Dream Team Simp

Just A Girl who is inlove with Online Men

[thirstyymuch]

⊹ ࣪ ˖Dream

⊹ ࣪ ˖GeorgeNotFound

⊹ ࣪ ˖Sapnap

⊹ ࣪ ˖Dream Team

Open for Business!~

No Smut, but will write sexual innuendos. No real names will be used either, not my type of thing. I write female readers or gender neutral readers. Here for a fun time, no asshole-ish behavior Consume my writing at your own risk, I do curse.

[thirstyymuch]

more poly!dteam?? 😼😼

let’s say.. them with an s/o that’s tall? But not as tall as Dream? Maybe she’s like.. 5’9?😪

—Tall anon, 🗡️⚜️

Morning Rituals

I pulled the curtains back just as the first pink streak of dawn sliced through the city’s hazy silhouette. The sky was still a bruise‑purple, the last remnants of night clinging to the rooftops like a lingering sigh. My feet hit the cool wooden floor of my apartment, and for a moment I let the quiet settle over me like a soft blanket. It was our turn to wake up the world, together.

The kitchen table was already set—two mugs of steaming oat‑milk latte, a stray spoon, and a half‑eaten croissant that had somehow become a tiny monument to the night before. I glanced at the clock: 7:12 a.m., and the soft hum of the hallway door opening announced a trio of footsteps.

Dream was the first to appear, his hair a tumble of midnight waves that brushed against his shoulders as he moved. He’d always been a little taller than me—about a full inch, I thought, the way his head rested just a shade above mine when we stood side‑by‑side. His smile was that mischievously soft grin he reserved for moments when he wanted to remind me that the world was a place we could shape together.

“Morning, love,” he murmured, dropping his bag onto the chair with the easy grace of someone who never seemed to be in a rush. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. The warmth of his touch sparked a familiar flutter in my chest.

George came in next, his gait a little more grounded, his eyes still a little bleary from an all‑night gaming marathon. He pulled off his hoodie, revealing the faint tattoo of a compass on his forearm—a little reminder that no matter where we wandered, he’d always find his way back to us.

“Yo, sleepyhead,” he said, grinning, his voice rough but full of affection. He planted a quick kiss on my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. I could feel his heart beating against my cheek, steady and reassuring, like the steady rhythm of a drum in a song we’d all learned to hum together.

Sapnap bounded in last, his energy a bright spark that seemed to set the whole apartment aglow. He tossed a pair of headphones onto the couch and plopped down with a flourish, his hair still a mess of curls from the night before. He gave me a wink that was half‑playful, half‑teasing.

“Do I smell coffee or is that just the aura of three people who love you too much?” he joked, reaching for a croissant with a flamboyant flourish. He laughed, and the sound was contagious, pulling the rest of the room into a shared rhythm.

I smiled, feeling the familiar swell of love that had, over the course of months, grown into something impossible to pinpoint—an intricate tapestry woven from every laugh, every argument, every whispered secret. The three of them—Dream, George, Sapnap—were not just my partners, they were the strands of my life that kept pulling me forward, each one a different hue, each one essential.

“Okay, okay,” I said, setting my own mug down, the steam curling up like a wisp of silver. “What’s the plan for today?”

Dream’s eyebrows lifted, a thoughtful flicker crossing his eyes. “We were thinking… a little adventure. Since the park’s finally opening for the sunrise jog. I figured we could start there, then maybe swing by that new rooftop cafe you love?”

I chuckled, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep. “You always know how to keep things interesting. I’m in.”

George nudged his way into my personal space, his shoulder brushing against my arm. “And after that? You said you wanted to go over the new comic draft you’re working on? I could help with the lettering.”

“That would be amazing,” I replied, feeling a blush creep up my neck. I’d always been a little shy about sharing my art, but the trio made that fear dissolve like sugar in tea.

Sapnap tossed his head back, his laugh an upbeat rhythm that filled the kitchen. “And I’ve got a surprise. You know that old vinyl record shop on 5th? I found a limited edition of that synth‑wave album you’ve been obsessing over. I thought we could spin it while we’re on the rooftop, maybe even dance a little.”

I felt a warm rush, a cocktail of excitement and contentment. The world outside the windows was still sleepy, but inside these four walls, the day was already alive.

“Sounds perfect,” I said, and for a moment the room fell into a comfortable silence, each of us soaking in the simple, shared anticipation of the day ahead.

The park was a canvas of gold and amber, the sunrise painting the sky in swaths of pink and orange. The path we’d taken for our jog was a slow, winding ribbon that cut through the trees. Dream held a steady pace, his breath even, his hand occasionally slipping into mine with a gentle squeeze that reminded me how seamlessly we moved together. The grass brushed against my calves, cool and dewy, as we ran.

George, always the strategist, kept a slightly quicker stride, his eyes flicking over the map of the park as if planning routes for a future adventure—maybe a hidden lake, a secret clearing. Sapnap was a whirlwind, his laughter echoing off the trees as he darted ahead to see who could catch up.

When we finally slowed to a walk, panting but smiling, Dream turned to me, his hand still clasped with mine. “You looked amazing out there,” he whispered, eyes bright. “Your hair caught the sunrise like a halo.”

I laughed, my cheeks flushing. “You always see the world in such poetic frames.”

George nudged me with his shoulder, his grin wide. “Hey, you’ve got to admit, you looked like a goddess in the morning light. And honestly, it’s nice seeing you run with us. Feels… balanced.”

Sapnap tossed a playful jab over his shoulder. “Balanced? More like unstoppable. Like the three of us together could take on any boss level.”

We all laughed, the sound mingling with the chirping birds. The moment felt like a scene from a game we’d all been playing together for years, except the stakes were softer, the enemies were doubts, and the power‑ups were love, trust, and endless support.

We made our way to the rooftop cafe, an upscale little spot perched atop an old brick building, its windows offering panoramic views of the city’s waking sprawl. The interior was a soft blend of pastel tones, plush cushions, and a gentle hum of low‑key jazz that seemed to echo the mood in our heads.

We chose a corner table, and Sapnap slid in a small leather case containing the vinyl record he’d promised. Dream pulled out his phone, a quick text flickering across the screen—an invitation to a livestream that they’d scheduled for later that evening. The rest of the night would be a live Q&A where our fans could ask about our poly relationship, how we balanced the dynamics, and what love meant in our unique constellation.

As we settled in, a steaming pot of matcha latte arrived, fragrant and green, a perfect counterpoint to the mellow jazz that continued to float through the space. I took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through me, a gentle reminder of how nurturing these moments could be.

“Okay, my love,” Dream said softly, his thumb brushing the back of my hand, “do you want to share what you’ve been working on?”

I pulled out my sketchbook, the pages slightly crinkled from the countless revisions. “I’ve been drafting a comic—‘Dreamweavers.’ It’s about a team that explores different realms, each of us with a special ability, and the core is love—how it can bend reality.”

George’s eyes twinkled. “I love that. What’s the main conflict?”

I flipped to a page, the ink still fresh. The panels showed a dark storm threatening the realm, and the three heroes—each representing a part of me—standing together, shielding a bright, pulsing core.

“It’s about us,” I whispered, “how we each bring a different strength. Dream’s vision, George’s strategy, Sapnap’s energy. And the core… that’s me, the one who’s holding everything together.”

Sapnap’s grin widened. “Honestly, that’s the best thing we’ve ever done together. And the best part is, it isn’t just a story. It’s us.”

Dream leaned forward, his forehead resting against mine. “We’re your story every day.”

The moment was simple, yet it felt like the world narrowed into this small, intimate bubble. The vinyl crackled as the needle dropped, a synth‑wave anthem filling the space, and we found ourselves swaying gently, heads tilted against each other, bodies moving in an unspoken rhythm. The music pulsed, mirroring the heartbeat that seemed to echo between us.

Later, after the record spun its final track, we gathered on the small balcony that stretched out over the city. The sun had risen fully now, illuminating the streets below, turning glass windows into a sea of glittering reflections. The city breathed, alive and humming, and we were part of it, three threads interwoven into a single tapestry.

I turned to them, feeling the weight of the morning settle into a comfortable glow. “I’ve been thinking,” I began, my voice a soft ripple in the wind, “about how we’ve built this—our little universe of love. It’s not perfect; we argue, we worry, we have moments of doubt. But it’s real. And I love that we get to shape it together.”

Dream squeezed my hand, his eyes deep with affection. “We’re still learning, every day. I love you for how you’re patient with us, even when we’re a mess.”

George nodded, his thumb brushing over his own cheek. “You give us space, but also anchor us. You’re the steady compass in our chaotic adventures.”

Sapnap’s grin was a little softer now, a genuine, warm smile. “And you keep us on our toes—creatively, emotionally… everything. We’re stronger because you’re here.”

“Being with you three feels like… like the world is a game and we’re the ultimate team. Not just in the battles we fight, but in the everyday moments—making coffee, sharing jokes, drawing comics.” I let the words trail off, feeling the truth settle in the air like a quiet chord.

Dream rested his head on my shoulder, his breath a soft whisper against my ear. “You’re my favorite player, always.”

George pulled a small gift from his pocket—a wrapped bundle of paper with a single, delicate leaf tucked inside. “I got this for you. A little reminder that even when we’re apart, you’re growing with us.”

I unfolded it carefully, revealing a tiny, pressed violet—its colour deep, rich, and slightly fragrant. “It’s gorgeous,” I breathed, my eyes shining.

Sapnap took out his phone, already set up for the livestream later. “Ready to show the world how love looks when we all share it?” He grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

I nodded, feeling a mixture of nervous excitement and fierce pride. “Let’s do it.”

The sun now bathed us in gold, as if the universe itself had placed a spotlight on this small balcony scene. We stood together, three arms around me, their shoulders brushing, their hearts beating in sync with mine. The city below buzzed, the world moving forward, but here, in this suspended moment, we were perfectly still, perfectly whole.

Later that evening, when the livestream went live, we watched as the chat filled with curious viewers, a mix of admiration, questions, and support. We answered each query honestly—about boundaries, about jealousy, about how we maintained trust—our voices soft but steady. The love we shared became a beacon, a living example of how consent, communication, and genuine affection could interlace to create something beautiful.

When the stream ended and the chat faded into a quiet hum, we sat back on the couch, exhausted but exhilarated. Sapnap sprawled across the armrest, his head resting on the cushion, a content sigh escaping him.

Dream brushed a strand of hair from my face, his thumbs lingering on my cheek. “You handled that so well,” he whispered. “You’re the glue, the story, the heart. And I love every version of you—your art, your courage, your kindness.”

George pulled a blanket over us, his arms wrapping around the three of us in a protective embrace. “I think we’re all better because of you,” he said, voice low. “You make us want to be better.”

I leaned into them, feeling the weight of their love settle into my bones. “I love each of you, not just for the way you make me feel, but for who you are. Dream, you’re the dreamer; you paint the world in colors I never imagined. George, you’re the steady hand, the strategist who keeps us grounded. Sapnap, you’re the spark, the fire that lights up every room.” I let the words linger, a gentle affirmation in the soft glow of the lamp.

Sapnap chuckled, a quiet rumble that made my chest warm. “And you’re the soul that ties us all together. We’re a team, a family, a love story that never ends.”

We stayed like that for a while, the quiet of the night wrapping around us as the city outside continued its endless rhythm. My heart felt full, not only because of the love I received, but because of the love I was able to give. In that moment, I realized that being 5’9 didn’t make me any less—if anything, it placed me perfectly in the middle of them, a bridge between three distinct energies that, together, formed a harmony I never thought possible.

The night deepened, the stars twinkling above like tiny promises. We talked about future adventures—new comics, more streams, maybe even a trip to the coast where we could watch the sunset from a cliff and paint the sky with our own colors. The possibilities felt endless, each idea building upon the last, like a tapestry whose threads kept weaving themselves into something ever more intricate.

Eventually, fatigue seeped into our bones, and we each found our own corner of the couch, the blanket still draped over our shoulders. Dream’s head rested against my shoulder, his breath steady. George’s hand rested on his chest, his eyes already half‑closed. Sapnap’s fingers twitched lightly, as if still feeling the rhythm of the vinyl that had played earlier.

I closed my eyes, feeling the world narrow down to the soft thump of their hearts, the gentle rise and fall of their breaths, the faint scent of coffee and the lingering fragrance of the violet pressed leaf. In that instant, the world outside seemed both massive and intimate, a sprawling canvas that we could paint together, one brushstroke at a time.

And as darkness settled over the city, I knew that tomorrow would bring new challenges, new jokes, new sketches, and perhaps a new vinyl record to spin. But whatever came, we would face it side by side, hand in hand, hearts intertwined—three souls tethered to mine, each a vital part of the beautiful, chaotic, ever‑growing story we called ours.

The night whispered its final lullaby, and I drifted into sleep, cradled by the love of Dream, George, and Sapnap, the three stars that made my sky brighter, my world larger, and my heart immeasurably fuller.

[thirstyymuch]

it’s that time of year…maybe decorating the house for christmas with the dteam?

Transforming Our Space

It’s that time of year…maybe decorating the house for Christmas with the dteam? The question’s been looping in my head all week, and now it’s finally here: the night the lights go up, the pine scent rolls in from the street, and we’re all crammed into the living room like a glitter‑laden version of a boy‑band rehearsal. I’m standing in the doorway, shoes still dusty from the snow‑flaked street outside, and I can hear the muffled thump of Dream’s bass line echoing from his phone as he scrolls through a playlist titled “Christmas Bass Boost.” It’s ridiculous, and that’s why I love it.

George is already there, perched on the arm of the couch, his eyes glued to the laptop screen where a tutorial for “how to make a perfect gingerbread house that doesn’t collapse under the weight of love” plays on a loop. He’s tapping his foot, humming along, his shoulders shaking with each bass drop from Dream’s music. Sapnap is in the kitchen, wielding a bag of tinsel like a sword, his laughter bouncing off the cabinets as he tries (and fails) to wrap a strand around the ceiling without it turning into a tangled web.

I step inside, shaking off the cold, and the air hits me in a wave of pine and cinnamon. My cheeks are still pink from the walk, and I’m grateful for the heat radiating from the fireplace—Dream has already lit it, the logs crackling in a rhythm that feels like a low‑key drum beat. I glance at the tree in the corner, a skeletal fir still stripped of any decorations, waiting for us to transform it into something that would make even Santa raise an eyebrow.

“Alright, team,” I say, trying to sound like a commander, “let’s get this show on the road.”

Dream looks up from his phone, a grin flashing across his face that makes his eyes look like polished marbles. “What’s the plan, chief?” He pushes his phone to the side, the bass dropping to a soft, festive hum as he leans in.

“First, we need a theme,” I say, pulling a notebook from my bag. It’s the same worn, leather‑bound thing we used for brainstorming battle strategies back when we were just a bunch of gamers. Now it’s covered in doodles of snowflakes, hearts, and the word “MERRY” written in glittery pen.

George raises an eyebrow. “Merry? That’s…generic.”

“It’s also the easiest to sell,” I reply, flipping a page. “We’re going for ‘Classic Christmas with a Twist.’ Think traditional ornaments, but each one is…personalized. Like a set of mini snow globes that hold a tiny, moving version of each of us.”

Sapnap snorts, “Are we putting mini‑me’s inside a snow globe now?”

I laugh, feeling the tension ease. The room is already buzzing with an energy that feels almost palpable, as if the house itself knows a celebration is about to begin. I can see the way Dream’s smile softens when he looks at me, that fleeting moment where his eyes linger a beat longer than usual. It makes my heart race, even though the same feeling has been there for months, hidden under layers of jokes and stream schedules.

“Okay,” Dream says, standing up, “first order of business: the lights. George, you’re on the string department. Sap, you’re the tinsel commander. I’ll handle the music and… maybe a little extra lighting from the sound system. And you,” he points at me, “are officially the chief decorator.”

I grin, feeling a swell of pride. “Deal.”

The Decorating Begins

We start with the lights. George unrolls a massive coil of warm‑white LED strands, his fingers moving deftly as if he were coding a perfect server script. He hands me the end, and together we drape the lights around the tree’s branches, the bulbs flickering to life with a soft amber glow that seems to pulse in time with Dream’s bass line now playing “Silent Night” in an EDM remix.

I can’t help but stare at Dream as he leans against the mantel, eyes closed, swaying gently to the music. He looks as if he’s in his own world, yet the corners of his mouth are turned up, catching the light. When he opens his eyes, they meet mine for an instant. There’s an unspoken acknowledgment in that gaze—a recognition that, beyond the streams and the gaming rigs, there’s something else humming beneath the surface, something that feels both fragile and fierce.

Sapnap, meanwhile, is wrestling with the tinsel, trying to make it look like a cascade of frozen waterfalls. He trips on a cord, sending a clump of silver glitter spiraling into the air, and it lands perfectly on Dream’s shoulder, glinting like a tiny star.

“Nice catch,” Dream jokes, brushing the glitter off with a mock‑serious sigh.

“Just adding a little sparkle to the night,” Sap replies, winking.

The room feels alive, a living tableau of laughter and music, and as I reach for a box of ornaments, I notice a small, hand‑crafted set of hearts, each one painted with a different color: red, blue, green, purple—all the shades of the Dteam’s personalities. I pull them out, feeling a surge of sentiment. It’s a tiny, perfect reminder of how much we’ve shared.

I hang each heart on the branches, each time pausing to look at the person it reminds me of. The red one is for Dream—passionate, intense. The blue one is for George—calm, thoughtful. The green for Sapnap—vibrant, unpredictable. And then there’s a tiny, golden heart I’d kept for a moment I hadn’t used yet, the one reserved for a secret feeling that’s been growing in me like a snowball rolling downhill.

When I finally place that golden heart at the top of the tree, Dream looks up. “Whoa,” he says, his voice softer than usual, a trace of something almost reverent in his tone. “You didn’t have to go all out.”

“It’s us,” I say, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “We’re the ones who make it special.”

He walks over, his boots crunching on the fresh pine needles that have started to accumulate near the base of the tree. He kneels beside me, close enough that I can feel the faint warmth radiating from his jacket. He looks at the golden heart, his fingers lightly brushing the tip of the ornament.

