#unless like.... someone gave him a reason to

[clumsydolly]

HAIII!!!! Could you do Obey Me x Creepypasta!reader? (+ Side characters if you want! 😋)

Obey me x Creepypasta!Reader

Warning: ⚠️! Blood! Violence! Not at all good things for ppl who aren't a fan of body horror but not too much just like Spain breaking!

I have not ever seen anything Creepypasta I don't think so I hope as an outsider I did some justice! I almost accidentally deleted this so you all better love it!

Lucifer

The first time Lucifer met you, you were upside down.

Literally.

Hanging by your knees from the chandelier in the House of Lamentation's grand foyer, muttering Latin backwards while nibbling on a sugar cube. Nobody knew how you got up there. Nobody really wanted to know.

"Should I be concerned?" Lucifer asked, arms crossed, as you slowly rotated like a haunted rotisserie chicken.

You blinked. Grinned. Then let yourself drop, landing in a crouch. "Probably! But aren't you always?"

You were like a glitch in his otherwise carefully ordered life. A walking question mark. Always humming a weird little tune, half your jokes felt like threats, and your eyes had that... too-still glint. Like you knew something no one else did. Something unpleasant.

Lucifer did not trust you.

Which was saying something, considering he trusts Mammon with the finances.

But you weren't evil, exactly. Just weird. Unsettling. You'd show up in the library at 3 a.m., covered in cobwebs, casually reading a book on forgotten curses like it was a cookbook. Once you handed Lucifer a potion without warning. He didn't drink it, obviously, but Beel did and ended up being able to hear electricity for three days.

"I'm not dangerous unless I want to be," you said once, sipping tea from a cracked doll head. "Or unless someone else wants me to be. Then it's... kind of a team effort."

Lucifer kept a file on you. A thick one.

Still, he couldn't deny your usefulness. You had an uncanny knack for sniffing out lies, traps, and cursed artifacts. Not because you were trained, no, you said it was because "the whispers told you." Lucifer wasn't sure who the whispers were, and he didn't ask.

He also wasn't sure why he started letting you into important meetings. Or why he actually started asking your opinion. Or why, after a particularly tense council discussion, he looked to you and felt reassured when you offered that unnerving little smile.

Maybe it was because, unlike everyone else, you didn’t fear Lucifer.

You understood him.

The control. The rage under the surface. The constant weight of leadership.

You just wore your darkness on the outside.

One night, he caught you humming in the hallway, drawing chalk symbols in the dark. You turned, glowing faintly under the moonlight.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Too loud."

"The house?"

You tilted your head. "The world."

Lucifer didn’t know what to say to that. So he just stood beside you, watching as you finished your quiet ritual. When you were done, you handed him a tiny paper bird.

"Protection spell," you said. "Just in case the monsters ever come for you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you one of the monsters?"

You smirked. "Exactly. That's why it works."

He still keeps that bird in his coat pocket.

Just in case.

Mammon

So listen. Mammon prides himself on being the scariest, baddest demon in the Devildom, so when you show up looking like you just crawled out of a haunted .exe file with glowing eyes, a smile that’s too wide, and a habit of standing perfectly still in hallways at 3AM, you scare the absolute sin out of him.

"Y-YOU CAN'T JUST STAND THERE LIKE THAT!" Mammon would scream, backing into a potted plant, eyes wild.

You tilt your head slightly, blink once. "Why not?"

He’s clutching his chest like you gave him a heart attack. You probably did. Honestly, the only reason he doesn’t yeet himself into a salt circle is because you're technically still just a human. Sort of. Maybe. He hasn't dared check.

At first, he avoids you. Not because he doesn’t like you, but because you’re weird. Like capital-W WEIRD. You eat your food like you’re studying its soul. You talk to the shadows in your room and they talk back. One time he caught you levitating a fork just to see if it would stab something on its own. (It did.)

But then one day he gets in a bind, a demon debt collector on his tail and Lucifer threatening to string him up, and it’s you who steps in. Without blinking. Without asking questions. You whisper something in the debt collector’s ear and suddenly they’re running in the opposite direction with tears in their eyes.

Mammon’s mouth drops open. "What did you SAY to 'em?!"

"Just described what their dreams taste like," you answer, nonchalantly.

And from that point on? He is *obsessed*. Not just because you’re powerful in this really unsettling way, but because you defended him. You defended *him.*

You start to become his emergency contact. His creepy lifeline. His nightlight. If anyone messes with Mammon, they answer to you, and trust, that’s more terrifying than anything Lord Diavolo could cook up.

At first he insists it’s just because you’re useful. "You're good backup, y'know?! Like a... spooky little insurance plan!" But then he catches himself waiting up to make sure you come back from your midnight excursions into the woods. And he starts defending *you* when the others get uncomfortable around you.

"Don’t look at 'em like that! They're not scary—they’re... unique! Besides, you’re just jealous ‘cause they can peel apples with their mind."

You leave a heart drawn in goat blood on his notebook one day. He blushes like you gave him a mixtape. "T-This is... romantic, right? This is romantic, right?!

You nod solemnly. "It’s your soul’s shape. I sketched it while you were napping."

Mammon doesn’t sleep right for three days after that but he keeps the page in his wallet.

Eventually, he starts leaning into the weird with you. You both prank Lucifer by setting all the clocks in the house five minutes ahead and convincing him he’s having a minor time slip. Mammon builds you a haunted terrarium. You make him a charm that ensures no one can steal from him without first reciting a limerick backwards.

"No one's gonna DO that, y'know?!"

"Exactly."

He starts bragging about you constantly. "Yeah, my partner can talk to shadows, and yeah, they glitched out of reality last week and came back with six eyes, WHAT OF IT?!"

The others are both terrified *and* impressed. Lucifer has stopped trying to figure out if you're a threat and just assumes you’re under control (you're not). Levi thinks you're a cursed game character brought to life. Satan wants to dissect your existence for science. Asmo wants to know if your eyeballs are always that glowy or if it’s a mood thing.

But Mammon? Mammon’s just happy you keep choosing to hang out with him. That for all your uncanny aura and creepy behavior, you still sit next to him on the couch, you still laugh at his stupid jokes, you still say things like, "If anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll gift wrap their spine."

And honestly? That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to him.

Leviathan

“Why do I always fall for the terrifying ones…?”

It all started when Leviathan spotted you in the House of Lamentation’s hallway at 3AM. You were crawling on the ceiling, whispering to yourself in reversed Latin, wearing what looked like an eyeball necklace and a hoodie covered in dried something. Levi blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then screamed. Naturally.

You stared at him with those eerily glowing eyes and whispered, “Wanna binge-watch horror animes and summon a demon from the void?”

He screamed louder.

Despite that rocky introduction, something about your unapologetic weirdness struck a nerve with Levi. Not in the I want to destroy you with a cursed video tape way (though you probably had one), but more in the Oh no, they’re exactly my type and it’s ruining me emotionally way.

Levi was terrified of you at first. You did keep a collection of unsettling dolls in your room and had a tendency to hiss at people who opened the microwave before it was done. But the more time he spent around you, the more he realized you weren’t just horror for horror’s sake, you were fascinating.

You quoted obscure urban legends like they were bedtime stories. You spoke to ghosts in the corners of the Devildom library. You gave Levi a skull as a friendship gift and wrote “Property of Leviathan” in Sharpie on the forehead.

“…Wait, is this real??”

“I dunno, I found it in the cursed basement. Thought it matched your aesthetic.”

And you weren’t just spooky. You were smart. Wickedly clever, actually. You helped Levi build an elaborate ARG (alternate reality game) for one of his fandom servers using cursed riddles and glitchy visuals that actually made some of the human exchange students cry. He was so proud.

At first, Levi was convinced you were way out of his league — not because you were popular or pretty in a traditional sense, but because you didn’t care about being liked. That scared him. You were so confident in your creepiness, and he was still trying to come to terms with being “just the shut-in otaku brother.” You didn’t apologize for being unsettling. You reveled in it.

He asked once, nervously, “D-Do people ever tell you you’re too much?”

You replied, “Yeah. Then I usually wait until 3:33AM and whisper their name from under their bed.”

He nearly passed out. From admiration.

You'd show up at his room at ungodly hours holding cursed VHS tapes or spider-shaped cookies you baked from a centuries-old “ritual recipe book.” Half your conversations were obscure fandom debates mixed with talks about the metaphysical implications of sentient shadows.

Levi lived for it.

When you told him one night, “Hey, if we ever got transported into a cursed anime world together, I’d totally betray the evil AI overlord to protect you,” Levi nearly cried.

He started to realize your creepiness was just a mask, not to hide behind, but a celebration of your individuality. You’d been labeled “too weird” your whole life, and instead of shrinking, you leaned into it. You became the fear. You owned your darkness, and now Levi wanted to be part of it.

He even asked you to co-op a horror dating sim with him, and you aced every bad ending.

When he confessed, awkwardly, of course, stammering and flushed, he half-expected you to laugh.

Instead, you handed him a jar labeled “My Heart, Probably,” filled with strawberry jam, and whispered, “You had me at ‘limited edition collector’s box set.’”

From then on, you two became Devildom’s most unsettlingly adorable couple/friends/mutual menace duo. You cursed Mammon’s shampoo as a prank (it just made his hair glitter for 3 days), built a haunted dollhouse together, and even started a podcast where you ranked cursed artifacts by risk of soul loss.

Levi had never felt more alive, or more terrified, in his entire undead life.

And every time you showed up wearing blood-red lipstick and muttering about spectral parasites, he’d go, “That’s my terrifying gremlin, and I adore them.”

Satan

“You are utterly horrifying. I mean that as the highest compliment.”

