#chaotic reader insert

[noobiestnoober]

Last Minute Leon (Leon X Reader)

When it comes to love, some people write poems. You? You dive headfirst into bioweapon-infested nightmares just to see if Leon S. Kennedy will show up with his signature smirk and a terrible pun. In this hilariously chaotic comedy/crack one-shot, you keep testing fate—and Leon’s patience—by staging the dumbest, most dangerous stunts imaginable. Will he always come to the rescue? Can one survive love and Umbrella’s traps at the same time? With flying kicks, fake kidnappings, and sushi plans on the line, one thing’s for sure: it’s never just another day with you.

There were a lot of things you could say about yourself. Bold. Daring. Maybe even slightly unhinged, depending on who you asked. But above all else, you were consistent—consistently putting yourself in the most absurdly dangerous situations just to see if Leon would actually show up every time like some gun-toting, government-issued Disney prince with an arsenal and perfectly timed slow-motion entrances. Today? Oh, today was no different.

You dangled upside down from a rope trap—again—in the middle of what looked like a half-collapsed, Umbrella-owned abandoned science lab. The place was straight out of a post-apocalyptic fever dream: flickering lights, ominous sirens, and several suspiciously intact glass tubes filled with questionable goo. Because of course it was.

"Note to self," you muttered aloud, blood rushing to your head as a loose wrench clanged to the floor. "Next time, skip Reddit threads titled '10 Toxic Ways to Test His Love.'"

From somewhere deep in the facility, you heard the click of tactical boots, followed by the unmistakable swoosh of a door being kicked open. Leon S. Kennedy stormed in like a leading man who showed up late but insisted it was all part of the act.

Wind—there was always wind when Leon arrived, somehow—blew in dramatically, tousling his hair like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

"Heard you were in a bit of a bind," he announced with a smirk that could probably be weaponized.

You groaned. "That pun hurt more than the rope burn."

With one smooth motion, he unsheathed his knife and cut the rope like it was warm butter. You landed on the ground with an unceremonious grunt, arms flailing.

"You alright?" he asked, arching an eyebrow, clearly used to this by now.

You dusted yourself off and gave a casual thumbs up. "Physically? Mostly. Mentally? I've had healthier coping mechanisms."

This wasn’t even the first incident this week. On Tuesday, you infiltrated a Plaga-infested chicken coop wearing feathers strapped to your back because, quote, “Leon needs to witness me in my avian prime.” On Thursday, you sold your own location to a black-market merchant under the condition that he reenact a hostage scenario—complete with rope, duct tape, and fake demands. Leon showed up with two pistols and one-liner energy to spare.

"You know, there are easier ways to get my attention," he said now, sliding a flash grenade into his jacket pocket purely for dramatic effect.

You gave him a deadpan stare. "Yeah, but where’s the fun in not risking tetanus every time I flirt with you?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave that tired little smile—the one that screamed, “I should report you to HR but I’d probably follow you into a volcano first.”

You scooped up your slightly-burnt backpack and peeked through a cracked window.

"So… sushi after this?"

Leon tilted his head. "You just got nearly decapitated by a ceiling saw blade."

"Exactly," you said. "Nothing says ‘date night’ like dodging death and then drowning our trauma in soy sauce."

He sighed and checked his ammo. "Fine. But if I have to dive across a sushi conveyor belt to tackle a guy in a hazmat suit again, I swear I’m charging you hazard pay."

You saluted him with two fingers and a wink. "Deal. And I’ll even throw in a free wasabi dare. Bonus points if you don't cry."

As you both headed down yet another hallway littered with debris, flickering lights, and probably radioactive vending machines, you mentally mapped out your next big stunt. Helicopter ride. No doors. Just vibes. And maybe a flying kick for good measure. And, if he was lucky, you’d let him make another cheesy one-liner.

[formulafanfics13]

whenever you have time to get around to it, an oscar x gf!reader where logan is the constant and perpetual third wheel. like the audio that goes “this is my boyfriend jared, this is jared’s boyfriend ben”

This Is My Boyfriend Oscar, This Is Oscar’s Boyfriend Logan

Masterlist

Summary: Dating Oscar Piastri is soft, sweet, and perfect — until you realize his other soulmate is Logan Sargeant. The man is always there. Third-wheeling your dates, stealing your popcorn, crashing your hotel room like it’s his own. You try to hate it. But Logan’s too dumb and loyal to stay mad at, and Oscar’s too smug to pretend it’s not hilarious. Welcome to your trio era: this is your boyfriend Oscar… and this is Oscar’s boyfriend Logan.

Warnings: crackfic, fluff, modern F1 setting, established relationship, third wheel Logan Sargeant, chaotic trio dynamic, meme references, dumb TikTok humor, reader is done with the bullshit but also lowkey loves it, Oscar is sweet and smug, Logan is emotionally loyal but physically intrusive, soft moments get ruined, paddock chaos, meme audio “this is my boyfriend Derek / this is Derek’s boyfriend Ben”, no smut just stupidity and affection

You knew from the start it was going to be a problem. Oscar was soft. Oscar was sweet. Oscar loved his friends.

And Logan? Logan fucking lived in Oscar’s pocket.

Not literally, obviously, but sometimes it really felt like it. They were always texting. Always gaming. Always shoulder-checking each other in the paddock like overgrown toddlers in race suits. And you could handle that.

Until Logan became your shadow too.

You’d been dating Oscar for five months. He officially asked you out in a McLaren hoodie and wet hair, holding a smoothie and smiling like a boy with a secret. You kissed him before he finished the sentence. It was perfect. He was perfect.

And for the first three weeks, it was heaven. Coffees on balconies. Lazy Monaco evenings. Oscar falling asleep mid-movie with his hand on your thigh and his hoodie bunched behind your head like a pillow.

And then. Week four. You opened the door to his apartment for your planned Friday night in. And there he was.

Logan fucking Sargeant.

Shoes off. Socks mismatched. Shirt half-tucked. Making popcorn in Oscar’s kitchen like he lived there. “Oh,” he said brightly, “did you bring the chocolate ice cream? We’re doing both.”

You blinked.

Oscar appeared behind him. “I told Logan he could join,” he said, sheepishly.

You stared. Then you dropped your keys in the bowl, stepped over Logan’s bag, and said, “I get the middle seat.”

You thought it would be an isolated thing. One night. One movie. One Logan.

Nope.

You had a picnic in the park. Logan came. You had a McLaren gala dinner. Logan drove you there.

You tried to get soft launch couple photos in Paris. Guess who photo-bombed three out of five of them with a baguette in his mouth and sunglasses crooked across his nose?

He didn’t even apologise.

The worst part is that you actually like him. He’s loud. He’s ridiculous. He eats the middle part of sandwiches first and quotes TikToks at inopportune moments and once made a joke about Max Verstappen and anime that sent you into a thirty-minute cackle spiral.

But also? He’s weirdly loyal. When you were sick in Austria, he showed up with soup and every single medication the paddock medical staff would let him legally take.

When Oscar had a bad quali, Logan stood outside the media pen with you like an anxious golden retriever, pacing and muttering, “I’ll beat the shit out of the car myself.”

And when you cried during a stupid sad commercial once, he handed you a tissue and said, “I cried at that one too.”

He means well. He’s just… there. All the time.

At Silverstone, it hits a breaking point. You and Oscar are trying to have a moment. Truly. Sincerely. A moment.

The sun is setting. The gravel is warm. Oscar is brushing his fingers over the back of your hand and saying something really sweet about how you make him feel calmer on race weekends.

And then, “Hey, lovebirds!” Logan’s voice rings out. “Toto says they’ve got extra doughnuts in hospitality!”

You close your eyes. Oscar winces. Then laughs.

You look at him. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”

Oscar wraps his arm around you and kisses your cheek. Then, grinning like the smug bastard he is, he says, “This is my girlfriend Y/N. This is my boyfriend Logan.”

You snort so hard it echoes.

It becomes a thing.

At Spa, you post a selfie with both of them captioned, “my boyfriend and his boyfriend ❤️”

At Monza, Logan introduces you to Carlos as “Oscar’s second partner”

At Suzuka, someone makes a meme edit of the three of you with the Derek-Ben audio dubbed over slow-mo clips of the podium and you nearly crash your phone laughing.

