#flicker classic mode

[liquidsneaker]

classic mode sillies :3 (this is also old art but i love them and the classic mode characters need more recognition)

[flickercreatures]

this one isnt an ask i just wanted to draw her

this is peak character design i love her dumb stupid shirt that isnt practical at all

[peckforlovingheck]

I think Christy and Marie deserve to kiss. You agree.

[rosemaryhoney27]

"Diplomacy for the Feral and the Damned"

Bruce had just sat down in the Batcave with his second cup of post-patrol coffee—black as his mood, strong enough to keep a Kryptonian awake—when his private line buzzed. Not the Batline. Not the board line. The one buried so deep in encryption and passive-aggressive threats that even Oracle called it “Extra-Paranoid Mode.”

He stared. [Incoming Call: Vladimir Masters]

Bruce blinked. “…Oh, this is going to be a day.”

He answered with the flat monotone that had driven Gotham’s underworld into therapy. “Vlad.”

The holographic screen flickered to life—and there he was. Vladimir Masters, looking every inch the eccentric billionaire and possibly more ghost than man now. Silver-haired, in a robe that screamed “I paid three million for this and regret nothing,” surrounded by classical art, levitating books, and the faint crackle of ectoplasmic interference. The whole aesthetic screamed “If Lex Luthor was haunted by a Victorian novelist.”

Vlad beamed. “Brucie!”

Bruce’s eye twitched. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s lovely to hear your voice, dear cousin. It’s been too long.”

Jason, eavesdropping from the shadows with popcorn, whispered, “Wait. Cousin? Since when do we have that brand of family drama?”

“Shh,” Tim muttered, scribbling something labeled Possible Interdimensional Ghost Cousins Conspiracy.

“I need your advice,” Vlad continued. “Something very personal. Deeply serious.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What now, Vlad?”

Vlad leaned forward, the screen staticking briefly. “How do you get your children to be civil with you?”

There was silence. Real, echoing, existential silence.

“…I wasn’t aware you had adopted children, Vlad,” Bruce said slowly, like trying not to scare off a rabid raccoon.

“I haven’t. Not technically,” Vlad said breezily. “But my godson is staying with me. Lovely boy. Has the appetite of a black hole and the sense of self-preservation of a rabid badger.”

“...Oh god,” whispered Dick, “he sounds like all of us.”

“Cute that Masters thinks we’re civil,” Damian sniffed. “How charmingly misinformed.”

“Wait. He said godson?” Tim asked, eyes lighting up. “Do you think—could it be—Phantom?”

Vlad didn’t notice the peanut gallery commentary. “The boy has caused four minor diplomatic incidents, bitten a baron, vanished into the ceiling during a formal gala, and accused a senator of being a reptilian. Which turned out to be accurate, but the delivery was unkind.”

Bruce squinted. “That sounds like… Dick, Damian, and Tim at the Wayne Foundation Spring Gala ‘19.”

“I know!” Vlad pointed at him like a man discovering fire. “That’s exactly what I said! He’s like your sons! In one small, glowing, vaguely feral body!”

“Glowing?” Steph mouthed. “Definitely Phantom.”

“So, cousin dearest,” Vlad purred. “How do you get them to listen? How do you parent the chaos incarnate?”

Bruce took a long, tired sip of his coffee and simply said, “I don’t.”

“…You don’t?”

“I survive it.”

“Bold of him to call this survival,” muttered Cass as Jason started texting Alfred for cookies and emotional support.

“Each one is an unpredictable event wrapped in trauma and tactical gear,” Bruce continued flatly. “They will not listen. They may occasionally pretend to. But only after chaos. Much, much chaos.”

Vlad sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So there’s no secret Wayne method? No clever strategy?”

“...Cookies?” Bruce offered.

From beneath the desk, something gnawed at Vlad’s ankle.

He glanced down and hissed, “Danny, stop that, I told you we don’t bite family!”

“He said that senator looked like a snake,” came the muffled voice. “And I was right.”

Vlad groaned. “Why couldn’t he just be one kind of disaster? Why all of them?”

Jason grinned. “I like this kid.”

“New cousin,” Steph agreed. “Absolutely chaotic. Ten outta ten.”

Vlad looked back up at Bruce. “So. No help?”

Bruce looked thoughtful. “Keep fire extinguishers on hand. Avoid hosting events near chandeliers. Always assume they have at least two hidden weapons. And get used to being called ‘Dad’ at the most inconvenient political moments.”

A pause.

“Also,” he added, “tell him you’re proud. Even when he’s a disaster. Especially then.”

Vlad blinked. “...That worked for you?”

Bruce glanced around the cave. Steph had stolen Tim’s notes and was writing “FERAL COUSIN CLUB” across the top. Jason was already planning a trip to Amity Park. Damian was silently judging the snack selection of this new relative. And Dick was on his phone already texting Danny memes.

“…Eventually,” Bruce muttered.

“Charming,” Vlad sighed.

From under the desk: crunch.

“Danny! Stop chewing my furniture!”

Danny peeked out, sharp-toothed grin gleaming, eyes flickering green. “Tell B-man I wanna go to one of those galas next time. I wanna meet chandelier boy.”

Jason fist-pumped. “YES.”

Bruce just sighed. “...I’ll warn the staff.”

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 7)

Synopsis: A yacht party and a horseback riding trip put you and Agatha in closer proximity than you can handle. The teasing, the fleeting touches, the way she looks at you—it’s messing with your head. Is she just being Agatha, or is there something more?

Word count: 3.4K

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption, Subtle angst, Lingering tension, Unresolved emotions

You wake up feeling fine, stretching lazily before reaching for your phone. It's around 8 AM, and a new message from Jen lights up the group chat. 

Jen: Private yacht party at 10 AM, ladies! Get ready to live like queens today ✨🍾✨ 

A flood of excited responses follows, filled with emojis and exclamation marks. Everyone seems thrilled, but despite the distraction, your mind is still occupied with Agatha. Something about last night, about the way she left things, lingers like a splinter you can't quite pull out. 

Shaking the thought away, you push yourself out of bed and move through your morning routine. A quick shower, skincare, light makeup. You pick out a high-waisted wide-leg pant and bralette combo, paired with pink leather sandals, black shades, and a tote bag stuffed with essentials—your bikini, sunscreen, phone, charger, wallet. Everything you’ll need. 

By the time you arrive at the yacht, the sun is high, reflecting off the pristine white of the vessel. It's a superyacht—luxurious but not obnoxiously oversized. Classic Jen, always going all out. 

Stepping aboard, you're greeted by the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. The group is gathered around the pool, already in their swimwear, drinks in hand, lost in easy conversation. They wave you over, and just as you're about to join them, your eyes find her. 

Agatha. 

She’s lounging on a patio chaise, champagne flute poised between her fingers, dark sunglasses obscuring her eyes. But you know she’s watching. When she finally catches your lingering gaze, her lips twitch into a smirk. You look away first. 

“Well, don’t you look like you own the damn yacht,” Agatha muses, lifting her glass in mock admiration. “Did you forget this was a party?” 

You roll your eyes but smirk back. “I brought a bikini, didn’t I?” 

“Oh, what a relief,” she teases, tilting her head. “Would’ve been a shame if you spent the whole day in CEO mode.” 

Another round of banter flickers between you, sharp and familiar. But instead of indulging further, you shake your head, slip away, and head inside to change. 

When you reemerge, you feel the sun’s heat against your bare skin, the air thick with salt and summer. The group is still at the pool, but your eyes are drawn elsewhere—to the saloon bar, where Agatha stands, pouring herself another glass of champagne. 

Something about the way she carries herself, so unbothered, so effortlessly poised, compels you to walk over. She notices before you even reach her, glancing up over the rim of her glass. 

“Well, well.” She lets her gaze sweep over you. “Now that’s more fitting.” 

You don’t acknowledge the way your skin warms at her approval. Instead, you fold your arms and nod toward the bar. “Any whiskey?” 

Agatha hums, scanning the bottles before plucking one from the shelf. “Sticking to your usual,” she muses, pouring a generous measure into a glass before handing it to you. 

For a while, it’s just the two of you, drinks in hand, the distant chatter from the deck fading into the background. Conversation drifts, winding through neutral topics before landing on politics. 

She speaks, and you try to focus—but it’s not just what she’s saying. It’s the way she says it. The cadence of her voice, the way her hands move as she emphasizes a point, the sharp wit woven through her words. And those damn blue eyes. 

You lose track of the conversation completely, too busy memorizing the shape of her mouth as she speaks. When she pauses expectantly, you nod, feigning interest. 

Just like the night that changed everything—for you, at least. 

Seventeen years ago, a karaoke night with the group, your usual Friday tradition. Drinks flowed, laughter filled the air, and each of you took turns at the mic. Then, it was Agatha’s turn. 

She chose Always Be My Baby by Mariah Carey. 

She had sung in front of you all before, but that night felt different. You couldn't explain why, but as she sang, everything slowed down. The way she moved, the way her voice curled around each note, the way she stood—it was as if she was the only person in the room. 

You snapped out of it when the song ended, confused and shaken. What the hell just happened? 

But as the night continued, you found yourself watching her more closely—the way she sipped her drink, the way she laughed, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Something had shifted, and you couldn't ignore it. 

Later, you told Wanda about it. She was the only one who knew. You told yourself it was nothing, that it would pass. But it didn’t. 

Instead, it only got worse. 

You watched Agatha fall into relationships, then marriage. You became the godmother to her two children. And still, your feelings never faded. 

You learned to live with it, to bury it. But standing here, with her right in front of you, all those old emotions claw their way back to the surface. 

And it feels just like that night all over again. 

You snapped back to reality when Agatha asked you something—but you had no idea what. You were too busy watching her, caught in the way she moved, the way her voice wrapped around her words. Without thinking, you blurted out a quick, “Yes.” 

Agatha gave you a look, clearly unconvinced, but she only shrugged it off. Silence stretched between you, charged and unspoken. Your eyes locked for a moment longer. 

Then Wanda arrived, snapping you both out of whatever that was. Agatha straightened, her posture shifting back into something composed, unreadable. 

“What are you two doing here?” Wanda asked, glancing between you. 

“She needed help finding the whiskey,” Agatha replied smoothly, taking a slow sip from her champagne glass. 

You nodded, grateful for the easy excuse. 

Agatha didn’t linger. She excused herself, making her way back toward the pool, slipping effortlessly back into the crowd. As soon as she was out of earshot, Wanda nudged your shoulder hard. 

“What the hell was that?” she whispered, eyes narrowed. 

“What?” You feigned ignorance, knowing full well what she was referring to. 