The first time Satan heard about you, it was because the entire library had been closed off due to a “mild incident.” That incident? You’d accidentally (on purpose) summoned something in the rare occult section, and it had eaten three reference books and bit a student.

By the time Satan arrived, you were crouched on top of a bookcase, laughing as a floating shadow beast tried to chew through a copy of Ancient Curses and Where to Find Them.

“You’ve either got no fear,” he said, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, “or no sense.”

You peered down at him, deadpan. “Why not both?”

He was intrigued immediately.

Your reputation had already spread, weird, unpredictable, into curses and creepypasta lore like it was scripture. But Satan wasn’t deterred. If anything, he was fascinated. You were a walking, talking case study in forbidden knowledge and questionable decision-making, which happened to be two of his favorite things.

And unlike certain other demons (Mammon), you could hold an intelligent conversation about the history of cursed objects without making it sound like a gossip column. You quoted ancient tomes and Reddit horror threads in the same breath. He didn't know whether to be impressed or deeply concerned.

“Did you really use goat blood to summon a cursed AI?”

“No, that’s a myth. Tomato soup works just fine. Less iron, less mess.”

Satan stared. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thanks. I try.”

You were the only person he knew who would wander into the forest of lost souls just to “see what all the screaming was about.” You told him your favorite stress relief was organizing your poison collection alphabetically. One time, you stitched a plush version of a dismembered heart and gave it to him as a gift.

He kept it. On his bookshelf. Right between The Anatomy of Malice and Demonic Power Dynamics: A Socioeconomic Analysis.

But what really got to him wasn’t the oddness, it was your sharpness. You were smart. Terrifyingly so. You read faster than he did (which he pretended not to notice), solved cursed riddles in seconds, and casually mentioned things like “binding rituals” over breakfast. And you never bragged about it. You didn’t care about being seen as smart. You were just… interested. Hungry, even, for knowledge.

It was magnetic.

Also infuriating.

He’d be in the middle of an intense philosophical debate with you about the moral alignment of banshees, and you’d casually pull out a melted cassette tape labeled “do not play unless possessed” and say, “Okay but this ghost girl? Total Slytherin.”

He swore you enjoyed throwing him off. And worse, it worked.

He began seeking you out. At first, for arguments. Then for book discussions. Then… for no reason at all. You’d sit in his room, legs over the arm of his chair, reading some ancient eldritch cookbook out loud like it was a romance novel.

“What’s more romantic,” you’d ask, “roses or ritual sacrifice?”

“I feel like there’s a trick question here.”

“There is. It’s always ritual sacrifice.”

You didn’t flinch at his temper either. In fact, you barely acknowledged it unless it was necessary.

“Are you… not afraid of me?” he asked once, genuinely puzzled.

You tilted your head. “No. Should I be?”

He had no answer.

You made him feel seen in ways he didn’t realize he craved. You didn’t just match his intellect, you delighted in it. You weren’t afraid to challenge him, but never in a performative way. You were just you. Weird, intense, unsettling, and brilliant.

So he stopped pretending.

He started letting his softer side show, the rare smiles, the gentler tone when talking to you. He read you bedtime stories from haunted books just to watch your eyes light up. You once brought him a cursed cat collar from a flea market and he wore it on his wrist for a week.

(He said it was for research. Everyone else knew better.)

Eventually, you asked him: “If I cursed you, would you be mad?”

He smirked. “Depends. Is it romantic?”

You grinned. “Always.”

Asmodeus

“Darling, if I die mysteriously, please make sure my funeral has glitter cannons. And also, you.”

To say Asmo was startled the first time he met you would be an understatement.

You’d appeared in the middle of a fashion show hosted in the House of Lamentation’s lounge, crawling out of a shadowy corner with bloodstained boots, a half-melted doll head in your pocket, and a hoodie that read: “This outfit is cursed. Just like me.”

Naturally, Asmo screamed. Loudly. He almost threw a bedazzled shoe at you.

You just blinked at him. “Cute scream. Ever considered voice acting in horror games?”

And just like that, he was intrigued.

You were… different. Not in a quirky, tee-hee-I’m-random way, but in a genuine, "I may have crawled out of a haunted VHS tape" kind of way. You didn’t shy away from the macabre. You wore mismatched gloves, carried bone charms in your bag, and claimed your skincare routine involved moonlight, rosewater, and “the tears of those who ghosted you.”

He asked if you were serious.

You winked. “Only on Tuesdays.”

At first, he thought you were just another strange human with an aesthetic. But then you opened your mouth and rattled off fifteen ingredients for a poison-laced love spell while filing your nails with a rusted razor. And he fell in love a little.

Okay, a lot.

Asmo was used to being adored. Worshipped. Fawned over. He lived for attention.

You? You looked at him like he was a particularly amusing haunted mirror. Fascinating. Shiny. Probably cursed.

He loved it.

“Tell me,” he purred once, twirling a lock of your hair around his finger, “do you always look this... haunted?”

“Only when I haven’t eaten. Or slept. Or, y’know, exorcised something.”

You were unapologetically odd and unfiltered, somehow matching his dramatic flair with a deadpan delivery that had him cackling over everything you said. He’d spend hours trying on cursed accessories with you, ranking which ones gave the best glowing eyes effect. You taught him how to make lipstick that shimmered with ghost residue. He made you a “bloodletting but make it couture” outfit for Halloween.

“Babe,” he told you one night while doing your makeup with shaky hands (because you’d just escaped a possessed ventriloquist dummy), “we are absolutely deranged together.”

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He wasn’t used to someone being so casual about death. And demons. And occasional murder-y vibes. But you made it fun. You’d joke about dismemberment the same way others joked about bad hair days.

And even better? You didn’t flinch from his chaos, either.

When Asmo got clingy or emotionally volatile, you didn’t push him away. You didn’t get flustered or overwhelmed. You just offered him candy from your pocket (never explain where you got it), patted his head, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with poltergeists scarier than you.”

He pretended to pout.

But secretly? He felt… safe. Cherished. Seen.

You didn’t love him for his looks, though you very clearly enjoyed them, but because he matched your energy. You once told him he was “like a haunted mirror ball: cursed, gorgeous, and absolutely unnecessary in most scenarios but so essential to the vibe.”

He cried. Just a little.

The two of you became the ultimate unhinged duo, hosting “makeover and murder” nights (just makeup and true crime documentaries… probably), holding séances for fun, and creating a cursed fashion line made of lace, fake blood, and glitter.

He started showing up at your room late at night, not for gossip or drama, but because he wanted to exist around you. You let him talk about his feelings while drawing sigils in your notebook. He gave you new nail polish every week and pretended not to notice when you stored vials of “mystery fluid” in your makeup drawer.

Once, you held his face after a particularly awful week and said, “You’re not just pretty. You’re divine chaos. And I worship at your altar.”

He looked like you’d cast a love spell on him. (You hadn’t. Probably.)

“Darling,” he whispered, “if I ever disappear mysteriously, promise me you’ll tell everyone I looked fabulous.”

You laughed. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll haunt the detective assigned to your case until they close it with ‘cause of death: stunning.’”

He kissed you. Maybe on the cheek. Maybe not.

It didn’t matter.

Because in a house full of demons, somehow, you were the most wickedly beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Beelzebub

"You smell like sugar, blood, and kitchen smoke... I think I like you."

You and Beel met in the least romantic place imaginable: the House of Lamentation kitchen, 3 a.m., mid-blackout, post-ritual.

You were crouched on the counter with glowing eyes, eating cold leftover fries and whispering to something in the shadows.

Beel didn’t blink. He just walked in, nodded at the ancient spirit clinging to your shoulder, and asked, “Are those fries still warm?”

From that moment on, you had a food buddy. And an accidental soulmate.

To everyone else, you were deeply unsettling. You talked about ghosts like they were your coworkers. Your hoodie had suspicious stains and a patch that read "Blood Type: Marshmallow." You once got suspended from RAD for drawing pentagrams in jam on the cafeteria table. (You said it was “an artistic expression of hunger and despair.” Lucifer disagreed.)

But Beel? He got it.

He didn’t care that your aesthetic was “grungy cryptid who may or may not live in a haunted crawlspace.” He didn’t care that your snacks were mostly things labeled experimental or "do not consume." In fact, he tried them.

All of them.

And he liked most of them, much to everyone’s horror.

“I think this one bit back,” he said once, chewing thoughtfully on a cursed rice ball you found under a shrine. “But it’s good.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’re beautiful.”

Beel blushed. And took another bite.

You two bonded over the weirdest things: rituals gone wrong, horror movies where you laughed at the gore, midnight snacks that may or may not have been stolen from a demon duke. He found your collection of cursed cookbooks “interesting.” You thought his terrifying appetite was “inspiring.”

He liked your honesty. You never lied to make things prettier. You told him when you were scared, or furious, or just feeling weird in your own skin. You never apologized for being strange.

He admired that. A lot.

Sometimes, late at night, Beel would find you on the roof, legs swinging off the edge, whispering into a bone-shaped walkie-talkie (don’t ask). He never questioned what you were doing. He just sat next to you, handed you half a sandwich, and asked, “Want to split this?”

Of course you did.

You grew closer in moments of shared silence and food. You weren’t one for long conversations about feelings, and neither was he. But when you offered him a cupcake that made most demons cry blood and said, “I saved the last one for you,” he knew.

That was how you said "I like you."

And Beel said it back every time he instinctively shielded you with his body when danger flared. Every time he packed extra snacks in case you forgot to eat. Every time he listened when you ranted about how no one ever took your creepy little hobbies seriously.

“You’re smart,” he told you once, voice low and sure. “You just don’t explain things like everyone else."

That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to you. You cried. He panicked. You both ate waffles at 2 a.m. to cope.

