

“Look at me,” Graves growls at you, through an audible sneer. “Not him, me.”  

You let out a quiet yelp. He must have hurt you. Ghost doesn’t turn to check.  

“Mhm,” he drones. “Open your mouth.”  

“Open it.” 

“‘Atta girl.”  

“Fuck... what a goddamn waste.”  

“Alright. Gimme a hand, buddy, before I get ahead of myself.”  

Ghost rolls his head on his shoulders, stretching out his neck to the point of hearing his tendons crack with the strain. For something he had been itching for, fervently anticipating for the days leading up to your capture – he is confronted with an eagerness to get it over and done with.  

And he’s unsettled by a distaste, an acrid bitterness that swells in his mouth at the brazen piggishness of that American mercenary.  

Still, duty calls.  

So he returns to you, tossing the keys to your cuffs to Graves when he gestures for them with his open hand. Observes with crossed arms as he kneels beside you, deftly unlocking the cuffs with the tiny keys and prying open the steel looped around your ankle.  

Yet you surprise him, again – the second both of your feet are free, you wind back your knee, hurling the heel of your foot down into the side of Graves’s head with as much force as your shaky legs can muster. Lands square in his temple with a dull thud, and a shriek of your chair jolting back on the linoleum floor. 

He stumbles back with a furious grunt, cupping the impact. Whimpers like a wounded dog. “Sonofabitch.” 

Ghost only observes; he should intervene, but he finds himself crudely entertained. He can see in your wide eyes, that burgeoning fight. Can scent the adrenaline beating though your blooming arteries, as you prepare to land another kick – leaning back in your seat, wrists still bound, you fling your legs recklessly in Graves’s direction for the brief moment he takes to recover from your first blow.  

He’s almost envious.  

You didn’t put up this much of a fight when he hunted you down. Really, you gave him no fight at all. Handed yourself to him wrapped in a bow. He had no chance to relish in your attempts to combat him, to let you throw your blows, to watch your tenacity fizzle out once he inevitably overpowered you.  

So he watches. Knowing the cocky American left the door to the cell unlocked, he steps casually towards it. Pre-emptively blocking your exit, anticipating that you might slip past the mercenary after you land your second kick.  

And you do, right in the collarbone. Far too easily. Aren’t you a slippery little thing?  

Graves roars as you evade him; “Motherfucker!”  

You bolt towards the door, ducking down to evade Graves’s clumsy attempt to apprehend you amidst his frustrated cursing. And as tempted as Ghost is to let you flee, if only for the thrill of hunting you again – he intercepts you with his swinging arm, hooking you by the waist and lifting you off the floor, you nearly break in half over his forearm with your momentum.  

A heart wrenching shriek erupts from your chest as he wrestles to restrain you; you writhe around franticly in his grip, bucking and kicking in every desperate effort to break free from his capture. But you fail, of course, sweet thing – and as he had hoped and predicted your resilience is quick to falter. 

He reels you into his chest, pinning your back to him with both heaving arms as your wriggling subsides. Keeps your feet off the floor, your legs dangle as you swing your heels backwards to get a few final kicks in, landing futilely in his padded shins.    

“That was stupid,” he growls. 

He feels you deflate in his arms, falling limp, and the jolt of your ribcage as you let out a pained sob. With his mouth by your ear, knitted mask pressing into your unkempt hair, he snarls, under his breath;  

“You want to survive, yeah?” 

Your breathing is panicked, erratic, your lungs expand shakily under his control. He knows you have submitted. That you have resigned to your ruin. But in some primal greed, a refusal to release his freshly caught quarry, he cannot yet set you down again.  

“Don’t you?”  

You nod, sheepishly, he feels the movement of your head against his collarbone.  

He huffs, exasperated, angry. “Then fuckin’ behave.”  

And you nod, again. Good girl. You wriggle, just slightly, a polite request to be let go. But – you're so soft, so pliant, so warm. There’s something addicting in the aroma of your perfume and sweat, roses and musk, as he constrains you so close to him; a concoction of the sweetly feminine and the raw and animal, it fills him with a hunger that threatens to overpower his better judgement. 