Logan comments: “accuracy 🫡”

Eventually, it evens out. You start calling him your platonic boyfriend. He starts bringing you both snacks when Oscar has media. Oscar kisses both of your cheeks before race briefings just to be annoying.

He’s not always there. Just… most of the time. And honestly? You don’t mind.

Because every time you kiss Oscar, Logan looks smug and says, “Finally. Parents are back together.”

And you flip him off with one hand while holding Oscar’s with the other. Perfect balance. Just like the universe intended.

[nuelles]

The Sugar Spence Saga || Spencer Agnew

Summary: Spencer Agnew can’t catch a break. It starts with a fancy water bottle and a soft hoodie, but by the time he walks into the Smosh office in limited-edition sneakers, the cast has decided there’s only one explanation: Spencer has a sugar mommy. The teasing hits peak chaos when you pull up to pick him up in a sleek, expensive car, confirming all their suspicions… and giving Spencer a new nickname he may never live down.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x f!reader

Tropes: teasing as affection. embarrassed boyfriend, smug partner. chaos crew.

Warnings: not proofread, teasing, sugar baby mentions, light comedy

WC: 1.7k

Author's Note: Spencer deserves to be pampered and babied. This is strictly self-indulgent even tho Spencer makes more than I do (life of a part-time retail worker)

It started small.

A new water bottle here. A jacket there. Nothing flashy—just practical, nice quality stuff that could’ve been bought anywhere. If you didn’t know brands, you wouldn’t think twice.

But the Smosh crew knew brands.

It was Courtney who noticed first, eyeing the sleek black thermos Spencer started carrying on set one morning. “That thing looks…expensive,” she said casually, turning it in her hands. “Is this…designer? For water?”

Spencer shrugged. “It was a gift.”

Nobody thought much of it. Until the next week, when Spencer walked in wearing a hoodie softer than anyone had ever seen, the kind of fabric that screamed “stupidly overpriced boutique.”

“Another gift?” Shayne asked, squinting.

And then… came the shoes.

Spencer played it off, “It was cold.” 

Spencer strolled into the office, headphones around his neck, coffee in hand, same soft “I’m here but please don’t make this loud” energy as always. But today, Shayne stopped mid-conversation, finger already pointing at Spencer’s feet.

“Spencer, my man. Those are new.”

Everyone turned.

Spencer froze like a deer in headlights. “Uh. Yeah. I… needed a new pair?”

Angela crouched a little, inspecting the sneakers before slowly straightening back up. She squinted—not sure if it was because she couldn’t see the price tag from this distance or because Spencer’s excuse was just that flimsy. “Are those… limited editions? The ones that sold out in, like, fifteen seconds?”

Courtney gasped so dramatically that you thought she might faint. “Are you secretly a sneakerhead?!”

Spencer’s hoodie bunched around his ears like he was trying to retreat inside it. “They were a gift.”

A beat of silence.

Then Tommy slid into the doorway, coffee in hand, wearing the smuggest grin known to man. “From… a sugar mommy?”

Spencer’s head whipped around. “Excuse me?”

Angela grinned, standing back up. “It would explain the sudden drip.”

Courtney jumped in immediately. “Oh my God, it makes so much sense! Think about it: He doesn’t blink at overpriced studio coffee, he’s got those fancy headphones, the hoodie, and now this? Spencer is a kept man.”

“I’m not—” Spencer started, but Shayne cut him off with a sing-song, “Sugar baby confirmed.”

The entire break room erupted into laughter as Spencer groaned and buried his face in his hoodie, silently questioning all of his life choices.

By lunch, the teasing had evolved into a full-blown investigation.

Damien leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee with all the exaggerated casualness of someone about to cause problems. “So… hypothetically,” he began, drawing the word out, “if someone was, let’s say, funding your lifestyle, what would you call them?”

Spencer didn’t even look up from his sandwich. “…A generous person?”

Courtney, from across the room, perked up immediately. “A sugar mommy.”

Shayne, louder, practically announcing it to the whole studio: “SUGAR. MOMMY.”

Spencer sighed, “It’s not like that.”

Tommy, now fully invested, poked his head through the doorway like a nosy sitcom neighbor. “Guys, it gets worse. I checked—he’s got AirPods Pro now. I heard him noise-canceling us this morning.”

Angela slid into the room, pointing at Spencer’s hoodie sleeve. “And don’t think we haven’t noticed this thing. That’s what, cashmere? Baby alpaca? What kind of hoodie whispers luxury like that?”

Damien swirled his coffee like a detective connecting conspiracy threads. “I’m starting to think we should be curtsying when she finally shows up. Or at least offer her a gift basket.”

“Gift basket?” Shayne snorted. “Nah, we’re asking for allowances.”

Courtney leaned against the counter, smirking. “Alright, Spence. No judgment. Just blink twice if she bought you the AirPods and three times if we’re getting invited on the yacht.”

Spencer groaned and dropped his head on the table, voice muffled by his hoodie. “I buy my own coffee.”

“Sure you do, Sugar Spence,” Shayne said, patting him on the back like this was a support group.

Angela grinned. “So, when do we get to meet her?”

“Alright,” Shayne says dramatically into the mic, “welcome back to ‘Most Likely To...’ Smosh edition! Where we hold absolutely no secrets, no shame, and no mercy.”

Spencer didn’t answer. Which, of course, made it worse.

----

The cast cheers half-heartedly, already bracing for emotional damage.

Courtney spins a small whiteboard in her hands. “Today’s first prompt: Most likely to have a sugar mommy and pretend it’s totally normal.”

Before Spencer can blink, everyone in the room holds up their boards.

Spencer blinks. “Wait—wait, is this still happening?”

Every. Single. One.

Reads: SPENCER.

Angela doesn’t even try to hide her laugh. “Still? Babe, we just got started.”

Tommy points at his board, where he’s drawn a tiny crown over Spencer’s name. “Our boy’s got that luxury minimalist look lately. Rich girlfriend core.”

Spencer glares down the line. “I’ve literally worn this hoodie for three years.”

Shayne gasps, scandalized. “Three years of silken comfort, you mean. Is that alpaca?”

Courtney’s eyes gleam. “Say ‘no’ again but louder, Spencer. Louder for the yacht!”

Spencer slaps his whiteboard face-down and leans into the mic. “This is slander. Defamation. I’ve never even been on a yacht.”

Angela points, grinning. “That sounds exactly like what someone with yacht access would say.”

Laughter erupts around him, and Spencer buries his face in his hands, muttering, “I’m going to kill Tommy for starting this.”

Tommy grins wide. “I only said what we were all thinking.”

The camera cut to Shayne mid-laugh as the chaos died down. He glanced straight into the lens, his expression somewhere between faux-serious and fully amused.

“No, but in all seriousness, we love our Sugar Spence,” Shayne said, hand on his heart in mock sincerity. “We support him. We just want to meet his mysterious Patron Saint of Expensive Footwear.”

He was clearly addressing the fans directly — the exact audience who would see this clip if (and only if) Spencer didn’t demand it be cut.

From off-screen, Courtney yelled, “Leave that in!” while Angela whispered dramatically, “The fans deserve the truth!”

Spencer groaned, tugging his hoodie over his head like a turtle retreating into its shell. “This is harassment. Actual workplace harassment.”

Tommy just grinned at the camera. “Like and subscribe if you also want to meet her.”

The teasing had been relentless all week. Between the shoes, the AirPods, the hoodie that apparently “whispered luxury,” and the sugar mommy jokes escalating into actual fan theories after that last video, Spencer was officially done.

He just wanted to leave. Quietly.

So naturally, the entire cast was camped out near the front door when he clocked out for the day.

Courtney leaned against the wall, arms crossed, grinning like she’d just set up a hidden camera prank. “So… what’s she driving? Tesla? Maserati? Helicopter?”

Angela shaded her eyes like she was scanning the horizon. “Private jet’s landing any second now.”

Tommy cupped his hands around his mouth. “ATTENTION, WE’RE READY FOR OUR ALLOWANCES!”