Your dynamic was something no one could quite label. You didn’t hold hands so much as pass each other cursed charms and dangerous baked goods. You didn’t flirt, not really, but your casual threats to “summon a plague in his honor” were kind of romantic. You didn’t go on dates. You went on “haunted scavenger hunts” and “graveyard picnics.”

And through it all, Beel stayed steady.

He never looked at you like you were too much. Never flinched at your cursed dolls or your obsession with dissecting old magical corpses for “research.” Never made you feel like you had to tone it down.

You once asked him why he wasn’t scared of you.

He looked at you, eyes soft and serious, and said, “You remind me of a kitchen fire. Dangerous, but warm.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You just gave him your last candy eyeball, the one you were saving, and bumped your shoulder against his.

From then on, it was you and Beel. The gentle giant and the cursed cryptid. The demon of gluttony and the human (?) who carried snacks in spell jars and once got banned from three potlucks for “summoning the wrong appetizers.”

You weren’t normal. You weren’t safe. You weren’t soft.

But around Beel? You felt seen.

And when he hugged you, arms wrapped around you like a shield, no questions asked, it didn’t matter how haunted you were.

You were home.

Belphegor

"You’re creepy. I like that. Let’s nap in a haunted attic together."

You didn’t think much of Belphegor when you first met him. He looked like he’d been asleep since the demon wars, dressed in a hoodie that had definitely seen better centuries and sporting a resting pout that screamed “I hate everything, but especially effort.”

He didn’t think much of you either, until you casually mentioned that you once shared a bunk bed with a poltergeist named Lenny who stole your socks and fed on nightmares.

“…That’s hot,” he muttered through a yawn, before immediately falling asleep on your shoulder.

It was the start of something… strange.

You, with your cursed plushies, cryptid knowledge, and tendency to hang upside-down from chandeliers for “mental clarity.”

Belphie, with his perpetual scowl, inability to care about anything before 2 p.m., and affinity for chaos when properly caffeinated (which was never, so it was mostly passive-aggressive chaos).

Most people didn’t know what to do with either of you. You were a walking horror podcast. He was the literal Avatar of Sloth. Together, you were a recipe for either disaster or the best time ever, depending on who you asked.

He liked how you never tiptoed around his moods. If he was grumpy, you got grumpier. If he snapped at you, you’d snap back with something deeply concerning like, “Don’t test me, Belphie. I still have the jawbone from that cursed deer skull I found in the woods. And I know how to use it.”

No one had ever talked to him like that. It was thrilling. Horrifying. Hot.

You treated him like a cat that wandered into your haunted house and decided to stay, half feral, occasionally affectionate, mostly just there to steal your spot on the couch and knock things off your shelves.

But you didn’t mind.

In fact, you found his lethargy endearing. You were often up all night communing with shadow entities or writing eerie poetry in your notebook titled “Oops, All Hauntings,” so by the time you crawled into a random corner of the House of Lamentation to nap, Belphie was already there. Sprawled out. Drooling slightly. Already using your cursed hoodie as a pillow.

Sometimes he mumbled your name in his sleep. You’d pretend you didn’t hear it. You never wanted to be the one to break the moment.

You made each other worse. And better. And worse again.

You’d convince him to help you with your spooky side projects, like building a spirit trap using doll parts and sugar cubes. He’d go along with it, lazily reading the instructions upside-down and occasionally asking if he could paint skulls on the trap in glitter nail polish.

You said yes. Of course you did.

In return, he dragged you into his nap schedule. Which wasn’t a schedule so much as a lifestyle. You became part of the nap pile. No questions asked. If he saw you awake past 3 a.m., he’d literally tackle you with a pillow and mutter, “Sleep or perish.”

Once, you scared him by hanging from the ceiling like a bat to prank Mammon. He screamed so loud he woke up half the House. You landed in front of him, fanged grin and all, and instead of being mad, he just blinked and said:

“…You’re the worst. I like it.”

Eventually, there was a rhythm to things.

You brought the chaos. He brought the stillness.

You told him ghost stories in hushed tones under shared blankets, half of them real, half of them made up. He could never tell the difference, and honestly, neither could you anymore. He never cared. He just liked the sound of your voice while he dozed on your shoulder.

He’d show up in your room unannounced, flop onto your bed like he owned it, and grumble, “Your haunted mirror was whispering again. Tell it to shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”

You’d laugh. But then you would tell it to shut up.

He started defending you in that lazy, passive-aggressive way only Belphie could manage.

If someone dared call you creepy behind your back, Belphie would mutter, “Takes one to know one,” and then give them a cursed look that made plants wilt.

He never said how much he liked having you around. But the way he always curled toward you when you shared space, the way he let you draw little sigils on his arms in chalk and didn’t wipe them off, the way he’d growl at anyone who disturbed your naps, that said enough.

One night, when you handed him a handmade talisman to protect his dreams, he blinked down at it, silent for a moment.

Then he smiled, not a smirk, not a scoff. A real, soft smile.

“You’re weird,” he said, voice like sleep. “I hope you never stop.”

You didn’t answer. You just curled beside him on the couch, slipped your cold hand into his, and let the nightmares drift elsewhere.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! Sorry it's taking me a moment to get things out! I've had a very busy few! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!

[maxdibert]

Hi! I've seen you write some pretty interesting analyses and I feel like I keep screaming this particular theory into an empty void, and I'm looking for someone to confirm or deny or something. Anyway, I keep seeing these whole lists about why "Snape is a bad person actually" and they keep bringing up how he exposed Lupin as a werewolf at the end of PoA and it makes me want to knock my head in with a piece of wood. Because it just seems so obvious to me that it was DUMBLEDORE who gave Snape the expressed permission to let that secret slip. Like, am I crazy? Am I just some conspiracy theorist and I'm the only one who thinks this? Tell me if this doesn't make sense, I need to get another opinion on it:

Lupin states in PoA that after the prank Dumbledore had forbidden Snape from telling anyone that Lupin is a werewolf. It's never explained how Dumbledore got him to comply, but Snape never tells a soul even when he's a full-fledged Death Eater and actively fighting a war against Dumbledore. Clearly, something hinky is going on. During PoA, Snape again doesn't tell anybody that Lupin is a werewolf even though it's obvious that he really, really wants to when he assigns the students an essay on werewolves. And, honestly, what could Dumbledore possibly do to him if Snape does tell? Fire him? His only spy? From a job he hates? Oh no, Snape won't have to teach kids anymore, what a terrible turn of events. And then there's the obvious reason why Dumbledore hired Lupin that year specifically in the first place. Lupin is clearly the most competent DADA teacher they've had in a while, so why wouldn't Dumbledore have hired him earlier? Because he knows for a fact (not just a rumor) that the DADA position is cursed and that whoever he hires will have to leave at the end of year, and sometimes they leave in a bodybag; Dumbledore wants to keep Lupin in his back pocket in case he needs him, he's not going to risk him unless it's important. And when Sirius escapes - whom Dumbledore still believes to be a traitor who killed the Potters - the time is now. Who better to help him catch Sirius than one of his old school buddies? (I mean, apparently anyone was better, since Lupin knew Sirius was a secret animagus and how he was able to sneak into the school but didn't tell anybody) Well, now the school year is over, Lupin WILL leave the school one way or another, and for some unfathomable reason Dumbledore won't actually confirm that the rumors are true and the position is cursed to Lupin or anyone else, and Lupin seems very much willing to stay on. Well, if Lupin doesn't resign then the curse will find another way to get him gone, in pieces if need be, so why not force Lupin's hand and give Snape a little pat on the head for enduring such a terrible "disappointment" (as Dumbledore termed it to Fudge) by letting him finally get a chance to tell his secret? After all, when Snape leaves the infirmary after Sirius escapes, he still doesn't know that Sirius is innocent. He was unconscious during the whole Pettigrew reveal. He fully believes that the man who murdered Lily escaped justice and that Lupin helped him escape the Dementors, and Dumbledore basically just told him, "too bad, so sad." If Snape was fully capable of telling people that Lupin was a werewolf under his own power, I have no doubt he would have kicked open every dorm room in Slytherin shouting, "Wakey, wakey, listen up!" But he doesn't. He waits one full day and night to drop this bomb. Why if he didn't need Dumbledore's permission to do so?

I don’t think Dumbledore gave him permission, or that it was something Dumbledore told Severus to do. I genuinely believe Snape had just had enough that year emotionally, mentally, everything.

I mean, first of all, one of his biggest bullies escapes from prison, someone who, until then, was believed to be the traitor who got the Potters killed and a direct threat to Harry (triple trigger, triple stress). Then, on top of that, he’s forced to work alongside another one of his bullies —or at the very least, a complicit bystander— someone who nearly got him killed as a teenager. And somehow, through all of it, Severus is expected to keep his cool and pretend he’s fine, even though he was probably having five emotional breakdowns a day behind the scenes.

I think the final straw was Sirius and Remus getting away with it again. Like always. Just like when they were kids Severus ends up carrying the emotional weight of everything, while the ones who tormented him walk away, untouched, unpunished.

I think in that moment, Severus said: “Enough. I’m not some powerless 15-year-old kid anymore. I can do something now.” And he did. He made sure this time, someone faced consequences and the way he did that was by exposing Lupin.

And honestly? I think by doing that, he got a massive weight off his chest.

And I’m glad he did.

[grimmshood]

denki cypress / aisha still is friends w dayoko i think but she's like a lot more subdued than normal. probably still works for takahashi as well but she doesn't really want to and he can reeaaally tell.

[tuesdayscanons]

Every now and then, I think about The Simpsons RPC and how there's an occasionally a spike of Simpsons muses that inevitably crumbles away and leaves me waiting for the next short lived Simpsons RPC Renaissance

[nyxypoo]

hair is so funny to me bc wdym that's the shape of ur head

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 2.5k

author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333

series masterlist

“You can’t be serious.”

Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.

Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”

You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

[bizarrelovetriangel]

interruptions.

all he wants is to have you all to himself but everyone keeps getting in his way.

fluff and slightly suggestive. brief references to chaotic velocity and his myth.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He groans against your lips as his hands caresses your hips, urging you to grind against his thighs.

His bedroom is silent apart from the sounds of your exchange of heated kisses, your heavy breaths in-between, as well as the rustling of your clothes as your bodies yearn for friction.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Sylus thrusted up to let you feel his excitement, and you responded by palming him through his pants, earning a low growl from his parted lips.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

You pulled away as the ringtone of his phone blares closely next to you. You gave him a look before he pinches his temples and reaching for the device on his night stand.

"You better have a good reason to interrupt me on such an important time."

This is the third time in just two days.

Sylus doesn't know how much more interruptions he can take.

"Looks like I'll have to cut our time short again." Sylus frowns as he gets up from the bed. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Don't worry about it."

Being Onychinus' leader can be demanding, so you're not mad at him at all. In fact, at the moment, you're doing your best to hold back a laugh.

"Before you leave, maybe take a cold shower first."

Two days later, as you were leaving your workplace, you ran into your lover who's dressed in his favorite leather jacket, bathing in darkness.

"Sylus?! What are you doing here?"

It's the middle of the week. You usually don't get to see each other until the weekends, unless spontaneous plans come up. You figured this is one of those special cases.

"Do I need a reason to see my girlfriend?"

"No, but you do need to be cautious when picking up said girlfriend from her job, which may or may not be interested in catching some suspicious people who love lurking in the shadows."

There's not an ounce of worry in his eyes at all. "Luckily, I have a strong kitten who'd protect me should anyone dare to put their hands on me."

You playfully punched his arm as you walked next to him. "You could've at least texted me."

"A surprise usually works out only if someone doesn't know what'll happen." He then taps your head. "There's a restaurant that I've been meaning to check out. Want to come?"

Your heart and stomach cheered happily, deeming him as your savior. After all, you're starving after such a long day at work. "Of course!"

Around ten at night, dinner was done and you ended up relaxing at an empty, quiet park. You sat down on a bench surrounded by red flowers and you rested your head on his left arm while he holds your right hand.

At first, the two of you enjoyed the moment of silence and appreciated each other's warmth and company.

You could've fallen asleep then and there.

If only Sylus didn't start leaving kisses all over your face. He dropped them one by one, slowly and softly, as if you're something precious that could vanish at any second if he isn't careful enough.

As his lips pressed against yours, his right hand brushes up and down from your knee to your thigh, warming up your body during the cold night.

Sylus' ragged breaths urged you to deepen the kiss while caressing his face, though your makeout session was short-lasted as a group of chatty, cackling teenagers had decided to hit up the very spot that you two are in.

Clicking his tongue, Sylus stood up and reached out one hand for you. "I guess this is our sign to leave. Shall we?"

"Yeah."

You couldn't even bother to hide your disappointment that your time together was once again shortened.

He came with you back at your apartment, though Sylus couldn't stay the night due to plans he has later on.

He wasn't even supposed to see you tonight; he forced it in his busy schedule because his urge to see you was just unbearably strong during these past few days, and the constant interruptions are absolutely not helping.

It's as if the world is purposely getting in the way.

The next interruption came during dinner at a restaurant that you and Sylus have been wanting to visit for months. You made a reservation two weeks ago, and you got to enjoy all the delicious meals and drinks that made the place worthy of Sylus' attention.

You were given the best seats in the restaurant, which would be the special table on the rooftop, decorated with dimmed, beautiful lights to illuminate the dark night, and flowers for your eyes and nose to feast on.

As you were finishing up your wine, you walked towards the edge of the rooftop to observe the scenery around you.

For a moment, Sylus remained seated, only shifting his position so that he could admire you in your beautiful dress.

It's one of his favorite views — you facing away from him, eyes beaming with happiness and lips curled into a soft smile, completely lost in the scenery around you and unaware of how bewitching you are and the trance that you always put him in.

He'll never get tired of it.

"Sylus, look!"

At your call, he appears behind you and immediately wraps his arms around your waist. He gave you a light kiss on the shoulder before moving his gaze to wherever you were pointing at.

Unfortunately, Sylus never got to learn what caught your interest because suddenly, you received signals that a Wanderer is nearby.

And so, dinner ended early and you spent the rest of your energy jumping in action.

The Wanderers certainly became Sylus' punching bags for the night.

At last, you finally won some time to spend in the N109 Zone.

You're at his house and you've just finished eating the dessert that you two made together a few hours ago.

And now, you find yourself trapped against the counter table with Sylus blocking all the ways to escape.

"Can't run from me now, kitten."

His lips touched yours.

"Boss, look what we found!"

"...."

"...."

"....oops..."

"...sorry!"

Luke and Kieran were frozen by the entrance of the kitchen, almost dropping the fancy looking weapon they were carrying.

You let out a laugh to break the silence. "Hey guys!"

Sylus sighs defeateadly. He did acknowledge the twins and the gift they brought to him by giving them a quick but sincere "well done" before turning back to you with a certain glint in his eyes. "I hope you're up for a midnight ride."

"Wait what?!"

He took your left hand and started leading you out of the kitchen.

"Right now?!"

Luke and Kieran only gave you a wave of their hands, still feeling guilty about the interruption. Sylus didn't look mad at them, but he does look frustrated.

Whatever he has planned out with you, they know not to interrupt. Even Mephisto stayed still after giving you a look.

"Here."

Sylus helped you put on a black and red helmet that matches the one he's about to wear.

You eyed the motorcycle and couldn't hold back your excitement.

"Blackrose Archfiend!"

The half-black, half-pink motorcycle with the trademark of a golden crow made you recall the first time you and Sylus rode it and race against other motorcyclists.

"It's been a while!"

Sylus smirks proudly. "I modified it again. I meant for us to test it out tomorrow when we have more time, but this is gonna be our ticket to peace and quiet so we'll use it now."

"Ticket to peace and quiet?"

He ascends the motorcycle and turns on its engine before reaching out a gloved hand for you, inviting you to join him.

"Will you let me be selfish for a little while?"

With a soft smile, you took his hand and sat behind him, holding onto his waist.

You didn't care where he'll take you or how long it'll take to get there.

Your heart races at the adrenaline rush from the roar and speed of the motorcycle, and the cold wind dances all around you as you dart across the moonlit, empty roads of the N109 Zone.

A high mountain roadside, underneath the stars.

That's where you ended up in.

Other than the noises made by the animals that live in the surroundings, there's absolutely no other sounds that'll disturb the comfortable, peaceful silence.

The only light source you have is the full moon right above you, but that's more than enough for you to see the look of content in Sylus' face.

His features are highlighted in such a way that makes him look like an artwork that deserves to be admired by many, and yet you're the only lucky one to see him like this at this.

"You're staring, sweetie."

"And what about it?"

He smiled and scooted closer to you so that your arms are overlapping as you sit on a giant boulder planted deeply on the ground.

"That means I get to stare at you as much as I want in return, right?"

You held up one hand in front of your face and used it as a wall to block his intense gaze. "No!" The way he gazes at you makes your stomach want to explode with various emotions.

No matter how long you've been together, he never fails to make you flustered as if it's just the beginning of your relationship.

Sylus laughed at your hand before intertwining his fingers with yours and putting your conjoined hands on your lap.

"You're mine for the rest of the evening, sweetie. Any objections?

You shook your head, melting at his words. "Not at all."

Despite your playful rejection earlier, Sylus' eyes were unable to keep away from you, finding you more entrancing than anything around you. While he could look at the moon, the stars, and the city lights, he can always see them every night.

He can't say the same for you.

Once upon a time ago, he lost you and you lost him. It was like having your entire world ripped away from you.

The day he found you again... he'll never forget the way that it felt. It was like seeing light for the first time in forever. Like gasping for air after holding your breath for so long.

He's reminded of how lucky he is to be given a second chance of a life with you. Even though he complains about the distance between your homes and your jobs sometimes get in the way of your plans, he'll always be grateful that he can spend any time with you at all.

He'll always cherish every second with you, and he will never take you for granted.

You didn't keep track of the time at all. You two sat there and enjoyed each other's presence, talking about whatever comes up in your head while admiring the stars above and the lights of the N109 Zone from below.

There were times when you two would pause your conversations and just embrace the silence, bringing nothing but comfort that made you want to cuddle — and you did.

At some point, your body had been enveloped by his arms. You're seated between his legs and your back is against his chest. You could feel his steady heartbeat that would occassionally lose its rhythm.

You're spared from the wind's icy kiss, but not from Sylus' warm, gentle ones.

It started off with him casually dropping kisses on random parts of your face. Sometimes, while you're in the middle of rambling, his lips will linger on your skin and you'd forget everything that you were about to say.

Then, his kisses gradually became more fierce. From the moment he fixated on your neck, you'd become a mess that's unable to talk.

After leaving a couple of marks, Sylus wore a satisfied grin before diving into your lips with his own.

He kissed you over and over and over again, taking full advantage of the isolation. Finally, no one can interrupt.

No one can take you away from him ever again.

[the-booty-crusader]

SVSSS Bingyuan AU idea (if someone adopts this I will make art please please I wanna see this written out so bad and I do not have the time or spoons for it)

Shen Yuan is transmigrated into the body of an unnamed NPC in what he believes to be PIDW. The System wished him good luck and blipped out of existence almost immediately. Shen Yuan, of course, immediately wants to start preparing to go out and explore the world and maybe go see the protagonist from afar, only for the latter to appear about 4 minutes after Shen Yuan opened his eyes.