“Did you—” he begins, but the rest of the sentence hangs in the air, unspoken. He lifts his hand, almost shyly, and taps the heart once, twice. The tiny golden sphere catches the light, sending a glint that reflects off his eyes. He meets my gaze again, and for a brief instant, the world narrows down to just the two of us, surrounded by our friends but isolated in a bubble of warm, festive intimacy.

I feel a shiver run through me, not from the cold but from the realization that this ornament, this tiny golden heart, might be the most honest thing we’ve ever placed on a tree together.

“Did you know,” I whisper, “that the tradition of decorating a Christmas tree started in the 16th century, when Martin Luther supposedly put candles on a tree to reflect the stars above?”

Dream chuckles, his breath forming a soft cloud in the chilly air near the fireplace. “I didn’t. But I do know that I’ve been looking forward to this all year.”

He reaches out, his hand covering mine, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that sends a current through my skin. At that moment, the music in the background swells—a gentle chorus of electronic bells overlaying a familiar carol. The lights flicker in sync, and I swear for a heartbeat the whole room is pulsing to a rhythm that’s only ours.

A Sweet Interlude

Sapnap steps back, wiping his hands on a towel, his grin wide. “Alright, lovebirds, enough sappy stuff. We’ve got a gingerbread house to build, and it’s not going to build itself.”

George nods, pulling out a tray of pre‑baked gingerbread panels, each one perfectly cut into the shape of a tiny house. He sets them on the coffee table, arranging them like a puzzle waiting for us to solve. Dream pulls out a bag of candy canes, and Sapnap rummages through a container of icing tubes, each one a different color.

“Teamwork!” Dream declares, clapping his hands. “We’ll make the most epic gingerbread mansion the internet has ever seen.”

George raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile dancing across his lips. “You sure you’re not planning to stream the entire thing? Because I can already hear the comments: ‘Did you see how Dream tried to put a roof on the house with a bass drop?’”

The banter continues, light and easy, as we each take on a role. I’m the “architect,” sketching a quick plan on a napkin, figuring out where to place the candy cane columns and the marshmallow snow caps. Dream’s bass beats accompany the whir of the mixer, turning sugar and butter into a sweet, aromatic fog that swirls through the living room. Sapnap—always the wild card—starts stacking the gingerbread panels, using the icing like cement, his elbows sticking out dramatically as he pretends the house is a fortress under siege by a legion of holiday elves.

The gingerbread house slowly rises, a whimsical structure with crooked roofs, candy cane pillars, and a roof that glitters with powdered sugar snow. As we work, the conversation drifts from jokes about livestream mishaps to more personal reflections.

“I’ve always loved Christmas,” Sapnap admits, a thoughtful tone slipping into his voice. “It’s the one time of year where everything feels…possible. Like any resolution you make, any wish you whisper, the world seems to listen.”

George nods, his eyes softening. “It’s also the time we get to be together, not just as teammates, but as…well, as a family.”

Dream glances at me, his gaze lingering a beat longer. “Family, yeah. And…something else, maybe. Something that makes the lights shine brighter.”

There’s a pause, and I can feel my heart thudding in my chest, a rhythm that matches the bass line still humming in the background.

“Dream,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, “what did you mean?”

He looks away for a second, then back at me, his eyes flickering with that same amber glow of the tree lights. “I mean…,” he begins, and then his words get tangled with the music, with the tinkling of bells from the playlist. “I mean we’ve been through a lot—games, streams, fans, pressure. And…when I’m here, in this room, with you—”

He doesn—

“—when I’m here, with you—” he finishes, his voice soft, “it feels like the world slows down. Like the snow outside isn’t just falling, it’s pausing, waiting for something.”

The room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fireplace, the hum of the music, and the gentle clinking of candy canes as Sapnap adjusts a decorative arch. I feel a warmth spreading through me, a mix of love, nostalgia, and a deep, quiet hope. My hand finds Dream’s, and we both hold it for a moment, fingers interlacing in a way that feels both new and incredibly familiar.

“It’s all so perfect,” I say, the words spilling out as if they’ve been waiting for this exact scene. “Even the imperfections. The tangled lights, the melted icing, the snow that never fully settles. It’s all…us.”

Dream’s smile widens, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink from the firelight. “Exactly. And maybe we should keep this—this feeling—alive, even after the lights go down.”

He leans in, his forehead brushing against mine, a gentle breath carrying the faint scent of pine and cinnamon. In that fleeting contact, I feel a promise, a silent vow that we’ll nurture this growing connection beyond the glow of Christmas lights.

We pull back, and the room erupts into applause from the rest of the Dteam, as if they sensed the shift in the atmosphere. Sapnap claps Dream on the back, his grin as wide as the frosting on the gingerbread roof. “Man, you really got us all soft, huh?” he jokes, but his eyes are bright with genuine affection.

George raises a glass of hot chocolate, its steam curling like tiny white clouds. “To the Dteam—may our lives be as sweet as this gingerbread house, and may the love we share be as bright as these lights.”

We all echo the toast, clinking mugs together. The golden heart at the top of the tree catches a stray ray of light, scattering a tiny burst of sparkle across the room. It feels like a tiny comet streaking across the ceiling, a silent witness to the moment we all share.

After the Decorations

Later, when the house finally quiets down and the last piece of candy cane is tucked into the gingerbread porch, we collapse onto the couch, exhausted but content. The tree stands tall, now fully adorned, its lights twinkling like a night sky captured in wood. The golden heart glints prominently at the peak, a silent sentinel of the night’s soft, unspoken declarations.

Dream pulls his phone out again, this time scrolling through a playlist titled “Winter Nights – Acoustic & Chill.” The music shifts to something slower, more intimate, a gentle piano melody that wraps around us like a blanket. He tilts his head toward me, his expression tender.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, “do you want to step outside for a bit? The snow’s still falling, and I think the world would look even better from the balcony.”

I nod, feeling my heart flutter. We slip our shoes off, stepping into our thick, woolen socks, and make our way to the balcony. The night air is crisp, the snowflakes descending in a delicate, rhythmic pattern. The streetlights cast a soft amber glow, reflecting off the fresh blanket of snow, turning the world into a shimmering silver canvas.

We stand side by side, the balcony rail cool under our fingertips. Dream pulls his jacket tighter, his breath forming little clouds that drift away into the night. I clutch my own coat, feeling the chill but also the warmth radiating from his presence next to me.

“Look,” he says, pointing to the horizon where the city’s skyline is dotted with twinkling lights. “Everything looks like a dream. Like all the wishes we make on these lights—”

I turn to face him, our eyes locking once more. The golden heart's glow seems to echo in his gaze. “—are already happening.”

There’s a pause, a sweet stillness, before Dream leans in, his forehead close to mine. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while,” he murmurs, his voice barely above the wind, “but every time we’re streaming, or gaming, or laughing… I realized my favorite moments are the quiet ones, like this. With you.”

The words hit me like a gentle snowfall—soft, beautiful, inevitable. My breath catches, but I find my voice, a whisper that carries as much weight as any epic shout in a game. “I feel the same, Dream. I’ve been scared to say it, afraid it would ruin the…everything. But now, with the lights, the tree, the snow… it all feels right.”

He smiles, a gentle, genuine curve that lights up his entire face. “Then let’s keep this moment alive. Not just now, but every day, no matter what the world throws at us.”

He reaches up, his hand hovering over the golden heart at the top of the tree. With a delicate motion, like a secret reverence, he adjusts it so it catches a little more light, making it shine brighter for a second, as if acknowledging the promise they’ve just made.

I step closer, our shoulders touching, the warmth of his body a welcome contrast to the cold night. The snow continues to fall, each flake a silent witness to this new chapter we’re writing together.

“Do you think we’ll ever get a real Christmas together?” I ask, a playful lilt in my voice, recalling the countless times we’d joked about a “real life” holiday outside the digital realm.

Dream chuckles, his breath forming a tiny cloud that drifts upward. “I think we already have a perfect one right now. And maybe, someday, we’ll get a cottage in the woods, with a fireplace that never goes out, a tree that we decorate together… with you.”

I feel a tear slide down my cheek, not from sadness, but from the sheer joy that swells within me. I wipe it away with a laugh, “Then let’s start with tonight, and make sure the world knows that this is just the beginning.”

He pulls me into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around me as the snow continues its silent descent. For a long moment, we stand there, feeling the world pause, the lights glittering above, the golden heart shining—signaling that love, like Christmas, can be both fleeting and infinite.

The Night Ends, but the Story Begins

When we finally retreat back inside, the house feels different. Not because the decorations are completed, but because the space is now charged with a new kind of magic—one that isn’t just about lights and tinsel, but about honest feelings, vulnerable confessions, and a shared future that stretches beyond the confines of any server.

The Dteam gathers once more in the living room, the gingerbread house now a masterpiece of melted icing and candy, the tree glowing with a warm, steady light. Dream and I exchange a look, a smile that says everything without words. George raises his mug again, this time a little more reverent.

“To love,” he says, his voice hushed but firm, “in all its forms—friendship, family, romance. May we all find a golden heart that shines brightest for us.”

We all raise our mugs, the clink echoing, a promise reverberating through the night. The golden heart at the top of the tree glimmers, a tiny beacon that reflects every flicker of light, every burst of laughter, and every whispered word of love swirling in the cold, magical December air.

And as the night deepens, the snow outside thickens, blanketing the world in a soft, quiet hush. Inside, the Dteam sits together—one heart beating a little faster, another’s breath a little softer—knowing that, no matter what comes next, they have this moment, this memory, this shared love to carry them through the seasons that follow.

The story isn’t finished; it’s just beginning, like a fresh snowfall waiting to be traced, a new song waiting to be composed. And somewhere, in the glow of that golden heart, I can see the future—bright, warm, and endlessly beautiful.

[thirstyymuch]

Breaking Boundaries

The moment I knew we were in trouble, it wasn't a sudden realization, but a slow, creeping certainty, like the tide coming in.

It started with the collar.

We were standing in the hallway, ready to head out for a stream meetup, and George, mid-sentence about whether he should wear his blue hoodie, stopped talking. He reached out, not quite touching me, then seemed to decide that was ridiculous and finally closed the distance. His fingers, cool and quick, smoothed a slight wrinkle out of the edge of my jacket collar that I hadn’t even realized was there.

Then he stepped back quickly, the movement too sharp for George, who was usually all soft edges and gentle leans.

“There,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “Looks better.”

“Thanks,” I managed, the word feeling too large and unwieldy for the simple gesture.

That was the first of a thousand micro-movements that began to define the geometry of our relationship. It used to be easy, simple lines of friendship; now, everything was a complicated, blurry curve.

The hugs, for instance. We’d always hugged. It was just us. A good morning hug, a celebratory hug, a comfort hug. But lately, when we pulled away, it was never a clean break. His hands would settle on my shoulder blades, or just above my hips, and they would linger. Just a beat too long. Long enough for the air between us to thicken, long enough for me to inhale the faint, familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the specific, earthy warmth that was just George.

Then there were the habits. They weren't conscious decisions; they were just things we started doing, flowing into each other’s personal spaces with the unnerving ease of two people who had slept next to each other on too many couches.

He stopped asking me what I wanted for breakfast. He just came back from the coffee shop with a large iced latte, two pumps vanilla, oat milk, exactly how I liked it, holding the cup with the practiced grace of someone who made that order daily. In return, I learned to prep his charger before he even asked and to leave the spare throw blanket folded exactly where he could grab it when he inevitably crashed on the sofa during a late-night editing session.

We were domestic. And it felt terrifyingly right.

It finally spiraled out of control the night we were having dinner with Clay and Nick. The table conversation was loud and chaotic, the way it always was when the four of us gathered. I was railing about a ridiculous game mechanic, gesturing wildly, when I saw George frown slightly.

Without looking away from the argument, George reached across the table—past the cutlery and the bread basket—and gently plucked a stray bit of rice off my cheek. He didn't even notice he was doing it. He just brought his hand back, looked at the rice, and then flicked it away. It was the most natural thing in the world, the kind of easy intimacy reserved for husbands or siblings.

The table went silent.

Clay put his fork down with a metallic clink. “Are you two going to get a room, or do I need to start calling you ‘The Wives’ now?”

The laughter from Nick was immediate and loud, but I didn't hear it properly. All I heard was the blood rushing in my ears. I felt George freeze beside me, his entire body going rigid.

“Shut up, Clay,” George said, but his voice was thin, lacking the usual sharp humor.

The teasing was relentless for the next twenty minutes—about how we clearly shared bank accounts, about George waiting up for me like a worried spouse, about the fact that they’d never seen two straight men this consistently in sync about dinner plans.

Every joke, every jab, hit a little too close to the bone. Every time George and I made eye contact over a shared, guilty-looking glance, it felt like confirmation of a secret we hadn't intended to keep.

We didn't talk about it on the drive home. The silence between us was so dense I felt like I could taste it.

When we got back to the apartment, George went straight to the kitchen to boil water for tea, moving with an unnatural precision that signaled panic.

I leaned against the counter watching him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“They were just joking,” I finally said, the weak sound of my own voice echoing in the too-quiet space.

George shrugged, eyes fixed intensely on the kettle, as if analyzing the physics of bubbles. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“It was just friendly banter.”

“Mhm.”

But was it? Lately, the line between friendly banter and flirting had ceased to exist. Every shared glance, every inside joke, every time he used that low, teasing tone that made my stomach flip, felt like a deliberate invitation. We were trading playful insults that landed with the weight of compliments, and I didn’t know how to stop the game without breaking the whole board.

“George,” I started, pushing off the counter and taking a step towards him.

He flinched, pulling back slightly, the kettle still whistling furiously.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his eyes wide, a flicker of genuine distress in their depths.

“Don’t what? Don’t talk to you? Don’t stand near you?” My voice was rough. I felt a confusing mix of frustration, desire, and pure, raw fear. “George, we can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep pretending we don’t notice what’s happening.”

He finally met my gaze, and the temperature in the room plummeted. The playful warmth was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling intensity.

“Notice what?” he challenged, but the tremor in his hands gave him away.

“The way you look at me,” I said, letting the words hang in the space between us. It was a confession, a confrontation, and a plea all wrapped into one. “Do you have any idea what it does to me when you look at me like that?”

It was that specific look: the slight downturn of his mouth, the almost painful vulnerability in his expression, the way his eyes tracked me like a compass needle finding north. It was the look that said: I see you. I want you. And I’m terrified of it.

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising. He switched off the kettle, the sudden silence deafening.

“I’m looking at my best friend,” he murmured, the lie thin and transparent.

I closed the final step between us. My hands went to his shoulders, firm but not aggressive, just enough pressure to anchor him there.

“If this is just friendship,” I challenged, leaning in until the space between our mouths was just an agonizing breath, “then why can’t I breathe when you’re this close?”

His eyes fluttered shut for a second. The air was charged, thick with all the unspoken rules we were shattering. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like tea and panic and home.

“You’re going to ruin me,” George choked out, his voice barely a whisper, eyes snapping open to stare at me with a desperate clarity I hadn't seen before. “And you don’t even know it.”

My chest ached with the weight of his confession. He wasn't accusing me; he was admitting his own fragile boundaries. He was laying the blame precisely where it belonged: on the unbearable closeness.

“I know it,” I corrected him, my voice equally low, heavy with shared longing. “I’m already ruined. I haven't been able to think about anything else for months.”

This was the cliff edge. There was no stepping back to the safety of shared streaming rooms and casual shoulder bumps. We were here, suspended over the abyss of changing everything we knew.

George’s composure finally fractured. His hands came up, gripping the front of my shirt, pulling me towards him until our foreheads knocked lightly. He was shaking.

“Don’t you dare tell me that,” he pleaded, the desperation raw in his voice. “Don’t you dare make it real after all this time—”

“It is real!” I snapped, sudden frustration overriding my fear. Frustration at the weeks of lingering hugs and the perfectly ordered coffee and the painful intimacy of fixing my collar. “Stop talking. Stop analyzing. Stop trying to find the logical off-ramp for this.”

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, to rationalize, to retreat back into the safe armor of denial and banter.

I couldn't take it anymore. The tension was a physical pressure, demanding release.

I tightened my hold on his shoulders, forcing him still, looking directly into his wide, brilliant eyes that were shining with unshed tears and fear.

I gave him the only order I could think of. The order that had been rattling around in my skull since the first time I noticed his hands linger a beat too long.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

It wasn't a question. It was a command laced with years of suppressed affection.

The words didn't even fully leave my lips before he surged forward, finally closing the distance we had both been orbiting for months.

The kiss was desperate and clumsy, laced with the salty taste of his fear and the sweet relief of breaking point. He didn't just meet me halfway; he met me completely, crushing his mouth against mine. His grip on my shirt tightened, anchoring himself to me like he was afraid he might float away if he let go.

The world narrowed down to the sound of his shuddering breath, the feel of his soft lips, and the sudden, overwhelming realization that this was what the lingering hugs had been leading to all along. This explosive, terrifying, deeply right collision.

When we finally separated, gasping, George’s face was flushed and his eyes were blazing. He didn't step away this time. He just leaned his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.

“I hate you,” he whispered fiercely, though his hands were now tracing shapes on the small of my back, possessive and tender.

I laughed, a shaky, relieved sound that felt massive in the quiet kitchen.

“No, you don’t,” I countered, pulling him closer, inhaling the scent of him one last time before I started kissing him again, knowing we had truly crossed the line now. We were ruined, alright. But we were finally ruined together.

[thirstyymuch]

Prada

The harsh glare of a thousand ring lights had become my normal. Paparazzi flashes, the rustle of expensive fabric, the hushed whispers of designers – this was the symphony of my life. I was Anya Petrova, or at least, that’s what the world knew me as ____ ( I wanted to keep my real name private). My face adorned billboards from Milan to Tokyo, my walk graced the most exclusive runways. Yet, amidst the whirlwind of haute couture and air kisses, a different kind of buzz was starting to surround me, one that existed entirely in the ethereal glow of a screen.