Spencer groaned and shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. “You all need new hobbies.”

That’s when the sleek, black car pulled up.

Not over-the-top flashy, but definitely expensive — the kind of car that purred rather than rumbled, all polished lines and tinted windows. The cast immediately straightened like meerkats.

“Called it,” Shayne muttered under his breath.

The passenger-side window rolled down, and there you were, smiling casually at Spencer. “Hey, babe. Ready to go?”

Without a word, Spencer walked over, opened the passenger-side door, and slid into the seat. Only once the door was shut did he lean over to press a quick kiss to your lips. He clearly didn’t notice (or care about) the six pairs of stunned eyes glued to you both.

Courtney, whisper-shouting, “SHE’S REAL.”

Angela elbowed Tommy. “Pay up. I said definitely hot, you said probably an alien.”

Tommy, muttering, “Still not ruling out alien.”

Spencer leaned out the open window, deadpan. “She’s my girlfriend, not my sugar mommy.”

You smirked, resting your chin on your hand. “Girlfriend who occasionally buys him sneakers. And maybe hoodies. And coffee. And—”

“Not helping,” Spencer cut in, glaring at you with pink cheeks.

Damien waved from the curb. “So, uh… do we need to curtsy? Or are allowances only for the favorite sugar baby?”

You rolled your eyes but reached out to lace your fingers with Spencer’s over the center console. “No allowances. But maybe I’ll buy you all coffee one day if you stop bullying him.”

Shayne immediately yelled, “SHE’S A SAINT. LONG LIVE PATRON SAINT OF EXPENSIVE FOOTWEAR!”

Spencer groaned and buried his face in his hands as you pulled away, laughing. “This is my life now.”

----

Spencer was sprawled on the couch, hoodie hood pulled so far over his head he looked like a grumpy little turtle. The TV flickered softly in the background, but he wasn’t watching it — just sulking in the most Spencer way possible.

You padded in from the kitchen, setting two mugs of tea on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside him. “You’re really committing to the brooding thing, huh?”

A muffled groan came from inside the hoodie. “They’re never gonna drop it.”

You smirked, tucking your legs beneath you as you turned toward him. “To be fair… you do look like a man who’s been swept off his feet by a mysterious benefactor.”

He peeked one eye out from the hood, glaring halfheartedly. “You are my mysterious benefactor.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am a girlfriend. Benefactor makes it sound like I found you on a classifieds ad.”

Spencer pulled the hood back just far enough for his face to appear, cheeks still faintly pink. “Well, considering they all think I’m being bankrolled, I might as well start leaning into it. Get a little cane. Maybe a monocle.”

You snorted. “Oh, you’d look so dignified. The perfect little sugar baby.” You reached over, tugging gently at the hood. “Should I start drafting a contract? Weekly allowance and everything?”

He finally cracked a smile, rolling his eyes. “You’re evil.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe. But I also like spoiling you. And they only tease you because they love you, you know.”

Spencer sighed, relaxing against you as he let his head drop to your shoulder. “Yeah. I know. Still…”

“Still humiliating?” you teased.

“Still humiliating,” he muttered. “But… at least my Patron Saint of Expensive Footwear is cute.”

You grinned, threading your fingers through his. “Flattery will get you another pair of sneakers.”

He groaned again, but you felt the small smile against your shoulder.

✨ Reblogs + likes | Comments feed the writer

📎 Requests and fic recs welcome!

📬 Comment for tag requests

[sleepytopia]

Don’t Look at My Tail Like That. (one-shot)

Hitoshi Shinso x reader Summary: A training accident leaves you with cat ears, a twitchy tail, and a brand new level of embarrassment. Unfortunately for you, Hitoshi Shinsō thinks it’s adorable. And unfortunately for him, your tail really likes his voice.

You weren’t even the target.

Just walking to the training grounds when someone’s wild quirk ricocheted and hit you straight in the back. One flash of light later, and suddenly-

Fur. Ears. Tail. And unholy levels of sensitivity.

The ears twitch on their own. The tail has a mind of its own. And to make it worse?

The first person you see is Shinso. Standing there. Blinking. And then:

“…Meow?”

You glare. “Say that again and I swear to-”

Your tail flicks. He stares at it.

“I wasn’t ready for how cute this is,” he mumbles, smirking slightly.

You’re about to threaten him again, but his voice drops a little lower, more casual, and suddenly your tail swishes.

Hard.

You freeze. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” he says, all fake innocence. “Like this?”

Your ears twitch wildly. Your tail flicks again, then curls down like it’s shy.

Shinso blinks. Then slowly, grins. “Oh. You’re voice sensitive now.”

You want to die.

The next hour is pure torment.

Every time he talks, every time your tail reacts. Flicking, curling, twitching like it has a crush. He even purrs under his breath to tease you. And the worst part?

You do want to curl into him and nap. His voice is too good. You’re doomed.

At one point, he gently tugs your tail to “see what happens” and you nearly collapse.

By the time the quirk wears off later that night, your hair’s a mess, your pride’s in the dirt, and Shinso is still smirking.

“I kinda miss the ears,” he says as you glare at him.

You start walking away. He jogs to catch up.

“Do you purr when kissed, too?”

“Shinso.”

“Kidding.”

“…Mostly.”

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[blondechariot]

Heyyyyy! I’ve been looking for saja boys and Im so glad I found you! Your writing is so real. I read the reader biting lip one (delicious😉) and it gave me an idea. I have really chapped lips sometimes and I’ve taken to chewing on them or picking the skin off. Could you do a Saja boys x reader who has those kinds of tendencies? Picking callouses off, picking at skin and lips maybe?

pairing: Saja Boys x female!reader

warnings: none really

disclaimer: not my pic!

I'm ALWAYS biting my Lip, it's horrible....need me a Jinu who stops me from doing it hehe

Jinu

You were doing it again.

Teeth sunk slightly into your bottom lip, eyes distant, finger grazing absentmindedly at the skin around your thumb. A bad habit, sure — but not one you could turn off like a switch. Especially not when you were overthinking or stressed. Which, in your defense, happened often when you were dating someone like Jinu.

And of course, the moment you chewed a little harder on your lip, you heard a dramatic sigh echo through the dressing room.

“Really?” came his voice — velvet smooth, lightly exasperated, and annoyingly amused. “Again with the lip chewing?”

You looked up. Jinu was leaning against the wall like he was posing for a photoshoot. One hand in his pocket, the other twirling a silver ring on his finger, eyes locked on you with mock disapproval.

“I’m not even chewing that hard,” you muttered, trying to play it off. “It’s just a habit—”

Jinu crossed the room in two easy steps, bending slightly so his face was level with yours. “And you know what I told you happens when you do that, right?”

Your breath caught. “Nope.”

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Liar.”

Before you could escape, Jinu cupped your face — fingers warm, his touch featherlight — and kissed you. Firmly. Right on the lips you were just chewing. Not sweet. Not soft. Playful. A little showy. He even made a ridiculous "mwah" sound at the end for dramatic flair.

You blinked. “What was that?”

“Kiss therapy,” he declared, backing away like he deserved a trophy. “Every time you chew, I kiss. Doctor’s orders.”

You snorted. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I could be,” he said, straightening his collar. “I’m very good with my hands.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, you did.

Later that night, you sat curled up on the couch watching a horror movie while Jinu scrolled on his phone beside you. You didn’t realize you were picking at the skin on your arm until you felt him suddenly grab your wrist.

“Oh-ho,” he said, eyebrows raised, “I see someone’s breaking the rules again.”

You panicked. “Wait, I wasn’t—!”

But Jinu was already climbing halfway into your lap like a smug cat, gently pushing your hand away and peppering a series of obnoxiously loud kisses all over your face — your temple, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Anywhere except your lips.

“Stop!” you laughed, squirming. “That’s not fair!”

“You picked at your skin,” he said matter-of-factly, planting one last kiss on your forehead. “That’s double penalty.”

“You’re making this up as you go.”

“That’s literally the definition of love. Making up rules to be annoyingly close to someone cute.”

You gave him a look. “So your big strategy is to smother me with affection until I stop chewing my lip and picking my skin?”