Without much rhyme or reason he is immediately swept off his feet by the (unfairly handsome and somewhat frazzled-looking) protagonist and deposited into a room deep within Luo Binghe’s palace without much fanfare with the promise that he will be back soon.

Shen Yuan, of course, is deeply confused. Why is he here, why did the protagonist abduct him, was he going to kill him (not that he should have any reason to, unless this body belonged to someone who wronged Luo Binghe in the past… but then why would be be brought to these lovely chambers?)?!

He starts investigating the room and finds a bestiary filled with the most interesting beasts he’d always wanted to know more of. The illustrations are beautiful, the bestiary lovingly crafted. Something about it niggles at Shen Yuan’s brain, but he can’t put his finger on it.

He’s interrupted by Luo Binghe showing up with a tray of absolutely delicious-smelling food… strangely, it’s all of Shen Yuan’s absolute favorite dishes (and everything he wasn’t familiar with on the tray ended up being a new favorite which… was that just a coincidence?) and he enjoys them immensely.

Luo Binghe watches Shen Yuan closely as he eats and smiles when he finishes. “I’m glad to see A-Yuan’s tastes haven’t changed.” he says, and Shen Yuan barely has time to wonder how Binghe knew his name before they’re interrupted and Binghe is called away by some “important business” (which, from the look on Binghe’s face, will not end well for whoever disturbed him).

Shen Yuan continues exploring the rooms and finds a nook with the exact type and amount of pillows he likes, with natural light coming in from a northern angle— his favorite light to read in. The room smells like jasmine and books— Shen Yuan’s favorite scent. It was like someone had taking every one of Shen Yuan’s preferences and put them into a room.

It wasn’t until he spotted the bestiary again that it clicks; it’s written in his own handwriting. Those drawings look like what his own art might look like if he got more practice.

How could he have written a bestiary he’d never seen before? How did Binghe already know him? What was going on?

So what’s going on is that for years now, Binghe kept encountering individuals that helped him unconditionally, assisting him in his darkest times and making his life more bearable. A fellow street kid after Binghe’s mother died who gave him scraps of food and shared blankets with him, a Shizun on Qing Jing that protected him and gave him a safe place to grow up, a demon in the Abyss that told him all the best places to rest and where to get food and water, a Huan Hua disciple that told him the best ways to gain a foothold within the sect, a demon that advised him in his efforts to take over the Demon Realm.

All of them died protecting him. Some of them made it a few months, others a few years. It wasn’t until meeting Shen Yuan in the Abyss that he realized he had the same quirks and traits as that odd little boy, A-Yuan, who had sheltered him on the streets, and his Shizun, Shen Qingqiu. How odd that his name should be a combination of the two who were dearest to him save his mother. How odd that he shared their interest in stories and shared a ranting style and doted on him and were weak to his tears and… Binghe had realized that it must be the same soul, coming back for him.

But Shen Yuan never remembered his previous lives or deaths. He always seemed excited to meet Binghe, but there was no familiarity in the recognition in his eyes.

And he just. Kept. Dying.

Binghe was on his 18th meeting with Shen Yuan; it had been so many times now that he knew exactly what to do and how to find him. He wasted no time in getting him somewhere safe (finding him that one time, an hour after his last death, only to watch him get killed almost immediately after their encounter had traumatized Binghe, so now he made sure to immediately use the soul-tracking amulet he had been using for the last 12 incarnations) and immediately went to cook his beloved dinner. He was working on a way to get his memories from his previous incarnations back, because… how else was he supposed to cope?

——

So. Do you think a new instance of Shen Yuan is plopped into the world every time one dies? Is it the same soul, given a quick reset and spit-spine and put into another body? Let’s discuss this idea please I am obsessed, it haunts me. Let’s brainstorm

[eleu22]

What Task Force 141’s Houses Would Look Like

John Price

- he lives in a cabin I cannot be convinced otherwise.

- very rustic, defo goes fishing or hunting for fun in his spare time

- likes to be away from the city

- its maximalist in kind of an organised chaos way he can find whatever he need’s immediately but to anyone else it looks kind of insane

- he’d be cleaner if he lived with someone - but yaknow #singledad

- very homey, warm vibes

- if the apocalypse ever hit you’d wanna be here, it’s decked out, secluded, he’s a bit of a doomsday prepper

- has once pissed outside to ‘mark his territory’ but you couldn’t torture that information out of him

- defo has that one room that is mysteriously locked and refuses to elaborate on when asked about it (Gaz secretly thinks it’s really cool) (it probably just has his fishing gear)

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

- very chic, cool tones

- screams “I did economy as an A-Level but I use pinterest”

- probably has had some type of dinner party with the 141 just to subtly flex to them that “in another life I was an interior designer”

- also defo cooks something with wine just, again to subtly flex his culture capital (he just wants some approval guys bless him)

- plant father - cannot be convinced otherwise

- very organised, keeps it pretty clean unless he’s feeling lazy which isn’t very often

- definitely has a record player - do not mention it or he will go on about how it “just sounds better” (with Price in the background nodding in agreement - but in an old man way)

- somewhere has a box of stuff that doesn’t fit his aesthetic but it’s shit he needs to keep anyways

John “Soap Mactavish

- messy as fuck, no rhyme or reason to it he just puts stuff down, forgets its there and thats just where it lives now COUGH man-child COUGH

- puts some of his drawings up on his walls

- defo has a comic book collection and some action figures

- bunch of childhood shit he refuses to throw away - criminal hoarder

- he likes the messy kind of boyish charm it has, every time his mom comes over she scolds him for it

- a bunch of stuff he’s collected from different places he’s gone, he’ll usually grab some stuff while on deployment if he has any free time, like snow globes or whatever

- went to Greece once and got one of those wooden dicks and finds it so funny, he says it’s the living room’s ‘conversation piece’

- he’s pretty clean when on base aswell, it’s just without the millitary’s structure or someone literally forcing him to clean up he doesn’t really care - it’s his house anyways

Simon “Ghost” Riley

- um

- yikes

- yeah you can tell he doesn’t really like spending time at home on leave

- the singular chair infront of the tv is so sad

- king of minimalism - if that’s what you wanna call it ig

- doesn’t bother decorating or getting anything past the bare essentials because what’s the point?

- doesn’t care it’s a shithole, he can afford a better house, but it kind of reminds him of home back in Manchester (crying)

- definitely chain smokes in his bathroom

- he’s got a treadmill there somewhere

- has a box full of his family’s belongings under his bed (crying again)

- no mirrors, only a small one in the bathroom to shave

- only item of decoration is a snow globe Soap gave him once, it sits next to his bed

[timmydraker]

Tim who can and will sleep anywhere.

It’s not just a matter of falling asleep at his desk or while at the dinner table, though those things do happen.

No, he’s fallen asleep in the middle of a sparring. He had a tired look on his face while going agasint Dick and then shrugged and said, “we’ll finish later.” Then laid down right there and went to sleep.

He’s been found in some odd places, most of which are not at all comfortable.

Some examples being:

The floor of the kitchen, with a packet of chips gripped in his hand like a lifeline and his legs tucked up under him like a frog.

Under Bruce’s bed and he was only found before sometimes he snores like a little kitten.

In the trunk of Dick’s car after he made it back to Blud. He even had a line of drool coming from his mouth as his brother promptly freaked out.

On top of the fridge during a big heat wave, half dangling off with his arms and legs over the side and head tilted at an off angle.

In the shower’s of the cave with the water running over his head as he curled into a ball, leaving Jason to go in and be faced with Tim’s pale ass staring at him. (He panicked and instead of Turing away he kicked Tim in the ass and was not sorry for even a second. He’s traumatised.)

In Barbara’s chair. She didn’t even notice him come into the tower until he was crawling into her lap and gave her a mumbled greeting before conking out instantly, somehow bypassing her security which he genuinely cannot do normally.

In the pool room with his feet in the water and socks on his hands for some unknown reason.

He doesn’t do it unless he feels safe, and he’s easy to wake up in cases of an emergency, and so everyone feels sort of proud when he chooses them. It’s not always he seeks someone out, but most members of the family start checking under their bed and in their closest (he got quite a few jokes after that one) just in case they have been Chosen.

Most people think it’s not often he sleeps without being exhausted, but he’s a power napper and will take any chance he has free to do so.

You must be careful moving him because he tends to smack people. He will push and whine at you if you try, grumbling like a petulant teenager about needing out ‘five more minutes’. Damian learnt this the hard way when he tried to move Tim from his bedroom doorway and Tim kicked him in the shin.

He can be calmed down if you put chamomile tea under his nose but this might wake him up in a mood as he demands more tea for being disturbed.

Bruce made it a rule that Tim must be checked on if he hasn’t said or done anything for a while after he was found under the Batmobile in a plank position.

[no-144444]

"oh yeah?"- l.norris

summary: lando and you go out to celebrate his win and the championship, you run into someone...

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader

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He’d done it. 4 wins, a title fight, a constructor’s championship, and a hell of a lot of ups and downs. And you stayed with him through it all. 

“Do you want another drink?” he asked, shouting over the loud club music. You were both covered in dried champagne, exhausted from the whole weekend, but they’d won. It would be a sin not to celebrate. 

You shook your head, but gave him a little nod as to tell him to go off and get another for himself. It was some club in Abu Dhabi, too big to really see anyone you knew, unless they were right beside you. “You go ahead.”

“You sure?” he asked, aware of the whole ‘don’t leave someone alone in a club’ thing. 

You nodded. “I’ll stay here and you’ll be back in five minutes, I’ll be fine,” you smiled. He leant over, pressing a kiss to your cheek, before turning and snaking his way through people to the bar.