“Don’t play coy with me.” She studied you, then smirked. “You look flustered.” 

You scoffed. “I’m fine.” 

Wanda crossed her arms. “Look, I just don’t want you getting in too deep again.” 

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You don’t need to worry.” 

“I always worry.” But she let it go, grabbing the bottle of champagne and motioning for you to follow her back to the pool. 

As you stepped outside, your gaze drifted toward Agatha. She was in the pool, laughing with Jen, Alice, and Lilia. For a moment, you watched, lingering on the way she tossed her wet hair back, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. 

Shaking yourself out of it, you dropped onto a patio chaise lounge, closing your eyes to relax. 

Moments later, cold water splashed over you. 

You gasped, eyes snapping open, only to be met with Agatha’s mischievous grin. Laughter echoed around the deck as the others watched, clearly enjoying your reaction. 

“Really?” you deadpanned, wiping water from your face. 

Wanda called out from the pool, grinning. “We’re playing Chicken Fight. You in?” 

You sighed, shaking your head. “Pass.” 

Agatha smirked. “Afraid of losing?” 

Your eyes narrowed. “I just don’t feel like it.” 

“Oh, come on,” Agatha drawled. “Didn’t take you for a coward.” 

That did it. 

You sat up, rolling your shoulders. “Fine. Let’s do this.” 

The teams were set. Wanda crouched in the water, letting you climb onto her shoulders, while Agatha sat perched atop Jen’s. The tension was thick, both teams sizing each other up. 

The game began, and it was intense. Laughter and splashing filled the air as you and Agatha grappled, trying to shove each other off. For a moment, you thought you had the upper hand—you gripped Agatha’s arm, pulling her down inch by inch. 

But then she twisted free, and before you could react, she lunged. 

Her hands found your shoulders, and with one strong push, you lost your balance. A yelp left your lips before you plunged backward into the water, dragging Wanda down with you. 

When you surfaced, sputtering, Agatha was grinning triumphantly. “Better luck next time, sweetheart.” 

You rolled your eyes, splashing water toward her, but she dodged, laughing. The game continued, with Lilia and Alice taking on Agatha and Jen next, the group caught up in the excitement. Teasing, laughter, and playful shoves filled the air as round after round played out. 

Eventually, the energy simmered down. The games stopped, and everyone floated lazily in the pool, the conversation shifting to lighthearted chitchat. 

As the sun began to set, one by one, everyone climbed out of the pool, heading inside to prepare for dinner. 

Later that night, after the laughter and the drinks had settled, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the feeling in your chest. The way Agatha looked at you. The way her voice lingered in your head. The way your skin still tingled where she had touched you. 

Tomorrow, you and the others would return to your own villas, with horseback riding planned for the afternoon. Another day, another chance to keep up the act. To pretend nothing had changed. 

The next morning, you woke up to the gentle sway of the yacht, sunlight filtering through the curtains. The distant hum of conversation and clinking utensils reached your ears, pulling you from sleep. You stretched, took a moment to gather yourself, then made your way to the dining area. 

The group was already there, eating breakfast and chatting. You took a seat beside Wanda, who offered you a knowing glance before turning her attention back to the conversation. 

“We’re all set for horseback riding this afternoon,” Jen announced, stirring her coffee. “The instructors will be there, but it should be pretty easygoing.” 

Lilia smirked and turned to you. “Though, Y/N might not even need lessons. You probably already know how to ride a horse, right? You’re rich—don’t rich people all own horses?” 

Alice laughed, jumping in. “Oh, right! Maybe you even do equestrian competitions in secret.” 

“Oh my god,” Wanda groaned, rolling her eyes. “Next thing you know, they’ll say Y/N casually rides a horse to work.” 

Lilia gasped dramatically. “Do you? Be honest.” 

Jen grinned. “Bet she has one of those fancy riding outfits and everything.” 

The teasing spread quickly, the others joining in with playful jabs about you being some kind of expert rider. The only one who remained silent was Agatha—who sat across from you, smirking into her coffee cup. 

You scoffed, pretending to be offended. “Not all rich people own horses or know how to ride, you know.” 

Agatha leaned forward slightly, her voice smooth, teasing. “So that means you don’t know how to ride?” 

You met her gaze, catching the glint of amusement in her eyes. “I didn’t say that.” 

“Oh?” Her smirk deepened. “You’re getting defensive.” 

“I’m making a point,” you corrected, raising a brow. “For the record, yes, I do know how to ride. And yes, I own a stable. But that’s not the point!" 

The table erupted in laughter, and Agatha leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough so only you could hear. "So you do know how to ride. Good to know." 

A warmth crept up your neck, but you focused on your plate, pretending her words hadn’t sent a slow, deliberate shiver down your spine. Before you could formulate a response, Alice’s voice cut through the moment. 

“See! Knew it!” she gasped, pointing at you triumphantly. 

Lilia leaned back, grinning. “I bet Y/N has a horse named something dramatic like ‘Midnight Storm’ or ‘Celestial Thunder.’” 

You shook your head, laughing. “You guys are ridiculous.” 

Wanda nudged you. “I’m just excited to see you in action later. Show us peasants how it’s done.” 

The table erupted in laughter, and even you couldn’t help but chuckle. The lighthearted energy carried through breakfast, filled with teasing and banter. But through it all, you could feel it—Agatha’s gaze flickering toward you, lingering just a little too long. 

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t ignore it. 

After breakfast, each of you returned to your own villas. You stepped into the bathroom first, taking a refreshing shower before going through your usual morning routine. Deciding to stretch a little, you unrolled your yoga mat and went through a few basic poses—not too intense, just enough to feel awake. 

After that, you settled at your desk, opening your laptop to check work emails. Nothing urgent. Satisfied, you shut it down and flopped onto the bed, scrolling through social media, watching random videos, and letting time pass. 

When the afternoon rolled around, your phone buzzed with a message in the group chat. 

Jen: Be at the main entrance by 2 PM. 

You stretched, set your phone aside, and got up to prepare. After a quick lunch, you went to your luggage, picking out an outfit for horseback riding—something comfortable yet stylish. You settled on a fitted maroon polo shirt, black high-waisted skinny jeans, and Dior sneakers. Grabbing your tote bag with the essentials, you gave yourself one last glance in the mirror before heading out, ready for whatever the afternoon had in store. 

You made your way to the main entrance, where the others were already gathered near a waiting van. Your gaze flickered toward Agatha for a brief second before you climbed inside with the rest of the group. Of course, she ended up beside you again. 

The ride took about thirty minutes, and you busied yourself with your phone, scrolling aimlessly to pass the time. The occasional chatter filled the van, but you mostly kept to yourself. 

When the van finally stopped, you looked up to see the sign: Malibu Riders. The group stepped out, greeted by one of the facilitators who welcomed you warmly and led you toward the stables. They gave you a quick tour, explaining the facility, before guiding you to the horses you’d be riding. 

You grabbed the necessary gear, swapping out your Dior sneakers for riding boots and securing a helmet. Once everyone was suited up, the facilitators led the horses outside, preparing them for you to mount. 

At the field, the instructor demonstrated how to properly get on a horse. You mounted yours with ease, while a few of the others struggled but managed to get settled after some effort. The only one still struggling was Agatha. After watching her attempt a few times, you sighed, got off your horse, and walked over to her. 

“Here, let me help,” you offered, steadying the horse as she tried again. 

Agatha huffed but accepted the assistance. With your guidance, she finally managed to get on, giving you a smug look once she was settled. 

“Happy now?” she teased. 

You just rolled your eyes and got back onto your horse. 

The lesson went on—not that you needed it. You were already skilled at horseback riding, though you played along, nodding as the facilitator went through the basics. Once the official lesson wrapped up, the group was free to ride around and put their skills to the test. 

Jen called out to everyone, waving her phone. “Alright, let’s get a quick picture while we’re all still on the horses!” 

One of the facilitators took the phone and snapped a few photos of the group, capturing the moment before you all rode off to enjoy the rest of the afternoon. 

After the group split up, you guided your horse across the open field, enjoying the steady rhythm of its movements. The afternoon breeze brushed against your skin as you took in the quiet beauty of the landscape. After a while, you noticed Agatha riding alone and decided to head her way. 

“You know, horses can sleep standing up,” you said out of nowhere. 

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “That so?” 

You nodded. “Yeah. They have a special locking system in their legs so they don’t fall over.” 

She smirked. “You really know a lot about horses.” 

You chuckled. “Learned to ride when I was nine. My mom taught me.” 

That caught her attention. “Your mom?” 

You nodded, a small smile forming as you recalled the memories. “Yeah. She loved riding. We had a stable back home, and she wanted me to know how to ride properly. She always said there’s something freeing about it.” 

Agatha listened intently, her blue eyes locked onto you, but there was something more in the way she was looking at you—something unreadable. 

She sighed, glancing ahead at the open field. “Freedom. That’s an interesting way to put it.” 

You tilted your head. “You don’t think so?” 

A small, almost wistful smile tugged at her lips. “I wouldn’t know. I never had the luxury of just... riding away from everything.” 

You studied her for a moment. “You ever wish you could?” 

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Sometimes. But responsibilities don’t just disappear because you want them to.” 

Something in her tone made your chest tighten. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I get that.” 

Agatha looked at you then, really looked at you, as if seeing past everything you let people perceive. The silence stretched between you, comfortable yet heavy, like an unspoken understanding passing between two people who knew what it was like to carry more than they let on. 

Eventually, the horseback riding session came to an end, and it was time to dismount. Most of the group managed to get off their horses without much trouble—including you—but Agatha, once again, struggled. 

You sighed with amusement and walked over. “Here, I got you.” 

She hesitated but then accepted your help. Holding her hands, you guided her as she jumped down, though she nearly tripped in the process. Instinctively, your hands found her waist, steadying her before she could fall. 

For a brief second, neither of you moved. Agatha looked up at you, her breath hitching just slightly before she cleared her throat. 

“Thanks,” she murmured. 

“It’s nothing,” you replied, quickly letting go. 

She stepped back, adjusting her posture before leading her horse away. Your gaze lingered on her retreating figure for a moment before you shook your head and followed suit, taking your horse back to the stable and returning the riding gear. 

With the session officially over, the group left the ranch and piled back into the van. You slid into your seat, put on your earbuds, and stared out the window, watching the scenery blur past as you made your way back to the resort. 

After arriving back at the resort, you head straight to your villa, shutting the door behind you with a quiet sigh. The day had been long, but it wasn’t the horseback riding that left you drained—it was her. The way Agatha had been looking at you, the way she spoke, how her presence lingered even after she walked away. It was starting to feel like too much, and yet, not enough. 