It started subtly. A meme here, a fan-art there. Then, the comments sections of my Instagram posts began to flood with the same two words: “GeorgeNotFound.” My social media manager, bless her organized soul, had flagged it. “Anya,” she’d said, squinting at her tablet, “there’s this… phenomenon. People are really invested in you and this streamer named GeorgeNotFound.”

I’d scrolled through some of the fan pages. Pictures of me, often from candid moments, expertly photoshopped next to a pixelated avatar of a man with distinctive brown hair and an even more distinctive knack for getting lost in virtual worlds. The “shipping,” as they called it, was… intense. And honestly, a little amusing. I’d never even heard of GeorgeNotFound.

Then, one crisp Tuesday morning, while I was sipping my overpriced matcha latte and mentally preparing for a fitting, a notification pinged on my phone. A direct message on Twitter. From an account I vaguely recognized as belonging to the aforementioned streamer.

GeorgeNotFound: Hey Anya, crazy idea but would you ever be down to do a collab sometime? Like, down the road. To give these internet folks something to talk about lol.

I blinked. His profile picture was indeed the pixelated avatar. His bio was minimal: "Just a bloke who plays video games." And he was suggesting a collaboration. With me. The sheer audacity, or perhaps the innocent charm, made me smile. My manager was practically vibrating with excitement beside me, her eyes wide.

Anya Petrova: Down the road? How down the road are we talking?

GeorgeNotFound: Haha, depends, how down is your road?

It was a playful dance, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a genuine spark of curiosity beyond the curated perfection of my professional life. The idea of injecting a dose of unexpected reality into the internet's fantasy was strangely appealing.

Anya Petrova: I’m actually in Florida later this week for a Prada show. If you’re anywhere near… maybe we could make it happen sooner rather than later? Like, this Friday?

A pause that felt agonizingly long, even though it was only a few minutes. My matcha had gone cold.

GeorgeNotFound: Florida? Like, this Friday? Bro, I’m in Florida. Wait, for real?

Anya Petrova: For real. Let me know if it’s something you’d be up for.

GeorgeNotFound: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YES. OMG YES. Where and when?

And so, it was settled. A livestream, a collaboration, a foray into the unknown, all arranged with the speed and efficiency of a seasoned negotiator, which, I suppose, I’d become. The Prada show was a massive deal, the culmination of weeks of preparation, but this felt like a secret, mischievous side quest.

Friday arrived, a sun-drenched whirlwind. The Prada show was set for the evening. I’d allocated my afternoon for this… rendezvous. George had given me an address, a seemingly ordinary suburban house, far removed from the opulent hotels I usually frequented. As my driver pulled up, I smoothed down the simple but chic linen dress I’d chosen, feeling a tremor of nervousness that was entirely foreign to me.

The front door opened before my driver could even fully stop. Standing there, framed by the bright Florida sunshine, were two young men. One, tall and lean, with a shock of sandy blonde hair and an unsettlingly familiar green hoodie. The other, shorter, with bright, energetic eyes and a mischievous grin. They both froze, their faces a study in bewildered disbelief.

“Uh, hi,” I said, offering a polite smile, my voice a little breathier than intended.

The one in the green hoodie, his eyes wide and unblinking, just pointed. “Dream?” he whispered, his voice a raspy incredulity.

Dream, as I assumed he was, simply nodded mutely, his gaze fixed on me as if I were some mythical creature that had materialized on his doorstep. Sapnap, the other guy, let out a choked sound that might have been a laugh or a gasp.

“George!” Dream finally managed, his voice a little strained. “George, she’s… she’s here.”

From deeper within the house, a voice called out, “Yeah, I’m coming! Did she… oh.”

And then he appeared. GeorgeNotFound. He was shorter than I’d imagined, his brown hair a little messy, but his eyes, when they met mine, were a startling shade of brown. He stopped on the threshold of the living room, his mouth slightly ajar, mirroring the stunned expressions of his roommates.

“Uh, hi,” George repeated, his voice a low murmur. “You… you made it.”

“I told you I would,” I replied with a smile, trying to quell the sudden flutter in my chest.

The next few moments were a blur of awkward introductions. Dream and Sapnap continued to stare, their initial shock giving way to a palpable sense of awe. They were like fans who had suddenly found themselves face-to-face with their idol, except, I was the one who was supposed to be the idol. It was a deliciously ironic reversal.

“So, uh,” George finally stammered, recovering his composure slightly, though his eyes still darted between me and his still-dumbfounded friends. “This is… my office. And Dream and Sapnap’s creative space. Uh, welcome.”

He led me into a room that was… surprisingly normal. Posters of video games adorned the walls, a couple of gaming rigs hummed softly, and a large desk dominated the space. It was clearly where the magic happened. Dream and Sapnap trailed behind us, lingering in the doorway like curious puppies, their eyes still glued to my every move.

“So, uh, chat,” George began, his voice finding a more confident, familiar lilt as he sat down at his desk, gesturing for me to take the plush gaming chair beside him. “Everyone. Look who’s here. Anya Petrova. In my house. In Florida. This is happening.”

The moment he clicked the “Go Live” button, the chat exploded. It was a tsunami of emotes, of exclamation points, of disbelief and pure, unadulterated hype. I could see snippets of comments flashing by: “OMG AYNA,” “IS THAT REALLY HER,” “WHAT IS HAPPENING,” “GEORGE YOU LUCKY DOG.”

George cleared his throat, his gaze flicking to the enormous monitor that displayed the chat. “Yeah, guys, it’s really her. Anya, thanks so much for coming. This is… insane.”

He turned his attention back to me, a nervous smile playing on his lips. “So, we’re just going to… talk? Answer some questions from chat?”

“Sounds good,” I said, trying to project an air of calm professionalism, though the sheer energy of the situation was infectious.

As George began reading out questions, I noticed it. A subtle shift in his demeanor. His eyes, which had initially been wide with surprise, now seemed to linger a little longer on my face. Every now and then, his gaze would drift downwards, a quick, almost imperceptible sweep from my eyes to my shoulders, then back up. It wasn’t overtly lecherous, but it was undeniably there. A silent survey.

He asked me about my modeling career, about the challenges, the highlights. His questions were intelligent, and he listened intently to my answers, occasionally nodding. But then I’d catch his gaze again, a fleeting glance that felt more intimate than any interview I’d ever done. He’d swallow, a soft, audible click in his throat, especially when I mentioned the upcoming Prada show.

“And the Prada show,” he said, his voice a little deeper now, a subtle huskiness creeping in. “You’re doing it… Friday night, right? That’s… that’s amazing. You must be so busy.”

He paused, and I saw his eyes trace the line of my jaw, then dip to my lips. He cleared his throat again, a more pronounced gulp this time.

“It’s… it’s a lot of pressure, I imagine,” he continued, his focus seeming to waver for a fraction of a second before snapping back to me. “All those eyes on you.”

I felt a warmth spread across my cheeks, a blush that had nothing to do with the Florida heat. It was a strange sensation. Here I was, Anya Petrova, the face that launched a thousand campaigns, feeling flustered by the quiet, intense gaze of a gamer I’d met less than an hour ago.

“It is,” I admitted, my voice softer than I intended. “But it’s also… exhilarating.”

As we continued the livestream, the dynamic between us grew more pronounced. He’d ask a question, I’d answer, and in the silence that followed, his eyes would drift again. He’d run a hand through his already tousled hair, his brow furrowed slightly, as if wrestling with something unspoken. The chat, of course, was having a field day. “GEORGE IS STARING,” “HE CANT KEEP HIS EYES OFF HER,” “DREAM AND SAPNAP KNOW,” were just a few of the recurring comments.

It was a peculiar intimacy, this shared space of pixels and hushed attention. I was accustomed to being looked at, admired, critiqued. But this felt different. It wasn’t the objectifying gaze of the fashion world; it was something more… curious. More human. And, dare I admit it, a little thrilling.

As the livestream drew to a close, George looked directly into the camera, a rare moment of sustained eye contact. “Well, guys,” he said, a slight smile playing on his lips. “That was… something else. Anya, thank you again for coming. It was… really, really cool.”

He turned to me, his gaze softening. “Seriously. Thanks. And don’t forget to smash that like button, subscribe, all that jazz.” He winked, a surprisingly charming gesture, and the chat went into overdrive once more.

After we ended the stream, the silence in the room felt amplified. Dream and Sapnap, who had been lurking in the background, finally seemed to regain their voices, their hushed whispers filling the space.

“So, uh,” George said, turning back to me, his earlier nervousness replaced by a more relaxed, albeit still slightly giddy, demeanor. “That was wild, right?”

“Wild is a good word for it,” I agreed, a smile playing on my lips.

He met my gaze, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “So, uh,” he began again, his eyes holding mine for a beat longer than necessary, “Prada, huh? You think… you think you’ll have time for a quick bite before you have to go get ready?”

The Prada show. My driver waiting outside. The countless obligations that awaited me. But in that moment, standing in a gamer’s cluttered office, with the echoes of thousands of excited viewers still in the air, the allure of a spontaneous dinner with GeorgeNotFound was surprisingly compelling. The internet had wanted this collaboration, and it seemed, so had I.

[thirstyymuch]

Spoiled

The notification pinged, a cheerful little chime that vibrated through my pocket. I glanced down, a smile already playing on my lips as I saw Dream’s familiar Twitch avatar pop up with a ‘LIVE NOW’ banner. My heart did a little flutter, the kind it always did when I knew he was online, even though I was miles away, surrounded by the dazzling allure of designer boutiques.

My fingers, adorned with a ridiculously large diamond ring, danced over my phone screen. I quickly tapped the notification, not to join his stream just yet – that would have to wait – but to send him a quick, teasing text.

“Oh, is that so? Live without me? I’m currently acquiring spoils for my favorite streamer. You might want to brace yourself for some serious upgrades. 😉”

I knew he’d see it, and I knew it would make him laugh, probably blush a little too, his cheeks turning that adorable shade of pink that always made me want to smother him with kisses. Dream. My brilliant, beautiful, utterly clueless Dream. He was so focused on his games, on perfecting his streams, on making his community laugh and feel entertained, that the finer things in life, the things that made him feel fine, often escaped his notice. That’s where I came in.

My life was a whirlwind of flashing cameras, red carpets, and exclusive parties. The world saw the sculpted cheekbones, the impossibly long legs, the curated wardrobe that cost more than most people’s cars. They saw the glamour, the fantasy. They didn’t see the hours of hard work, the relentless hustle, the sheer grit it took to stay at the top. And they definitely didn't see the quiet, contented joy I found in coming home to Dream, in seeing his eyes light up when I surprised him with something new because I knew he’d never have bought it for himself.

Today was payday. A very good payday. And the first thing I thought of, even before I contemplated a new addition to my own overflowing closet, was Dream. His Twitch setup was… adequate. His clothes were functional. His jewelry consisted of a worn-out silver chain he’d had since college. He deserved more. He deserved to feel as good as he looked, as good as he made me feel.

The boutique I was currently in was a temple of Italian leather and exquisite craftsmanship. I ran my hand over a rack of shirts, each one a work of art. “Excuse me,” I said to the impeccably dressed sales assistant, my voice carrying a hint of melodic authority. “I’m looking for something… special for my boyfriend. Something that says he’s, well, mine.”

She smiled, her eyes scanning me with practiced ease. “Of course, madame. We have just received our new collection from… ” And then she launched into a description of luxurious fabrics, intricate detailing, and limited-edition designs. I let her talk, my gaze drifting over the exquisite pieces, picturing Dream in them. Not the baggy t-shirts he usually favored, but something that flattered his lean build, something that hinted at the man beneath the gamer persona.

I settled on a deep emerald green silk shirt, the kind that felt like a second skin, and a crisp, tailored white linen one with subtle embroidery. Then, we moved onto shoes. Dream had a pair of sneakers that were, to put it mildly, past their prime. I found a pair of sleek, monochrome trainers that looked like they were sculpted from clouds, the kind of shoes that would elevate any outfit.

Next, the jewelry. This was where I really let my imagination run wild. I remembered a recent stream where Dream had been talking about wanting a new chain, something that felt more substantial, more… him. I spotted a display of custom pieces, each one gleaming under the spotlights.

“This one,” I declared, pointing to a thick, polished sterling silver chain with a subtly engraved pendant. It wasn’t ostentatious, but it had a weight, a presence, that spoke of quality. “And I’ll take a couple of rings as well. Something understated, but definitely gold. He’s got good taste, he just… doesn’t exercise it when it comes to himself.”

The sales assistant nodded, her hands already busy selecting the items. As she carefully wrapped each piece, my phone pinged again. This time, it was a notification from Dream’s chat. Someone had gifted him a subscription, and he was thanking them effusively, his voice slightly hoarse from hours of gaming. I smiled. He was so genuine, so grateful for every bit of support. It made spoiling him feel less like indulgence and more like a deeply satisfying form of reciprocity.

I couldn’t resist. I quickly snapped a picture of one of the gift bags, a pristine white box with a gold logo, and sent it to Dream. “Picking up a few essentials for you, my love. Don’t spend all your stream earnings on virtual hats. 😉”

I could almost feel him grinning on the other side of that text.

The shopping spree continued for another hour. I browsed through a high-end watch store, debated a designer jacket, and even considered a pair of stylish sunglasses, before reminding myself that his Twitch setup was the priority. I wanted to see him not just look good, but feel good.

Finally, laden with beautifully wrapped packages, I hailed a car and gave my home address. The ride was filled with a nervous excitement. I imagined Dream’s reaction, the way he’d unwrap each gift, the spark in his eyes. I knew his chat would be buzzing, too. They loved seeing us together, loved seeing this softer, more indulgent side of me. And honestly, I loved giving them that peek behind the curtain. It wasn't just about the money; it was about the connection, the shared joy.

As the car pulled up to our apartment building, I practically vibrated with anticipation. I handed the driver a generous tip and hurried inside, the bags clutched tight. The apartment was quiet, the sound of Dream’s voice, slightly muffled, emanating from his office. I padded softly to the door, a wide smile on my face.

“Guess who just came bearing gifts?” I announced, pushing the door open.

Dream, perched on his gaming chair, his face illuminated by the glow of his monitors, jumped slightly. He turned, his eyes wide, and a slow, bashful smile spread across his face.

“Oh, hey, babe! You’re… you’re back already?” he stammered, his gaze flicking from me to the bags. His chat, of course, immediately noticed.

“Whoa, look at all those bags!” “She got you something good, Dream?” “Ooooh, is that a new chair?”

Dream chuckled, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Yeah, she’s been… spoiling me, I think. Guys, this is my amazing girlfriend,___.” He gestured to me, his smile widening. “She spoils me rotten. I swear, she makes more money than I do on my best stream.”

I winked at him, then turned to the camera, waving. “Hey, everyone! You know I love seeing Dream shine, so I figured he needed a little upgrade to match his incredible content. And yes, he’s right, I do spoil him. It’s my favorite pastime.”

I set the bags down on a clear space on his desk, the rustle of paper loud in the sudden hush from his chat. “So, let’s see what your lovely girlfriend picked out for you, shall we?”

Dream’s eyes were glued to the bags, a mixture of curiosity and utter delight. I picked up the smallest one first, a sleek box from the jewelry store.

“First up,” I announced, my voice full of playful drama, “something to make those hands look even more… ring-worthy.” I opened the box, revealing a pair of delicate gold bands. “These are for you. Just so when you’re gesturing wildly during a clutch play, everyone knows you’re taken.”

Dream’s jaw actually dropped a little. He carefully took the rings, his fingers trembling slightly as he slipped them onto his ring fingers. He held his hands up, admiring them in the monitor light.

“Babe… these are incredible,” he breathed, sounding genuinely awestruck. His chat exploded.

“He’s wearing rings!” “OMG, they look so good on him!” “Dream, your girlfriend is a queen!”

I beamed, watching his genuine reaction. This was why I did it. This pure, unadulterated joy.

“And then,” I continued, reaching for a slightly larger box, “because I know you’ve been saying your current neck candy is a bit… sad.” I revealed the custom silver chain. “Ta-da! This one’s got a bit more weight, a bit more presence. Just like you.”

He unclasped the old chain and carefully put on the new one, his eyes shining. He turned his head, letting the pendant catch the light. “It… it feels amazing,” he murmured, touching it. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“You’re welcome, my love,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss his temple.

Then came the shirts. The emerald green silk, which I held against his chest, making him blush. “This one,” I declared, “is for when you want to feel extra suave. Imagine you’re closing a deal in this, not finessing your way through a lobby.”

His chat was going wild, spamming emotes and compliments. “She’s right, Dream, that color is perfect!” “Hot damn!”

Next, the crisp white linen shirt. “And this one,” I said, unfolding it, “is for when you want to be a little more… classic. Casual, but refined. Think ‘I just stepped off my yacht’ vibes.”

Dream laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that filled the room. “Yacht vibes? I barely leave this chair!”

“Exactly!” I chirped. “So now you can look like you’ve been on a yacht. It’s all about the aesthetic, baby.”

Finally, I revealed the stylish sneakers. I held one up, showcasing its sleek design. “And these, my gamer extraordinaire, are for when you decide to grace the outside world with your presence. Or, you know, just to make your feet feel like royalty while you’re dominating lobbies.”

He took them, turning them over in his hands with a look of wonder. “I… I can’t believe you did all this, babe. It’s… it’s too much.”

“It’s never too much for you,” I said, my voice soft. I turned back to the camera, my smile genuine and warm. “See? This is why I get paid the big bucks. So I can spoil my favorite person. And so his chat can have some much-needed eye candy, both on stream and off.”

The chat was a blur of appreciative messages, but I didn’t need to read them all. I could see the pure happiness radiating from Dream, the genuine surprise and gratitude in his eyes. And as I settled onto the edge of his desk, ready to watch him play and interact with his community, I knew this was exactly where I wanted to be. Spoiling him was my art, and his happiness was my masterpiece.