He leant against the counter, patiently waiting his turn when he felt someone nudge him. Going into ‘meeting fans autopilot’ he immediately smiled and turned to the man. The man was not smiling back.

“You know her?” he nudged him again, asking and pointing at you. Lando’s brow furrowed, he knew this guy from somewhere. He was British, tall, and weirdly familiar. 

“She’s my girl,” he nodded, still trying to remember the man. (To be fair, he met a lot of people). 

The man frowned, then started laughing. Lando knew nothing better than to just laugh with him. 

“You?!” he exclaimed, almost shocked by the hilarity that you’d ever get with someone like Lando. He frowned. He remembered that asshole. 

Your ex. Jamie

“Mate come on, we’re just trying to have a nice night-” Lando tried to reason with him, but the way he smirked made him think that he was beyond reasoning. 

“How’s she doing then?” he asked, smug as ever.

“None of your fucking business, mate,” Lando scoffed and he watched as his face fell. “She’s my fucking girlfriend, and she broke up with you for a reason. You’re the same pathetic, arsehole, loser she left 2 years ago. What’s worse is that fact that you followed her to fucking Abu Dhabi to try and make her uncomfortable, which I will be dealing with- expect a note from my lawyers very soon- all while knowing she’s with me.”

“I didn’t know she was with some deadbeat-”

“Lando Norris, Formula One Driver, fucking awful to meet you,” he sighed before walking off, G&T in hand. When he made it back over to you, he grabbed a handful of your ass and locked his lips with yours, not pulling away for a few moments. 

You pulled back, laughing and surprised. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Just want to thank you for everything you’ve done this year for me,” he smirked, then leant in closer. “We should go back to the hotel. I have an idea of how we can celebrate.”

You smirked. “Oh yeah?” 

He nodded, biting his lip. “Oh yeah.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[kiss4tell]

Hi!

Silly request, wondering if you could write about Simon thinking reader hates him because they're always always ignoring them. Maybe reader works in medical or something, but it bothers Simon to no end ,so finally he starts stalking them. Breaking into their room, rooting through the drawers thinking they're a spy because of all the small batteries. Only to discover that they're not ignoring him or a spy, reader is hard of hearing or deaf and because Simon always wears a mask and reader cant see his lips to talk to him.

So dark and brooding Simon corners them in sick bay and removes his mask to talk to reader. Something sickly sweet and overly ridiculous like Simon surprising reader by signing them something the next time they're all getting food.

Having a hard time with your own hearing bullshit and could use a little Simon.

Ps. Love your writing! Keep writing what makes you happy!

summary: simon thinks you’re avoiding him—never responding to him, never acknowledging him—until he finally corners you in the sick bay and realizes you’re not ignoring him at all; you’re just hard of hearing. cw: mild stalking behavior, hard of hearing user. wc: 598 note: lovely ask, it's anything but silly! it gave me something to do on a friday night that isn't bedrotting and playing the sims. hope you enjoy, anon <3!

It starts as a slow burn of irritation.

Simon isn’t someone who demands attention, but he notices when people go out of their way to avoid him. And you? You’re a damn expert at it.

At first, he thought he was imagining things. But it keeps happening. Over and over again.

He’ll say something—short, to the point—and you don’t react. You don’t even glance his way. You brush past him in the hall like he isn’t there, turn the other way when he enters the room, and never—not once—acknowledge his presence unless absolutely necessary.

Soap gets a grin from you when he cracks a joke. Gaz gets a playful nudge when he teases you about something. Even Price gets an exasperated sigh when he reminds you to check in for your own medical evaluations.

But Simon? Nothing.

The more it happens, the more it grates on him.

What’s your problem?

Did he do something to piss you off? Did you think you were better than him? Were you hiding something?

The last thought festers, turning suspicion into paranoia. He watches you closer, notes the way you interact with the others, how you always position yourself just right—where you can see people’s faces clearly.

And then, one night, when you’re out of your room, he does something reckless.

He picks the lock and lets himself in.

What he finds isn’t anything unusual—neatly folded uniforms, a book on your nightstand, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold. But then he notices something else.

Batteries. Small ones.

And for some reason, that’s what makes his gut twist.

So, he corners you the next day, irritation brimming, needing to figure you out once and for all.

It happens in the sick bay. Everyone else is gone, leaving just the two of you, the antiseptic scent of the room thick in the air. You’re standing by a supply cabinet when he steps in, boots heavy on the floor.

“Look at me.”

You don’t. Not at first.

He gets closer. “Look at me.”

You turn then, your brows furrowing as you meet his gaze, eyes flicking down to his mask—like you’re searching for something.

And suddenly, all his frustration, all his suspicions, crack and crumble into nothing.

Because when he gets close enough to see—really see—he notices them.

The small, barely noticeable hearing aids tucked behind your ears.

Shit.

Everything clicks.

You weren’t ignoring him. You just… couldn’t hear him. At least, not unless he was close. Not unless he was louder.

His stomach twists, shame curling in his chest, but before he can say anything, you exhale sharply, shaking your head.

“You thought I hated you, didn’t you?” There’s something amused in your tone, but not unkind.

He doesn’t answer, jaw tight.

You huff a laugh, tilting your head slightly. “You mumble. And you always wear the mask. I can’t read your lips when you do that.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. Of course.

Before he can think better of it, he lifts a hand, tugs the mask up just enough to expose his lips. “That better?” His voice is quieter this time, careful.

Your eyes widen, lips parting slightly, and for a moment, there’s just silence between you.

Then, you nod, something softer in your expression. “Much better.”

It isn’t an apology—not outright. But later, when you sit down at the mess hall, Simon surprises you.

He taps your shoulder, waits until you turn to face him, then lifts his hands.

And signs: Hello.

Your face brightens, something warm blooming in your expression, and it hits him deep in the chest.

[distortedwhite]

what if i do it anyway. he's a himbo and i love him <333

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which your court vision will always have her back

Wings vs. Sky. Packed house.

It’s physical from the tip.

Not in a dirty way. Just relentless. Elbows, hips, pressure defense. You’ve got your tablet in hand, clipboard under your leg as you track every Paige rotation.

So far, she’s holding her own. You can see the fatigue in her legs—second night of a back-to-back—but she’s still moving with intent.

And then, it happens.

Paige is curling off a high screen when Courtney Vandersloot turns too fast on help.

CRACK.

Head to head. A collision that echoes through the arena.

Both players go down. But Paige stays down. Flat on her back. Clutching her head. Knees drawn in, fingers in her hair. You stand instantly.

Your clipboard falls off your hands as you step forward—only stopped by the out-of-bounds line. You're not allowed on the court unless summoned.

But the bench?

The coaches?

Coach Koclanes just… stares.

He’s barking orders. Trying to call out a substitution. Not once looking at her.

Not one fucking time.

Your voice cuts through the noise. “Hey.”

He ignores you.

The ref glances at Paige, who’s slowly pushing herself upright, dazed. A trainer finally jogs out late. Paige waves them off, wobbling to her feet.

You stare at Koclanes.

“Are you serious right now?”

He doesn’t turn.

You step closer behind him, voice low but shaking.

“She hit the floor hard. She held her head.”

“She’s up, isn’t she?” he snaps back.

You blink. “So that’s the bar now? She can stand, so who cares how bad it was?”

“Back off, Assistant,” he mutters without looking.

“Oh no,” you say, stepping fully beside him now. “Don’t you dare pull rank with me when your point guard just collapsed on national TV and you couldn’t be bothered to check on her.”

He finally turns, face tight.

“I’m the head coach. I manage the rotation. If she wants a sub, she can say it.”

You take another step. “She was holding her head, Chris. That’s not about rotation. That’s a player safety issue.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She was dazed. You saw the hit!”

“You’re way out of line—”

“And you’re not protecting your players!”

A couple staffers behind you start moving. The assistant next to you puts a hand on your arm, sensing the energy shift.

Koclanes leans closer, voice dropping venom.

“You know I could fire you, right here, right now?”

You don’t flinch.

“Do it.”

That stuns him.

You say it again—louder.

“Go ahead. Fire me. But I’ll walk out of this arena knowing I gave a damn when you didn’t.”

The bench behind you is dead quiet.

Arike is standing now. DiJonai has a hand half-raised like she’s ready to step in. Maddy's eyes are wide. Someone mutters, “Yo…”

Two staffers grab your arm, trying to pull you a step back. You don’t budge.

“She is not just your franchise piece,” you growl. “She is a person. A person who’s taken more hits this season than you’ve acknowledged, and all she gets in return is a stare and a substitution?”

Koclanes clenches his jaw. “Let. This. Go.”

“There’s a concussion protocol for a reason,” you fire back. “You’re lucky she’s upright at all.”

“Assistant L/N—”

“She is not going to keep sacrificing her body just because you’re afraid to sit your starters for two goddamn possessions!”

A whistle blows from the refs. Time-in. The game resumes.

But you’re still standing. Face-to-face with the head coach. Seething.

Only when Paige walks back toward the bench, face pale, head still shaking off the hit—do you back off. You meet her eyes. She gives you a small nod.

She’s okay.

For now.

You sit down. Not because you’re done.

But because she needs you calm again.

“Oof, looks like there’s some heat on the Wings bench. That’s… Coach Koclanes and Assistant Y/N L/N—yep, that’s definitely not just a standard rotation conversation.”

“Y/N has a long history with Paige Bueckers, dating back to high school. She’s not just a development coach—she’s been Paige’s personal trainer, recovery coordinator, and from everything we’ve seen, something much closer than just staff.”

“You hate to see that kind of public tension, but… she’s not wrong. Paige went down hard. Someone had to say something.”