But he sets you down – forces himself to, as Graves impatiently marches towards you, after having finally locked the cell door.  

And while Ghost still has a grip on your upper arm, ensuring your quiescence – Graves lunges with a closed fist, clubbing you in the cheek with a wholly unwarranted ferocity; a sucker punch, the kind of assault Ghost holds an enormous contempt for. A fucking coward’s move.  

You crumble immediately after the strike, knees buckling as you keel over; knocked out so cold not even a squeak escapes you on impact. But he keeps you upright with his grasp of your arm, heaving you upwards until your strength returns to your legs.  

Disapproval leaps from Ghost’s throat before he has the opportunity to second guess himself. “Fuck’s sake, Graves.”  

“Evil little bitch,” Graves growls, shrugging dismissively, shaking out his fist as if he had hurt his soft knuckles.  

Ghost glares at him with pungent scorn, but swallows his urge to lash out any further than his already humiliating impulse. Why would he feel the inclination to safeguard you at all?  

While you’re still dazed, the soles of your feet struggling to find any grip on the floor, Graves reaches for the dropped cuffs. They chime shrilly as they shake in his grip, he moves to grab your ankles while you have no capacity to deter him. He cuffs them together, needlessly tight, your skin turns white under the wrenching pressure of the steel incising into your flesh.   

With another petulant growl of fury, Graves dabs the growing welt on his temple; the one you gave him, you wild little thing. “Got one hell of a kick, I’ll give ‘er that,” he grumbles. “Just gonna make this part more fun, though, eh?” 

Your dwindling fire beaten out of you, you put up no fight as Graves heaves you up by your legs, and the two men haul you to the steel table. You’re conscious, at least, a winded yelp shooting out from your lungs as they drop you onto the cold surface.  

“Alright, missy,” Graves barks, cadence once again returning to its characteristic, painfully cloying nonchalance. “Time to start talkin’.”  

You attempt to curl up on the table, blinking slowly and groaning in either pain or confusion – likely both, poor creature. Graves moves to one of the other nondescript surfaces in the hollow room, returning with a towel, ragged and cut raw on the edges – a tired scrap, that had been used for this purpose, many times over. Probably had the screams of its last victims still trapped in its frayed fibres.  

“Here ya go,” he chimes, leaning over the head of the table, clutching you by the bare shoulder and pushing you to lie flat. He lays the towel over your face, covered entirely, pulled into the contours of your nose and mouth as you breathe deeply underneath it. “Covers up that bruise nicely, huh?” 

Ghost merely stands at your feet, fixated while Graves busies himself in preparation for your suffering. Listens to your quiet, delirious whimpering as you come to more lucid consciousness.  

“You can ask the questions, Riley,” the mercenary continues, as he heaves one of the gargantuan water bottles from the floor by the table. “You know what I’m better at.” 

Right. The questions.  

In truth, the veneer of this endeavour acting as an interrogation is thin and unadorned. They don’t anticipate you will have answers to many, if any, of the questions they might have for you. No, your husband is the source of truth. You, a witness, at most.  

What you’re here for, is just this. To be hurt. To be frightened. To emerge shaken and scarred, for the sole purpose of leverage. A cat’s-paw to wring further information from your husband, should he remain stiff-lipped.  

A war crime, of course. But not his first. Nor his last. A quotidian necessity in his line of work – operating in the realm of shadows, his transgressions are welcomed by the dark. We get dirty, as the Captain reminds him, and the world stays clean.  

Dirty, he will get, if he needs to. Now, more than ever. With the lives of millions on the line, at the many filthy hands of both your husband and his confederates. You are merely a tool. And he’ll use you as one. 

Besides, he tells himself, you’re a prudent little thing. It would not surprise him if you were indeed more aware of your husband’s sins than you have so far let on. And, as you say, you want to survive.  