[thirstyymuch]

Tears

The soft glow of my phone screen was the only light in our bedroom, casting long shadows across the room. It was late, and Dream had already drifted off to sleep, a gentle rumble accompanying his breaths. I, on the other hand, was wide awake, a mischievous glint in my eyes as I scrolled through TikTok. Sabrina Carpenter’s “Tears” had been everywhere lately, and the trend of dramatic transitions with a significant other was particularly… enticing.

A smile played on my lips as I envisioned it. Me, all disheveled and sleepy, lip-syncing the opening lines. Then, the magic of editing, transforming me into a completely different person, with Dream right there beside me, adding his own brand of magic to the scene. It was a ridiculous idea, born from too much caffeine and a healthy dose of boredom, but it was also undeniably fun.

I nudged Dream gently. "Hey," I whispered, my voice thick with sleep. He stirred, a soft groan escaping him. "Dream? Wake up for a sec."

He mumbled something unintelligible, pulling the duvet closer. "Mmmph? What time is it?"

"Late," I said, my smile widening. "But I have a brilliant, slightly insane idea."

He finally opened one eye, a hint of curiosity peeking through the sleepiness. "Insane how?"

"TikTok insane," I clarified, pulling my phone closer. "Sabrina Carpenter. Tears. You and me."

His other eye opened, and a slow grin spread across his face. He knew exactly what I was talking about. "Oh, the trend? You want to do that?"

"Desperately," I declared, already picturing the shots. "But we have to do it properly. With all the drama."

He propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes now fully awake, sparkling with amusement. "Alright, I'm in. What's the plan, boss?"

"Okay, so first," I began, already setting my phone up on a tripod facing the bed. "I'm going to be in my PJs. Hair in curlers, no makeup. I'm gonna lip sync the first part." I paused, pointing to the lyric on my screen. "'Offering to do anything I'm like…'" I dramatically dropped my head, letting my hair fall forward. "Then, bam! Transition. I'll be all dolled up, hair down, makeup on. And you… you'll be wearing your smiley face mask, and your hand… it has to slither its way up to mine."

Dream chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "My hand will slither. Got it. And what will you be doing?"

"I'll be laying on the bed, head hanging off," I instructed, demonstrating by leaning back precariously. "And I'll be lip syncing 'Oh my god' with a little… moan-ish breath."

"Ooh, scandalous," he teased, reaching out to playfully swat my arm.

"Then," I continued, my excitement building, "another transition. We'll be standing. I'll be in my little babydoll dress, all glammed up. Hair still curled. And you'll be behind me, holding me… possessively." I shivered slightly at the thought, a thrill running through me.

"Possessively," he repeated, an amused smirk on his face. "I can do possessively."

"And as I sing, 'I get wet at the thought of you, Uh-huh. Being a responsible guy,'" I continued, my voice dropping into a husky whisper, "you'll tilt my head back to look at you. With… dreamy eyes."

Dream's gaze met mine, and for a moment, the playful amusement faded, replaced by something deeper, more intense. His eyes, even in the dim light, seemed to hold a universe of affection. "Dreamy eyes, huh? I think I can manage that."

He yawned, stretching languidly. "Alright, let's do this. Before I fall back asleep."

The first take was a blur of giggles and fumbled lines. My curlers kept falling out, and Dream insisted on making silly faces behind the camera. But we got into the rhythm, the initial awkwardness melting away with each attempt.

For the first shot, I scrambled out of bed, scrunching my eyes against the light. I found an old pair of flannel pajamas and quickly twisted my hair into a messy bun, shoving a few pink rollers in. I splashed some water on my face, feeling thoroughly unglamorous. I propped my phone against a stack of books, hit record, and started to lip-sync, my voice sounding surprisingly clear despite the early hour.

"Offering to do anything I'm like…" I put my head down, my curlers threatening to spill onto the pillow. I felt a surge of nervous excitement, knowing what was coming. My finger hovered over the edit button, ready to capture the transformation.

Then, a quick cut. I was back on my feet, a different person. My babydoll dress, a silky, deep emerald green, clung to me in all the right places. My hair, freed from the rollers, cascaded in soft waves around my shoulders. My makeup was a perfect blend of smoky eyes and a glossy nude lip. I flopped back onto the bed, letting my head hang off the edge, my hair pooling on the floor.

Dream, bless his heart, had committed. He was wearing his favorite oversized hoodie, but perched on his nose was his goofy bright yellow smiley face mask, his eyes peeking out from the holes. He looked utterly ridiculous, and I couldn't help but let out a silent laugh.

As I mouth-synced the next line, "Oh my god," a deliberate, breathy moan escaping my lips, Dream’s hand, surprisingly graceful, snaked into view. It moved slowly, deliberately, up my arm, his fingers gently brushing against my skin before meeting mine. He interlaced our fingers, a silent promise conveyed in the simple touch.

The camera continued to roll, capturing the intimate moment. I saw the flicker of a genuine smile beneath the mask, a testament to our unspoken connection.

The next sequence required a bit more setup. I helped Dream find a change of clothes, opting for a simple black t-shirt that accentuated his broad shoulders. I smoothed down my babydoll dress one last time, feeling a flutter of anticipation.

We positioned ourselves in front of the camera again, this time standing. I was facing away, my back to Dream. He stood behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his grip firm, possessive. It wasn't a scary hold, but one that spoke of protection, of ownership. I leaned back into him, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my back.

The music swelled, and I began the next line, my voice laced with a playful sensuality. "I get wet at the thought of you, Uh-huh." I could feel Dream’s breath hitch, his hold tightening slightly. My lips curved into a smile. "Being a responsible guy."

As I uttered the last word, Dream’s hands moved to my chin. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted my head back, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes, peeking out from the mask, were exactly as I’d imagined – dreamy. They held a mixture of adoration, desire, and a touch of playful mischief. The yellow mask, in contrast to the intensity of his gaze, created a surreal, almost comical effect, yet it somehow amplified the intimacy of the moment.

We held that pose for a beat, the unspoken conversation passing between us. It was more than just a silly TikTok; it was a celebration of our connection, a playful exploration of our intimacy. The camera captured it all – the vulnerability, the desire, the quiet understanding.

After the third transition, we collapsed onto the bed, laughing breathlessly.

"That was… surprisingly intense," Dream said, his voice muffled by the mask. He pulled it off, revealing his flushed cheeks and his signature grin.

"You were very possessive," I teased, reaching out to trace the curve of his jaw.

"And you were very… wet," he retorted, his eyes twinkling.

"Only at the thought of you, Mr. Responsible Guy," I whispered, leaning in to kiss him. The kiss was soft at first, then deepened, filled with the shared exhilaration of our little adventure.

We spent the next hour editing the video, laughing at our own silliness, marveling at the magic of transitions. The final product was everything I’d hoped for and more. It was a snapshot of our playful, intimate relationship, a digital diary entry of a moment of shared joy.

As I uploaded it to TikTok, a sense of contentment washed over me. It wasn't about the likes or the comments; it was about the experience. It was about the late-night silliness, the shared laughter, and the undeniable spark that ignited between us, even in the mundane act of making a silly video.

Dream pulled me closer, his arm wrapping around my waist. "You know," he murmured against my hair, "I think this might be my favorite TikTok trend ever."

I smiled, snuggling into his embrace. "Mine too, Dream. Mine too." The curlers were still in my hair, my pajamas were still on, but for that moment, in the quiet intimacy of our bedroom, with the glow of the phone screen illuminating our faces, we were the stars of our own, perfectly orchestrated, dreamy show.

[thirstyymuch]

I gotta quench my thirst..🤭

asking for Sapnap stuff. Like headcanons or something with him with a masc fem reader?? (If you up for it ofc, if not then you genuinely don’t have to) but you’re the only current posting person that doesn’t do nsfw all the time and I need some fluff or angst or something 😭🙏🏼

feel free to ignore ofc!!

I got you babes! sorry i was trying to stock up my queue with fics before i start posting again :)

A Study in Contrasts

The scent of cheap coffee and expensive computer components is the baseline aroma of our apartment. It’s also, fundamentally, the scent of Nick.

I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror, assessing my look for the day. I’ve layered a slightly oversized, structured olive jacket over a simple black mock-neck tee. The whole ensemble is sharp, geometric, and perfectly tailored to hit that sweet spot of high-effort presentation that still screams ‘I could wrestle you and win.’ I pause only to adjust the heavy silver chain I wear—the one that sits neatly under the collar, a quiet flash of metal.

“Are you wearing mascara?” Nick’s voice booms from the doorway. He’s already streaming, or already arguing with Dream about something inconsequential, judging by the volume. He’s wearing stained sweatpants and one of the nine identical logo hoodies he owns.

I don’t even turn around. “Lip balm, actually. And maybe a little brow gel. It’s called grooming, Nick. You should try it.”

He walks up behind me and hooks his chin over my shoulder, completely crushing the sharp drape of the blazer. I let him.

“Why do you always look like you’re about to go to a very important meeting with a CEO, but also like you might rob a bank on the way?” he mumbles, nuzzling my ear.

“Because I can do both. It’s called versatility,” I reply, reaching up to adjust the cuff links I rarely actually link, preferring the slight flop they give to the sleeves. My hands are big, and I like the way the heavy rings I favor catch the light when I gesture.

That’s essentially the cornerstone of our whole dynamic: I am the sharp angles and the deliberate lines; Nick is the soft, warm, sprawling chaos of a campfire.

It’s one of my favorite headcanons realized: He finds the contrast endlessly amusing and entirely attractive. He loves watching me tailor my aesthetic—the specific way I can steal his clothes (yes, I wear his hoodies sometimes, but I pair them with razor-creased trousers) and somehow make them look intentional and severe rather than sloppy. He loves when I wear jewelry that looks like small weaponry. And he absolutely cackles if my deep voice accidentally slips into a slightly higher octave when I’m excited about a new game or a particularly good meal.

He pulls away, finally, stealing a silver ring off my thumb before sprinting back toward his setup. “Gotta go, I’m getting yelled at by 70,000 people. Love you!” he shouts, already slamming the door.

We have two main competitive arenas: gaming (which he dominates, obviously) and domesticity (which I dominate, despite his best efforts).

Today, the battleground is laundry.

I fold my clothes with military precision. Everything is squared off, lined up, and immediately put away. Nick approaches laundry with the energy of a chimpanzee trying to solve a cube puzzle.

He stumbles into the bedroom where I’m stacking a pile of towels—the dark gray ones, because I don't trust white. He jumps onto the bed, landing right next to the basket of his clean clothes, which are currently defying gravity in a chaotic heap.

“Okay, bet,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “I can fold these faster than you can put away those five shirts.”

“You don’t even know how to fold a shirt properly. You just wad it into a pillow shape.”

“It keeps the warmth in! Efficiency, baby!”

We start the timer. I calmly pick up the first jacket—a structured, black denim number—and hang it immediately. I handle all my clothes with a reverence that borders on reverence.

Nick is throwing his socks into a drawer like tossing pennies into a fountain. He attempts to fold a t-shirt by flicking it aggressively into the air and catching it. It looks like a crumpled ghost.

“Stop, you’re abusing the fabric,” I groan, hanging my last shirt. “Time.”

The timer buzzes. My side of the room is neat; his side looks like a bomb went off, complete with a stray pajama pant draped over the lamp.

“See? I win! Quantity over quality!” he cheers, tossing a clean, soft towel at my face.

I catch the towel easily and use it to wipe the sweat that isn’t there, maintaining my cool. “The point isn’t just getting it off the floor, Nick. The point is being able to find it later. I know exactly where my five items are. You only know where your five dozen items aren’t.”

He rolls off the bed and sits up, looking legitimately contemplative for a second. “Wait, are you saying my method is… inelegant?”

“I’m saying your method is why you borrow my shirts when you can’t find yours.”

This is another key insight into our life: I am the designated organizer of the shared space. He operates in a cloud of beautiful, endearing mess, and I am the quiet architect who stabilizes the foundation. But he never, ever tries to change the way I present myself, and I never, ever try to truly tame his inner whirlwind. We just meet in the middle, usually over takeout and a good movie.

The quiet moments are what really solidify the headspace I keep for us. After the streams end and the competitive energy dissipates, Nick’s volume drops to a gentle rumble.

Tonight, we’re watching some terrible reality TV. I’m sitting on the sofa, still wearing the structured jacket because I didn’t feel like changing. Nick, in his usual spot, is sprawled out, occupying 80% of the cushioning.

He doesn’t ask me to shed the layers. Instead, he does his favorite thing: he uses me as a human cushion. He props his feet up on the coffee table, leans his entire torso into my side, and rests the back of his neck directly on my shoulder.

My arm, initially stiff, finds its resting place around his back. My presentation might be sharp and serious, but when he does this, I become a rock, a solid, immovable object built only for his comfort.

He’s heavy, but it’s a comforting weight. He smells vaguely of citrus and energy drinks.

“Hey,” he murmurs into my leather collar.

“Yeah?”

“You good?”

“Perfectly good.”

He shifts slightly, and I realize he’s playing with the silver chain I was wearing earlier. He pulls it gently away from my neck, letting it settle back against the black fabric.

“Your jewelry is always so… loud, but you’re so quiet,” he observes.

“It’s a distraction technique. If they’re looking at the cufflinks, they won’t notice I’m judging their life choices.”

He laughs, a deep, chesty sound that vibrates against me. “I love that you’re always dressed like you could lead a corporate takeover, even when you’re watching people fight about who gets the last cupcake.”

“It’s important to maintain standards, Nick.”

And then comes the classic Sapnap move. He stops talking, just holds on, allowing the silence to stretch. Our entire relationship is built on this physical, low-effort intimacy. We don't need long, philosophical discussions to know we're fine. We just need physical proximity.

I usually keep my hair short, sharp on the sides, but today I’ve let the front fall slightly over my eyes, giving me a sort of brooding, theatrical look. Nick, without needing to be asked, reaches up and gently brushes the hair back.

“You look nice,” he whispers.

It’s completely unearned praise, but I appreciate the sincerity. My masc-fem style isn't about blending in; it's about standing out in a way that feels powerful and intentional. I never have to worry about whether he finds it confusing or too much. He just accepts it as another facet of my personality—the organized discipline that keeps my chaotic heart anchored.

Before bed, there is one last obligatory ritual: the final, desperate plea for a good night kiss, which usually involves him trying to tackle me.

I walk into the bedroom, having shed the jacket but still wearing the mock-neck and some heavy cotton joggers. I look rugged, intentional. He’s already under the covers, clutching a pillow aggressively.

“Come here,” he demands.

“Make me,” I challenge.

The challenge is all he needs. He vaults out of bed, tackles me around the waist (thankfully, he uses his shoulder and not his head), and drags me, fighting, back toward the mattress. We land in a messy heap of limbs.

His competitive urges are satisfied by the physical wrestling, and my need for controlled affection is satisfied by the inevitable post-tackle cuddle.

He finally pins me under his chest, breathing hard. His dark hair is mussed, and his eyes are shining.

“Headcanon: I always win,” he declares, hovering over me.

“Sure, you win the physical match. But I retain the moral high ground,” I counter, running a heavy-ringed hand through his hair.

He grins down at me, a wide, genuine, victorious smile. He leans in, and the rough, stubbled side of his cheek presses against mine.

“Good night, my corporate raider,” he whispers, planting a quick, fierce kiss on my lips.

I kiss him back, letting the sharp lines of the day soften just for this moment.

“Good night, my absolute disaster,” I reply.

In this relationship, the headcanon holds true: Nick is the wild, warm fire, and I am the tailored shell built to hold him safe, without ever losing my own edges. And we wouldn't have it any other way.

[thirstyymuch]

Where is my Husband?

The soft hum of Sapnap’s microphone was a familiar lullaby in our apartment, a constant counterpoint to the quiet rhythm of my own life. It wasn't just noise; it was the sound of him in his element, the cheerful chatter of his chat filling the room as he spoke into the void, yet somehow connecting with thousands. Right now, that void was focused on him, sitting at his large desk, bathed in the glow of his monitors. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content playing a supporting role, sprawled out on the pristine white couch positioned artfully behind him, just out of direct camera view, but definitely part of his space.

My phone was clutched idly in my hand, an unread message sitting on the screen from one of my friends. I was half-listening, half-scrolling, a gentle smile playing on my lips as I heard his distinct laugh, a sound that never failed to brighten my day. He was in full ‘streamer mode’ – animated, engaging, his words flowing effortlessly from updates to random tangents, a chaotic but endearing stream of consciousness.

“Alright, chat, so the new phone’s actually pretty sick,” he was saying, his voice a little lower than usual, almost a conspiratorial whisper. “Battery life is kinda insane, honestly. And the camera? Chef’s kiss. You guys will see some fire content soon, trust.” I could picture him nodding emphatically, his dark hair probably falling over his eyes. I imagined the chat exploding with generic tech advice or playful demands for pictures of our cats.

Then he segued, as he always did, into his Accutane journey. It was a frequent topic, a shared experience with many of his viewers. “Oh, and the Accutane update,” he announced, a slight shift in his posture as he leaned back. “It’s working, chat. Like, really working. My skin actually feels… normal? Which is wild, because for so long it was just… not that. My lips are still perpetually chapped, obviously,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, “I’m basically a walking Blistex advertisement at this point. But it’s worth it. Seriously, if you’re thinking about it, talk to your doctor. It’s been a game-changer for me.” I loved that he shared these personal things with his audience, raw and honest. It wasn’t just about games and jokes; it was about genuine connection.

I shifted slightly on the couch, my gaze drifting from my phone to the back of his head, the way his shoulders hunched slightly over his keyboard. He was a creature of habit, but also of boundless energy. He moved from one topic to the next with the speed of a squirrel spotting an acorn, a rapid-fire succession of thoughts. He started talking about a new game he’d played with George and Dream, recounting a particularly hilarious moment where one of them had accidentally fallen off a cliff, complete with sound effects and dramatic pauses. I could feel my own laughter bubbling up, a silent, internal joy that was just for me.

My fingers traced the texture of the couch fabric. The apartment was always a bit cooler when his PC was running, the gentle hum of the fans a steady drone. I loved these moments of quiet co-existence, where I could simply be in his space, observing him in his element. It was a privilege, really, to see the unedited version of the person so many thousands adored.