@/user Y/N L/N is fighting for her life on that bench and honestly??? I’d take her as head coach right now

@/user She was HOLDING HER HEAD. That wasn’t a foul. That was a fucking red flag. Thank god Y/N stepped up

@/user Y/N: “Fire me then.” Me: “oop—”

@/user I’ve never wanted to be protected by anyone more in my life than I want to be protected by Y/N L/N

@/user Paige doesn’t need a bodyguard. She has Y/N

The room is tense. No music. Just a dull, quiet hum of postgame routine. Paige is sitting on the floor with ice on her neck, head resting against her locker.

You crouch down slowly beside her, finally away from the spotlight.

“You good?” you ask, eyes scanning her carefully.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “Just… saw stars for a sec.”

You nod. “You told the trainer?”

“Yeah. They’re doing protocol now.”

You pause.

“I almost got fired.”

She turns, brows raised.

“Coach said he could fire me. I told him to do it.”

Paige stares for a second.

Then she reaches out, curls her hand around yours, and squeezes tight.

“You always fight for me.”

You lean your forehead to hers, quiet. “Every time.”

You're barely through the front doors when your phone buzzes again. It’s the third message this morning, this one from your department lead.

“League office just requested footage of last night’s hit. They’re reviewing it for unsafe play and delayed medical response. FYI.”

You stop in your tracks.

You stare at the message.

Then you exhale, mutter “Finally,” and keep walking.

The entire coaching staff is present. Assistant coordinators. Player development. Medical team. Even media relations.

Coach Koclanes walks in last, drops his notes on the table like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

But the tension is different today.

Because the email came from the league office.

The head of player safety.

And it wasn’t just about a Vandersloot’s head butt.

It was about him.

“The league is conducting a formal review of last night’s on-court incident,” says the director of team operations, adjusting his glasses. “They want full sideline audio, player testimony, and post-concussion clearance reports from our staff.”

Everyone’s quiet.

Then one of the assistants asks, “Are they looking into the contact… or the way it was handled?”

“Both,” the director replies. “And specifically, whether proper protocol was followed.”

Coach doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you.

But you’re already sitting straighter. Ready.

“Do they want staff witness accounts?” you ask calmly.

“They do.”

You nod once.

Coach finally speaks. “This is being blown out of proportion.”

You turn toward him slowly. “She hit the floor hard.”

“She waved off the trainer.”

“She shouldn’t have had to.”

Another assistant murmurs, “It was a concussion risk play. That’s automatic review.”

“And the broadcast picked up your argument,” the team director adds. “Social media lit up.”

Coach leans back in his chair, clearly annoyed. “I’m more concerned with winning basketball games than internet drama.”

You stare at him flatly. “I’m more concerned with protecting the players you rely on to win them.”

The room stays silent.

You lean forward, hands on the table. “If we’re not protecting our franchise players—our rookies—especially when they’re visibly shaken, then we are failing them. Period.”

No one interrupts you this time.

And this time, Coach doesn’t fight back.

@/user The league has confirmed it is reviewing the on-court collision between Paige Bueckers and Courtney Vandersloot. Sources say the investigation includes the Dallas bench's handling of the aftermath

@/user SAY IT LOUDER! we do not normalize letting elite players get concussed mid-game and left to shake it off. The league stepping in is the bare minimum

@/user So we all agree that Y/N L/N was the only adult in the room last night right?

@/user She said “fire me” while protecting the only rookie carrying the backcourt and the league listened. Icon behavior

You’re sitting on the floor of your living room, tablet on your lap, rewatching the collision in slow motion. Frame by frame. Over and over. You’re memorizing the exact second Paige’s head hits the floor, the way her hand goes up, the dazed blink, the delayed bench reaction.

You’re so locked in you don’t hear the front door open.

“Still watching it?” Paige’s voice is quiet behind you.

You glance over your shoulder.

She walks toward you slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes are tired. She’s still on watch from the medical team—symptoms mild, but present.

“I couldn’t let it go,” you admit. “Not when no one else said anything.”

She sinks down beside you on the carpet, shoulder to shoulder.

“You didn’t let them look past it.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “You could’ve blacked out. You could’ve gone down harder. It could’ve been worse.”

She rests her head against your shoulder.

“But it wasn’t. Because you stood up.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you turn your face toward her temple and press a kiss there.

“I’ll never stop standing up for you.”

Her voice is softer now.

“I think the league knows that.”

You exhale. “They should.”

She smiles faintly, murmuring into your shoulder, “And if they don’t… you’ll make sure they do.”

The apartment is too quiet for a game day.

The only sound in the living room is the faint hum of the pregame broadcast coming through the TV speakers and the soft pop of an ice pack settling against fabric.

Paige is curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, the drawstrings tied in a loose knot under her chin. She’s got a pillow behind her neck, and one bare knee propped over your thigh. Her eyes are locked on the screen, but her focus is scattered.

You sit beside her—shoulders straight, arms folded—wearing a Wings staff tee and warm-up joggers that feel more like salt in the wound than uniform. You haven’t worn anything else since the league issued the notice two days ago.

Temporarily removed from bench duties pending internal review.

Which was protocol, they said. Nothing personal. Nothing disciplinary.

And yet.

It felt like exile.

The game is minutes from tip-off.

The broadcast cuts to the court.

Blue lights dance across the hardwood. The crowd is on their feet, music thumping through the arena. The camera pans the bench, scanning down the Wings sideline.

You’re not in the frame.

Neither is she.

“The Dallas Wings are without two major pieces tonight. Rookie guard Paige Bueckers is officially in concussion protocol following last game’s collision with Courtney Vandersloot—”

“And for the first time this season, development assistant Y/N L/N won’t be on the bench either. The league is still reviewing the aftermath of that play, and how the coaching staff—well, how it was all handled.”

“There’s been a lot of conversation about that. Video of their sideline confrontation went viral. And I think what you’re seeing now is the fallout of a team trying to walk the line between accountability… and silence.”

“We’ve talked a lot about how close Y/N and Paige are. What that chemistry looks like on-court. What we’re about to see tonight is what happens when that link is missing.”

Paige reaches for the remote and turns the volume down.

“I can’t listen to them talk about it like that,” she says softly.

You glance at her. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a problem.”

You shift, laying a hand gently on her thigh. “I’m not worried about how they frame it.”

“You should be,” she mutters. “You were the only one who gave a damn when I hit the floor.”

“You gave a damn, too.”

She huffs. “Yeah. I gave a dazed thumbs up. Very heroic.”

You shake your head. “You just wanted to keep playing. You always do.”

Paige looks at you then. Really looks.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?”

You pause, then answer honestly. “I don’t know.”

She’s quiet.

You squeeze her leg gently.

“They might sideline me. They might suspend me. They might decide I crossed a line.” You exhale. “But if I had to do it again? I would. Exactly the same way.”

Her voice is a whisper. “Even if it costs you this?”

You nod. “Especially then.”

The first quarter tips off.

And from the very beginning, you both see that the team is off.

Spacing is clumsy. The pace is slower. The ball sticks longer than usual.

The rhythm’s broken.

Because the one who commands it—and the one who reads it—isn’t there.

“It’s worth mentioning, that even when Paige isn’t scoring, she orchestrates spacing. And Y/N’s feedback on the bench—non-verbal corrections, in-time tweaks—you can’t replicate that mid-season.”

“They’re not just player and coach. They’re… a feedback loop.”

“And the loop’s cut tonight.”

Midway through the second quarter, Paige shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed on a missed defensive rotation.

“She would’ve had that,” she murmurs.

You nod. “I would’ve told her to switch early.”

She leans further into you.

“You’re really not okay, are you?”

You glance at her. “No.”

She hums. “Me neither.”

She adjusts the ice pack on her neck, then pulls your arm around her shoulder, tucking into your side like a puzzle piece. The screen glows quietly in the dark.

On the court, her teammates grind out the half. But here—on this couch—you both sit quiet. Bruised. Benched. Watching the game you love play out without you.

It’s a text.

From an unknown number.

“We heard you. The review is almost done. Hang tight.”

You show the screen to Paige. She doesn’t say anything. She just takes your hand in hers and threads your fingers together like she's anchoring herself to you—because if you're not on the court, not on the bench, then at the very least, you’re here.

And here? You’re still hers.

The meeting is private, unscheduled, and dead silent when Paige Bueckers walks into the room.

Her steps are soft, but her expression is anything but. She’s in a Wings hoodie and black sweats, hair pulled back in a bun. No press-ready smiles. Just the cold, steady fire of a player who’s tired of watching everything go down from the sidelines.

Across the table, General Manager Curt Miller. Two assistant GMs. And Coach Chris Koclanes.

None of them expected her.

“Paige,” Curt says, standing politely. “You shouldn’t be up. Protocol says—”

“I’m not here for a physical,” Paige interrupts, dropping into the empty chair like she owns the room. “I’m here to talk about Y/N.”

Coach Koclanes shifts uncomfortably beside the GM. “This isn’t—”

Paige turns her head sharply. “Don’t interrupt me.”

The room stills.

No one speaks.

Paige’s voice stays calm—but there’s weight behind every syllable.

“I’ve played this game since I was six. I’ve taken elbows to the face. I’ve blown out my knee. I’ve spent more hours with athletic trainers than my own family.”

She locks eyes with Curt Miller.

“But the only person who has ever watched over me like it mattered—on and off the court—is Y/N L/N.”

Curt exhales. “We understand your connection to her, and the review—”

“No, you don’t,” Paige says, louder now. “Because if you did, she’d be on the bench tonight. Not sitting in our apartment pacing the floor with a game plan that none of you even read.”

“She escalated a sideline situation,” Koclanes cuts in. “That could’ve—”

“She defended me,” Paige snaps. “Because you didn’t.”