So, for your own sake, you’d better talk.  

“We need to know where the gas is manufactured,” Ghost finally says, voice low, throaty, a near growl. “Factories, labs, all of it.”  

A muffled cry emerges from you, he watches your ribcage shudder as you struggle to suck down a breath amidst your sobs.  

“Cryin’s not gonna get you anywhere, doll,” Graves chides, as he impatiently twists off the cap to the cooler jug.  

You whimper. “I don’t know. I don’t – I don’t know what gas you’re talking about. Or about any factories, I don’t know. Please, I don’t–”  

You sound honest. Desperate.  

“I dunno! I dunno!” Graves mocks, sing-song tone rich with amused derision, “why do they always start with that? It never works, y’know?” 

Another sob, animal, raw, it’s almost abrasive to hear. “I don’t! I really – please! I–” 

Too eager, Graves cuts you off as he tips the jug above your covered face. The stream of water is unsteady, glugging and sputtering as it spills from its blue mouth, splashing into the towel and spilling over either side.  

With his free hand keeping your head still, a controlling palm on the side of your face, there’s very little you can do to escape the drowning stream of cold water. And it’s not long before you begin to writhe, bucking and squirming, flailing your body in any way you can to escape the suffocation.  

Ghost is compelled to pin you down, a wide hand pushing your bound wrists into your soft stomach, the other at the top of your thigh, close enough to your hips to limit most of your movement. You kick with your free leg, still fighting. Sucking in what short, squealing breaths you can amidst the inconsistency of the waterfall.  

It’s never been a difficult watch for Ghost. Far from his first waterboarding. If anything, he’s hardened to it. Bored by it. And of all people, the very object of his most visceral and blistering hatred, he expected to thoroughly enjoy spectating your torture. Anticipated he’d be the one drowning you, not the one holding you down. 

But there’s something especially sick about it. How the icy water saturates your lingerie, rendering the thin pink fabric even more sheer than it already had been. How the gooseflesh spikes across your bare skin, your nipples stiffening with the sudden cold, plainly visible in their silk cups. How the veil of your negligee is pulled up by the hands pressed into your stomach, exposing your belly, displaying the lacy little knickers you wear underneath, so close to his controlling hand. How Graves lets his overly indulgent glare linger on the bouncing of your breasts as you writhe while you suffocate, that sneer curling in his maw. 

It repulses him. 

Graves finally deems the first pour to have persisted long enough, lifting the bottle upright and balancing it on the edge of the table. He plucks the saturated fabric from your mouth, folding it over your nose – and you immediately vacuum in a heaving breath through your open lips, relentless dry coughs interrupting your attempts to inhale.  

“There’s a lot more water here, honey,” He gloats, “and if I run out, I can  get more.”  

Another wail, cuts like a knife. “No, no, please, I–” 

“It’d be my pleasure,” he persists, chuckling to himself. “Sure don’t mind watching those tits of yours jiggling ‘round.” 

You sob, audible disgust wet in your throat. Ghost merely glowers at him. Finds himself similarly revolted by the mercenary’s crude cruelty. 

“You’ve got to give us something.” Ghost murmurs coarsely, returning to the objective. 

As though momentarily pacified by his voice in particular, your breathing steadies enough to form a coherent sentence. “I-I don’t know about any factories. Or labs. But V-Victor travelled a lot. There – there were a few places he went to all the time.”  

“Where.” He demands. “All of them. Where.”  

You sniff, swallowing the sob that almost interrupts you. “I – uh – I think, Moscow, Verdansk – um, I can’t remember, the third one – uh – somewhere in Kastovia–” 

The mercenary, the prick, mutes you mid-sentence, unfolding the towel to cover your mouth once again, tilting the jug to pour more icy water overtop of you. You shriek in dispute before the stream hits you, silenced by its gushing, you quickly begin your convulsing as you drown under the cascade.  

“Fuck’s sake, just let her talk.” Ghost roars, a fuming command.  