A yawn escaped me, a tiny, ladylike sound that I hoped didn't make its way to the microphone. I’d been on this couch for a good hour, half-listening, half-dozing. My leg had fallen asleep. Time to stretch. My mind, however, kept circling back to the thing I was hiding. The glorious, sparkling, utterly life-changing thing that was currently tucked away, for now, on my left hand. We’d agreed to wait, to find the right moment. And as I watched him ramble, so innocent and unaware, a mischievous idea sparked.

I slowly sat up, stretching my arms above my head, feeling the satisfying pop of my joints. Sapnap was now talking about his recent trip to the grocery store, a mundane tale elevated to comedic genius by his delivery. “And then this lady, right, she’s like, ‘Oh, those are great blueberries!’ And I’m just like, ‘Ma’am, these are my blueberries, I picked them, they’re going in my basket.’ She looked at me like I had three heads, chat. I swear! Like, what am I supposed to do? Give her my perfectly ripe blueberries?”

I quietly padded across the carpeted floor, my bare feet making no sound. He was so engrossed in his grocery store saga, he didn’t even register my approach. My heart gave a little flutter of anticipation. This was it. The perfect, imperfect, completely us way to do it.

When I reached his chair, I leaned down, wrapping my arms gently around his neck from behind. He startled slightly, a small "Whoa!" escaping him, but then he leaned back into my embrace, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. His natural warmth seeped through his t-shirt, a comforting anchor. I rested my chin on his shoulder, my left hand, almost instinctively, coming to rest on top of my right one, just above his chest. My fingers curled lightly, and there, glinting under the studio lights, was the Snowdrift ring, its princess cut diamond catching every available ray of light.

For a moment, there was just the gentle rhythm of his breathing, the soft static of the mic, and the distant, muffled sound of his stream. Then, a distinct pause in chat. A few confused emotes. Then, a flurry.

“WAIT” “IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS??” “HOLY SHIT” “RING????” “SAPNAP WHAT IS THAT!!!!” “OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Sapnap’s eyes, which had been idly scanning chat for a moment, suddenly fixated on my hand. His mouth fell slightly open, and he slowly turned his head to look at me, a wide, disbelieving grin spreading across his face.

I couldn’t help it. The secret was out. The dam broke. I leaned in, my voice a thrilled whisper right next to his microphone, the sound of my laughter mingling with his.

“Yes chat, I finally got my big and shiny diamond ring!” I chirped, pulling my hand away from his chest for a second to wave it playfully at the camera, letting the diamond sparkle for all to see. It was even more beautiful in the light than I remembered, a perfect square of blinding brilliance, set in the delicate Snowdrift band. It was everything I had ever dreamed of and more. “I finally get to wave it around and talk about it, but I’ll do it on my Instagram story, so be ready if you follow me. You know I’m going to go into detail.”

The chat exploded. It was a cacophony of emojis, capital letters, and excited exclamations. It felt like the entire internet was screaming with joy. Sapnap, still grinning from ear to ear, reached out and gently took my left hand in his. He brought it up to his lips, pressing a soft, warm kiss directly onto the sparkling diamond. His eyes, when he looked up at me, were full of an emotion that made my heart swell – a mixture of pride, love, and pure, unadulterated happiness.

He then turned back to the camera, his smile never faltering, his voice now a little softer, a little more heartfelt than his usual streamer persona. “Chat,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the monitor, “this is my fiancé. You’ll see her more often now.”

The word, "fiancé," hung in the air, electric and sweet. My cheeks flushed, but I couldn't stop smiling. He was right. There would be no more hiding my hand, no more discreetly turning it away from the camera. Our secret, our beautiful, shining secret, was finally out. I squeezed his shoulder, feeling the tremor of his own excitement. This wasn't just a ring; it was a promise, a future, and the purest, most unexpected way to announce it to the world. And as chat continued to scream its congratulations, I knew, with absolute certainty, that this moment, messy and spontaneous and perfectly us, was just the beginning of our forever.

[thirstyymuch]

Pause Button

The morning had begun innocently enough, a soft, pre-dawn glow filtering through the blinds of my bedroom. But my back, a traitorous landscape of old injuries, had decided to stage a protest. It was a familiar, unwelcome guest – the deep, aching throb of nociceptive pain, radiating from an old childhood fall that had never quite healed right. Today, however, it wasn’t just an ache; it was a screaming symphony, each note a sharp, persistent reminder that my body was not cooperating.

I’d tried to push through it, as I always did. The guys, bless their oblivious hearts, were already stirring, their usual chaotic energy spilling from their rooms. I could hear Sapnap’s enthusiastic yawns, Dream’s low hum of a morning melody, and George’s surprisingly loud clatter as he probably fumbled for his coffee cup. They were gearing up for a big day: the much-anticipated house tour video. A project they’d been planning for weeks, and one I was supposed to be a part of, offering my typical sarcastic commentary and occasionally tripping one of them for comedic effect.

But the mere thought of lifting the camera, of walking from room to room, of even just standing for more than a few minutes, sent a fresh wave of agony through my lower spine. The pain wasn't just physical; it was soul-crushing. It brought with it a suffocating blanket of fatigue and a deep, overwhelming sense of defeat. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. I hated being "the one with the pain." I hated feeling like a burden, or an inconvenience, or just less than I should be.

Sapnap came in around nine, his usual bright smile faltering slightly as he took in my posture, hunched over a cup of lukewarm tea, my face probably a shade too pale. He knew. He always knew. We’d been together for years, and he’d witnessed the good days and the truly terrible ones.

“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He sat on the edge of the bed, gently pushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “You okay?”

I managed a weak smile, but it felt brittle. “My back’s… not great today.” I didn’t need to elaborate. He saw the tension in my shoulders, the way I was unconsciously bracing myself.

He frowned, his thumb tracing worried patterns on my skin. “The house tour… we can just do it another day, if you want.”

That was Sapnap. Always ready to drop everything for me. But I knew how much this video meant to them, how long they'd planned it. And honestly, I just needed to be still. The thought of rescheduling, of being the reason a big project was delayed, only piled on more guilt.

“No,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with more conviction than I felt. “No, you guys go ahead. Seriously. I’ll just… I’ll throw on the heating pad, put on some music. You guys don’t need me dragging everyone down.”

His eyes searched mine, seeing past my forced cheerfulness. “You’re never a drag, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm. He pulled me into a careful hug, mindful of my back. “Just tell me what you need, okay? Water? Food? Anything?”

“Just quiet,” I mumbled into his shoulder. “And maybe some more tea later.”

He kissed the top of my head and reluctantly left, casting one last worried glance over his shoulder. I knew he was torn, but I also knew he trusted me to take care of myself.

My room, originally the main guest bedroom, had gradually transformed into my space over the past year. It was a sanctuary, quiet and comforting, a stark contrast to the lively chaos that often permeated the rest of the house. It was sandwiched right between George’s bedroom door and Sapnap’s, effectively making it the heart of our little wing. I had decorated it with soft, muted tones, a plush rug, and string lights that cast a warm, ambient glow.

I pulled on my softest pajamas, a worn-out hoodie, and carefully eased myself onto the bed. The heating pad, already plugged in, was a familiar friend, radiating soothing warmth that promised temporary relief. I placed it carefully against my lower back, sighing as the deep heat began to penetrate the protesting muscles. I had a freshly brewed cup of ginger and turmeric tea on my bedside table, its spicy aroma filling the air. With a remote, I turned on my speaker, letting a playlist of slow, instrumental piano music wash over the room. The soft notes were a balm to my frayed nerves, a gentle hush to the internal clamor of pain.

As the music played, I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, trying to coax my body into submission. I could hear the distant sounds of the guys revving up. The distinct click of a camera turning on, Dream’s booming voice announcing the start of the video, George’s dry wit already making an appearance, and Sapnap’s energetic enthusiasm cutting through it all.

“Alright, welcome back to the channel, guys!” Dream’s voice echoed, slightly muffled by the walls but perfectly discernible. “Today, as promised, we are finally doing the long-awaited Dream Team house tour!”

A chorus of cheers and mock excitement from Sapnap and George followed. I could picture them, Dream probably holding the camera, Sapnap bouncing on the balls of his feet, and George trying to look cool and indifferent, but undoubtedly just as excited.

I heard them start in the living room, their voices moving, describing furniture, making jokes about who was messier. They moved into the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, a playful skirmish over a dirty dish. Laughter, so much laughter. It was the soundtrack of my life here, and usually, I’d be right in the thick of it, contributing to the noise. Today, it felt like a distant, comforting echo, reminding me of the world I was momentarily separated from.

They moved through the hallway, down towards the bedrooms. I heard them pause at the bathroom, more jokes about toilet paper and shared toiletries. My heart gave a little flutter of anxiety. They were getting closer. My room was next in line, after the main bathroom. Would they come in? Would they just gloss over it? I had a brief, irrational fear that they’d expose my current state, my vulnerability, to thousands of viewers. But then I reminded myself, these were my guys. They’d never do that.

My door was a simple, white panel, usually left slightly ajar when I was up and about, but firmly closed today. I could hear their footsteps, the subtle creak of the floorboards outside my room. Then, a distinct pause right outside my door.

“Alright, so that was the bathroom,” Dream’s voice said, a little closer now, “And next we have… uh…”

There was a slight hesitation, a murmur of footsteps. My breath hitched.

Then, Sapnap’s voice, clear and concise, with a noticeable shift in tone. “Hey, let’s skip the guest room and move onto one of our rooms, yeah?”

My eyes snapped open, staring at the ceiling. The guest room. He meant my room. He hadn't called it "Y/N's room" – that almost felt like a deliberate choice, for the video, for the public. A small, protective gesture.

But Dream and George, oblivious to the deeper context, immediately questioned it.

“Why?” Dream asked, his voice laced with confusion. “We’re doing a full house tour, Sapnap. People wanna see everything.”

“Yeah,” George chimed in, a hint of his usual playful irritation. “What, you got something to hide in there? Secret stash of snacks?”

There was a brief silence, during which I could practically feel Sapnap weighing his options. He knew he couldn't just not answer. He also knew he couldn't expose the full truth on camera.

Finally, Sapnap spoke, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more serious. “Because Y/N’s in there. Her back’s really bad today. She just needs some quiet.”

The words hung in the air, simple and direct. And then, I heard it. A soft, almost imperceptible click.

They had paused the recording.

The sudden silence was deafening after the continuous stream of their voices and laughter. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a powerful testament to their immediate understanding, their protective instincts kicking in without a second thought. My heart, already thrumming with pain and exhaustion, swelled with an overwhelming wave of emotion – gratitude, love, and a profound sense of being truly seen.

I heard the low murmur of their voices, too soft for me to discern individual words, but the tone was unmistakable. Concern. George’s usually flippant tone was gone, replaced by something hushed and serious. Dream’s usual boisterous energy had dissipated. They were talking about me. About my pain. And they were doing it with respect and care, off-camera, away from the public eye.

A few moments later, I heard gentle footsteps moving away from my door, down the hall towards Sapnap's room. The muted sounds of their video resuming, Sapnap's voice, though still energetic, now held a shade more consideration, a subtle shift in volume. They hadn’t rushed back into the tour; they’d taken a moment. For me.

Tears pricked at my eyes, a surprising sting. It wasn't pity I felt, but an immense, humbling warmth. Living with chronic pain was often an isolating experience, a private battle fought behind closed doors. But having these three men – Sapnap, my boyfriend, who saw me at my worst and loved me relentlessly; Dream and George, who treated me like their cherished little sister, always ready to defend or comfort – made it bearable. They understood. They didn't need grand explanations or overly dramatic displays. They just knew.

The heating pad continued its gentle work, the tea warmed my throat, and the slow piano music filled the room, now feeling less like a balm against pain and more like a melody of love. I closed my eyes again, a genuine, albeit tired, smile forming on my lips. I wasn't alone. Not really. Even from the other side of a closed door, surrounded by warmth and quiet, I was deeply, undeniably loved. And that, in itself, was a powerful kind of healing.

[thirstyymuch]

Ethereal

The sleepiness hit me unexpectedly, like a physical blow delivered by a velvet pillow.

It wasn't the normal kind of tired where a quick coffee infusion could save you. No, this was the deep, marrow-aching lethargy that felt like gravity had quadrupled its efforts specifically on my limbs. I was trapped in a perpetual state of slow motion, observing the vibrant world of my three boyfriends—Dream, Sapnap, and George—whirl around me in high-definition 60fps, while I lagged severely at 5fps.

The morning had started innocently enough. Dream had tried to engage me in a complex discussion about the new SMP lore update while we ate breakfast. I nodded earnestly, but halfway through his explanation of the red vines, my fork clattered onto the tile floor.

“Did you just… almost fall asleep standing up?” Sapnap asked, a grin stretching across his face as he snagged the last piece of bacon.

“I didn’t fall asleep,” I mumbled, retrieving the fork with painful slowness. “I was just deep in thought about the existential futility of scrambled eggs.”

“You’re having a sleepy day,” George diagnosed from the couch, already wrapped in his favorite blue blanket, clutching a switch. He always seemed to understand my moods instantly. “It’s the worst kind of tired. Everything is hard.”

George was right. Everything was hard. Lifting my arm to wave hello to Patches required the effort of an Olympic weightlifter. Even the simple act of blinking felt like a strenuous mini-workout.

Dream, ever the caretaker, reached across the table and placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You’re not sick, just… operating on dial-up speed, huh?”

“I’m trying,” I whined, leaning heavily on the counter. “I tried to load the dishwasher, and suddenly the mugs weighed twenty pounds.”

The attempt at productivity failed utterly by noon. We tried to watch a movie, but I spent thirty minutes adjusting the pillows until they achieved the exact, mathematically perfect state of comfort—a quest that exhausted me entirely. I kept sinking lower and lower into the sofa, until only the top of my head was visible over the cushions.

Sapnap, who thrives on maximum physical energy, was bouncing on the adjacent cushion, attempting to entice me into a game of tag.

“Come on! Just one quick round. It’ll wake you up!” he insisted, reaching out to tickle my foot.

I mustered a weak glare. “Nick, if you touch me, I will dissolve into dust. And then you’ll have to clean up the tired dust.”

Dream chuckled, pulling Sapnap back slightly. “Let her be, dude. She needs to recharge.”

“Recharge where?” George asked, finally looking up from his game, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You aren't going to go take a nap without us, are you?”

The very utterance of the word "nap" sent a shiver of desperate longing through me. The sofa was fine, but it was too exposed, too loud, too close to the possibility of Sapnap launching himself over the back for a surprise hug. I needed sanctuary. I needed darkness, silence, and a duvet heavy enough to anchor me to the mattress.

I made my decision. I needed the most untouchable, least-trafficked hiding place: Dream’s room.

I waited until Dream was distracted answering a Discord ping, and Sapnap and George were arguing about whether to order pizza or Chinese. I executed my escape plan—a maneuver I internally dubbed ‘Operation Stealth Slumber.’ It primarily consisted of pushing myself off the couch and shuffling sideways toward the hallway with the speed of a sloth wading through molasses.

I reached Dream’s bedroom door, thankfully ajar. His room was always meticulously neat; scentless and calm, a perfect anti-stimulus environment. I slipped inside and closed the door with a gentle click.

His bed was huge and covered in a thick, weighted blanket I knew he used sometimes for calming streams. I didn't even bother removing my jeans. I simply collapsed face-down onto the mattress and pulled the nearest corner of the blanket over my head.

Sanctuary. The mattress instantly swallowed me up. The subtle scent of ozone and mint—the smell of Dream—was the last thing I registered before my brain completely shut down.

I didn't know how long I slept—maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour—but I was yanked back to consciousness by the soft sound of the door opening.

“There you are, you little sneak,” a low, warm voice murmured. It was Dream.

I cracked one eye open. He was standing by the bed, smiling fondly. He must have figured out my retreat. He approached the bed, carefully tucking the weighted blanket around my shoulders without disturbing me.

“Sleepy head,” he whispered, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “Get some good rest. I’ll keep the gremlins out.”

I hummed contentedly and sank back into the pillows, feeling safe and claimed. Dream’s room had worked perfectly. I was untouchable.

...Or so I thought.

My peaceful slumber lasted perhaps another six minutes before I felt a distinct shift in the mattress beneath me. It wasn't the gentle movement of Dream lying down; it was the aggressive, territorial shifting of someone else.

“Oh, hell no!” a loud whisper hissed directly into my ear. It was Sapnap. His voice was laced with mock offense. “You went for the Dream Cuddle Monopoly? Unacceptable.”

I felt a second body crowding the space, followed by an indignant sniff.

“I knew it,” George muttered. “She picks Dream’s room. I hate it here.”

“You guys, I told you to—” Dream’s voice cut off abruptly from the doorway. He hadn't managed to keep the gremlins out after all.

I tried to explain my rationale: It was the closest dark room! I needed the weighted blanket! But the words were trapped somewhere behind my eyelids. All I could manage was a weak, "S'pnaff... off."

Sapnap ignored my protest. “We have established house rules, guys. If the significant other is critical sleepiness level, they must be shared centrally. Dream, you’ve had her all morning, talking about shrubbery or whatever.”

“I was talking about lore and the future of the SMP, thank you,” Dream defended, sounding entertained despite himself.

“Doesn’t matter! We all need a charge-mate!” Sapnap declared, suddenly sounding like a determined general.

And then, before I could process the sudden influx of chaotic energy, I was moving.

Sapnap used his signature move: the quick, efficient scoop. He slid an arm under my knees and another under my back, lifting me completely off Dream’s mattress as if I weighed nothing more than a particularly large stuffed animal.

“Sapnap! Put her down!” Dream scolded, though there was zero aggression in his tone.

“Nope! Into the Cuddle Chamber!” Sapnap announced triumphantly, striding out of the room.

I was too far gone in my sleepy haze to be embarrassed, or even properly annoyed. The sensation of being carried was oddly comforting, like being rocked in a hammock. I just buried my face into his shoulder, inhaling the comforting scent of his hoodie—something sporty and warm.

Sapnap carried me past George, who whined dramatically, “Wait for me! Don’t you dare claim all the prime spooning positions!”