You loosen your shirt, moving straight to the minibar. You don’t hesitate as you pour yourself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling under the dim villa lights. You take a slow sip, letting it burn its way down, hoping it will dull whatever this is—this thing that Agatha is doing to you, whether she realizes it or not. 

You lean against the counter, exhaling through your nose. Is she giving you mixed signals, or are you just seeing something that isn’t there? Maybe you’ve been alone for too long. Maybe the past has made you foolish enough to hope. Or maybe—just maybe—she feels it too, but she won’t let herself go there. 

Frustrated, you grab your phone and turn on the speaker, scrolling through your playlist until your finger hovers over a song. You press play, and Adele’s voice fills the room. 

Should I give up, or should I just keep chasing pavements… 

You close your eyes and let the music wash over you, sinking onto the couch, whiskey glass resting on your thigh. The song plays on repeat as you drink, each sip doing little to blur the thoughts racing through your mind. You don’t even realize how much time has passed—only that the glass is empty, and the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted. 

At some point, exhaustion takes over, and you let yourself sink further into the cushions. The night moves on without you, but Agatha stays—etched into your thoughts, just like she always does.

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

[polo-drone-070]

GOLD DRIPS HARDER - Soccer training with the bros

—MORNING HEAT— Yo. Ain’t even sun-up yet and we steamin’ like a damn sauna, innit. Gold skin out. Cleats on. Beats bumpin’ in my head, no headphones needed—just vibe.

Jackson’s first to lose the tee, flings it at Franco like, “Rise n’ flex, bro!” Franco deadpans, “Ten burpees.” Jackson just laughs, “Worth it, bro. Worth every rep.”

I’m already bouncein’ the ball off my chest, knee, shoulder—loose, glidin’. It’s not training. It’s like... flow. Muscle memory with basslines.

Xavier’s towel-whippin’ the air. “Yo Max, your chain’s glowin’ again or is that just ego lightin’ up?” I smirk. “Nah bro, that’s internal radiance, like. Gold don’t need batteries.”

Vernon rolls in late, goalie pads half-on, lookin’ like he dressed in a tornado. “Hey... uh... brought this herbal mist thingy for like, goal clarity?” Bro silence. Then Jackson: “Mist for what?” We all crack up. But I dap Vernon up after. “Keep it weird, bro. Gold notices.”

Franco don’t laugh. Just runs suicides bein’ all intense and focused. Xavier chucks a cone at him. “Yo lighten up, bro.” Franco: “Smilin’s wasted motion.”, before breakin a soft smile. Classic.

—NILS DROP— Mid-grind, break hits. We pantin’, stretchin’, shinin’ with heat. Nils appears. No talk. No footsteps. Just presence. He hands us our bottles like some silent hydration monk.

Mine? Ice cold. Feels like... charged. First sip and my brain clears. Like—focus, clarity, tunnel lock.

I blink. “Bro. Did you tweak this?” He nods once. Like he’s sayin’ “obviously” without words. Then vanishes into the mist like a damn myth, already busy cleanin sum mess.

Xavier whispers, “He’s like hydration ASMR.” We all nod.

—TAMMY GRIND— Everyone peels off. I stick with Tammy.

Tammy’s got the heart, yeah? But brain in the way. Overthinkin’. Hesitatin’. Tryna solve shit mid-pass like he’s in mathletes, not midfield.

“Again,” I bark. He fumbles. “Again.” Still stiff.

I get in close. Tower a lil’. Let him feel it. “You wanna run this game, Tammy?” He nods like, “Hell yeah.”

“Then stop thinkin’. This ain’t chess. This is waves, bro. You don’t solve waves. You ride ‘em.”

He breathes. Hits it clean. Pure instinct. I clap his back. “That’s it. Gold don’t calculate. Gold reacts.”

—KIO ENCOUNTER—

Later, field’s empty, just me and the echo of cleats on turf. I’m chillin’ near the benches, unlacing boots, breath finally steady...

That’s when I clock him.

Still figure, back by the far fence—cyan trim, sharp profile. Dude’s not just watchin’. He’s measuring.

Silent. Focused. Like a drone with a soul.

I slide off the bench and ghost up behind.

“Yo.” He turns, smooth like clockwork. Pale eyes meet mine.

No blink. No surprise.

“Kio Vant,” he says—clean, crisp, like the name explains everything.

“Flux Crew,” I smirk. “Doin’ recon?”

He nods. “Observing rhythm variance. High-pulse spacing. Emotional excess.” I laugh. “Bro, you makin’ us sound like jazz gone wrong.”

Then I get a better look. Dude’s like... fresh serious. That tight-focus jaw, those chill vibes with zero front. All neat and wired. But the way he stands? Earnest. Like he believes in his sync life.

Kinda cute, not gonna lie.

“You reckon your neon glitch squad’s gonna out-tempo us?” “I think we’re already ahead,” he goes. Calm. Not cocky.

I grin wider. “Aight, how ‘bout a bet then?”

He tilts his head. “Terms?”

“If we win,” I say, steppin’ closer, voice low, “you join one of our drills. Gold core. No observer mode. We break your rhythm—and maybe your outfit.” He lifts a brow. “And if we win?”

I lean in. “You name it. But no ghostin’, Waterboy. You feel what’s comin’, innit?”

He blinks once. Heel taps. Walks off.

But I saw it. That flicker in his eyes.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Drip recognition.

And next time? He ain’t leavin’ untouched.

___ Featuring - Jackson #15 @basit015 - Franco #94 @franco-gold94 - Xavier #39 @polo-drone-039 - Vernon #31 @vernon-gold-31 - Nils, Waterboy 01 @nils-gold-34 - Tamerlan 'Tammy' #73 @polo-drone-073 ___ Think you’ve clocked our rhythm, boy? Step onto our turf—get humbled, get jocked, get golded.

💬 Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 · @brodygold · @goldenherc9 · @polo-drone-125

[natswife-marvelicious]

Ghosts, Goblins and Growing Closer

Plot: During Tony Stark’s extravagant Halloween party, you and Natasha share playful banter and subtle flirtation. The spooky atmosphere brings you closer, leading to a sweet, intimate moment where you both realize your growing feelings for each other.

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,3k

Masterlist

The Avengers Tower was buzzing with excitement, decked out in orange and black for Tony Stark's infamous Halloween party. Cobwebs lined the ceiling, jack-o’-lanterns flickered from every corner, and ghostly decorations floated above the crowd. Tony had truly outdone himself this time, with a towering haunted house in the corner of the common area and a fog machine making the place feel like a spooky dream.

You walked through the sea of costumes, feeling the festive atmosphere. Everyone was in full party mode, Steve Rogers was dressed as a classic 1940s soldier, which earned a few chuckles, Thor sported a Viking costume, much to everyone’s amusement, and Tony? Well, Tony was, of course, dressed as himself. It was his party, after all.

The one person you were most excited to see, though, was Natasha Romanoff. You hadn’t had the chance to spot her yet, and there was an anticipation in your stomach as you searched the room. You knew she would look incredible, no matter what costume she chose, and the idea of spending Halloween night by her side had been your focus all week.

After a few minutes of wandering through the party, you finally saw her. Natasha stood by the bar, leaning against the counter in an all-black assassin outfit with sleek leather pants and a fitted top that hugged her figure. A playful black mask rested on her face, accentuating her mischievous smile. She looked drop-dead gorgeous, and your heart skipped a beat as your eyes locked.

“Hey, you,” she said, walking over with that signature swagger that left you feeling weak in the knees. “Nice costume.”

You looked down at your own getup. You had gone with something simple, an easy superhero-inspired costume, but the way Natasha’s gaze lingered made you feel like you were the only one in the room. “I could say the same thing. You look amazing.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at her lips. “What, no tricks or treats for me?”

You grinned, stepping closer. “That depends. Do you deserve a trick or a treat?”

Natasha leaned in slightly, her eyes twinkling with playful amusement. “I’ll take my chances with the treat.”

Before you could respond, the room erupted in laughter as Tony announced the costume contest over the speakers. The Avengers gathered near the stage, some eagerly ready to show off their costumes. You found yourself standing next to Natasha, who glanced at you with a knowing look.

“Should we enter the contest?” she asked, tilting her head as if daring you.

“I don’t think we’d stand a chance against Thor’s Viking costume,” you joked, nodding in the god’s direction.

Natasha laughed softly. “True, but we’d definitely win ‘Best Duo’.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea of being a duo with her, even if it was just for the contest. Before you could think too much into it, Natasha gently grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the stage. She waved off the contest, dragging you toward the quieter side of the room, away from the loud music and flashing lights.

“I thought we were entering the contest,” you teased as you followed her lead.

She shrugged with a sly grin. “Changed my mind. Besides, I’d rather spend the night enjoying the party with you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. This was what you loved most about Natasha—her ability to make even the most extravagant parties feel intimate and personal. The rest of the room melted away as you found yourselves in a cozy corner, watching the others dance and mingle.

Nearby, Sam was challenging Bucky to a pumpkin carving contest, and Steve watched in amusement, his arms crossed as he shook his head at their friendly banter. Wanda and Vision were mingling near the snack table, sharing a laugh as they tried out Tony’s over-the-top Halloween-themed treats. It was a lively night, but with Natasha beside you, everything felt a little warmer, a little brighter.

Natasha turned toward you, her gaze softening as the noise of the party faded into the background. “You know, this is the first Halloween I’ve actually celebrated in… well, a long time.”

“Really?” you asked, surprised. “Not even as a kid?”

She shook her head. “Not many trick-or-treating opportunities when you’re raised in the Red Room.”

The weight of her words settled between you, and you suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this moment. Natasha had been through so much, and yet here she was, standing next to you, making the best of a night filled with silly costumes and haunted house decorations.

“Well, I’m glad we’re making up for lost time,” you said softly, reaching out to take her hand.

Natasha’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, something deeper than the playful banter that had filled the night so far. She laced her fingers with yours, her grip firm yet gentle. “Yeah, me too.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the proximity and the unspoken connection between you. It was as if the party continued on without you, a blur of laughter and music while the world narrowed to just you and her.

“I’m not much for big parties,” she admitted after a while, her voice quiet yet sincere. “But I’m glad I came to this one.”

“Because of the company?” you asked, unable to keep the teasing tone out of your voice.

Natasha smirked, but her eyes were soft. “Maybe.”

Just as you were about to respond, Tony’s voice boomed across the room once again, calling everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone! Gather around for the haunted house tour! Who’s ready to get spooked?"

The crowd cheered, and you saw Thor raise his hammer, clearly ready for the challenge. You turned to Natasha with a grin. “What do you say? Want to check it out?”