“Exactly,” Jinu said, smug as ever. “Because unlike your bad habits, I am a good habit.”

“…That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re welcome.”

From that day on, the habit didn’t exactly disappear — but Jinu definitely made you hyper-aware of it.

Chew your lip while waiting for coffee? Instant kiss ambush.

Pick at your skin during rehearsal? Suddenly Jinu’s cupping your face like you're in the final act of a drama and smooching your cheek like a lunatic while the others groan in the background.

“Bro, get a room!” Abby shouted once during practice.

“We have a room,” Jinu said proudly, nuzzling your jaw. “It’s called everywhere she chews her lip.”

You could only groan, pushing him off — even as your heart did that stupid fluttering thing.

Because no matter how annoying he was…

It worked.

And honestly?

You kinda didn’t mind being kissed into better habits.

Abby

It started during an intense strategy meeting.

You weren’t really needed in it — the demon-fighting logistics were Abby’s thing — but you were sitting nearby, watching as he pointed to various diagrams on a tablet like an angry CEO who hadn’t had his coffee.

And you were doing it again.

Chewing your bottom lip. Picking the side of your thumb like it had personally wronged you. Completely unaware — until Abby’s voice cut sharp across the room:

“Hey. Mouth.”

You startled so hard you nearly swallowed your tongue.

“What?” you blinked.

“You chewed your lip. Again.” He didn’t even look up. Just waved a dismissive hand like he was scolding a cat off the table. “I told you. You do that, I have to intervene.”

You squinted. “You told me?”

“Oh, I absolutely told you,” Abby replied coolly, finally turning to face you with an infuriating little smirk. “You forget our new rule?”

“What rule?”

Abby stood up — slow, deliberate, like he was planning to either flirt with you or fight you — and walked toward your chair. He crouched right in front of you and tapped your lip with his finger.

“You chew,” he said with mock-seriousness, “I kiss.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

And then, without waiting for permission, Abby leaned in and pressed a ridiculously dramatic kiss to your lips. Not even romantic — just obnoxious. Like he was daring you to try chewing them again.

You stared at him.

He patted your head. “Fixed.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar. You’re obsessed with me.”

You thought it would stop there.

It didn’t.

Later that week, you were both in the practice room — you sitting on the floor, him stretching with a towel around his neck, shirt clinging to his skin from sweat.

You thought he wasn’t paying attention. You were wrong.

Because the second your fingers grazed a healing spot on your forearm and you started absentmindedly picking—

“Y/N.”

You froze.

You turned, slow. “...Yeah?”

Abby was already walking over.

“No, no, no, don’t—!” you tried to scurry away, but he lunged like a cat pouncing on a sock.

In seconds, he had you pinned down on the floor, hovering over you with the smuggest expression known to man.

“You wanna keep picking,” he whispered dramatically, “or you wanna keep breathing?”

“ABBY.”

And then he started attacking your face with kisses.

Not gentle, sweet ones. No. These were rapid-fire, silly little mwah mwah mwah smooches all over your cheeks, your chin, your forehead.

You screeched like a cartoon character. “GET OFF ME—”

He paused only to grin and say, “This is your fault, by the way. I told you I was aggressive with affection.”

“THIS ISN’T AFFECTION, THIS IS WARFARE!”

Abby finally got off you, chest rising with laughter, wiping pretend sweat off his brow. “Honestly, you’re lucky I’m so hot. Other people would pay for this kind of behavior.”

After that, it became a weird running joke.

You’d chew your lip during a quiet moment? Abby would suddenly grab your face, squint at you, and ask, “You wanna do this the easy way, or the smooch way?”

You’d pick at your skin in public? He’d tackle you with a “NOPE!” and declare, “EMERGENCY FACE ATTACK IN PROGRESS!”

The others got so used to it, they didn’t even flinch anymore.

“Ignore them,” Mystery muttered once as Abby noisily kissed your cheek during dinner. “It’s how they flirt.”

“They bicker like gremlins,” Baby added.

“They’re soulmates,” Romance concluded, sipping his tea. “Disgusting.”

You rolled your eyes.

But secretly? You kind of loved it.

Because only Abby could turn a bad habit into a running joke, a battle of wills, and a game of spontaneous affection.

And maybe, just maybe… you started picking less.

Not because it hurt.

But because you never knew when Abby would strike again.

And part of you didn’t want to miss it.

Mystery

With the others, your bad habit was obvious — you’d chew your lip, or pick at the skin on your arms, and someone like Abby would immediately pounce on you with dramatic chaos and unsolicited kisses.

Mystery?

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even look like he noticed.

Which was somehow worse.

Because he definitely noticed.

You’d be sitting across from him, pretending to focus on something — your book, your nails, the coffee in your hand — and just as your fingers brushed your skin, just as your teeth grazed your bottom lip—

“Don’t.”

You’d flinch like you’d been caught trying to steal from a library.

“How do you do that?” you hissed.

Mystery didn’t answer. He just raised one brow and kept sipping his drink like he hadn’t just read your thoughts in real time.

It escalated.

One day, the group was hanging out in their shared apartment, sprawled across the couch watching a movie. You were curled up next to Mystery, his arm draped loosely around your shoulder, thumb absentmindedly tracing your collarbone. You were comfortable. Too comfortable.

Which meant… the habits started.

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — chewing your lip softly, lightly scratching at your arm, fidgeting with a hangnail.

Then you felt Mystery shift.

You barely had time to turn before he leaned over and planted a single kiss on the corner of your mouth.

Slow. Deliberate. Soft.

You blinked.

“What was that for?”

“You were chewing again.”

“I was barely—!”

Another kiss. This time on your cheek.

“Picking.”

“You’re just making things up now.”

“Nope.”

“...Are you using my habits as an excuse to kiss me?”

Mystery looked you dead in the eye. “Obviously.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I knew it.”

He shrugged. “You want me to stop?”

You didn’t answer.

Because no, you didn’t want him to stop.

After that, the game began.

You’d test him — sitting beside him and purposefully biting your lip in slow motion, making intense eye contact like you were challenging a wild animal.

He’d calmly put his book down, close it without breaking eye contact, and tilt his head.

“Really?”

You nodded once. Confident.

He’d lean in and kiss you so gently it felt criminal, then immediately return to reading like nothing happened.

“You’re unreal,” you muttered.

“I’m Mystery,” he said simply, flipping the page.

But the funniest part?

The man had kissing radar.

One time, you were across the room, chatting with Abby, and you caught yourself lightly picking at the side of your hand.

From the corner of your eye — bam — Mystery stood.

Abby blinked. “Where’s he going?”

Mystery was already halfway to you.

You backed up, laughing nervously. “Okay, wait, I wasn’t doing it that bad—!”

He was already there. One kiss on the forehead. One on your nose. One on your mouth, quick, like a punctuation mark.

And then he walked away. No explanation.

Abby stood there, stunned. “...Did I just witness a hit-and-run?”

Eventually, you started getting really flustered by how sneaky he was.

“You have like... sixth sense for when I mess with my skin,” you complained once, poking his chest as he leaned against the wall beside you.

Mystery grinned — subtle but evil.

“I don’t need a sixth sense,” he replied softly. “I’m just obsessed with your face.”

“...You are dangerous.”

“Only if you’re chewing again.”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

He kissed the top of your head.

"Safe zone," he whispered.

And truthfully?

You didn’t stop picking. Not completely.

But every time you did, and Mystery caught you with that signature soft smirk and a gentle kiss somewhere unexpected, it was like being reminded — not scolded, not corrected — just seen.

And for once, that made you feel safe enough to break the habit.

One kiss at a time.

Romance

You had to mentally prepare yourself for this one.

Because the moment Romance found out about your little habit — the lip chewing, the skin picking — he reacted like you had stabbed him in the heart with a decorative dagger from a Renaissance fair.

“Y/N!” he gasped one morning, clutching his chest like a scandalized nobleman. “What is this—this self-inflicted suffering?! This assault upon your perfect vessel?!”

You blinked. “I was literally just chewing my lip.”

“Your divine lip,” he corrected, grabbing your hand like he was about to propose. “The one I worship. The one I dream about.”