Sapnap didn’t take me to his room, which would have instantly caused a civil war. He carried me down the main hall into the biggest, coziest room in the house: the shared common lounge, which was permanently set up with a massive, sectional sofa perfect for movie nights and (more importantly) group cuddle puddles.

He deposited me gently in the exact middle of the sofa's largest cushion, surrounded by mountains of soft throw blankets and overstuffed pillows. I immediately burrowed deep into the blankets.

Sapnap settled in instantly, laying down beside me and wrapping one muscular arm securely around my waist, pulling me tightly against his chest.

“Mine,” he declared softly, resting his chin on the crown of my head.

A moment later, George appeared, scrambling over the armrest. He didn't even acknowledge Sapnap, instead focusing entirely on carving out his own comfortable nook. George insisted on being the small spoon, and he skillfully positioned himself behind my back, tucking his knees up and linking his hand with mine that was resting on Sapnap’s chest.

“If you snore, Sapnap, I’m kicking you,” George murmured, already sounding half-asleep.

The three of us were now a tangled, warm knot of limbs and blankets, pressing heat into my sleepy, weary body.

Just as my consciousness was fading again, I heard the faint thump of someone sinking onto the available space behind George.

Dream sighed contentedly. “You guys are ridiculous. I was going to just bring her a glass of water.”

“Too late,” Sapnap mumbled into my hair. “We’ve achieved critical cuddle mass.”

Dream didn't fight it. He nestled in behind George, forming the protective outer layer of our collective spoon. I could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of Sapnap’s chest beneath my ear, the soft, steady pressure of George’s body against my back, and the grounding warmth of Dream encompassing us all.

I was simultaneously pinned, contained, and utterly cherished. The intense sleepiness that had plagued me all day finally broke, replaced by a profound, heavy peace.

I let out a deep, sleepy sigh, burrowing a final time into the warmth.

“I’m going to sleep for a thousand years,” I whispered into Sapnap’s hoodie.

“Good,” Dream murmured from the back. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Within minutes, I heard the soft, deep breathing of Sapnap and the slightly louder, more erratic breathing of George. Dream’s presence was a solid, anchoring force at the edge of the pile.

I was no longer tired; I was restful. Surrounded by the warmth, the familiar scents, and the absolute, uncomplicated love of the three men who claimed my heart, I finally drifted off, locked safely in the center of the greatest, most jealous cuddle puddle a sleepy person could ever dream of.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

MAY YOU NEVER LOSE YOUR HYPERFIXATION

[thirstyymuch]

May it Be

The weight of my own legend was exhausting.

They called me the Ghost, the Apex, the anomaly. But online, I was just The One. I had shattered the metrics, broken the concurrent viewer records, and achieved the impossible feat of becoming more recognizable, more valuable, and more globally known than Dream and Corpse Husband combined—all without ever revealing so much as a shadow of my face.

Everyone knew my name. My voice was a familiar, intimate soundtrack to millions of lives. My merchandise sold out in seconds, featuring intricate, stylized versions of my chosen avatar—a complex, baroque design that hinted at expense and detail but revealed nothing of the human behind it.

My reputation was built not just on skill, but on presentation. Even faceless, I curated an image. My descriptions of my unseen reality were always meticulously crafted: the custom lighting setup, the perfect manicure tapping against my desk, the specific designer fragrance misting the air in my soundproof booth. I didn't hide; I simply made anonymity a high-fashion accessory.

This commitment to the elaborate made my bond with the guys—Dream, Sapnap, and George—all the more genuine. We started as rivals, became collaborators, and quickly evolved into a strange, four-way friendship cemented by late-night calls, shared anxiety over massive events, and the mutual understanding of living life under an unprecedented level of scrutiny.

Dream, in particular, had become my anchor. We talked about everything, sharing the burden of fame that nobody else could truly understand.

A month ago, the conversation had shifted from shared servers to shared space.

"Seriously, we need you here," Dream had said, his voice softer than it was on stream, laced with that familiar Southern drawl. "The dynamic would be insane. The content. Just... you being here."

I had been staring out the massive window of my penthouse in New York, the city lights feeling less comforting and more like prison bars every day. "Florida, huh? Don’t you guys sweat all the time?"

"It’s good sweat. Content sweat," he countered, laughing. "Come on. Say yes. We have the space. The new house is huge."

The decision was immediate, a sudden, blinding flash of affirmation. I needed the change. I needed human contact that didn’t involve an ethernet cable.

"Yes," I finally whispered, the word feeling monumental. "But I have a condition."

Silence on the line. Dream knew my conditions usually involved elaborate rigging or custom logistical nightmares. "Lay it on me, drama queen."

"I don't just want to move. I want to arrive," I explained, running a hand through my perfectly styled hair. "I want the face reveal to be a surprise. At the airport. For you three."

A sharp inhale on the other end. "Wait. You're serious? You're going to break the internet in the arrivals lobby of an international airport?"

"Think of the chaos, Dream. The memes," I teased. "But only if I get to keep it completely secret. No hints. No early photos. You won't know what I look like until I'm physically standing in front of you."

There was the sound of keys tapping—he was undoubtedly speed-texting Sapnap and George. "They're losing it. They love the idea. But..." Dream paused, the professionalism creeping back in. "How will we know it’s you? We can’t just hug a random incredibly attractive stranger in the waiting area."

I leaned back in my chair, a slow, confident smile spreading across my lips. This was my favorite part: the calculated performance.

"Oh, trust me," I purred into the mic, letting the confidence bleed into my voice. "You will know."

The next few days were a blur of high-level logistics. My management team handled the public announcement—a cryptic tweet about taking a "well-deserved, content-filled vacation" and an indefinite streaming hiatus, sending the entire fandom into a frenzy.

Meanwhile, I meticulously prepared for the grand entrance. My entire life was being shipped south, but the immediate necessities were packed into two enormous, gleaming white Prada trolley suitcases. They weren't practical, but they were me.

My outfit was a study in controlled contrast. I needed to look expensive, untouchable, yet also comfortable enough to endure a four-hour flight.

The base layer was a coordinated black cashmere set—tailored joggers and a soft, close-fitting top. Over this, I wore a long, flowing cardigan woven with the deepest shade of true red, hitting mid-calf. It was the color of a warning sign, the color of a statement.

My hair, usually bound high for streams, was loose, cascading in perfect, effortless waves around my shoulders. The makeup was "bare," but only in the sense that it looked like I woke up flawless. In reality, it was hours of application: featherlight foundation, sculpted brows, and a perfect, neutral lip that hinted at color. It was the kind of look that said, I am not trying, and yet I am the most important person in this room.

The jewelry was the final, deliberate touch. A delicate but weighty gold chain with a singular, geometric pendant rested against the black cashmere. My nails, freshly manicured in a deep, glossy oxblood, were tapping against the phone case as I waited for the Uber.

I looked un-fuck-with-able. Exactly as intended.

At the airport, I navigated Check-In and Security with the ease of someone who moved through the world frequently but rarely wanted to be noticed. My anonymity was my largest asset, and even though I was about to discard it, the habit of moving like a ghost remained.

Once seated, the reality of what I was doing hit me. For years, I had controlled the narrative, the environment, the image. Now, I was handing the physical reality of myself over to three of the most important people in my life, live and in person. The anxiety sat in my stomach like a cold stone, but it was quickly eclipsed by a giddy sense of mischief.

Halfway through the flight, I texted the group chat, which was predictably named "Florida Men & The Ghost":

Me: Wheels up in T-30 minutes. See you soon. Don't cause a riot.

Dream responded immediately with a slightly frantic tone:

Dream: Why are you so calm about this? George is pacing and Nick is currently trying to figure out which terminal you're coming out of.

I snorted. Sapnap, always the most reactionary, was probably vibrating with anticipation.

Me: Just be at the gate exit, idiots. I'm hard to miss.

As the plane landed, I took one final look in the small reflection of the window, adjusting the drape of the red cardigan. Show time.

The rush of warm, heavy Florida air was the first indicator that I had officially crossed a threshold. It smelled like humidity and salt, a stark contrast to the crisp, sterile air of New York.

I breezed through customs, retrieved my two ridiculous Prada suitcases from the carousel, and took a deep breath. This was the moment. The culmination of years of virtual relationships.

I pushed the heavy glass doors leading out of the secure area and into the crowded, chaotic energy of the Arrivals hall.

I spotted them instantly.

They were standing slightly off to the side, near a pillar—a deliberately inconspicuous grouping of three exceptionally tall, recognizable young men trying very hard to blend in. Sapnap was wearing a hoodie with the hood up, despite the heat. George had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking utterly overwhelmed by the noise. And Dream, the tallest, the one I knew best, was constantly scanning, his head swiveling, eyes searching for a familiar face, a familiar item of clothing, anything to give away the identity of the person they were picking up.

They were looking everywhere except at the one person who looked exactly like they were waiting for a private jet instead of a budget flight.

I pulled one suitcase behind me and rolled the other, the wheels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor. I walked with a slow, deliberate pace, letting the red cardigan billow slightly with the movement, commanding attention without demanding it.

As I neared them, they were huddled together, clearly debating theories.

"I bet they’re wearing something obvious, like a team hoodie or something," George muttered, his British accent standing out even against the background noise.

"No way, they're too extra for that," Sapnap countered. "It's gonna be a super obscure reference."

Dream sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Just keep looking. We said we'd know."

I stopped directly behind them, taking a moment to appreciate the sight. They were even better in 3D. Taller, broader, and radiating that familiar, nervous anticipation.

I cleared my throat softly, then let my voice drop into the low, confident timbre that had narrated billions of hours of streaming content.

"You know," I said, leaning slightly closer so only they could hear, "with three hot guys standing here and looking so lost, they’re bound to have someone come up and get their number?"

They all jumped slightly. They turned as a unit, their expressions shifting from frustrated expectation to immediate awkward confusion. They stared at me.

They stared at the immaculate hair, the cool jewelry, the two aggressively expensive suitcases, and the general aura of, I own this terminal. They didn't see their friend. They saw a VIP who was clearly mistaking them for models or a pop group.

Dream swallowed, his mouth opening to issue a polite, slightly flustered apology for taking up space. Sapnap just blinked. George managed a small, embarrassed cough.

I carried on, a genuine, wide smile splitting my face—the first time I’d really smiled at them, not through a screen, not in years.

"At least I have all three of them already."

The words landed softly, yet struck with the force of a hammer.

Sapnap’s head perked up, his eyes widening in a sudden, violent realization. The change in his face was startling—the confusion evaporated, replaced by absolute, astonished joy. It wasn’t the outfit or the jewelry that hit him first; it was the voice, the cadence, the specific level of playful sarcasm tailored just for them.

"Wait—no way—" he started, his voice cracking.

Then, he didn't even finish the sentence. Sapnap launched himself at me with zero warning, nearly knocking over one of the Prada cases. His arms wrapped around me so fast and so tightly that my breath whooshed out.

"Oh my god! You absolute maniac! You actually did it!" Sapnap was practically shouting into my shoulder, his laughter loud and vibrant.

It took Dream and George a full beat longer.

Dream was frozen, processing the visual of his best friend hugging a woman he logically shouldn't know. He looked at the red cardigan, then back at my face, then at the sheer, cold confidence in my eyes. Then he heard Sapnap’s pure, unguarded excitement.

The realization hit Dream like a freight train. His entire posture shifted. His jaw dropped. The searching, anxious look was replaced by a dazed joy so overwhelming it was almost painful to watch.

George, ever the slow burner, was muttering under his breath, "Wait, what? Who—?" He looked at Dream’s shocked face, then at Sapnap still clinging to me, and finally, his gaze settled on my smile. That’s when the pieces clicked. The voice, the sheer audacity of the reveal, the expensive theatricality of the look.

"You're... you're Ghost," George breathed, using my stream persona, sounding utterly reverential. "You’re actually here."

Dream moved with sudden force, prying Sapnap off me just enough to turn the hug into a frantic, chaotic group embrace. I was instantly sandwiched between three very tall, very warm friends, the smell of Florida humidity mixed with cologne and the faint scent of airport exhaustion.

"I cannot believe you," Dream mumbled into my hair, his arms tight around my back. "The nerve. The absolute, unnecessary glamour of this entrance."

"Only the best for my favorite trio of Florida Men," I managed, laughing into the hug. It felt unreal. After years of careful distance, this physical connection, this genuine, joyful welcome, was a profound shock to my system.

When Sapnap finally relented, giving me space, Dream took his turn, pulling me into a proper, long hug, pressing his face against my temple. "Welcome home," he whispered. The simplicity of the phrase meant everything.

George’s hug was shorter, but no less heartfelt. He held me by the shoulders afterward, just staring. "You look... so different than I pictured. But exactly like you sound. That makes sense, somehow."

I adjusted my cardigan, smoothing the wrinkles. "I told you I was hard to miss."

They stepped back, still slightly breathless, their eyes tracing over me again. It was a comprehensive look—from the perfect placement of the diamond stud in my ear, down the lines of the expensive cashmere, to the bright red of my nails holding the handle of the Prada case. They were cataloging the visible details of the faceless friend they had known for years.

The next thing happened in perfect, horrifying synchronization.

As they took in the full picture—the expensive polish, the deliberate presentation, the expensive barrier I had created—all three of them, without planning, without thinking, smiled widely, let out a soft, appreciative exhale, and winked at me.

Dream, Sapnap, and George. Three distinct, synchronized winks.

I threw my head back and laughed, a loud, unrestrained sound that turned several heads in the Arrival hall. "Oh, you three are definitely a problem."

"Only for you now," Sapnap grinned, already reaching for one of my ludicrously heavy suitcases. "Let's go. We have a whole mansion that needs your specific brand of chaos."

The walk out of the terminal was surreal. George led the way, running cover. Sapnap handled the luggage with surprising efficiency. And Dream walked right next to me, his presence a solid, grounding warmth.

"So, the red cardigan means what, exactly?" Dream asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"It means danger, darling," I replied, hooking my arm through his, an action that felt natural after years of intimacy. "And that I spent too much money on this outfit for it to be wrinkled."

We navigated the chaos of the airport parking structure, the air thick with the scent of hot asphalt and promise. The car, a large matte-black SUV, was waiting.

As we climbed in—me in the spacious back seat, sandwiched between Sapnap and Dream, with George driving—the realization sunk deeper. This wasn't a stream. This wasn't a call. This was real life, and I was physically here, surrounded by them.

Sapnap was already leaning into my space, examining my jewelry. "This looks expensive. Is this expensive?"

"Painfully," I confirmed, nudging him lightly.

Dream settled back, his elbow touching mine, still just staring at my profile in the rearview mirror. "I can't wait to see your streaming setup. I bet you brought custom lighting."

"Custom everything," I smiled.

George pulled onto the highway, the palm trees rushing past the window. The noise of the city faded, replaced by the comfortable, easy chatter of four friends finally occupying the same physical space.

"So, what does it feel like?" George asked, glancing back at me in the mirror. "To actually be seen?"

I thought about the years of careful curation, the months of intense planning, the massive risk of revealing the face behind the empire. I looked at Dream, who was already lost in a thought, occasionally glancing at me with a soft, affectionate expression. I looked at Sapnap, who had already managed to steal one of my red velvet scrunchies off my wrist.

It felt terrifying. But mostly, it felt right.

"It feels," I leaned forward, resting my elbow on Dream’s shoulder, my voice dropping back to that famous, intimate purr, "like the stream is finally starting."

I was Ghost, the faceless legend, now fully visible. And the game had only just begun.

[thirstyymuch]

Man I Need

The faint scent of burnt toast wafted up from downstairs, quickly followed by a muffled, rather pathetic yelp from what I assumed was George. I sighed, a small smile playing on my lips. It was 7 AM on a Tuesday, and normally, this would be my cue. My cue to abandon the comfort of my bed, throw on the nearest presentable item of clothing, and descend into the chaotic symphony of three grown men attempting to function before their caffeine hit. I’d usually find George staring blankly at the toaster, Dream already on a call with their manager despite it being too early for anyone to be coherent, and Sapnap probably still half-asleep, perched on a kitchen stool scrolling through Twitter with one eye open.

But not today. Today was different.

“You guys are grown men,” I’d stated with all the authority I could muster, leaning against the doorframe of their gaming room last night, arms crossed over my chest. Dream had paused mid-sentence during a rant about a new game update, George had jumped, nearly dropping his controller, and Sapnap had just looked up, his expression a mixture of guilt and puppy-dog eyes. They’d been at it for hours – “__, where’s my charger?” “___, I can’t find my socks!” "___,, can you just make us some more coffee?”

It was an endless cycle, and while I adored them, loved their goofy antics and their unwavering loyalty, running their house and their lives was a full-time, high-stress job. I was the one who kept their schedules in line, ensured their bills were paid, orchestrated their content collaborations, managed their fan mail, and somehow, inexplicably, found time to cook them actual meals that weren’t instant ramen. I was the cute, sarcastic but sweet lady who made their world turn, and they knew it. Their crushes on me were barely hidden, manifesting in competitive acts of ‘helpfulness’ (like grabbing my coffee after I’d already made it, or offering to carry a box after I’d already struggled with it), lingering touches on my arm, and the way their eyes would follow me when I walked through a room. It was endearing, frustrating, and, if I was honest, a little thrilling.

“I need a day,” I’d continued, softening my tone slightly, because even my sarcasm had a sweet coating. “A full, uninterrupted, utterly silent day. No questions about missing items, no requests for snacks, no ‘____, can you just…’. Consider it a holiday. From me.”

There had been a moment of stunned silence, then the three of them had exchanged guilty glances. It was Sapnap who spoke first, ever the most direct. “A whole day? But… who’s gonna make sure we don’t set the kitchen on fire?”

“Or feed us?” George added, looking genuinely distressed.

Dream, ever the leader, had cut them off. “Guys. ___’s right. She does everything. She deserves a break. ____, you got it. Twenty-four hours. We’re on our own. Complete radio silence from us.” He’d even given me a dramatic salute, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

And they’d delivered. Spectacularly.