“She was stalling,” Graves groans in dispute, but is quick to relent, halting the pour.   

He eventually frees your mouth from the choking towel. At first you simply cry, hardly able to suck in a breath between your eager sobs. Ghost can feel you trembling under his restraint. You must be cold.  

“Where in Kastovia?” Ghost insists.  

Perhaps you’re delirious. Your first response is merely a whimper.  

“Mia,” he prods.  

You swallow a quivering breath, shallow and unstable. “It – it’s only a small town, I think, he – he only mentioned it once. I can’t – I can’t remember. I swear, I can’t.”  

Ghost lets out an exasperated sigh. Frustrated that he believes you.  

“Fine,” he begrudgingly concedes. “Where did he go most often? Where did he spend the most time?”  

“Verdansk,” you answer quickly, obediently. “He – he’s there f-for weeks at a time. But I don’t know if he, if he stays in the city.”  

“No?”  

“He brings – he packs gear, I don’t know. Boots and s-shit – not suits. He usually w-wears suits.”  

“I don’t fuckin’ care about your husband’s wardrobe, Mia.”  

You groan, in panic or frustration, he cannot tell. “I mean – I just mean, when he travels to b-big cities, for business, he only packs suits. But only Verdansk – only when he says he’s going to V-Verdansk, he brings h-his utility stuff.”  

“For business,” Graves scoffs, finding humour in your euphemism. “That’s what we’re calling it?”  

“What does he do there? What business, eh?” Ghost questions.  

Only a whine. “I – I don’t know.”  

“Don’t give me that shit.” 

“He doesn’t tell me! I can only guess, I can only t-tell you what I can guess. You’ve d-done your research, I can’t tell you anything y-you don’t already know.”  

Graves lets out an irate grunt. “Yada, yada,” he mutters, covering your mouth, returning to the routine.  

“No, nonono, please–” you plead, muted by the damp cloth, and silenced by another waterfall. The stream is steady now that the jug is half-empty, pouring cleanly over your mouth and nose, right on target, giving you no gaps in which to inhale nor exhale.  

Your soft body contorts on the hard table, its steel legs rattle with the vigorousness of your resistance – kicking, twisting, arching, flailing – all in vain, as Graves does not ease up.  

“Okay–” Ghost barks, urgently, feeling your struggle begin to wane, your muscles weaken and stiffen as the cascade persists its unrelenting suffocation.  

Graves ignores him, seemingly determined to empty the bottle, he tips it steeper to continue the steady pour.  

You start to go limp, purposeful wriggling turning into frail convulsions.   

“Jesus – Graves!” Ghost finally roars, releasing his restraint of you to barrel towards the mercenary, viciously tearing the jug from his grip and hurling it carelessly to the far side of the room. It leaves a torrent of water in its path and sends a splash up the wall when it lands with a loud bounce. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill her, you fucking idiot.”  

“Far out, Ghost, who fuckin’ cares?” Graves retorts vexedly, but raises his palms to prevent further altercation.  

Agitated, furious, Ghost savagely shoves him in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. “We need her alive.”  

“She’s fine, Jesus Christ,” Graves insists, still upright, to Ghost’s ire, he points to you on the table.  

Briefly glancing over his shoulder, he sees you reach slowly for the towel over your head, with your bound hands, pulling it aside to allow yourself to breathe. 

“Fucking mercenaries,” Ghost mutters, a growl under his breath.  

Graves rolls his eyes. “What, we’re too efficient? Practical? Did you want me to fuckin’ wine and dine her beforehand?”   

“Reckless,” Ghost spits, correcting him. “And fucking shameless.”  

“Oh, please, don’t you high-road me, Riley. I’ve heard the stories.”  

Ghost lumbers towards him, then, chest puffed, tall enough to intimidate without needing to utter a single threat.  

“Fuck off back to your Shepherd,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Tell ‘em she’s good to go.”  