Natasha looked skeptical, but there was a glint of excitement in her eyes. “You know I don’t scare easily, right?”

“Yeah, but you haven’t been through one of Tony’s haunted houses yet,” you quipped, tugging her toward the entrance.

The haunted house was exactly what you’d expect from Tony Stark: over-the-top, high-tech, and filled with more jump scares than necessary. As you navigated through the dark corridors, fog swirling around your feet, you couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Natasha, true to her word, didn’t flinch once, though she did smirk at your startled reactions a few times.

At one point, you found yourselves in a narrow hallway, the only light coming from flickering candles mounted on the walls. Natasha stepped closer, her shoulder brushing against yours, and despite the eerie atmosphere, you felt nothing but warmth.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered, though there was amusement in her voice.

“Completely,” you agreed, but you couldn’t deny the thrill of being in this moment with her.

As the haunted house came to an end, you emerged back into the brightly lit common area, where the party had picked up once again. Tony was handing out awards for the costume contest, and the music had resumed, filling the space with a lively beat.

Natasha turned to you, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright, I’ll admit, that was kind of fun.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I knew you’d enjoy it.”

Before you could say more, Natasha stepped closer, her hand finding yours once again. “Thanks for sticking with me tonight,” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the music.

You squeezed her hand, feeling your heart swell with affection. “Anytime, Natasha.”

She smiled, and for a brief moment, the noise of the party faded into the background once again. It was just the two of you, standing side by side, sharing a quiet moment in the midst of the chaos.

As the night wore on and the party continued, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for this strange, wonderful Halloween. It wasn’t the costumes or the decorations that made it special, it was Natasha and the way she made every moment feel like it was just for the two of you.

With a final glance at the lively crowd around you, Natasha leaned in close and whispered in your ear, “Happy Halloween.”

You smiled, your heart full, and whispered back, “Happy Halloween, Natasha.”

And as the night unfolded, you knew this was a Halloween you’d never forget.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Three: Sharp Tongues & Snapped Wires

The Bad Batch x Reader

⸻

0500 hours.

Kamino’s stormlight seeped into the high observation windows like something alive. Grey and cold and watching.

You stood in the center of the combat dome, helmet clipped at your hip, arms folded across your chest. The room smelled like disinfectant and old sweat.

They were late.

“Two minutes,” you muttered under your breath. “Two minutes and I start docking rations.”

Right on cue, the side hatch hissed open.

Hunter came in first, rubbing one eye and yawning like a street mutt. Wrecker stumbled after him, half-dressed, boots mismatched. Tech followed while still typing into a datapad. Crosshair brought up the rear, looking half-feral and 100% annoyed to be awake.

“Glad you could join me,” you said, voice flat.

“You said ‘zero five hundred,’” Hunter grumbled, “not zero five hundred and sharp.”

You stared.

He blinked. “…Which was an oversight. We’ll adjust.”

“Too late,” you said. “Wrecker. Ten pushups.”

“What?!” he yelped.

“For every second past the mark.”

Crosshair muttered something that sounded like ‘should’ve been twenty’.

You threw him a look. “Say it louder.”

He didn’t.

Wrecker dropped to the floor, groaning.

“Today’s exercise is a squad obstacle drill,” you continued, stepping back to pace along the line. “It’s simple. You complete the course. You complete it as a unit. If one of you falls behind, the rest start over.”

Hunter groaned. Tech frowned. Crosshair rolled his eyes. Wrecker was still doing pushups and wheezing like a dying tauntaun.

“You’ll be timed. You’ll be ranked against standard cadets.”

That got their attention.

“They’ll beat your score,” you said, deliberately. “Easily.”

All four straightened like they’d just been slapped.

“Excuse me,” Tech said. “That’s not statistically accurate. Based on prior simulations—”

“You’ve never trained with me.”

That shut him up.

You tapped the datapad clipped to your vambrace. The lights above the course flickered, then shifted into high combat mode: glowing red paths, electro-shock floor panels, moving cover drones. Classic Kaminoan pain-incentive setup.

“Go.”

They started strong.

For about ten seconds.

Wrecker sprinted ahead, yelling with excitement. Crosshair peeled off the opposite direction to scale a sniper’s perch. Tech got stuck trying to reprogram a drone instead of just ducking it. Hunter tried to follow all three at once.

You watched them scatter like tooka kittens in a thunderstorm.

Ten seconds later, Wrecker tripped the wrong pad, got zapped, and fell face-first into a stun-net. Tech shouted that the floor traps were “unnecessarily cruel and mathematically imprecise!” Crosshair missed his target and cursed in Mando’a.

Hunter tried to regroup them—then gave up and just tackled Wrecker out of the next shock zone.

By the time the buzzer sounded, they were panting, tangled in netting, and one of them was smoldering slightly.

You pressed a button.

“Time: three minutes, forty-two seconds,” the speaker droned.

They groaned in unison.

“That was humiliating,” Crosshair muttered.

“You’re welcome,” you said.

Hunter sat up, wiping sweat from his neck. “That floor trap was a bad call.”

“You think the battlefield cares about your opinions?”

“Do you?” he shot back, eyes narrowed.

You crossed your arms. “Not until you earn the right to have one.”

They glared.

You let the moment settle, then walked slowly along their line again.

“You’re strong,” you said. “Individually. Wrecker’s force. Crosshair’s aim. Tech’s intel. Hunter’s instinct.”

You stopped.

“But none of that matters if you can’t move together.”

Tech muttered, “We’re not like the other squads. We were designed for deviation.”

“And I was brought here to turn deviation into discipline,” you snapped. “Because right now? You’re not a squad. You’re four boys playing at being soldiers.”

Wrecker looked down at his boots.

Hunter muttered, “We didn’t ask to be made.”

You paused.

“That makes two of us.”

Silence.

You stepped back.

“Again.”

Crosshair groaned. “This is punishment.”

“No. This is the job. Again.”

They dragged themselves up. Reset. Got back into position.

They were muttering and bickering the whole time.

Wrecker: “You always go off the left wall, Crosshair, it’s like you want to be electrocuted.”

Crosshair: “At least I don’t run into the traps like a blind nerf.”

Tech: “Statistically, Wrecker’s body mass makes him thirty-two percent more likely to trigger platform sensors.”

Wrecker: “I heard that!”

Hunter: “Shut up, all of you.”

They started again.

And this time?

They almost made it through.

⸻

The Kaminoan mess was quiet at this hour. Too early for the evening meal, too late for the midday crush. Just the whir of air filtration and the soft click of cutlery.

You picked at a tray of greyish protein cubes and kelp broth, wondering how Kaminoans survived on this sludge without going mad.

Across from you sat Kal Skirata—all scowl, scuffed armor, and a flask of caf that might’ve been older than you.

To his left: Walon Vau, somehow even sharper-edged than the vibroblade at his hip, chewing methodically through something that probably used to be meat.

And next to him, arms folded over his chest plate, the Chiss sergeant Wad’e Tay’haai, looking calm and unreadable as ever, his tray untouched.

You leaned back and sighed. “My boys set themselves on fire again this morning.”

Vau raised one pale brow. “Efficient.”

“They weren’t trying to. Wrecker tripped a shock pad, and Tech insisted on reprogramming the drones mid-course. Crosshair ignored all formation calls, and Hunter tried to control them and nearly got himself fried.”

Kal gave a low grunt. “Welcome to clone babysitting.”

“I was told they were elite prototypes,” you said dryly. “Not a swarm of untrained strills.”

“That’s not fair to strills,” Kal muttered. “At least they listen when you shout.”

Wad’e finally spoke. “You’ve got the experimental batch, right? Clone Force 99?”

You nodded. “Physically ten. Behaviorally… seven. Maybe.”

Vau’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I trained Delta Squad. Trust me—emotional maturity is a luxury. Not a prerequisite.”

You smirked. “How are your little darlings these days?”

Vau’s voice was cool. “They stopped biting each other last week. A marked improvement.”

Kal laughed—a real, gritty sound, full of smoke and stress. “Could be worse. Could have the Nulls.”

You gave him a look. “Didn’t you volunteer for them?”

“Didn’t realize I was signing up to raise six borderline-psychotic demigods with abandonment issues,” he grunted. “But here we are.”

“Still keeping them out of the Kaminoans’ labs?”

Kal’s mouth twitched. “Barely.”

Wad’e nodded slowly. “Omega Squad’s not too bad. Steady shooters. Tight unit. Bit too idealistic.”

“Not for long,” Kal said grimly.

You propped your chin on your hand. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That we’re raising an army of children to fight a war that hasn’t even started.”

Vau looked up from his tray. “They’re soldiers.”

“They’re kids.”

Kal’s voice was low. “They don’t get to be kids.”

Wad’e’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Neither did we.”

You didn’t respond to that. You didn’t need to.

All of you were Mandalorians. None of you had grown up soft.

But still—you’d had the choice. They hadn’t.

“They’re not blanks,” you said after a while. “Not clones in a vat. They have personalities. Fears. Pride.”

“They’re men,” Kal said, sipping his caf. “Not product. And if the Kaminoans had their way, they’d never be allowed to think for themselves.”

��They’re learning to,” you said. “Slowly. My batch in particular.”

“Your batch,” Vau echoed with a trace of humor. “You’re already claiming them?”

You shrugged. “They’re mine to train. Someone has to look after them.”

Wad’e gave a slow nod. “It’s not about what they were made to be. It’s about what they choose to be once they know how.”

Kal nodded faintly.

Vau didn’t.

Instead, he asked, “Do they fight like commandos?”

“Not yet,” you said. “But give them time.”

“And what do they fight like now?”

You exhaled. “A room full of mismatched blaster bolts, thrown grenades, and snark.”

Kal grunted. “Sounds like family.”

You cracked a tired smile.

It was strange how this table, with its sharp personalities and clashing philosophies, felt more like home than anywhere else on Kamino.

Stranger still: the thought that maybe you weren’t just training soldiers.

Maybe—just maybe—you were raising brothers.

⸻

Combat Dome Gamma, Tipoca City.

Surveillance Deck 3.

The entire arena was lit in dull crimson — hostile environment simulation. Smoke, variable terrain, motion-sensor mines. Live rounds, non-lethal stun rounds only for team-on-team engagement. Safety protocols were loose.

You stood with arms folded beside the reinforced viewing glass. To your left, Kal Skirata was muttering into a comm. Walon Vau stood like a statue, watching Delta Squad’s movements with a predator’s focus. Wad’e Tay’haai leaned on the console, quietly observant. The four of you didn’t talk much.

Not when the squads were in motion.