That burnt toast was the only hint of their existence I’d heard all morning. No frantic knocks on my door, no shouts of frustration. The house, usually a hive of activity, was eerily, wonderfully quiet. I rolled over in bed, pulling my fluffy duvet tighter around me, a contented hum escaping my lips. This was my personal paradise.

My phone, plugged in on my nightstand, was currently cycling through my ‘Chill Vibes’ playlist. It was a perfect backdrop to my morning of glorious inactivity. I spent a good hour just existing, allowing my mind to drift, the tension that usually resided in my shoulders slowly melting away. Eventually, the urge to be productive, ingrained from years of being the ultimate multi-tasker, kicked in.

Not productive for them, though. Productive for me.

I started with my room. It wasn’t messy, not really, but it was lived-in. Books were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, clothes draped over a chair, a few empty mugs from late-night planning sessions. I turned up the volume on my phone, letting the gentle melodies fill the space as I began my self-assigned tasks. I picked up every stray item, placing it back in its rightful home. I wiped down surfaces, dusting away the invisible layer that settled on everything. I rearranged my small collection of plants, giving each leaf a quick, affectionate polish.

Then came the grand finale: changing the bed sheets. There was something uniquely satisfying about stripping a bed down to its bare mattress, then dressing it in crisp, clean linen. The scent of fresh laundry filled my room, mingling with the subtle herbal notes of my diffuser. I plumped my pillows, smoothed out the duvet cover, and admired my handiwork. It felt like a fresh start, a reset button for my own personal space.

I sprawled out on the newly made bed, letting out a deep sigh. It wasn’t just the physical act of cleaning; it was the mental space it cleared. No incessant demands, no looming deadlines for them. Just me, my music, and the quiet satisfaction of a reorganized life.

My phone, still playing, shuffled to the next song. A familiar, soulful melody began to swirl through the air, Olivia Dean’s velvety voice filling the room: “Man I Need.”

It was such a beautiful, yearning song, and as I listened, something shifted inside me. All day, I’d been focused on my needs, my relaxation. And the boys, bless their chaotic hearts, had honored that. They hadn’t bothered me, hadn’t asked for a single thing. Hungry? They’d probably ordered enough takeout to feed a small army, or perhaps, given the burnt toast, attempted some culinary experiments of their own. Need energy? The fridge was stocked with their usual array of energy drinks and sodas. They had truly, honestly, left me alone.

A wave of warmth, gratitude, and an unexpected surge of affection washed over me. They were frustrating, yes, demanding, absolutely, but they were also sweet, thoughtful, and incredibly dear to me. This day of peace, provided entirely by their self-restraint, was the best gift they could have given me.

And now, I wanted to give something back.

I sprang up from the bed, a renewed energy coursing through me. A big dinner. A thank-you feast, made with love and all the care I usually put into their schedules. Something comforting, something delicious, something that would make them forget their burnt toast and late-night snacking.

I tiptoed down the stairs, almost instinctively, as if afraid to break the fragile peace. The kitchen was, surprisingly, in one piece. A stack of greasy pizza boxes sat on the counter, and a few crumpled snack wrappers were scattered, but it wasn't the disaster I’d half-expected. I’d take that as a win.

I pulled out my phone again, switching to a more upbeat playlist – something with a good rhythm section, perfect for cooking to. As the first notes of a groovy indie-pop track filled the kitchen, I got to work. Pasta was a good idea, I decided. Something hearty, with a rich sauce, maybe some garlic bread. Easy to scale up for three perpetually hungry streamers.

I pulled out a large pot, filling it with water for the pasta, and then reached for my favorite cast iron skillet. Garlic sizzled in olive oil, followed by the sweet aroma of chopped onions. I started humming, then outright singing along to the music, my hips beginning to sway in time with the beat. Cooking was a form of therapy for me, a creative outlet amidst the spreadsheets and schedules. Tonight, it was also an act of pure appreciation.

I chopped tomatoes, mixed herbs, and stirred the developing sauce, lost in the rhythm of the music and the task at hand. My movements were fluid, my body relaxed. I was dancing, twirling a little in the confined space of the kitchen, feeling utterly unselfconscious in my faded hoodie and softest pajama pants. The scent of simmering tomato, basil, and garlic filled the air, a delicious promise of the meal to come.

I was leaning over the skillet, whisking some fresh cream into the sauce, when I felt a presence behind me. No sound, just the subtle shift in the air, the warmth of another body. Before I could process it, a pair of arms slid around my waist, pulling me gently back against a solid chest. A soft hum vibrated near my ear, and then a familiar voice, low and warm, whispered.

“You look so good right now.”

It was George. I felt a blush creep up my neck, but I didn’t stop whisking, my movements practiced. He leaned his head against mine, his chin resting near my shoulder as he swayed slightly with me. Then, I felt the soft press of his lips against my right cheek, a light, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down my spine.

“But I gotta get back to the stream,” he murmured, his voice laced with regret as he reluctantly pulled away. I heard the soft padding of his feet as he retreated, leaving me a little breathless, the ghost of his lips still warm on my skin.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden fluttering in my chest. George. Always the quiet one, the one who expressed affection in gentle touches and soft words. I stirred the sauce a little more vigorously, trying to channel the unexpected rush of heat through my body into the cooking.

Not five minutes later, as I was adding the cooked pasta to the sauce, coating each strand in the rich, red goodness, I felt it again. Two strong arms wrapped around my shoulders this time, pulling me into a loose hug from behind. I still had the mobility to whisk, carefully folding the pasta and sauce together.

“George said you were down here cooking,” Dream’s voice, a low rumble, sounded above my head. He rested his chin on my head, his green hoodie smelling faintly of his usual cologne and the slightly less usual scent of… gamer. “But I am already looking at my meal tonight.”

He was referring to me, I knew, and the implication behind his words made my cheeks burn even hotter. I felt the soft brush of his lips on the top of my head, a light, possessive kiss. Then, one of his hands, still wrapped around me, drifted lower, giving my butt a quick, firm pat. Not aggressive, but undeniably cheeky, a playful assertion.

“Don’t keep us waiting too long, Y/N,” he chuckled, giving me a final squeeze before letting go. I heard him walk away, his voice already a little louder as he probably went to tease George about seeing me first.

I stood there, pasta ladle suspended mid-air, a fiery blush spreading across my face. Dream. Always direct, always bold, always pushing the boundaries in that endearing, infuriating way. My hands were trembling slightly, not from exertion, but from the sudden, intense rush of adrenaline and embarrassment.

Just as I thought I might actually implode from the sheer amount of flirtation, a new set of arms, powerful and warm, encased me completely. I jumped, honest to god, a little squeak escaping my lips. Sapnap, of course. He hadn’t made a sound entering the kitchen, a skill honed from years of sneaking up on his friends. He pulled me so close, my back pressed against his chest, my hands pinned to my sides for a moment.

“Trust me, love,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that vibrated against my left ear, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps across my skin. His breath was warm against my neck. “I’ll be the man that you need, especially with that reaction. I’ll take care of you, my wonderful lady.”

His words, a direct callback to the song I’d been listening to, hit me with a force that stole my breath. Then, he pressed a kiss to my left cheek, a firm, possessive touch that lingered just a fraction of a second too long. And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen, the echoes of his words, his touch, his scent, swirling around me.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my entire body humming with a strange, exhilarating energy. My face was incandescent, a deep shade of red that probably matched the pasta sauce. Goosebumps prickled all over my skin, raising the fine hairs on my arms and legs. The faded hoodie and softest pj pants I was wearing, meant for comfort and solitude, now felt like they were radiating heat, making me even hotter.

My heart was thudding against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. Three boys. Three distinct, intensely flirty interactions, all within the span of ten minutes. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly, deliciously unexpected.

I finally managed to stir the pasta one last time, my hands still a little shaky. The rational part of my brain, the assistant who ran the household with ruthless efficiency, told me to ignore it, to brush it off as typical gamer boy antics. But the other part, the part that was cute, sarcastic, and sweet, the part that secretly thrived on their attention, was buzzing with a whole different kind of energy.

Dinner was just about ready. And for the first time all day, I couldn’t wait to join them. I had a feeling the peace and quiet of my relaxation day had just been a prelude to a whole new kind of delightful chaos. And maybe, just maybe, I was ready for it.

[thirstyymuch]

I Think I Like You Better When You're Gone

The scent of rain-soaked London pavement usually brought Elara a sense of comforting familiarity. Her flat, a chic sanctuary nestled in a quiet corner of Surrey, was only a brisk ten-minute walk from George’s slightly more chaotic, gaming-centric apartment. For two years, their relationship had been defined by that easy proximity—a hand reaching out across a cobblestone street, a spontaneous late-night visit, the comfort of knowing he was there.

That comfort dissolved into acrid smoke during a miserable Tuesday evening.

George had been twitchy, avoiding her eye while meticulously stacking a tower of empty energy drink cans on her coffee table. He hadn't come over to relax; he had come over to drop a bomb.

“I’m leaving,” he announced, his voice flat, trying to sound resolute.

Elara, whose stage name was as sharp and stylized as her sound—simply ‘REN’—paused with her mug halfway to her lips. “Leaving? For the tour rehearsals in Manchester? They’re not until next month, G.”

“No. Leaving for good. I’m moving to Florida. With Dream and Sapnap.”

The air went dead. It wasn't the announcement itself—they had discussed the possibility of the move vaguely for nearly a year—it was the stark, jarring finality of the statement.

“You’re what?” Elara set the mug down so hard the ceramic clinked. “You’ve booked it? You’ve decided? When were you planning on mentioning this to the person you ostensibly share your life with?”

George finally looked at her, his expression a frustrating mix of guilt and forced excitement. “It all happened fast, Elara. The visa came through way quicker than expected. We got an amazing lease on a house near the coast. I mean, the weather is incredible, and we can finally make all the content we’ve been planning for years. It’s my career, Ren, you know that.”

“I know your career. But I also know that there’s a difference between making a career decision and making a life decision that affects us,” she countered, standing up, the anger rising fast and hot. “I couldn’t just pack up my entire life and studio and relocate to another continent. Not right now. And you knew that. You just bypassed the entire conversation, didn’t you? You didn’t want to face the difficulty, so you just made the unilateral choice, packed your bags, and decided to tell me after the fact.”

George bristled. “This wasn’t easy! Look, I told you I wanted to do this eventually.”

“Eventually is a conversation. This,” she gestured wildly, “this is desertion. This is selfish. You just decided that my life, my career, my home, meant less than the convenient synergy of living with your mates halfway across the globe.”

The ensuing argument was devastating, punctuated by raised voices and things left unsaid. It ended not with reconciliation, but with a cold, definitive silence. George grabbed the duffle bag he’d left near the door—already packed, she realized with a fresh wave of hurt—and walked out.

“I’m shipping the rest tomorrow,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

“Don’t bother texting when you land,” she hissed, the cruelest thing she could think to say, right before the door shut with a soft, final click.

The silence George left behind was deafening. Elara stood for a long moment, tears pricking her eyes, before the anger solidified into something hard and productive. She didn’t cry. She didn’t call a friend. She walked straight to her back room, the space where she engineered her emotional wreckage into chart-topping synth-pop.

It was 8:00 PM. She didn’t leave the studio for twelve hours.

The red light of the recording booth became her lighthouse. The keyboard was the battlefield. She wasn’t writing a sad ballad; she was writing a venomous anthem of catharsis. She needed to purge the feeling of being discarded, of realizing that the relationship had only been viable because it was easy.

The initial melody was dark, pulsing, built around a low, resonant bass line. Then came the words, spilling onto the page in a torrent of furious realization.

I just thought that you should know, Even though you broke my heart, I’m kinda thriving on my own.

She recorded the chorus first, her voice raw, overlaid with a heavy, distorted effect. But the core needed to be clear, ringing with painful clarity. She wrote until her fingers cramped and her throat was hoarse.

As the London dawn broke—a muted grey light filtering through the window blinds—she had found the perfect, gut-punching line to anchor the entire track. It was the realization that the relief of not having to compromise outweighed the pain of the loss.

She sang the final bridge, the vocal performance laced with just a hint of mocking triumph:

I think I like you better when you’ve gone.

By 8:00 AM, the track was rough-mixed, mastered, and uploaded. Elara operated on pure adrenaline and spite. She titled it simply, "Gone," but the core identity was unmistakable. She didn’t promote it, didn’t tease it, she simply hit the global release button on her distribution platform. She didn't care about the market strategy; she just needed the message—the cold, beautiful message—to exist.

Exhausted, she curled up on the studio sofa, the headphones still resting on the mixing board like trophies. She fell into a deep, heavy sleep, the sound of her own defiant voice echoing in her dreams.

Elara woke up to the persistent, frantic chirping of her phone at 10:15 AM GMT. Her phone was hot against her cheek.

She groggily swiped the screen. The notifications were a blinding, continuous stream.

Twitter Trends: #RenGone, #GogyMove, #FloridaMan

Her management was calling repeatedly. Her agent was texting fire emojis and incomprehensible strings of excited capital letters.

The song had detonated.

In the world of international celebrities and public relationships, the timing was too perfect. George had flown out Tuesday night, the entire internet knew he was touching down in the U.S. Wednesday morning, and her new, unscheduled single—a clear, brutal breakup track—dropped precisely when he was settling into his new life.

A quick check showed the song was already nearing a million streams on Spotify. The lyrics were being dissected on every platform, every cutting line attributed directly to George’s sudden abandonment.

Then, the private messages began to flood in.

Elara opened Telegram, seeing a barrage of texts from George. He’d clearly just woken up, likely in the bright, oppressive heat of Orlando, having forgotten entirely about the five-hour time difference.

[George]: Elara?? Did you land safely? Wait no, you’re home. Can you send me the tracking number for the monitors again? My brain is mush.

[George]: Hello? You up?

[George]: It’s only like 5 AM here, sorry if I woke you up. Just wanted to check in. I miss you already.

[George]: Wait. Why is my Twitter feed completely insane?

[George]: What is #RenGone??

[George]: Elara, did you release a song? Seriously?

[George]: I just listened to it.

[George]: No way you did that. You wrote that in one night?

[George]: ELARA PICK UP THE PHONE.

The screen lit up with an incoming call. It was George. His picture—a terrible, blurry selfie she’d taken months ago—stared back at her.

She didn't answer. A small, self-satisfied smile touched her lips as the ringing stopped. He was panicked. He was confused. He was five hours behind, five time zones away, and just realizing the seismic shift that had occurred the moment he stepped onto that plane.

A final text from him came through:

[George]: We need to talk. Are you angry?

Elara lay back on the studio sofa, pulling a blanket over herself. Her eyes drifted to the glowing screen of her computer, where the waveform of the finished track displayed its perfect, defiant geometry.

I think I like you better when you’ve gone.

The question was moot. The song had given her the answer, and now, it had given the entire world the answer, too. She closed her eyes, not bothering to reply. She had a new single to promote, and a new life to start, exactly ten minutes away from an empty apartment.

[thirstyymuch]

Wild Flowers and Wild Horses

The Texas sun beat down on my neck, a familiar warmth that had baked itself into my bones since birth. My old four by four, affectionately dubbed ‘Ol Bess by Jade, bounced along the dirt track, kicking up a rooster tail of amber dust. I gripped the wheel, one hand resting on the weathered dash, the other occasionally reaching out to scratch behind the ear of my trusty cattle dog, Daisy, who was perched like a queen on the footrest tongue lolling out.

Life on the Triple R Ranch suited me just fine. My best friend Jade’s family had owned this spread for generations, and ever since I graduated high school, I’d been working alongside them, wrangling cattle, mending fences, and generally keeping the place running. It was honest work, hard work, and it filled my soul in a way the city never could. Sapnap—my baby brother, though he’d kill me for calling him that—had traded this sprawling, dusty comfort for the bright lights and sandy beaches of Florida, living with his internet-famous buddies, Dream and George. He’d found his tribe, and I wouldn’t trade his happiness for anything, even if it meant fewer Sunday dinners together.

But distance hadn’t frayed our bond, not one bit. If anything, it had tightened it. We practically lived on the phone, texting or calling every other day, sometimes just to gripe about our day, sometimes to share big news. He was my bub, and I was his, the “wild” older sister he sometimes rolled his eyes at, but always knew he could count on. He often said I was more country than a barbed wire fence, and he wasn't wrong. I loved the smell of rain on dry earth, the sound of crickets at dusk, and the feel of a good horse beneath me. My idea of a wild night was a bonfire under a sky thick with stars, not some packed club.

Today, however, had been more ‘wild’ than I’d anticipated. Earlier, a couple of heifers had decided to go on an unscheduled adventure deep into the woods bordering the ranch. Jade had been on horseback for hours (I was on the four wheeler), tracking them through dense thickets and over rocky creeks. We’d finally rounded them up, but not before I’d managed to skin my knee, tangle my hair in a thorny bush, and get thoroughly winded from chasing after the stubborn critters.

I was just about to turn Bess towards the main house when my phone, which had been stubbornly silent in my saddle bag for hours, started vibrating like a buzzing cicada. I pulled it out, squinting at the screen. Sapnap. Again. My call log showed three missed calls from him, and two texts asking if I was alive. Oops.

“Hold on a sec, bub,” I muttered, pulling Bess to a stop in a slightly clearer patch of road, hoping the signal would cooperate. I hit the answer, a little breathless.

“What’s up, bub?” I asked, my voice still a little raspy from yelling at cows and exertion.

A torrent of exasperated words poured out from the other end. “Where are you?! I have been calling for like 30 minutes! I thought you fell into a ravine or something, sis!”

I chuckled, leaning my head back against the seat. “I’m sorry! Had a couple of runaway rascals. I’m out in the woods right now, just managed to get ‘em back to the pasture. What’s up though? You sound like a coiled rattlesnake.”

There was a pause, then a sigh. “Dream wants to meet you. Like, talk to you over the phone. Are you good to FaceTime now or later?”

My eyebrows shot up. Dream? The mythical Dream, the one Sapnap always talked about in hushed, reverent tones? The one who was apparently half-man, half-legend in the gaming world? This was new. “Dream wants to meet me? Huh, weird, but okay?” I pondered this for a moment. “Uhhh, let me get back to the car with Jade real quick, like five minutes. I’m still on the four-wheeler, and I gotta have two hands to drive this thing.”