You tried to pull away.

He held on tighter.

“I cannot stand idly by,” he declared dramatically, “while you mutilate yourself.”

“Mutilate?” you echoed. “You’re being insane—”

“And you’re being reckless with the artwork that is your body!”

“Romance, I swear to God—”

And then he kissed you.

But not like others did — not a teasing peck or quick lip-grab.

No, Romance kissed you like he was starring in the final act of a period drama. Slow. Passionate. Tragic. Like he was afraid you’d vanish into mist at any second. His hand cupped your jaw like it was glass. His thumb grazed your cheek like you were a sacred relic.

When he finally pulled away, his voice was low and tortured.

“You chew that lip again, and I will be forced to do that every time.”

You blinked, dazed. “...Wait, was that a punishment or a reward?”

He grinned wickedly. “Both.”

From that moment on, it was hell.

Because Romance went all in.

You picked at your skin? He’d drop to one knee, kiss your hand gently, and say, “How dare you harm the skin I long to touch?”

You chewed your lip? He’d grab your face like a Disney prince and plant a soul-wrenching kiss on your mouth while whispering, “Save those lips for me, my heart.”

In the middle of anything.

You once did it during a group debrief after a performance, and Romance cut off Jinu mid-sentence by dramatically grabbing you and kissing you like the world was ending.

“Did he just—” Jinu blinked.

“Don’t ask,” Abby sighed.

“Just let them finish,” Mystery muttered.

At one point, you tried hiding it. Being extra careful. Staying aware of your fingers and your lips and your anxious little habits.

Romance noticed anyway.

“You haven’t chewed your lip all day,” he said, voice laced with suspicion. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re being... restrained.”

“I’m fine, I’m just—”

He leaned close. “You miss it, don’t you?”

You stared. “Miss what?”

“The kisses.”

You shoved him. “Shut up!”

He caught your hands. “Admit it.”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

“You crave me.”

“I crave peace.”

“And I crave you. So I will win.”

Then he kissed you anyway. Just because.

Eventually, he added a journal to the mix.

Yes. A journal.

Each time he caught you picking or chewing, he would write it down with a quill pen (where did he even get that?) and say things like:

August 2nd, 2:47 p.m. My beloved injured the corner of her thumb today. It broke my soul, but I bore the pain and kissed it better. She smelled like cinnamon and defiance.

You threw it across the room.

He picked it up and kissed it.

But the worst part?

It started working.

Every time your hand twitched toward a patch of skin, or your lip ended up between your teeth, you paused.

Because you knew.

You knew Romance would come swanning in from the hallway like a poetic hurricane and monologue about beauty and tragedy before kissing you like a man on the brink of death.

And even though you pretended to hate it...

You kinda loved it.

Even if it meant enduring sonnets and surprise make-outs in grocery store aisles.

Because when it came from Romance, even your bad habits became a stage for the most ridiculous, extra, and oddly sweet form of love you’d ever known.

Baby

You were fidgeting again.

Nothing serious — just chewing your lip a little while watching the team review combat footage. It was a quiet, focused moment.

Until you heard the very distinct, very dramatic inhale from the couch beside you.

You turned, knowing exactly what was coming.

“NOOOOPE.” Baby launched forward like a missile. “Not on my watch!”

Before you could protest, he tackled you into the cushions, hands gently squishing your cheeks together like you were a stress ball.

“Why are you like this,” you mumbled through squished lips.

“You were chewing your lip!” he cried. “Which means you’re stressed! Which means I gotta act FAST!”

“Baby, this is not what acting fast looks li—mmph!”

Too late. He kissed your cheek.

Then the other one.

Then the tip of your nose.

All while muttering: “Boop. Boop. Boop. Kiss attack initiated.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I’m adorable.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your support system.”

You tried to wiggle away.

He followed you across the entire couch like an affectionate golden retriever on a mission from heaven.

Later, in the kitchen, it happened again.

You were waiting for tea to boil, leaning on the counter, chewing your lip and absentmindedly picking at the skin on your knuckle. Baby came in, saw you, and let out the loudest, most offended gasp known to man.

“MA’AM?!”

You jumped so hard you dropped the spoon.

“You’re picking again!” he pointed an accusing finger. “You know what that means.”

You backed up. “No.”

He advanced. “Yes.”

“Baby—”

“KISS ATTACK!” he shouted, then ran over and kissed your face like a toddler who’d been given espresso.

One on your temple. Your jaw. Your forehead. The back of your hand. Your shoulder. The air near your mouth, just to be annoying.

“I’m gonna LOVE that habit right outta you,” he announced triumphantly.

“You can’t just kiss things better like a cartoon character—”

“Wanna bet?!”

And the worst part?

He meant it.

Every time he caught you, he’d swoop in with open arms like, “Oh nooooo! Bad habit alert!” and cover you in kisses before spinning you around in a hug.

The others were exhausted.

“You’re encouraging her,” Abby groaned.

“She deserves encouragement,” Baby said proudly, carrying you piggyback around the training room. “She’s trying her best.”

“By picking her skin off?” Kai muttered.

“BY EXISTING IN A STRESSFUL WORLD,” Baby snapped, holding you tighter like you were a princess in danger.

You once asked him if he was ever going to not kiss you every time you chewed your lip.

He looked genuinely hurt.

“...Why wouldn’t I?” he said softly.

You blinked. “Well, I mean… it’s not that big a deal.”

“But it means you’re anxious,” he said, fiddling with your fingers. “And when you’re anxious, I wanna remind you that you’re loved. That you’re safe. That I got you.”

You melted instantly.

So of course, when you started tearing up at his words, your lip trembled… and you bit it.

Baby noticed instantly.

He squinted. “Oh my GOD are you baiting me right now?!”

“No—!”

He tackled you in a pillow avalanche and kissed your forehead so hard it made a thump sound.

“I knew it. You LIKE IT. You’re ADDICTED TO LOVE-KISSES.”

“Okay, calm down, Huey Lewis.”

“I WILL NEVER CALM DOWN, I’M TOO IN LOVE.”

You didn’t stop chewing your lip or picking at your skin completely.

But you didn’t need to.

Because with Baby, the kisses weren’t about control or correction.

They were about joy.

About reminding you — in the most chaotic, affectionate, giggly way possible — that someone saw you.

That someone cared enough to chase you around the room like a cartoon hero just to kiss the worry away.

And honestly?

You let him.

Every time.

[violetstark3000]

🧨 One-Shot: The Floor 23 Prank War

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader (Y/N) Word Count: ~2,500 (ish) Summary: What starts as one innocent prank between Y/N and Bucky spirals into an all-out war of bad ideas and stealth missions across Avengers Tower. But when the chaos dies down, there’s takeout, quiet confessions, and something neither of them is quite ready to name. Warnings: humor, fluff, slow-burn vibes A/N: @freak4deak here it is!!! Thank you so much for the request please keep them coming and i hope you enjoy! <3

It all started with a rubber duck.

Y/N had slipped it into Bucky’s tactical vest one afternoon while he was busy cleaning his knives. She’d been bored, he’d looked too serious, and the duck had been staring at her from the shelf like it wanted to be a problem. So she listened.

The next day, mid-debrief, Bucky had unzipped his jacket and the unmistakable sound — quack — echoed through the room. Sam nearly passed out. Steve tried (and failed) to maintain professionalism. Natasha snorted behind her coffee. Even Tony clapped.

Y/N smiled sweetly from across the room. Bucky’s eyes met hers. Flat. Dangerous.

She knew in that moment she’d made a mistake.

The next morning, she opened her bathroom cabinet and was immediately blasted with silver glitter. It was in her hair, her toothbrush, her soul. She stared at the mess for a full thirty seconds before yelling, “BUCKY.”

He showed up at her door five minutes later like he hadn’t done a thing. “Something wrong?”

She wiped glitter off her teeth with the back of her hand. “You started a war.”

“I believe you started it. Rubber duck?”

From there, it escalated. Fast.

She replaced his shampoo with blue hair dye.

He salted her coffee.

She hacked JARVIS to change his wake-up alarm to her singing off-key.

He cling-wrapped her door.

She swapped his protein powder with powdered sugar.