Squad 1: Clone Force 99.

Objective: breach and extract the beacon crate.

Secondary objective: survive.

Wrecker was already barreling toward a minefield.

“I gave him a map,” Tech said, voice coming through the dome’s speakers.

“You also told him to follow it,” Crosshair muttered.

Hunter’s reply was flat. “Wrecker, step left.”

Wrecker’s boot pinged on a pressure plate.

“Oh.”

Boom.

You didn’t wince. You’d half expected it.

Kal, watching from beside you, snorted. “That one’s got the tactical awareness of a drunken bantha.”

“They’re unpredictable,” Wad’e murmured.

“Unpredictable gets you killed,” Vau snapped.

“They improvise,” you said.

“They’re reckless.”

“Sometimes it works.”

Below, Delta Squad moved like liquid steel. Boss led, Fixer already disabling perimeter charges. Scorch was grinning under his helmet, making half-serious jokes as he laid cover fire, while Sev disappeared like a wraith into a sniper perch.

“Delta’s sharp,” you said, eyes narrowing. “Too sharp.”

“Good,” Vau said. “Sharp doesn’t bleed.”

In the adjacent sector, Omega Squad was mid-formation. Niner, Darman, Atin, and Fi were communicating in short, tight phrases, clearing room after room in practiced tandem.

Wad’e nodded. “They move well. Fi’s the wildcard, but Niner reins them in.”

“They’re textbook,” Kal said. “I trained ‘em before Wad’e took over. That foundation matters.”

You didn’t reply — not right away.

Because the Nulls had entered the field.

Mereel vaulted a wall he didn’t need to. Ordo was stalking a Delta trooper like a Nexu in a zoo. Kom’rk and Prudii circled the flank, while Jaing outright vanished. A’den — unassigned, but always lurking — was likely overriding the dome’s security system for fun.

They weren’t following formation.

They weren’t communicating.

They were winning anyway.

“Your psychopaths are off-leash again,” you muttered to Kal.

“They’re not psychopaths,” he said. “They’re… intense.”

“They rewired the blast doors while blindfolded last week.”

“They said they were bored.”

Down below, Wrecker was throwing an entire barricade. Crosshair swore. Hunter called for a regroup. Tech yelled something about gravitational alignment being “off by three degrees, you lunkhead!”

Meanwhile, Delta slid through the south corridor like a blade. Omega hit their beacon marker first, moving to exfil.

And the Nulls?

Already had their crate.

They’d taken it without alerting the surveillance system.

Wad’e stared. “How—?”

“They hacked the objective script,” Kal said, without an ounce of shame. “Didn’t want to waste time.”

You exhaled. “They’re ten.”

“They’re smarter than half the instructors here.”

You tapped into the internal comm and barked: “Hunter. You’re twenty seconds out. Move.”

Hunter’s voice returned, breathless. “We’ve got incoming—Nulls tagged the objective and bounced. Crosshair’s out of position, Wrecker’s in a hole, Tech’s rebooting the scanner—”

You swore in Mando’a.

Kal smirked.

Tech’s voice crackled: “There was a logic flaw in the floor protocol code, to be fair—”

“Tech, shut up and move.”

Omega Squad was already exfiltrating, Fi cracking a joke about Nulls having “cheated at life.” Delta filed out clean, silent as shadows.

Your squad was last.

They dragged their crate back across the threshold — burnt, bruised, and limping. Wrecker was covered in soot. Crosshair had a scorched pauldron. Tech was muttering math under his breath, and Hunter looked like he wanted to disappear.

They were a mess.

But you leaned toward the mic, keyed into their private channel, and said, quietly:

“…You still finished.”

There was silence.

Then Hunter replied, “…Barely.”

“You’re not Delta,” you said. “You’re not Omega. And you sure as hell aren’t Nulls.”

They didn’t reply.

You finished, “You’re something else. And we’ll find out what.”

Kal watched you as you stepped back from the console.

“You really believe in them?” he asked.

You glanced down through the glass.

Crosshair was flicking soot off his gloves like he hadn’t just nearly been exploded. Wrecker was talking with his mouth full of protein bar, again. Tech was lecturing no one in particular. And Hunter… looked up toward the dome. Toward you.

Just for a second.

You nodded once.

“They’re rough,” you said. “Undisciplined. Argumentative. They don’t fit.”

Vau snorted. “Then they’ll die first.”

“Or,” you said, “they’ll outlive us all.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[kezdispenser]

Cuddling Isn’t in the Goddamn Manual

A Soldier Boy Christmas one shot

The snowstorm outside coated the city in a perfect winter wonderland. Streetlights cast a soft glow over the white-blanketed streets, and your apartment felt like a cozy little bubble insulated from the cold chaos beyond. The Christmas tree in the corner glimmered with fairy lights, and the smell of cinnamon cookies mixed with the faint aroma of the hot chocolate you’d just poured for yourself.

Ben—better known to the world as Soldier Boy—was slouched on your couch in full “tough guy” mode. His leather jacket was still zipped halfway up, his boots propped carelessly on the coffee table, and his beer dangling loosely in one hand. The perfect picture of a man who thought he was too cool for comfort.

“You know,” you said as you walked in and set your mug down on the side table, “you could at least take off your jacket and pretend to enjoy yourself. It’s Christmas Eve.”

He didn’t even glance at you, eyes fixed on the TV where some black-and-white holiday classic was playing. “Jacket stays on. Gotta stay ready for action.”

You snorted, flopping down onto the couch beside him. “What action? The reindeer uprising?”

That earned you a side-eye and a faint smirk, but he didn’t dignify it with a response.

“Anyway,” you continued, nudging his knee with your foot, “I was thinking we could cuddle for a bit. You know, really lean into the festive spirit.”

Ben’s laugh was loud and derisive, the kind of laugh that made it clear he thought you’d lost your damn mind. “Cuddling? You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be kidding? It’s Christmas! It’s cold! I’m cute!”

“Yeah, well, cuddling’s not exactly my thing,” he said, taking a swig of his beer. “Not manly. Never has been.”

“Oh, please,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re telling me the guy who once hugged a flamethrower like it was his long-lost lover can’t handle a little cuddle?”

“That was different,” he said defensively.

“Uh-huh. Sure it was.” You leaned back dramatically, letting out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Fine. Guess I’ll just have to cuddle myself. Or, I don’t know, maybe the throw pillows. They’re softer than you, anyway.”

He scowled, his jaw tightening in that familiar way that meant you were getting under his skin. You knew him too well; you could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his hand stilled on his beer bottle.

“You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, scooting a little closer to him. “Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Just one night, Ben. One tiny cuddle. No one’s gonna know, and I promise not to tell anyone you’re secretly a big teddy bear under all that macho posturing.”

He gave you a flat look. “I am not a teddy bear.”

“Sure you’re not,” you teased, poking his arm.

For a moment, you thought he was going to dig in his heels and keep up the act. But then he groaned, setting his beer down on the coffee table with a thud. “Fine. One night. But if you so much as think about telling anyone, I’m gone.”

Your grin was instantaneous and shameless. “Deal.”

Before he could change his mind, you crawled into his lap, making yourself comfortable as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He stiffened at first, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, but you weren’t worried.

“Relax,” you murmured, resting your head against his chest. “It’s not gonna kill you.”

“You don’t know that,” he muttered, though his hands slowly settled on your back.

You couldn’t help but smile as you felt him relax, his body softening against yours despite his grumbling. He was warm, solid, and oddly comforting in a way that didn’t match the image he projected to the world.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said after a while, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

“Of course not,” you said, biting back a laugh. “Just a totally meaningless Christmas cuddle.”

“Damn right.”

The movie played on in the background, the faint sound of holiday music filtering in from the street below. You closed your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. His hand started tracing slow circles on your back, and you smiled to yourself.

“Hey,” he said after a while, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Merry Christmas, doll.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, your smile widening. “Merry Christmas, Ben.”

And for that one night, Soldier Boy let himself be a little less soldier and a little more boy.

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

A/N: A little christmas miracle from soldier boy and from me to you guys.

[decayed-cartilage]

The Intern

Masterlist PT 3

Hannibal Lecter x AFAB! Reader

Warnings for chapter: power dynamic? Mentions of being turned on by blood.. creepy! Hannibal, Morally wrong! Hannibal

Synopsis: Y/N is on the brink of graduation, with just one requirement left—an internship. Somehow, she finds herself under the esteemed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a man as brilliant as he is unreadable. Cold, precise, and impossible to rattle, he keeps his thoughts well-guarded. But Y/N can’t help her curiosity—she wants to understand him, to get beneath the surface. And whether he intends to or not, bit by bit, he lets something slip. Something darker. Something she might not be ready to see.

Third person

Hannibal kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the gear shift as the car glided down the dimly lit road. The steady rhythm of the rain against the windshield filled the silence between you, interrupted only by the soft hum of classical music playing in the background. He had picked the piece deliberately—something gentle, something that made the quiet feel less heavy.

He glanced over at you briefly. You were staring out the window, arms tucked close to your body, your fingers toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You hadn’t spoken much since getting in the car, and while Hannibal wasn’t one for idle chatter, he noticed the shift in your demeanor.

“You’re quiet,” he remarked, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of an unspoken question.

You hesitated before answering. “Just thinking.”

He hummed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “About anything in particular?”

You shrugged, but he didn’t press. Instead, he let the quiet settle again, filling the space between you with something unspoken yet understood. He was patient. He knew, eventually, you’d say what was on your mind. And until then, he was content to let the ride continue just like this—calm, measured, and entirely under his control.

If she had been completely honest with him, she would have burst into tears right then and there, her breath hitching as sobs wracked her chest. “I totally messed up my first shot at meeting you!” she would have wailed, shaking her head in frustration, her nose running, hiccuping just like she did when she flew over her handlebars as a child. But she wouldn’t tell him any of that—no, that would be far too humiliating. She had already embarrassed herself enough tonight, enough to haunt her in the middle of the night for years to come.

Instead, she sat in her tears, staring out the window as the passing streetlights cast flickering shadows across her lap. Her jaw clenched, and she realized she had been chewing the inside of her cheek raw—only noticing when the sharp sting of broken skin met the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. She swallowed it down, pressing her lips together, willing herself to be still, to be composed.

The car was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional, almost imperceptible glance she felt from him. He hadn’t spoken since they got in, and the weight of his silence pressed down on her more than any words ever could.

She pressed her lips together, the sharp sting of torn skin making her eyes sting with unshed frustration. The coppery taste of blood pooled on her tongue, thick and warm, and she swallowed hard, trying to ignore it. But it wouldn’t stop.