“Want me to stay on the call then?” Sapnap asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.

“Yeah, why not? If you hear me crash, don’t tell mom though.” My southern drawl, always present, thickened with my relaxed state, each word stretching just a little longer, like molasses poured slow. Sapnap understood me perfectly, of course. He’d grown up hearing it. But I could imagine Dream on the other end, probably piecing together the words like a puzzle, forming a rough idea of what I was saying. I knew Sapnap probably cringed every time I spoke, convinced my accent was "too much" for his internet friends. I didn't care. It was who I was.

I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, a trick I’d mastered years ago, and fired up the four-wheeler. Daisy, who had been resting her chin on my knee, perked up, ready for more adventure. The ride back to where Jade and our truck were parked wasn't long, but it was bumpy. I could hear Sapnap occasionally sighing or muttering something about "crazy Texans" on the other end, which only made me grin.

Jade was leaning against the tailgate of Ol Bess, sipping from a water bottle, her dark braid swinging as she spotted me. “Found ‘em, did ya, cowgirl?” she called out.

I cut the engine, grabbed my phone, and hopped off the four-wheeler, doing a quick stretch. “Yep. Stubborn as mules. Sapnap’s on the phone. Says Dream wants to talk.”

Jade’s eyes widened, a mischievous glint appearing. “Ooh, drama! Tell him I said hi!”

“I’m on Face Time now,” I informed Sapnap, then quickly rummaged in the back of the truck for something to prop my phone on. The tailgate was perfect. I set it up, leaning it against a stack of hay bales so the camera viewed me clearly, then plopped myself back down on the seat of the four-wheeler, brushing dust from my jeans.

The screen flickered, then connected. There was Sapnap, looking annoyingly put-together in some brightly colored hoodie, and beside him… oh.

Beside him sat a guy I instantly knew had to be Dream. He was handsome, alright. Dark hair, a face that looked like it belonged on a movie screen, and a smile that was just starting to form, a curious glint in his eyes as he looked at me. My brain, usually sharp and witty, short-circuited for a split second. My mouth, however, had no such reservations. It opened, completely unbidden, and the words just tumbled out, thick with my best Texas charm.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” I drawled, leaning back just a fraction. “I would love to start some small-town drama with you.”

Sapnap’s jaw dropped. His eyes went wide, and he immediately started sputtering. “Sis! What the hell was that?! You can’t just—you just met him! You’re flirting with him right off the bat?!” He was going off, his voice rising in exasperation, but I barely registered it. All my attention was on Dream.

Dream, who had initially looked stunned, was now laughing. Not just a polite chuckle, but a full-blown, wheezing, cackling laugh that saw him clutching his stomach and practically falling off the couch. The sound was infectious, a rich, deep rumble that resonated even through the phone speakers. It was a beautiful sound, actually.

“Well, I’m so not sorry,” I retorted, my grin widening, completely unrepentant. I crossed my arms over my chest, giving Dream a slow, appraising look. “Your friend right there is a sight for sore eyes, Sapnap. Can’t blame a girl for appreciating the view.”

Dream finally managed to catch his breath, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. His gaze, when it met mine, was still sparkling with mirth, but there was something else there now—a hint of genuine interest, a challenge. “You’re crazy,” he managed to gasp out, his voice a little rough from laughing. “You do need to be with the wildflowers and wild horses.”

My heart gave a little bump. That was… unexpectedly poetic. And perceptive. It wasn't just a compliment on my looks; it was a nod to my spirit. My smile softened, genuine warmth blooming in my chest. I uncrossed my arms, leaning forward slightly, my gaze holding his. "Well, thank you, darlin’,” I said, my voice dropping a notch, the drawl even thicker. “I do love to stir up the dirt in the sun.”

Sapnap, who had been watching our exchange with a mixture of horror and grudging admiration, finally threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, that's enough of that! Dream, you said you wanted to talk to her about something specific, not just flirt with her!”

Dream just shook his head, still grinning. “I… I honestly forgot what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted to put a face to the name of Sapnap’s infamous older sister. And you, uh, you certainly delivered.” He took a deep breath, collecting himself. “Seriously though, you actually live on a ranch? With all the… dust and horses?” His eyes scanned my slightly disheveled appearance, my dirt-smudged jeans, the faint smell of hay and sunshine that must have clung to me.

“Yep, born and raised,” I confirmed, a sense of pride swelling in my chest. “Worked here since I was old enough to hold a shovel. And yes, lots of dust. Comes with the territory. Horses too, everything from the old reliable workhorses to a couple of spirited young ones still learning the ropes.”

“Spirited, huh?” Dream repeated, a thoughtful look on his face. “Sounds like you found your match.”

I let out a low chuckle, a rich, earthy sound that came from deep in my belly. “You could say that. There’s not much I like more than a challenge. A good horse or… a good man.” My eyes flickered back to his, a playful dare in their depths.

Sapnap groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god, I’m hanging up. I can’t listen to this anymore. You two are going to be the death of me.”

Dream laughed again, though this time it was softer, a deeper appreciation in his eyes. “No, no, Sapnap, don’t! Your sister is fascinating. I just… I feel like I finally understand a lot more about you now, Sap. This explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Sapnap demanded, peeking through his fingers.

Dream just winked at me, ignoring Sapnap’s indignation. “It means you have a knack for finding adventure, no matter where you are. And clearly, it runs in the family.” He straightened up, a more serious expression settling on his face. “Actually, I was wondering, since you’re on a ranch and all… if Sapnap’s told you about our new content idea? We were thinking of doing something a little more… physical. Maybe even outdoorsy.”

My interest was genuinely piqued now. “He mentioned y’all wanting to try some new things, but not specifics. What’d you have in mind?”

“Well,” Dream began, leaning closer to the camera, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, “we were thinking of maybe… a wilderness survival challenge. Or something involving animals. And who better to give us the lowdown on that than someone who actually lives it?”

I raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across my face. “You want me to teach you city boys how to survive in the wild? Or how to wrangle a steer? That sounds like a recipe for disaster… for y’all, that is.”

“Precisely!” Dream exclaimed, clearly excited. “It’d be hilarious. And educational, for us at least.”

Sapnap piped up, “And I told him, sis, you’d be the perfect person to help us plan it. You’re always talking about survival skills, and you know everything about the ranch.”

“He’s not wrong,” I admitted, considering it. My mind was already racing with possibilities. Pitting these internet stars against the raw, unvarnished reality of the Texas wilderness… it would be hilarious. And I did know a thing or two about keeping your wits about you when the nearest Wi-Fi signal was miles away.

“So, what do you say?” Dream asked, his voice softer, more persuasive. “Would you be willing to lend a seasoned hand to a couple of clueless Floridians?”

I paused, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment, savoring the anticipation. I glanced at Jade, who was now leaning in, clearly engrossed in the conversation. She gave me an encouraging nod. This could be fun. More than fun, actually. It could be interesting. And a little bit dangerous. Exactly my kind of drama.

“Well now,” I drawled, a mischievous glint in my eyes matching Dream’s. “That sounds like a whole heap of trouble. And I do love a good pile of trouble. Tell you what, darlin’,” I added, letting my gaze linger on his just a second longer than strictly necessary. “Send me the details. We can talk more about how to get y’all good and dirty.”

Sapnap let out another exasperated groan, but this time, it was laced with a hint of triumphant relief. Dream, however, let out a delighted laugh, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

“Perfect,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I have a feeling this is going to be… wild.”

I just smiled, a knowing glint in my eyes. “Oh, darlin’,” I murmured, my southern charm dripping from every syllable. “You haven’t seen wild yet.”

The call ended a few minutes later, with Sapnap still trying to extract some promise from me not to embarrass him further, and Dream’s laughter filling the air. As the screen went dark, I leaned back against the four-wheeler, a satisfied sigh escaping my lips.

“Well,” Jade said, pushing off the tailgate with a smirk. “You certainly made an impression, you old flirt.”

I just winked at her. “What can I say? Some men just need a little taste of the real world. Besides, he called me crazy and said I belonged with wildflowers and wild horses. Which, honestly,” I patted Daisy’s head, “is probably the best pick-up line I’ve heard in twenty-five years.”

Jade laughed, shaking her head. “You really are something else, you know that?”

I stood up, stretching my stiff muscles. The sun was getting low, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples. It was beautiful, wild, and utterly Texan. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As I started the four-wheeler again, pulling away with Daisy barking happily beside me, my mind was already buzzing with ideas. Wilderness survival. City boys. Dream. This wasn't just a content idea for Sapnap and his friends. This was an invitation. An invitation to stir things up. And I, for one, was ready to kick up some dust.

[thirstyymuch]

Heaven Belles

The moment the text message buzzed on my antique-looking floral phone case, I knew my life was about to pivot dramatically on a dime. Hand surgery, need a responsible adult, think of it as an escape, please say yes. It was classic Dream, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, even if he didn't realize how truly desperate I was for an escape.

Dream and I were one of those classic childhood pairs—the kind of friends who knew each other’s thoughts before they were spoken. We grew up side by side until my family moved to the suffocatingly beautiful suburbs of Georgia, where appearances were religion and the scent of magnolias masked the sharp sting of gossip.

He’d always been the wild, inventive, slightly chaotic force tethered to reality only by my hand. I remember when we were thirteen, he’d confessed a crush, stammering and turning the color of a ripe tomato. I’d kissed his cheek and told him, sweetly, that he was the best human I knew, but that we were meant for legendary friendship, not messy romance. He’d accepted it with surprising grace, and we’d been inseparable since—until the internet called him to Florida to meet his now-infamous friends, Sapnap and George.

While Dream was building an online empire, I was polishing the image my mama had carefully crafted for me: the perfect Southern Belle. I was perpetually on. My hair, a cascade of sun-kissed brown, was either neatly tied back or curled into precise waves. Today, it was pulled half-back, fastened with a pale blue silk scarf I’d subtly woven into the braid. My dress was a modest, yet elegantly tailored navy linen with cap sleeves, and even after five hours of driving, I knew I smelled exactly as I should—a carefully curated blend of jasmine, peach, and vanilla, designed to be delicious and non-offensive. My mama always said, "A lady smells like the first day of summer, darlin', not an entire flower shop."

The problem was, the perfect image was cracking. The pressure cooker of family expectations had boiled over into a full-blown crisis of silent judgment and emotional manipulation. It was the kind of drama I couldn't tell Dream about because it sounded trivial on paper, yet it was consuming my ability to breathe.

So, when his text arrived—a lifeline masquerading as a medical emergency—I didn't hesitate. I packed the contents of my life into vintage suitcases and expensive garment bags: my entire wardrobe of dresses, skirts, and business casual blouses, my neatly organized schoolwork, and a ridiculous amount of smelling salts (just in case). I called Dream back immediately.

“Bless your heart, of course, I’ll come take care of you,” I said, my voice smooth and warm, the drawl heavy with genuine relief. “And yes, I’d love to get away for a while. Tell me what time I need to be spoon-feeding you Jell-O.”

He let out a sharp, relieved laugh. “You’re a lifesaver, ____. You are the best friend. Seriously, I owe you everything. Drive safe.”

The intervening week was a blur of logistics and secretive packing. I kept my departure intentionally vague with my family, mentioning only that a dear friend needed urgent long-term care. Dream was the most attentive recipient of packages imaginable. Every time a box arrived—my shoes, my favorite collection of antique teacups, my laptop—I’d get a hyper-excited text.

Box 4 is safe! It smells really good. I think it’s your soaps. The bedding arrived! George helped me make the bed. It’s super comfy, I swear. Everything looks great.

He’d truly outdone himself preparing my room. He knew I craved comfort and quiet elegance, and based on his updates, he’d turned a spare room into my safe haven. The anxiety of facing my family’s drama was slowly being replaced by the nervous flutter of starting over, five states away, with my best friend and two internet strangers.

I pulled off the highway and navigated the familiar, sprawling Florida suburbs. The air conditioner of my car had valiantly kept the jasmine perfectly crisp, but my shoulders were tight from the six-hour haul. I rounded the corner onto Dream's street, and there it was: a large, modern-looking house, much more nondescript and much less manicured than the architecture I was used to.

As my tires crunched against the gravel driveway, the front door burst open.

Dream, wearing soft gray sweatpants and a slightly too-big black hoodie, practically flew down the porch steps. His smile was blindingly large, and even though his dominant hand was bandaged and tucked into a sling, he moved with the bounding energy of a golden retriever.

I hadn't even engaged the parking brake before he was halfway to my car door.

"You're here!" he shouted, throwing his arms around me the second I was out, lifting me off the ground in a spontaneous, spinning embrace.

I laughed, a rich, melodic sound that always seemed to startle me when I heard it, and squeezed him back. "Lord, Dream, stop spinning me! You’re going to mess up my hair, you big goof."

He set me down gently, planting a playful, friendly kiss right on the side of my head, knocking my neatly pinned scarf slightly askew. I patted his good shoulder.

"Welcome to Florida, Belle," he murmured, using the nickname he’d given me years ago, a nod both to my heritage and my appearance.

"It smells like freedom," I whispered back, completely genuine.

It was only then, as Dream was pulling back to inspect me—making sure I hadn't been replaced by a less stylish imposter—that I noticed the action happening behind him. The garage door, which had been closed, started grinding open with a slow, mechanical groan.

Inside the cool, shadowed space stood two distinct figures.

One was George, immediately recognizable from the occasional blurry video clip Dream had shown me. He was standing slightly back, leaning against a storage shelf, looking both curious and slightly overwhelmed, holding a forgotten soda can.

The other figure, Sapnap, was standing forward, framed perfectly by the garage opening. He was taller than I’d expected, lean but clearly strong. He wore a simple black tee and jeans, his dark hair a mess.

But it wasn't his appearance that caught my attention; it was his gaze.

It was immediate and intense. As the light fully illuminated me, he didn’t just look; he observed. His dark eyes raked over me, starting at the slightly crooked silk scarf, traveling down the clean lines of my navy dress, assessing the slight heel on my sensible cream pumps, and then snapping back up to meet my eyes.

The look wasn't rude—it was something far more unnerving. It was a thorough examination, almost clinical, yet with an undeniable heat simmering beneath the surface. He looked pleased, like he had encountered a fascinating new specimen he hadn't known existed.

I felt suddenly, intensely aware of every single detail of my presentation—the clean scent of my hairspray, the faint trace of berry lip gloss, the perfectly shaped fingernails. I was used to people looking at me, but Sapnap’s gaze felt like it was actively taking inventory of my soul.

I instinctively reached up and smoothed out the slight wrinkle Dream had caused in my linen dress. It was a nervous tic; a need to be impeccable before others.

"Now, which two of these fine gentlemen am I finally going to meet?" I asked Dream, my Southern drawl slipping into its lowest, sweetest register.

Dream chuckled, clearly seeing the immediate, unspoken tension, though he misinterpreted it as simple shyness. "Come on, come meet the boys. Don't worry, they don't bite... usually."

I took his arm gently, maneuvering us toward the garage. "Come on, Dream, let me meet your friends."

As we approached, George straightened up, offering a small, polite wave. Sapnap, however, remained rooted to the spot, his scrutiny unwavering, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Boys, this is ____," Dream announced proudly, as if presenting a prized possession. "My best friend since forever. Belle, this is George and this is Sapnap."

I released Dream’s arm and glided forward. This was the moment for the Southern social reflex to kick in—warmth, charm, and immediate boundary-crossing affection.

I went straight for George first. He looked completely unprepared for physical contact.

"It is an absolute pleasure, George," I said, leaning in and giving him a quick, soft hug, followed by a light, fragrant kiss on his cheek. "Thank you for helping Dream with my room. That was so very sweet of you."

George sputtered in surprise, "Uh, you're welcome! Nice to finally meet you." He was slightly flushed, seemingly unsure what to do with the sudden proximity of floral perfume.

Then I turned to Sapnap.

He was intimidatingly still, his eyes still burning with that strange mix of deep observation and approval. He smelled faintly of fresh laundry and something musky—a stark, appealing contrast to the artificial perfection I maintained.

I didn't give him a chance to retreat or analyze. I stepped right up to him, closed the remaining gap, and repeated the greeting ritual. I wrapped my arms around his neck for a quick but firm hug, pressing a soft kiss directly onto his cheek.

"And Sapnap," I breathed, pulling back just far enough to hold his shoulders lightly. "Honestly, I'm so glad Dream has good people around him." I gave him a bright, genuine smile, the kind that was guaranteed to melt most objections. "Sorry, but I have a rule: if you're friends with Dream, you’re automatically friends with me."

I felt the muscles in his shoulders shift almost violently beneath my hands. The examination in his eyes didn't cease, but something new sparked—confusion, maybe, or intense surprise.

I released him, stepping back to let the boys process.

A sharp, slightly nervous chuckle escaped George, followed quickly by a boisterous laugh from Dream. "See? I told you she was nice!"

Sapnap didn't laugh. He didn't move.

He stood absolutely frozen, staring at me as if I were a complex mathematical problem he desperately needed to solve. The color rising on his neck rapidly bled up into his face, turning his entire countenance a shocking, deep crimson. He looked utterly flustered, perhaps for the first time in his life.

The slight tremor started first in his hands, which he quickly curled into fists in his pockets, and then spread. I watched, fascinated and slightly bewildered, as tiny bumps started to rise all over his exposed arms and neck. Goosebumps, clearly visible against his tanned skin.

I smoothed my own dress again, deciding I should probably offer to bring my bags in before he combusted. "Well, bless all y'all's hearts," I said warmly, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "It’s been a long drive. If you point me towards the kitchen, I can start brewing some sweet tea."

Sapnap just swallowed hard, the red deep and radiating, his focused gaze glued entirely to me. I had successfully fled the drama of the South, only to walk right into a profoundly different kind of chaos in the Florida heat. And somehow, judging by Sapnap’s sudden, extreme physical reaction, this chaos smelled distinctly like jasmine and peach.