It wasn’t even about revenge anymore. It was sport.

One day, she left a plate of Oreos in the common room with a note: Peace offering? Bucky took the bait. One bite in and he froze.

“Toothpaste?”

She collapsed into the couch with laughter. “Vintage move, I know. But still effective.”

Bucky got JARVIS involved next. For a full morning, anytime she said "Lights on," the AI replied with, "Did you mean: Hydra sucks?"

“Very mature,” she muttered.

“Justice is mature,” he called back.

Then came the cling wrap incident. Y/N walked straight into a wall of it stretched across her bedroom door and yelped like she’d been shot. Bucky, calmly sipping his coffee on the couch, didn't even blink.

“Classic move,” he said.

“I’m going to put glitter in your shampoo again.”

“You already did.”

She rigged the hot water valve in his shower next. The yell he let out echoed through the floor.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, dripping and wrapped in a towel.

She was waiting with coffee and a smirk. “You started it.”

Her mug read #1 Prank Queen. She’d had it made overnight.

He returned fire by filling her blow dryer with glitter.

She stuffed his boots with shaving cream.

They agreed to destroy each other and sort the consequences later.

Tony eventually banned prank retaliation during working hours. Sam threatened to move out. Steve resorted to sending strongly worded texts. Natasha declared them both unfit for leadership.

But it wasn’t all chaos. In between the sabotage and shouting, they settled into an odd rhythm. She found Bucky sitting on the couch with Alpine, scrolling cat Instagrams. He found her repairing the broken hinge on his favorite mug. Neither of them brought it up, but they noticed.

One night, after a particularly chaotic series of events involving glitter bombs and a mild kitchen fire, Y/N collapsed onto the common room couch, done.

Bucky wandered in a few minutes later. For once, he looked just as tired as she felt.

“I think we broke Sam,” she said.

“He’ll survive.”

“We should call a truce.”

He nodded. “Probably.”

She looked at him. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

They ordered Chinese — the usual. Ate on the floor, backs against the couch, legs stretched out.

Alpine sat between them, chirping for bites.

Mid-dinner, she nudged his foot. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“To prank you?”

“To win.”

“Oh, I won.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You’re glitter-proof. That’s not a win, it’s a lifestyle.”

He laughed — low, easy. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

His eyes lingered. “You might be right.”

The air shifted. Quiet stretched between them.

Y/N set her carton down. “You’re not joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

“No. But you prank.”

He shrugged. “Only the people I like.”

Her cheeks flushed. She looked down at Alpine, now curled between them.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a win.”

She nudged his knee. “Still not a win.”

But her smile gave her away.

[sgtjbbhasmyheart]

Drunk Texting Is(n't) Bad for Your Health Masterlist

Series Summary: Talk about your unconventional meet-cute! Bucky receives a text by mistake requesting he prove he’s not Reader’s sister. The easy dialogue between Reader and Bucky sparks a natural friendship, but could it lead to more? Bucky still deems himself unworthy of any form of affection or love. Reader is hellbent to prove him wrong. With the help of some (meddling) friends along the way, Bucky may get his happily-ever-after after all.

This is a WIP. I am slowly updating this again. Please be patient with me.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six- Part 1, Part 2

Seven

Eight- Coming Soon!

[witchthewriter]

𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 Jack & his chaotic s/o

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

'Relentless...' the word hadn't left you alone since you'd woken up this morning. Like most mornings, you found yourself warm in Jack's arms, the smell of rum on his lips as he kissed you awake.

With the shared blanket tucked into your side, Jack hummed one of the hearty tunes from last night into your neck. Murmuring, you allowed yourself to bask there for a few moments until you were fully awake.

The swaying of the Black Pearl was something you loved. Even in rough seas, you're the first one soundly asleep. And yet, unease wrangled itself in your stomach. Coiling and uncoiling it went, alerting you.

Seconds passed before you wiggled your body away from Jack, and he let you get up with a sigh.

You were about to say something when a thunderous noise broke out on deck.

"Always so bloody loud," he grumbled, voice gruff from sleep.

The air was crisp from the cold. A heavy fog set around the Pearl. Unnecesarily heavy it was, but you heeded it no mind. Too occupied in your own thoughts to comprehend the lurking dangers.

"Maybe the right one to use is ... unrelenting..." You thought out loud.

Until you heard a pained cry and the reason for your wariness became so utterly clear.

Dark clouds swirled above you, swords clashed and you pulled your sword from its scabbard.

"How the 'ell did they find us, aye?" You heard from your right, Jack said as he adjusted his hat.

With that unanswered question hanging in the air, your body took over with the knowledge of engagement. Left, right, block, parry. On and on.

Until you paused mid fight with the soldier.

Your brows furrowing. Arms coming to cross over your chest as you pondered. This happened from time to time. You forgetting where exactly you were to get lost within your mind. But you were always safe. It was as if luck was on your side...

And Luck had just diverted a shiny sharp dagger from embedding itself in you.

With a loud clash, you felt a familiar presence. One blade put you in danger, but another, the dagger of luck, saved you from a death blow.

"What is it, love?" Jack said slightly out of breath. Unbothered by the fact that he saved your life by an inch.

"Well... is it relentless?"

"What is-", Jack was stopped mid-sentence and kicked the running soldier. "Bloody hell," he sneered.

"Fuckin' hurt that did."

Mind lost to your whirling brain, you couldn't help your thoughts.

"Or is the proper word unrelenting? You know-" your attention turned to Jack. Now fully facing him, Jack had a bloody nose and a split right across his eyebrow.

He cut you off, already knowing Gibbs' had ensured the crew's victory.

Quite literally grabbing you and sweeping you off your feet he mumbled, "well, whatever the correct word is; that's what my love is for you."

"Oh Jack, stop ..." You blushed and moved to give him a kiss on the cheek.

[selfless-solipsist]

CHAPTER 20 SOON?!?!?!?

Excerpt from Chapter 20 of Till Weirdmageddon Do Us Part (A Bill Cipher x Reader ongoing chaosfic)

Chapter 20 is shaping up to be an exercise in ‘my husband possessed me and now the neighborhood teens are filing trauma reports.’ Featuring: vending machine parkour, gnome yeeting, and the most cursed couples therapy imaginable. Reader floats. Bill runs like a cryptid on Adderall. The bowtie count is rising. No one is safe. Especially physics.

[fredschocolatestarfish]

interview confessions - part 1 <3

check out my dylan o'brien masterlist ☆

pairing: dylan x rockstar!fem!reader

warning: no use of y/n, intentional lowercase, mild language, mention of social media/dms, light flirtation

summary: you’re the lead singer of the rising rock band mortus anima. dylan o’brien is on a press tour for his new movie. during an interview, he casually names you as his celebrity crush—and chaos ensues.

kazzie yaps: is this my version of advertising my band? yes. go follow us on instagram @ mortus.anima. also, follow my best friend and guitarist, who is in this story @blondegoth

you’re curled up on a busted leather couch in the back room of a dive bar in dublin, legs draped over a speaker, phone in hand. someone’s band sticker is half-peeled off the wall next to your head, and everything smells vaguely like sweat, cheap beer, and regret.

your drummer’s pacing, mumbling the setlist under his breath. your bassist is eating cold fries out of a to-go bag like it’s fine dining.

you’re halfway through replying to a fan’s comment on your latest post when a nugget smacks you square in the forehead.

“the fuck—?”

“watch this,” your bassist says, already grinning, holding his phone like it’s the holy grail. “dylan o’brien. fallon. he talks about you.”

you sit up. “me-me?”

“you, you. mortus anima you. lead singer with eyeliner and attitude you.”

you squint as he shoves the phone at you. the clip’s already playing.

dylan’s in a dark button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, laughing that crinkly-eyed laugh that made everyone fall in love with him in 2014.

"you’ve been single for a while,” jimmy says, leaning in, “any celebrity crushes right now?”

dylan shrugs, glancing off-camera like he’s shy. then:

“honestly? the vocalist of mortus anima. she’s just... I don’t know. she growls into a mic like she’s summoning demons and then posts the cutest cat memes on instagram. i’m obsessed.”

you freeze.

your drummer lets out a strangled noise. your bassist screams. and right on cue, your best friend—the band’s guitarist—walks in, sipping a pink monster.

she takes one look at your face. “what did i miss?”