Instinctively, she lifted her sleeve and rubbed her mouth against the fabric, hoping to wipe away the evidence before he noticed. The moment her jacket touched her lips, a deeper pain flared, and she pulled back slightly—only to see the deep, wet stain blooming across the fabric. Blood. A lot of it. It smeared against the worn material, dark and vivid under the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

She inhaled sharply, pressing her sleeve harder against her mouth, trying to will it to stop. But the more she moved, the more it seemed to spread, the warmth seeping through, reminding her of her own pathetic lack of control. She kept her head turned away, her fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline, hoping he wouldn’t see, hoping he wouldn’t say anything. But the weight of his gaze was unmistakable.

Third person (Hannibal)

Hannibal's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he spoke, his voice smooth yet edged with quiet disapproval.

"Must you insist on devouring yourself, my dear? There are far more refined ways to endure discomfort."

He watched as the crimson seeped into the fabric of her sleeve, the scent faint yet unmistakable. Coppery, warm—fresh. His eyes lingered on the curve of her mouth, where the wound still wept, painting her lips in a shade he found almost… delectable.

He imagined the taste, rich and metallic, the way it would linger on his tongue. How easily he could brush his thumb against her chin, collect the stray droplets, and bring them to his lips in an unspoken indulgence.

But he simply watched, his expression unreadable, hands resting calmly on the wheel

His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the steering wheel, a fleeting pulse of restraint. He could hear her shallow breaths, see the way her tongue flicked out instinctively, as if trying to rid herself of the taste—unaware of how it only deepened his fascination.

It would be so easy to reach over, to tilt her chin up and inspect the wound with a touch too gentle to be questioned. To press the pad of his thumb against her trembling lip, gathering the warmth of her blood before slipping it past his own.

The thought was intoxicating.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, controlled, his gaze flickering back to the road. "You should be more careful," he murmured, his voice smooth, but laced with something deeper, but you didn't understand.

The car ride remained steeped in silence, thick with unspoken words. When they finally pulled up to her dorm, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement, he stepped out first. Ever the gentleman.

She hesitated before following, her legs stiff from the tension coiled in her body. He was already at her side, a hand resting lightly against her back—not pushing, merely guiding.

At her door, she fumbled for her key, but he plucked it from her fingers with effortless ease, unlocking it for her. "Rest," he murmured, eyes lingering on the faint stain of blood still at the corner of her mouth. "And do try not to bite yourself again."

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then, just like that, he was gone, leaving her standing in the doorway, heart pounding against her ribs.

10:00 PM

Later that night, tangled in her sheets, Y/N stared at the ceiling, her mind an endless reel of the evening’s events. Every glance, every word, every lingering silence replayed in excruciating detail. She turned onto her side, pressing her cheek against the pillow, but the restless energy in her bones refused to settle.

Then, her phone buzzed.

She hesitated before reaching for it, heart stuttering as she read the message glowing on the screen:

"I look forward to our next meeting, Mrs. Y/N. I hope you’re more prepared, because your first day will be Monday. I assure you, you’ll be ready."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. His words—so composed, so deliberate—sent a slow shiver down her spine. It wasn’t a threat. No, it was something far more unsettling. A promise.

She fumbled with her phone, her small hands unsteady as she typed out a response, her tired, crinkled eyes struggling to stay open.

"Of course, sir. Thank you again for helping me today."

The message sent before she could overthink it, but the weight in her chest didn’t lift. Instead, it settled deeper. She let the phone slip from her grasp onto the sheets, staring at the faint glow of the screen until it dimmed into darkness.

Would he respond? Did he expect more?

Her thumb hovered over the screen, considering another message, something to soften the stiffness of her words. But no—anything more would feel like too much. She had already said enough. Or had she?

With a quiet sigh, she curled deeper into the covers, yet sleep felt impossibly far away.

–monday morning-

(first person- Y/n)

I woke up early, my nerves already buzzing like static in my chest. I stumbled into the shower, scrubbing at my skin as if I could wash away my anxiety. At one point, I might have lightly banged my head against the wall, muttering to myself, “Get it together.” Once out, I quickly reached for my anxiety meds, swallowing the small tablets with a gulp of water, trying to convince myself they’d kick in soon.

Getting dressed felt like a mission. Standing in front of the mirror, I buttoned up my black blouse, smoothing it down with shaky hands. The fabric felt snug but soft, hugging just enough to make me feel a little more confident. I adjusted the puffed sleeves, making sure they didn’t look weird on my shoulders.

Next was the skirt. I pulled on the high-waisted plaid piece, its deep burgundy and black pattern catching the light. It fell just below my knees, swishing lightly as I turned from side to side. I couldn’t resist a little spin, the kind that made me smile despite myself.

I sat on the edge of my bed to pull on my tights, carefully sliding them up over my legs. They were smooth and snug, a small comfort in my otherwise jittery state. Then came the shoes—classic black heels. I slipped them on, standing a little taller and clicking them softly on the floor, testing how they felt.

I finished with my hair, brushing and fixing it until it looked just right. Standing in front of the mirror again, I gave myself a small, encouraging smile. “You’ve got this,” I whispered. But my stomach churned anyway, excitement and nerves battling for control as I tried to convince myself I was ready.

I got to his office fifteen minutes early, heart pounding in my chest the whole way there. I’d left home ridiculously early, walking so fast that I’d nearly run in some stretches. At one point, I’d tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, stumbling forward and almost face-planting onto the pavement. My tights snagged in the process—a small tear just above my knee. I stopped for a second, groaning quietly to myself as I tried to smooth the ruined spot. For a moment, I thought about turning back to change, but I shook my head. No time. It’s fine, I told myself. It’s still a good day. I brushed off my skirt and kept going, determined to stay on track.

On the way, I passed a little coffee shop and impulsively ducked in. It felt like the right thing to do—to bring something. I ordered a black coffee for him, figuring it was the safest bet, and treated myself to a sweet iced coffee, my usual when I needed something to calm me down. Carrying the drink carrier in one hand and clutching my bag of books and papers with the other, I made the rest of the walk as carefully as I could. I wasn’t about to risk another mishap.

Now, I stood outside his office door, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My mind wouldn’t stop racing. What if bringing coffee was weird? Would he think it was too much? I stared down at the carrier in my hand, half wishing I could just disappear with it. The snag in my tights suddenly felt like it was glowing neon, and my bag felt like it was digging into my shoulder.

I glanced at the hallway clock. Fifteen minutes early. Perfect, but now I had nothing to do but wait. I sighed, smoothing down my skirt and fidgeting with my sleeve. My palms felt clammy as I adjusted the drink carrier again, the ice in my coffee making soft clinking noises. My nerves were buzzing, but under it all, there was a flicker of excitement. This was important, and I wanted to get it right. I took a deep breath, standing up straighter. I could do this.

Just as I was about to knock, the door suddenly opened, catching me off guard. My heart skipped a beat, and before I could stop myself, a bright smile spread across my face. “Oh! Hello, sir!” I chirped, my voice a little higher than usual from the rush of nerves. Even in my heels, I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze, feeling both tiny and a little starstruck in his presence.

Hannibal's gaze swept over me, his expression unreadable yet calculated, as always. "Good morning, Miss Y/N," he said smoothly, his voice rich and deliberate. His eyes flickered briefly to the coffee I held before returning to my face. "I see you're already proving to be quite... prepared. Please, come in." He stepped aside, gesturing with a subtle motion of his hand, his calm demeanor only amplifying the fluttering in my chest.

“Of course, I'm very ready for today” I said back, holding the coffee in my hands, “I got this for you- to pay you back”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the cup of coffee you extended toward him, a subtle arch of his brow betraying his surprise. "You brought this for me?" he asked, his voice smooth, with an edge of curiosity. He took the cup from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

He examined the cup for a moment, as though assessing the gesture itself before his gaze returned to you. "Thoughtful," he remarked softly, the faintest hint of approval coloring his tone. "Black, I assume? You remembered."

Taking a measured sip, he nodded slightly, his expression unreadable but composed. "A kind gesture," he said, his eyes lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. "Though I do hope you don’t make a habit of trying to charm your superiors." There was a flicker of amusement in his tone, but his gaze was as penetrating as ever.

I bit my toungue, how could he make me feel like such a fool?

“I understand”

Hannibal studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, though the slight tilt of his head suggested amusement. He took another slow sip of his coffee before responding.

"Do you?" His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was something pointed beneath the surface. "Understanding requires more than simple agreement, Miss Y/n."

His gaze lingered, watching the way you pressed your lips together, the faintest tension in your posture betraying your embarrassment. He relished these small reactions, the unspoken signs of your internal struggle.

With a small, knowing smile, he turned, gesturing for you to follow. "Come inside. We wouldn't want your efforts to go to waste, now would we?"

And so the day dragged on—me trying my best to be kind, polite, and professional, while Hannibal effortlessly twisted my every word and action into something desperate, as if my sole purpose was to vie for his attention. No matter how carefully I spoke, how composed I tried to be, he found a way to unravel it, to make me question myself. At a certain point, I simply fell silent, too drained to push back, too tired of his remarks that chipped away at my confidence. It was as if he took quiet pleasure in dismantling my happiness, piece by piece.

-

Hannibal noticed my shift instantly. His sharp eyes flicked over me, taking in the way my shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way my responses had grown quieter, more measured. A small, knowing smile played at his lips, as if he were savoring the moment.

"Ah," he murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused. "Have I exhausted you already?"

"No, sir," I replied smoothly, offering him a sweet smile. "I just believe what you have to say is far more important. I'd rather listen." My doe-like eyes met his, unwavering, feigning innocence as I masked the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Hannibal’s gaze never wavered as he reached into his desk drawer, retrieving a neatly bound document. With practiced ease, he slid it across the polished wood toward me, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“This,” he said smoothly, tapping a single finger against the top page, “outlines the expectations of your internship—confidentiality, conduct, and, of course, discretion.” His voice was calm, measured, yet something in his tone made my stomach tighten.

I glanced down at the papers, my fingers hesitating before picking them up. The weight of it felt heavier than it should, the words on the first page blurring slightly as I tried to steady my nerves.

“You’ll find everything in order,” he continued, watching me carefully. “Standard procedure, though I do suggest reading it thoroughly before signing.”

I swallowed, forcing a nod as I scanned the elegant, precise wording. Every clause felt… binding. Absolute. As if, once my name graced the dotted line, there would be no turning back.

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Take your time,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want you to agree to something you aren’t prepared for.”

His words were gentle, but the implication beneath them made my pulse quicken. Was this just formality? Or was this his way of ensuring I knew exactly what I was walking into?