[heich0e]

you're almost giddy as you run your hands underneath the stream of cool water rushing from the sink's tap, an effervescence fizzling in the pit of your stomach as the sound of running water whooshes through your ears. you watch the soap suds circle the drain as your teeth bite down against the side of your cheek.

on the other side of the restroom door, you can hear the distant din of the restaurant creeping in, reminding you of where you are. the sound spurs you on and quickly, haphazardly, you shake whatever water is left clinging to the tips of your fingers away once the soap suds are gone—too eager to even bother with properly drying them. next, you fish your cellphone out from inside the little purse you'd brought with you that evening.

you tap the name at the top of your recent call log, and your roommate answers after two rings.

"date goin' so bad yer calling in the black ops squad for rescue? what's our story gonna be this ti—"

atsumu sounds entirely too pleased by the prospect of your date going badly, and it makes you all too happy to cut him off.

"it's going really well," you say, nearly breathless in your delight. it's been a while since you've been this... excited about a date. about a guy. "too well, actually."

"oh?" atsumu's voice lifts in surprise, but he doesn't say a whole lot else.

you hum affirmatively, reaching into your purse again to pull out a tube of lip gloss, pinning your phone between your ear and your shoulder to free up your hands to unscrew the lid. your eyes are fixed to the reflection of your mouth in the mirror as you swipe a thin coat across your lips. "i need a favour."

"'n what's that?" atsumu asks, his voice drying out into a monotone that indicates his distinct lack of trust.

"can you go in my room and shove any mess i left out into my closet?" you ask him before rubbing your lips together to evenly coat them in their lacquered shine.

atsumu guffaws from the other line. "'m i yer maid?"

"a second ago you were ready to go full boots on the ground as the black ops squad," you chide him. there's a moment of silence that passes in the restaurant bathroom, you can't even hear him breathing from the other line. finally, you speak again—softer this time, more sincere. "please, tsumu. i really like him."

he clicks his tongue behind his teeth in that admonishing way you hate, but there's a certain concession in the sound. "yer doing my laundry for a week."

"if the rest of the night goes as well as dinner, i'll do it for a month," you laugh, your cheeks pinching with how widely you smile.

"when are ya landin' here?"

"probably in like... an hour? we're just gonna have another drink or two." he grunts in recognition, even if he doesn't seem thrilled about it. "thanks, 'tsumie. i owe you one."

"ya owe me at least four," he grumbles. "try 'n keep it down once ya come stumblin' in all handsy and whatever, will ya? i don't need to hear all that."

"promise, promise!" you singsong. "you're the best."

"whatever," he answers with a stiff laugh, ending the call soon after.

you quickly tuck your phone back into your purse, adjust yourself one last time in the mirror, and then slip back out into the restaurant towards your waiting date.

the rest of your evening passes much the same as the rest had already unfolded—though something between you and the young man seems to shift as time goes on, turns more palpably yearning. it's no surprise that when you ask him if he'd like to come back to your place with you, he quickly agrees.

"is your roommate home?" atsushi—who you'd met at a work event a few weeks prior, and had been talking to ever since—asks quietly as you two step through the door of your higashiosaka apartment. he's pressed close to you in the genkan, a hand on your waist as he toes off his shoes, and his warmth makes you suppress a shiver.

you hum. "he sleeps like the dead though."

atsushi knows about atsumu, having revealed to him not long after you started texting that your long-time friend turned professional volleyball player is now your roommate. atsushi seemed to know who atsumu was, and even noted he looked forward to meeting him, but that would have to wait for another day.

there were more important things at hand.

you twine your fingers with atsushi's, using that grip to lead him towards your bedroom on the other side of the quiet apartment as your heartbeat thumps—hot and wet and noisy—in your chest. you close the door to your bedroom quietly behind you, and before you even have time to reach for the light switch you feel a soft pair of lips against your throat.