“dylan o’brien is in love with our lead singer,” your bassist says, mouth full of fries.

your guitarist raises an eyebrow. “so when are you dming him?”

you look down at your phone, already vibrating with notifications.

“oh my god,” you mumble. “do i dm dylan o’brien?”

your best friend smirks. “babe. he’s literally asking for it.”

tags: @megmc161 @wickedhexedwitch @jelly-rei @blondegoth @freds-hot-dog-flavoured-water

© freds-chocolate-starfish 2025. do not steal, reupload, remix, or reuse my work in any way without my permission. please tag me in whatever you have taken from me as inspiration. respect the writer and their work.

[walpu]

not a req (maybe I’ll come back to this idea)

But Aven x Bodyguard! Reader, BUT

Reader is like Arlechinno (somewhat) from Genshin. Think of a person with a menacing demeanor, terrifying aura, and demanding of the recruits they take in for the security team.

X shaped pupils, a threatening smile, but under that, Reader is simply a person with a job, traumatic past and just wants to keep Aven safe.

Don’t think he’s composing too much though, he’d love to try and pick away at the walls of threats surrounding Reader, but in the process, getting his own emotional barriers ripped away like paper by them.

I am not well about the 2.1 quest and I’m only 30% in 😔😔😔

SEXY AF IF YOU ASK ME

[noobiestnoober]

Cringe and Command: Assistant Unleashed - Part 2 (Wesker's Assistant Chronicles)

🧪 Cringe and Command: Assistant Unleashed 💥

(Wesker's Assistant Chronicles – Part 2) You survived being the Umbrella Corporation’s most chaotic employee... but did Wesker?

Rubber ducks. Glitter bombs. A PowerPoint critique that made Albert Wesker walk out of his own briefing. The assistant returns—and resistance is still, very much, futile. 🎈💀 🍰 Featuring: B.O.W. morale support, Nemesis in party hats, and Wesker’s slow descent into madness.

🧁 Special thanks to @xtwistedchaosx for demanding a Part 2. You unleashed the chaos. This one's for you.

Read more here >>> Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles – Masterlist

Day 127

After the "incident" involving laser pointers, disco lights, and a suspiciously choreographed Nemesis dance routine, Wesker implemented "mandatory professionalism protocols." The memo he issued was six pages long, with four appendices, three graphs, and a very serious "Tone of Voice" guide.

New rules:

No memes in lab reports.

No "motivational" posters featuring Mr. X flexing.

No altering the PowerPoint transitions to "exploding pigeons."

No spontaneous karaoke battles during viral sample testing.

Absolutely no party hats on B.O.W.s during inspections.

A formal dress code: no novelty socks, regardless of how "morale-boosting" they were.

Naturally, you took this as a personal challenge. Each rule became a personal quest to break, preferably with maximum flair and theatrical timing.

Day 130

You replaced all of Wesker's serious lab safety posters with ones that said, "Remember: World Domination Starts With Safety First!" The posters featured cartoon B.O.W.s wearing tiny hard hats, goggles, and some inexplicably carrying clipboards. One even had a safety vest two sizes too small stretched across Nemesis' chest.

Wesker ripped one down and brandished it like it was an offense punishable by firing squad. "Who authorized this idiocy?"

You took a slow, deliberate sip from your #1 Evil Genius Assistant mug. "OSHA."

He inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly counting. You counted silently with him. He lasted until "six" before storming off, muttering something about "corporate betrayal" and "insubordination through art."

Day 145

Field mission briefing. The air was tense. Operatives lined the walls. Wesker strode up to the podium, ready to deliver his meticulously prepared speech. At the last second, you switched the presentation to "Top 5 Ways Wesker Could Improve His Monologues," complete with pie charts, celebrity reenactments, and edited video clips of Tom Hiddleston's best villain speeches.

"Tom Hiddleston could do it better," you noted helpfully, clicking to the next slide showing Loki monologuing to an audience of terrified civilians.

Wesker stared at the screen. Then at you. Then back at the screen. A vein near his temple throbbed in rhythm with the red emergency lights. He said nothing. He simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Behind him, some of the operatives exchanged glances. One barely stifled a laugh. Another whispered, "She lives dangerously," with clear admiration. You called that Victory by Technical Knockout. Bonus points for style.

Day 158

You found Wesker genuinely sulking at his desk, glasses off, scribbling aimlessly across crumpled notepaper filled with increasingly dark doodles of broken coffee machines and burning cupcakes.

"Albert," you said seriously, kneeling beside him like a tired parent coaxing a stubborn toddler. "You have to stop taking my jokes so personally."

He didn't look at you. "You called me an anime villain suffering a midlife crisis."

"Affectionately," you clarified, patting his shoulder with mock sympathy.

He shot you a look over the rim of his sunglasses. "Get out."

"I'll go bake cupcakes," you offered. "It's Nemesis' adoption day anniversary."

"That is not a recognized event."

"It is now. I made invitations." You handed him a glittery card with Nemesis drawn in crayon.

Wesker blinked at it, dead-eyed, and quietly placed it face down on his desk.

Day 165

You "accidentally" filled the break room vending machines with rubber ducks instead of snacks. When Wesker discovered the situation, a rubber duck squeaked mournfully beneath his boot. He stood frozen, as if deciding whether to commit mass murder or have an existential crisis.

You peeked in. "Team morale, sir."

From the corner, a couple of lab techs desperately tried to hide their laughter behind clipboards. Mr. X stood beside the coffee machine, holding a rubber duck gently in both massive hands, gazing at it like it was a newborn child.

"Get. Out."

You didn’t. Instead, you handed Wesker a rubber duck wearing sunglasses and a tiny red cape, whispering solemnly, "For courage."

Then you walked away whistling Barbie Girl, leaving him speechless in the break room.

Day 180

In a last-ditch effort to regain control, Wesker handed you a sealed manila folder labeled TOP SECRET with grim determination. Inside? A single sticky note: STOP BRINGING BALLOONS TO BLACK SITE OPERATIONS.

You stared at him. He stared at you. Somewhere between you, silent warfare broke out.

"You're just mad because the B.O.W.s liked them," you said.

In the corner of the lab, Nemesis solemnly patted a deflated balloon tied to his massive wrist, like a child mourning a lost pet. Someone had drawn a smiley face on it in Sharpie. It was tragic. Wesker sighed—long and heavy—like a man who had seen the end of his dreams and found only rubber ducks, cupcakes, and glitter.

"Fine."

"Fine," you agreed brightly, victorious once more.

Naturally, you brought balloons to the next ops meeting anyway. With glitter. And party hats. And, for good measure, a bubble machine.

Wesker stared at the chaos unfolding before him: B.O.W.s batting balloons into the air, operatives ducking glitter explosions, and Nemesis carefully tying a party hat around Mr. X.

He rubbed his temples, muttered darkly about "auditions for a circus," and—for the first time in recorded Umbrella history—seriously contemplated early retirement.

(At this point, even Wesker knows: resistance is futile.)

👀 Next time on Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles… Let’s just say Nemesis is about to discover skincare. And Wesker? Wesker’s about to need a stronger headache medication.

“Self-care night.” “WHY IS THERE A SCENTED CANDLE IN MY LAB.”

Stay tuned for Operation Glow-Up ✨

Read Part 3 >>> HERE <<<

[nuelles]

You’re the fast-talking, story-rambling, chaos-brained ray of sunshine. He's the quiet, soft-smiling, “just happy to be here” listener—who’s maybe not as chill as he looks when it comes to you.

You didn’t stop talking.

Not out of nerves. Not because you were trying to fill the silence. No, you just had a lot to say, and unfortunately— or fortunately, if you asked him—for Spencer Agnew, you’d decided he was going to hear every single bit of it.

“And I’m not saying Courtney went feral during the improv challenge, but when she climbed onto the table, screamed ‘I’M YOUR NEW GOD NOW,’ and tried to baptize Damien with a Capri Sun? That’s not ‘yes and’—that’s ‘arrest her.’”