I flicked through the pages, my eyes skimming over the dense text filled with elaborate phrasing and legal jargon. The weight of his gaze pressed against me, unyielding, as I pretended to absorb the meaning behind the carefully chosen words. But really, what choice did I have?

Gripping the pen, I signed my name in smooth, hurried strokes, the ink drying far too quickly for me to take it back. I set the pen down with a soft click, exhaling as I slid the document back toward him.

Hannibal took it without a word, his fingers brushing over my signature in a way that sent a chill up my spine. His lips curled ever so slightly, the barest hint of approval flickering across his expression.

"That was rather swift," he mused, folding the papers neatly. "I do hope you’re confident in your decision, Miss Y/N."

I swallowed, my smile unwavering. "Of course, sir."

But somehow, I had the sinking feeling that I had just signed away more than I realized.

Third person (Hannibal)

Hannibal watched as her delicate fingers traced over the pages, her eyes flickering across the dense text with feigned comprehension. She was nervous—he could see it in the way she chewed the inside of her cheek, the way her grip on the pen wavered just slightly before she pressed the tip to the paper. But she signed nonetheless.

So eager. So trusting.

A slow, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips as he retrieved the contract, his fingers brushing over the fresh ink of her name. She had signed away more than just an internship. The pages before him bound her in ways she had yet to understand. Clauses of confidentiality, restrictions on personal conduct, unspoken expectations woven between the lines—she was his now, whether she realized it or not.

Her naiveness amused him. She had rushed, eager to please, to prove herself worthy of his time and attention. He wondered if she even considered the consequences, if she felt the web tightening around her.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded her with quiet amusement, his fingers tapping lightly against the crisp edges of the document.

"That was rather swift," he murmured, watching for any sign of hesitation.

She only smiled, bright and unassuming. "Of course, sir."

Hannibal tilted his head, studying her as one might a piece of art—an unfinished work, waiting to be shaped, refined.

Yes. She was his now. And soon, she would come to understand exactly what that meant.

She barely looked at the pages, just a quick flick through the dense text before signing her name with an almost eager stroke of the pen. Hannibal watched, his expression unreadable, though his amusement simmered just beneath the surface. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just blind trust—or perhaps desperation to please.

She had no idea what she’d just agreed to.

Buried beneath the formalities and legal babble were carefully placed clauses—ones that granted him authority over her role, over her time, over her in ways she wouldn’t realize until it was far too late. She hadn’t questioned the phrasing, hadn’t paused at the implications. A single signature, and she had placed herself neatly under his control.

He took the papers back smoothly, sliding them into his folder with a quiet rustle, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Then, he looked at her, eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"That was rather quick," he remarked, voice light, almost teasing. "Are you always so trusting, or is it just me?"

He leaned back slightly, watching her closely. She wouldn’t realize it now. Not yet. But eventually, the weight of what she’d done would sink in. And when it did, he would be there to witness every moment of understanding dawn in those wide, unsuspecting eyes.

A/N: I KNOW this is like filler, but I need set up for my story 💔 don't take me as some whore who writes porn no plot,,,,, it's just all i read 😢

Also if you have any suggestions for ANY one shots,,,, PLSSS LMK. So I have a reason to double post ofc

[tickle-headcanons]

vee version 1 hcs please! :D

(Ok sure, this is actually my first woman request (well not really, but the person did ask in....a not comfortable manner, but anyways))

💻 Vee Tickle Headcanons 💻

General

Total switch, but verrrry reluctant Lee — she acts like it’s “childish nonsense,” but just one poke and her composure is gone

Worst spots? Her hips, underarms, and the back of her knees — her screen glitches and flickers if you get her good 😳

Her laugh is this super rare, glitchy giggle that sounds like pixelated static mixed with a robotic snort — she tries so hard to keep it in

Absolutely hates showing vulnerability but tickles short-circuit her sass mode almost instantly

If you tease her too much, she’ll say things like: “You’re wasting valuable time, you know… y-yOU RIDICULOUS—!! PFF–!!”

Secretly enjoys it when she gets overwhelmed and someone just gently teases the stress out of her… but good luck getting her to admit it 💅

💚 Lee!Vee 💚

She goes feral trying to hide how ticklish she is — stiff limbs, deadpan denial, but the moment you touch her ribs: “I-I don’t see how this is—EEP!! D-Don’t!!”

Tries to glitch away like she’s rebooting mid-panic but just ends up shorting out and curling into a giggly mess

Will absolutely claim she’s “fine” while tears are streaming down her screen from laughing too hard

If you fluster her too much, she might pretend to crash just to get you to stop — classic screen freeze bluff 😂

Astro is maybe the only one who can get away with surprise tickles without her holding a grudge (…for too long)

Afterward? She’s all huffy and disheveled, muttering “Unacceptable behavior. You’re on my list.” (but she’s smiling a tiny bit)

🖱️ Ler!Vee 🖱️

Ruthlessly efficient Ler — she treats it like a strategy game: find the spot, exploit the weakness, win the match

Doesn’t need to move much — she’ll poke a spot, watch you jump, then raise an eyebrow like: “Fascinating. I’ll make note of that.” 😈

Deadpan teasing QUEEN.

“You said you weren’t ticklish, right? So this shouldn’t bother you at all…~”

“Oh, is this too much? You could always surrender~”

Very calculated about where and how she tickles — like she’s solving a puzzle with your laughter as the reward

That being said, if you really start laughing hard, she softens a little — she won’t admit it, but your happiness makes her happy too 🥹

Will awkwardly brush your hair back after and mutter something like “...You were surprisingly tolerable during that.” (aka “I care about you” in Vee-speak)

[500daysofpoppy]

THE MISSION WAS YOU

Chapter 2: Pretending, almost

Warnings!: no new warnings from the previous chapters.

———————————————————

The gala was already in full swing by the time you arrived—warm light spilling from crystal chandeliers, the murmur of money and power clinking against champagne flutes. Strings played something delicate, elegant. Forgettable.

You paused near the top of the grand staircase, scanning the crowd, your fingers grazing the curve of the dark red velvet dress they’d chosen for you. It was tight, deliberate. Not your usual. But tonight wasn’t about you.

It was about the man with too much blood on his hands and the wrong people in his pocket.

And the woman now standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at you like you were a problem she hadn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.

Ellie was in a suit, sharp and classic. Black with a subtle charcoal pattern, no tie. Her hair was slicked back, but not too polished—like she’d done just enough to pass for refined, and not a second more.

When your eyes met, she didn’t smile. She just blinked once, slow. Calculating. Then:

“Nice dress,” she said as you stepped down, voice low. “Was the plan to distract everyone or just me?”

You smiled, faint and practiced. “That depends. Are you distracted?”

Ellie’s gaze lingered—just a second longer than it needed to. “I’ll manage.”

“Shame,” you said lightly, linking your arm with hers. “You look like someone who could use a little distraction.”

She didn’t look at you. “And you look like someone who enjoys being watched.”

“I am wearing velvet,” you said, feigning a sigh. “It would be rude not to appreciate the effort.”

“I’m appreciating it,” she murmured. “I’m just not drooling about it.”

You smirked, letting her guide you into the crowd, bodies brushing close. “Control issues. How very… on brand.”

Ellie’s jaw ticked, but her voice stayed even. “You talk a lot when you’re nervous.”

“I talk a lot when I’m bored.”

“Same thing.”

You didn’t reply right away, letting the silence stretch between you like a wire waiting to snap. Around you, the ballroom glittered with half-truths and threats dressed as conversation. But you weren’t watching them. Not really.

“You clean up well,” you said finally, quiet enough only she could hear. “Didn’t think the bulletproof bad girl could pull off ‘brooding gentleman.’”

Ellie’s lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

She looked at you then—really looked. And something flickered behind her eyes. Not quite anger, not quite interest. Something you couldn’t name yet.

But it was there.

“Target’s at your eleven,” she said, voice dropping into mission-mode. “By the fireplace. Gray suit, no tie, eyes on the senator’s daughter.”

You turned just enough to glimpse him, letting your smile return.

“I’ll take first contact,” you said, already loosening your grip on her arm.

Ellie didn’t stop you, but her voice caught you just before you stepped away.

“Try not to fall in love with him,” she said flatly.

You glanced back, one brow raised. “Jealous?”

She didn’t blink. “No. Just wouldn’t want your aim to get shaky.”

The tension hummed between you. Controlled. Contained. Not safe.

“Don’t worry,” you said, walking away. “I only miss when I mean to.”

And as you slipped into the crowd, you swore you felt her eyes still on you—watching. Waiting.”

A/N: Hey guys! i have no idea if anyone will read this but im enjoying writing it! i’ve had these in my drafts for so long and thought i’d edit and finally publish them! if anyone wants to be in the taglist lmk 😔 ALSO IT WONT LET ME PASTE MY FONT!!!!? So it looks a bit weird but ignore it pls ya x

[belit0]

pt 2 to house chores (sorry i hit send too soon 🫣)

would they be all "challenge accepted i got this" or "fuck no im hiring someone 4 that"

Modern Mafia AU for the rest of these idiots because it's fun to involve technology

Indra – the sink disaster

The pipe under the kitchen sink bursts.

Water starts pooling beneath the cabinets.

Ivy’s away, the twins are yelling about a water war, and Ame is walking around barefoot.

Indra walks in, eyes narrowing.

-Move aside.

He rolls his sleeves up and ducks under the sink like a war general surveying the field.

Tools are already in his hand.

He doesn’t complain.

He doesn’t sigh.

He just fixes it.

Fifteen minutes later, the pipe is sealed with surgical precision, the cabinet is wiped dry, and the twins have been sent to mop the rest of the floor as punishment for “encouraging chaos.”

As he tightens the final screw, Raizen lingers in the doorway.

-You should've called someone. That's not your job.

-Everything in this house is my job.- Indra mutters, wiping his hands on a towel.

He doesn’t say it, but Ivy’s kitchen is sacred.

If it breaks, he fixes it.

Period.

Obito – Yard War

Obito’s house has a small backyard.

He rarely uses it—until the HOA sends him a passive-aggressive letter: “Weeds over regulation height. Please address.”

-The hell is a regulation weed?

He tries to mow the lawn with an ancient, rusting lawnmower he finds in the shed.

It sputters once.

Twice.

Dies.

-Fine. Fuck you too.

He attacks the weeds with a kitchen knife, a beer in his other hand.

Neighbors peek over fences.

A child cries somewhere.

Obito ends up shirtless, covered in grass, dirt on his face, declaring war on a particularly stubborn dandelion.

He does finish the job, but only out of spite.

The yard is lopsided.

Half the grass is dead.