"oh," you gasp, your hands reaching up and threading through the silky strands of atsushi's hair.

it's an uncoordinated blur after that as you lead your date blindly towards your bed in the dark, tumbling back across it in a flurry of limbs and lust.

atsushi's hands slip up underneath the hem of your dress as he pants against your mouth. you wiggle a bit to help him ease it up over your hips, but there's something soft underneath you that makes it a bit awkward—a pillow taking up too much space. he goes to push the pillow off the bed, but it's bigger than either of you seem to anticipate.

he pulls back, squinting at it in the dark. he laughs, tugging the unexpectedly large mass up from underneath you. "what is this?"

you can't quite identify it, reaching over to your bedside table and flicking on the light to get a better look.

you really wish you hadn't.

in his hands, atsushi is holding a—not quite life-sized, but certainly much too large—pillow with atsumu in his MSBY uniform printed across it. you're so shocked by it that it takes you a moment to see anything else, but atsushi is not so fortunate.

"uh," his voice cracks a little as he peers around your room. "is this—?"

pasted on virtually any open space on your walls, and lining the various shelves and dressers of your room, atsumu's obnoxious face stares back. it's like the MSBY merch stall has set up shop in your bedroom—the only thing missing is the lineup of squealing teens fighting over the last sakusa jersey.

you're seeing red.

"i'm so sorry," you say, mortified, as you scramble upright in your bed and look at atsushi's startled face. "atsumu must have... i asked him to... oh my god."

you take the body pillow that atsushi still has clutched in his hands, more in shock than anything, and throw it onto the floor. he laughs a little, shaking his head.

"well, i definitely wasn't expecting that."

"this isn't my stuff, i swear," you insist.

he laughs again, but this time it's less strained, almost a giggle. he peeks over at you. "i believe you."

you bite your lip. "did this scare you off?"

he shakes his head, smiling shyly. "nah."

you sigh in relief as he dips down and kisses you again, cradling the nape of your neck as he leans you back in your bed once more. your head is spinning as he presses himself between your parted thighs, grinding gently against you. your eyes flutter open as you moan, but that sound turns into a small shriek of surprise that has him recoiling upright.

taped to the ceiling over your bed, almost perfectly mirroring your own position, an enormous poster of atsumu stares down at you.

that breaks you.

you slip out from underneath atsushi, standing on your bed and ripping the poster down as you reach up on your tiptoes. the sound of the glossy paper ripping is almost violently loud in the quiet of your bedroom.

"i'll be right back," you say, stiff but apologetic, to your bewildered date, before fleeing from the room.

you don't knock when you get to atsumu's room, throwing the door open and stomping inside.

he's sitting in his bed, watching something on his phone with a pair of headphones covering his ears. he looks up in surprise when you come storming in, and his gaze goes from amused to concerned when he sees the look on your face.

"what the fuck is wrong with you?" you seethe, struggling to keep your voice low in spite of your desire to scream. you're still clutching a shred of the torn poster in your clenched fist, and you toss it onto his floor angrily. he pushes his headphones down to rest around his neck.

"aw, c'mon," he laughs as he sits up a little straighter in his bed, but the sound is a bit forced. "'s just a joke."

"well, it wasn't funny."

atsumu's jaw twitches a little bit. "if the guy got scared off by a harmless little—"

"he didn't get scared off," you hiss, "no thanks to you."

that shuts him up.

"he's still in my room, by some fucking miracle." your hands are shaking, that's how angry you are. you feel sick. "i told you i really like him, atsumu. why would you do that?"

you wish you didn't sound so wounded. you wish atsumu's answering expression wasn't so blank in the wake.

"god," you say, with a mirthless laugh. "when are you going to grow up?"

if atsumu wants to say more, you don't give him the chance. you spin on your heel and head towards the door, but just before you exit the room, you look back at him one last time. your eyes are narrowed in resentment and sharpened with hurt.

"you're gonna wanna turn that volume up, because i don't plan on keeping it down for your sake."

atsumu says nothing in reply, just stares at you. there's something almost desperate in his gaze that you don't understand, and make no attempt to.

you leave his door open behind you as your final act of spite.