Spencer snorted softly, curled up beside you on the Smosh green room couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek on his knuckles and watched you with that tiny half-smile that meant he was enjoying this, even if his mouth didn’t move much. But his eyes—his eyes were soft, full of the kind of quiet love that didn’t need words. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than next to you, listening.

“And THEN,” you continued, shifting to face him better, “Emily tried to de-escalate with the puppy voice, which just made it worse, and honestly? At that point, we all deserved chaos.”

“You always choose violence,” Spencer murmured.

“I choose accuracy.” You sipped your drink. “Anyway. I haven’t even told you what happened after filming. Do you wanna guess how many times Shayne dropped his mic?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Three?”

“Five. Five. One of them bounced into a plant. It’s in the blooper reel.”

He grinned. Still quiet. Still watching.

And you knew this rhythm by now.

You yapped. You rambled. You ping-ponged from story to insult to theory, sometimes circling back like a walking Google rabbit hole, like if Wikipedia got caffeine and a personality. And Spencer? Spencer sat with you in it. Always listening and always nodding at just the right moment. Always smirking when you hit a particularly unhinged punchline, like he’d been waiting for it the whole time. He never interrupted. Never rushed you. Just watched you like you were his favorite show, soaking in every wild tangent like it made perfect sense. Like your voice was the best background noise the world had to offer—and maybe the main event, too.

You paused for a beat. “I talk too much.”

Spencer blinked. “No, you don’t.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, you talk a lot,” he amended, eyes warm. “But it’s never too much.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hide it with sass. “You know, most people would say ‘shut up’ by now.”

“I’m not most people,” he said simply.

And that… made something in your chest tug.

You softened. “You ever get tired of listening to me?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“Even when I rant about my neighbor’s emotional support chinchilla at 2 a.m.?”

“That was riveting.”

“Even when I psychoanalyze everyone’s childhood via their Starbucks orders?”

He smiled. “I still think about Shayne’s being a cry for help.”

You laughed, warm and caught off guard.

Spencer reached out—quietly, slowly—and brushed his fingers against yours on the couch. You blinked at him.

“I like your voice,” he said.

You stilled.

“It’s not just the stories or the jokes,” he went on, gaze focused, steady. “It’s you. You could read the back of a cereal box, and I’d still sit here like it was a movie.”

Your face heated. “...You’re literally in a room with trained comedians.”

“I’m aware.” He leaned in a little. “Still only listening to you.”

You bit your lip, heart stuttering.

“You gonna kiss me or just compliment me to death?”

His voice dropped, low and teasing. “You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting through three seasons and two spin-offs.

His hand caught the side of your face halfway through, steady and careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real—but wasn’t about to let it go. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was exactly right—warm and a little dizzying, like laughing too hard in the sun.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, eyes still half-lidded, Spencer just smiled.

That soft, crooked little smile like you’d just handed him the moon.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, still looking at your mouth. “Gimme a sec. My brain's doing the Windows loading wheel thing.”

You laughed, giddy and flushed.

He tucked a hand behind your knee, squeezing gently. “Okay. Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actually. You kissed me. That's… illegal levels of cool.”

You grinned. “I’ll confess later.”

Spencer leaned in again, forehead pressed to yours. “No rush. I’m a patient man....You’re gonna have so much to say about this, huh?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Buckle up.”

He nodded.

“Cool,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”

✨ Reblogs + likes | Feedback feeds the writer

📎 Requests and fic recs welcome!

📬 Comment for tag requests

[sleepytopia]

Hello!!! I was hoping you write about shoji x reader with a shapeshifting quirk, is a prankster in the class, while secretly being the emotional support animal (reader thinks there being slick, but everyone knows)

a/n : This is so heartwarming<3 I need to make another fic of this after cause I freaking love this and love shojiiii !!!

Soft Shapes & Secret Comforts

Mezou Shouji x reader

Summary: Reader’s a shapeshifter and certified class prankster, using their quirk for chaos—but secretly doubles as the emotional support animal of Class 1-A. Reader thinks no one knows it’s them sneaking into rooms to cuddle or calm their classmates down in disguise... but Shoji has known the whole time. And he's in love.

You were the chaos agent of Class 1-A. If something strange was happening, 9 times out of 10—it was your fault.

Mineta waking up with frog legs? You.

Kirishima’s hair turning a soft baby blue for half a day? Also you.

Bakugou yelling bloody murder because his gauntlets were filled with glitter? Definitely you.

But while everyone teased you for your shapeshifting antics and pranks, no one suspected what else you did at night. Not when you took on the form of a sweet housecat and curled up beside a crying Mina after a rough mission. Not when you disguised yourself as a dog and let Denki pet you after a breakdown. Not when you slipped into the common room as a sleepy, round-faced bunny and pressed against a shaking Todoroki’s leg during a thunderstorm.

You thought you were so slick. But Mezo Shoji? He’d known since the very first time.

You were perched on the couch one morning, all innocent and smiley, watching Iida panic over his missing glasses (they were on his head). Shoji entered the room, silently sipping his protein shake, all six arms relaxed as he watched the morning madness unfold.

“Morning, Shoji!” you chirped, legs kicked up over the armrest. “You sleep okay?”

He didn’t answer at first—just looked at you for a moment too long, then smiled under his mask.

“I did,” he said slowly, voice low. “The cat helped.”

You froze.

“…what cat?” you said, too quickly.

Shoji raised a brow. “The one with your exact eyes,” he said, tone perfectly calm. “The one who lets everyone hold them when they cry.”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it. “…oh.”

“And the bunny. And the fox. And the weird, lumpy creature you became when Bakugou punched a wall last week.”

“...that was a stress blob, okay.”

He laughed quietly. “You don’t have to hide it, you know.”

You shifted a little on the couch, shrugging. “I’m not hiding anything. Just doing what I can. I like making people feel better.”

“You do a good job,” he said softly. Then added, “You make me feel better too.”

Your heart hiccupped.

“…You mean that?”

Shoji nodded, walking over to stand behind you. One of his arms reached down—big palm cupping your cheek. He was so gentle it made your chest ache.

“I’ve always known it was you. But I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to stop.”

You leaned into his hand, smiling just a little. “You’re way too soft for someone with six arms and muscles like that.”

“Would it help if I pranked Mineta later?”

“Only if I get to help.”

He chuckled again—and then, softly, leaned in closer. His voice dropped to a low, warm whisper: “You can sneak into my room next time, you know. You don’t have to shift. Just be you.”

And for once— The class prankster, chaos shapeshifter, and unofficial emotional support animal— Was speechless.

Later that night, he found you asleep on his bed. In your real form.

And Shoji just smiled and curled all six arms around you, holding you like you were the softest, safest thing in the world.

Because to him… you were.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[mayashesfly]

Crack Fanfic Idea:

A passionate fan of Hazbin Hotel who ships RadioStatic dies and gets isekaid into the Hellaverse.

All seems well since they still remember everything from their past life and has the meta knowledge to survive in Hell and avoid soul contracts despite being a new Sinner/Freshly Dead.

However, their Sinner form looks like a RadioStatic fanchild.

The Vees, Alastor and Rosie knows that Vox is secretly Trans and that there are very rare cases of Sinners having a biological child.

At first, noone in the hotel takes note of the Reader's appearance.

After all, a screen head with animal features and hair isn't that uncommon right?

Especially with the influx of new Sinners having parts of their Sinner forms being technology and/or furries.

So the Reader was able to adjust for a while before shit hits the fan.

However, after some of the Reader's powers were discovered, Angel made a passing comment of how their powers seem like a mix of Vox and Alastor's.

And hilarity ensues.

(Bonus points if they also ship StaticMoth so they look like a RadioStaticMoth fanchild)

[sgtjbbhasmyheart]

Starting June 1st, I will be participating in the "Hot Bucky Summer 2025" writing challenge hosted by @buckybarnesevents. I will post a new fic each week.

Due to sexually explicit themes, MDNI- 18+ ONLY

Week 1

Week 2

Week 3

Week 4

Week 5

Week 6

Week 7

Week 8

Week 9

Week 10

Week 11

Week 12

Week 13