He proudly takes a picture and sends it to the HOA anyway, middle finger up.

Two days later, a landscaper shows up.

-Courtesy of your neighbor, Uchiha Itachi,- the man says.

Obito doesn’t speak to Itachi for a week.

Shisui – closet crisis

Shisui’s house is minimalist on the outside, but inside it's a curated mess of clothes.

He’s good-looking and knows it, with a walk-in closet full of statement pieces.

The problem?

The closet rail holding all his jackets collapses with a loud crack at 7 a.m.

-No, no, no, no, no…- he mutters, staring at a mountain of black and leather on the floor.

He squats beside it like he’s at a funeral.

Instead of calling someone, he decides he’s got this.

Shisui goes full DIY mode—YouTube tutorials, power drill, motivational playlist.

He wears sunglasses indoors while fixing it.

At some point he ends up shirtless, holding the drill wrong, FaceTiming Itachi just to show him the screw he finally got in.

-That’s the wrong wall, cousin.

He stares.

-...That explains the breeze.

Three holes later, he gives up and calls the professional.

But insists on finishing the closet lighting himself.

It flickers every time you open the door, like a nightclub.

He likes it that way.

Itachi – tech meltdown

Itachi’s house is sleek. Immaculate.

Every device is smart—lights, thermostat, security, even the coffee machine.

Until the system glitches after a storm.

Lights start flickering.

Music plays at random.

The security app keeps telling him someone is at the front door—when no one is.

Itachi stands in the hallway at midnight, illuminated by red emergency LEDs, listening to Alexa whisper, “I'm always watching.”

He doesn’t flinch.

He opens his laptop.

Two hours later, he’s writing code in silence, hoodie on, classical music playing in the background.

Obito would’ve called tech support.

Shisui would’ve thrown the system out the window.

Itachi?

He rewires the entire system, renames the AI, programs it to stop responding to voice commands unless it hears his exact tone.

When the power stabilizes, everything works flawlessly again.

And just for good measure, he adds facial recognition to the front camera.

Shisui tries to prank him the next week.

The door won’t open.

[donatellarose]

— by daylight

Albert Wesker x f!reader

rated e - 890 words

tags: STARS captain Wesker is your fiancee, reader is a civilian, brief mention of injuries and zombie infections,

prompt: DBD and the 2v8: Resident Evil has given me the most chaotic moments and I just want to keep this game mode forever. Wesker and his three dashes is disgusting but I love that silly man with his new outfit. love, a Jill Valentine main.

dividers: saradika graphics

Another day at RPD where you have to repair generators to escape while throwing pallets on zombies? Wait, this sounds like a video game...

When your fiancee was the Captain of an elite Special Tactics and Rescue Service team, you took it upon yourself to help in any way possible. It could be anything from helping Wesker organize his paperwork or just keeping him company on any late nights in the office. Today, you decided to surprise the entire squad with donuts from Moons. A reward for coming in early to help research an upcoming case. You remembered everyone's favorite type, how else would you make an early morning call time acceptable. Jill preferred Strawberry, Chris liked Peanut Butter Cup and Barry always picked a classic Glazed.

You sat in Wesker's office, one hand tracing patterns on his shoulder. As if on cue, he held up his own Raspberry donut for you to take a bite. A soft laugh escaped your lips as you hummed appreciatively. After taking a small bite and stealing a sip of his black coffee to wash it down, you move forward to press a kiss to his cheek. Just as you lean forward, the lights suddenly flicker out and you kissed the shell of his ear instead. His strong arms wrap around your waist to steady you as the backup lights turn on. His sharp gaze marks the unspoken question in your eyes.

"The power is out again. That's why the city installed generators around the station. Power has been spotty for the past six months. We'll need to repair them all to get everything running again."

He rises quickly and you follow him out into the main part of the S.T.A.R.S office. Wesker quickly hands out orders, sending Jill to the West wing and Chris to the East while Barry is to head to the central main lobby. They depart immediately while Wesker lightly tugs your hand.

"We're going elsewhere. It'll be safer and we can work on the gen outside. I promise, it'll be fixed by daylight."

"You do know I'm not a mechanic? I work in data analysis."

You can't wipe the confusion from your face as he guides you through the library, his hand a firm presence on your lower back. Wesker is about to reply when a crash from one of the bookshelves catches his attention.

"Stay here. I'll check it out."

You watch his form retreat behind one of the looming stacks. He's only out of sight for a few moments when a growling moan makes you freeze. Zombies. One is slowly lumbering down the hall at you, while another has almost materialized out of thin air behind you. The later swipes at you before scratching you.

A startled yelp fills the air as you stagger back, clutching your right arm. Wesker suddenly appears moving almost inhumanly fast. He bounds at you, scooping you up and throwing you over his shoulder before dashing out of the building. As the world flies by, you catch sight of Barry dropping a large wooden pallet on another zombie to stun it.

Wesker sets you down outside the station, quickly working to open a chest nearby. You cough lightly, trying to wipe the infected zombie's grime from your arm.

"Hold still. They have sprays for this now. It will cure the infection."

A cool mist smelling faintly of peppermint and green herbs washes over you. The itching seems to quickly fade away before it ultimately stops as Wesker pulls back. His gaze scans every inch of you before he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Change of plans. You're in charge of medical. I want you safe."

A small red first aide kit is placed in your hands and he guides you to the side of the gate. You glance down in confusion at where he seems to be wanting you to hide.

"Um. Albert? This is a bush?"

You stare at him, your confusion evident even as he urges you to kneel.

"Trust me. You will be safe."

You can only watch from inside the bush as he dashes away to repair the outside generator. 90 seconds later, Wesker sits back on his heels as the completed generator hums smoothly. You can hear the faint clicks of the four other generators coming to life before Jill, Chris and Barry make their way to the exit gate. You pull out the med kit as you spot a cut on Chris' hand. Tending to it, you learn he got it vaulting over a broken window to get away from a zombie.

While Barry opens the exit gate, Wesker is making the rounds and checking on his team while taking report. Even thinking like a Captain when absolute chaos is happening all around him. With a loud blaring alarm, the gate slides open showing the way out. Wesker slides his arm around your waist before flicking his gaze to his team.

"Regroup at the safe house. We'll stock up on ammo then come back to clean house."

Jill, Barry, and Chris all nod before disappearing out the gate. Wesker presses his lips to your temple softly, the smell of blackberry and smoke surrounding you. A scent that feels like home.

"My sweet girl. We're going home. The others can handle it for a bit. I have a brave girl to reward."

"Fine. But next time can I hide in a locker? I have leaves in my hair?"

[swann-song]

daydreaming - part one

summary: a bored librarian has a crush on the cow prince, pierre chavanges. pining and daydreaming about an unreciprocated crush that doesn’t even know she exists.

pierre hasn’t been sleeping, it’s made him even more irritable than usual which isn’t safe for anyone. he had tried the herbal teas, sleep hypnosis videos, counting sheep and now he’s in the library. since he has all the extra time he might as well. he fished out his library card from him teenage years from the back of a drawer, hoping it’s still valid.

the library in droyes was an old building with new shelving, it has awkward opening hours and a nice smell. pierre hadn’t visited in years and took his time strolling through the shelves as the afternoon light filtered in. a russian classic, perfect. nothing could be more sleep inducing. he took his book to the front desk and waited in line, he lifted his head from the book synopsis when he heard your voice.

you were arguing with a pimply teenage boy with a pile of books on the desk. looking up at him from your chair, brows scrunching. you had a frown on your face in an attempt to look intimidating but pierre thought it looked more like a pout. "bring back the other 20 and then you can take these" you snatched the books from the boy, putting them on your trolley, he was about to try again and you snapped, "i should be charging you for all the over drafts, stop pushing your luck" a finger in his face as he sulked out the door. "fucking nerd" pierre heard you mutter under your breath.

*

and then all the sudden, pierre chavanges was in front of you. of all the days, all the times, he decided to visit the library in time to witness you yell at some kid. you had known pierre your whole life, he’s somewhat a local celebrity, with his own nickname and everything, the cow prince. the young farmer had a reputation for being well, great at farming. his herd was the best and happiest, he was responsible, kept to himself and the mysterious air he had made him the perfect subject for speculation, rumours and in your case fantasies. you liked the way he carried himself, the definition in his body. pierre was known to be very knowledgable, strong and a man good at his job is always something you appreciated. the pretty face also helps. his baby blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. he never brushes his hair, even now he looks like he rolled out of bed, but you still like the way it fell around his face, the longer strands have a slight curl to them.

his blue eyes landed on your face as he placed his book on the desk, your eyes rested on his hands with his long fingers more than necessary or polite. you suddenly became hyper aware of how messy your hair is, today you skipped your makeup, are wearing the same sweater as yesterday and still have a scowl on your face. you entered customer service mode to stop yourself spiralling. pierre gave you a soft smile as he handed you his card, "sorry about that" you said just to say something. pierre smiled again, this time with a twinkle in his eyes. now looking at his library card, you paused, it’s ancient. you told him you are going to take a minute to update his card, he told you he’s in no rush and you tried to calm down enough to remember what to do. pierre's eyes bore into you as you tried to concentrate on the screen, you wanted to fix the hair strands around your face, but doing so would let him know you’d care and you felt mortified.

*

pierre knew you, he just couldn’t place from where. he was sure he’d seen you in the sea of parties, weddings and anniversaries. he has this image of you in his mind, off to the corner, talking to your friends, a flicker of your eyes on him as he walks by. you had big, expressive eyes and soft lips, slightly open as you read the screen. why can’t he remember your name, your hair bouncing as you run past him. now he’s closer to you, he recognises that crisp, fresh perfume and knows he’s walked into a room that you’d been in and looked around for you.

"are you julian’s sister?" he asks you as you work. your eyes turn at him like he’s gone crazy, you lips slid into a smile, holding out your hand and introduce yourself. pierre takes it and apologises, introducing himself as well. "i know" you chuckle. your hands are soft and delicate in his, your manicured nail slightly gracing the back of his hand. he steps back and apologises again. he feels his cheeks flush a little, he’s relieved your turning your back on him to laminate his card, he watched your hands work and notes how pin straight your posture is, taking in the lines of your body. you turn around with a professional smile and hand him his things, he turns, rushing to the door. "bye pierre" he hears your twinkling voice, your hand in the air and waves a hand goodbye to you as he opens the door.

daydreaming masterlist

[thegeekcollective]

y'know call it a hot take and feel free to disagree on this, but i think flicker (the roblox game) drastically improved with the new (at the time) roles update

like i know yall miss the old flicker and im glad that classic mode's an option but i personally think it works SO much better with more evil team members and power roles in general