That shuts him up.

Paige leans forward.

“I was clutching my head after a violent collision, and you didn’t even glance my way. You were too busy managing your substitution flow to check if your rookie could stand up straight.”

“You waved off the trainer,” Koclanes mutters.

“I was concussed,” she hisses. “I shouldn’t have had to make that call.”

Curt interjects, gentler now. “We hear your frustration, Paige. And we want to be sure you’re feeling safe within the team structure.”

Paige turns to her again. “Let me make it clear, then. If Y/N loses her job over protecting mine, I walk.”

The silence is immediate.

No one blinks. No one breathes.

Lisa finally clears her throat. “You’re serious.”

Paige nods. “Dead serious.”

Koclanes scoffs under his breath.

“She doesn’t get to dictate personnel decisions,” he says.

“She knows this roster better than you do,” Paige fires back. “She watches our feet, not just our stats. She tells us what’s off before the film catches it. You’re reckless with our bodies, Chris. You push starters past warning signs. You gamble with rotations and call it ‘intensity.’ But Y/N? She works to preserve us.”

Curt looks between them.

“Paige… you’re one of our franchise pieces. This team has invested heavily—”

“Then listen to me. Because I’m telling you now. If Y/N’s not here? Neither am I.”

The room is tense.

And Paige? She’s not backing down.

“She’s not your assistant,” she finishes. “She’s our protection. Our voice when we’re too scared or too trained to speak.”

She stands slowly. Her head is still aching from the concussion. Her balance isn’t perfect. But her voice never wavers.

“You want to talk about trust? I don’t trust a single system that punishes someone for giving a damn.”

Your badge scans in clean again.

You're back.

Officially reinstated. No fine. No reprimand. No apology from the league — but the silence is as good as an admission.

The rest of the staff pretends like nothing happened. You get polite nods. Familiar claps on the shoulder. Even a “glad you’re back” from one of the interns.

But you don’t come back for the pleasantries. You come back to do your job.

Paige isn’t cleared to practice yet, but she’s there — sitting off to the side with her arms crossed and a soft smile in your direction every time she catches your eye. She looks better. Brighter. But you still check her hands every time she stretches. Still watch her pupils when she blinks too long.

Because now more than ever, you’re watching what no one else does.

You’re mid-cone setup near the baseline, clipboard under your arm, when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You turn, slow and sharp.

It’s Koclanes.

Standing just off the court. Neutral expression. Neutral tone.

But you know better.

“Got a second?”

You glance at your watch. “We’re two minutes from footwork warmups.”

He steps closer. “It won’t take long.”

You exhale through your nose and follow — just far enough off the court to give the illusion of privacy. But Paige is still watching. So are the assistants. The players may not be listening, but the energy around you shifts.

You keep your stance open, but your face is a locked door.

Koclanes speaks first.

“I just wanted to say I respect your fire,” he says. “What you did? It came from a place of care. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now.”

You don’t move.

“You’re a passionate voice for the team. For Paige. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. We both lost our cool.”

He waits. Watching you. Hoping for a nod. A hand-shake. A let’s-move-on.

But you give him nothing.

“Are you finished?”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

You tilt your head. “Was that supposed to be an apology?”

“I said I respect what you did.”

“No,” you say. “You said you see it now. Which is cute. But it doesn’t erase what you didn’t see when she was laid out on the floor.”

He stiffens.

You step closer — not aggressive. Just tired of holding it in.

“You want to patch this up? You want to shake hands and pretend we’re good?” You lean in slightly. “You should’ve done that then. You should’ve cared then. When your franchise rookie was blinking through a possible concussion and you didn’t move.”

Koclanes crosses his arms. “You don’t need to drag this out.”

You smile coldly. “I’m not dragging anything. I just don’t pretend.”

He exhales, trying to keep his voice even. “You’re not going to win anything by holding a grudge.”

You shake your head once. “This isn’t a grudge. This is a memory.”

You take a step back.

“And I don’t need to win. I just need to protect my players.”

You turn and walk away.

Paige watches the whole exchange.

Doesn’t hear every word. Doesn’t need to. She sees your shoulders square. Your jaw tighten. The way you walk back toward the court like nothing touched you.

She smiles to herself.

Because she knew you’d come back stronger.

And this time? They all saw it.

It was the second week of February and the third game in five days.

Hopkins was undefeated. Paige was averaging 26 points per game. She was already on the national radar, already getting SportsCenter highlights and whispered UConn promises. But that week? She looked… slow.

Not bad. Just off.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The slight hitch in her landing after every Euro step. The way she winced when she rotated off her left foot. She hadn’t said a word. Of course she hadn’t. Not Paige.

But you’d been training with her long enough by then to know her body better than she did.

So when Coach called another full-speed scrimmage the day after a back-to-back, you spoke up.

At first, it was just a glance.

You caught her limping slightly off a cut and you looked at him. Expecting him to notice.

He didn’t.

“Keep pushing!” he barked from across the gym. “You want to play D1, you play tired. No excuses.”

Paige’s jaw clenched.

You took a step forward.

Coach blew the whistle again. “Run it back! I want more pace!”

“Coach,” you said, calmly. “She’s limping.”

He waved you off. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not.”

Now he turned. “Y/N, this isn’t your lane.”

“She hasn’t planted off her left clean in ten minutes.”

“She’s tougher than that.”

You stepped between them.

“No one’s questioning her toughness. But if you keep pushing her on that leg, she’s not going to finish the season.”

Coach’s expression shifted — more annoyed than concerned.

“She said she’s good. That’s all I need.”

You turned back to Paige.

She wouldn’t meet your eyes. You watched her swallow, force her shoulders up. That brave little smile she wore like armor when she didn’t want to be seen through.

So you said it for her.

“She doesn’t have to say it. I’m saying it. Pull her.”

The gym went quiet.

Later, she found you outside the locker room, hoodie over her head, limping a little more now that the drills were done.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she muttered.

You leaned against the wall. “You always say that.”

“I would’ve been fine.”

You tilted your head. “No, you would've played through it. That’s not the same.”

She didn’t answer. Just scuffed her shoe against the hallway tile.

“You were protecting me,” she finally said.

You shrugged. “Always will.”

Paige looked up at you then. Really looked.

And her voice came out quiet, almost too vulnerable for her.

“Even if I don’t ask you to?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Especially then.”

[rnelodyy]

I just figured out what made Spamton and Jevil go insane

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 4

It was the Prophecy.

Let's start with Jevil, which mostly turned into talking about Seam, since it's hard to get a coherent word out of Jevil himself.

Talking to King in chapter 4 and picking "Jester" nets you the following dialogue:

The phrasing here is what I specifically want to point out, because it's framed less like Jevil gave King instructions on how to rise to power, and more like Jevil was PREDICTING King's rise to power.

But like most things Jevil, our bombshells when it comes to him come from Seam.

This dialogue should be familiar, it's one of the first things we learned about Jevil outside of his bossfight, and our main hint connecting him to Gaster. Him saying things that both did and didn't make sense to me suggests the Prophecy, but that may also be confirmation bias.

But it's THIS dialogue that I really wanted to highlight here.

Seam's worldview is EXTREMELY nihilistic. While they don't outright discourage you from going on your adventures, they seem amused at the fact that you're even trying at all. On top of this, Seam has a lot of dialogue about stuff they could not reasonably know about, either because it happened nowhere near them, or it hasn't happened yet.

They knows about the super bosses and the Shadow Crystals you can collect from them:

They know about Mettaton designing Spamton NEO's body:

They know about the Knight ambushing you at the end of Chapter 3, and how you need the Shadow Mantle to beat it (unless you're a tryhard):

And they know about the Old Man as well:

(There's one more piece of dialogue that's relevant here, but I'm going to save that for when I talk about Spamton.)

This is a quality that Seam shares with Jevil, as Jevil neatly predicts Queen's appearance in Chapter 2 if you defeat him with violence:

All of this combined, to me, implies that the "strange words" Jevil told Seam were, in fact, the Prophecy he got from Gaster. The reason Seam is so nihilistic is because they already know exactly what's going to happen... specifically, the Roaring is coming, and there's nothing they can do to stop it.

There's only one thing that seems to genuinely surprise them: defeating the Knight in Chapter 3.

...which later prompts this dialogue.

The fact that we did something Seam, someone who knows the Prophecy, genuinely wasn't expecting, gives them hope. Because that could mean that the Prophecy isn't set in stone, and the Roaring may yet be averted.

Now lets move on to Spamton, because Chapter 3 gave us a LOT more to work with there. Spamton's backstory specifically gave me the idea for this theory, because a lot of things about it start making sense when viewed through this lens.

Spamton was an unsuccessful salesman who dreamed of making it big. One day, he was contacted by someone (Gaster) on the phone, and suddenly all of his businesses skyrocketed, becoming so successful that he got a room in Queen's mansion. However, one day the person who contacted him stopped calling, and his entire life came crashing down around him to the point that he ended up homeless and living in a dumpster.

This didn't make sense to me at first. If Gaster was just giving him business advice, taking that away shouldn't have allowed his empire to collapse overnight. What makes more sense is that Gaster was telling Spamton parts of the Prophecy, specifically the parts on how he was going to make it big. All Spamton had to do is follow Gaster's advice, and he'd become the BIG SHOT he'd always wanted to be.

As a bit of extra proof for this, here's seemingly random bit of dialogue from Seam.

Someone who knows the Prophecy using it to see the future in order to beat the Addisons specifically? That seems like a pretty obvious hint.

Chapter 3 also tells us more about Spamton's relationship with Tenna. Spamton and Tenna used to be business partners, with Tenna wanting to learn what made Spamton a BIG SHOT in the first place. But then...

It's implied that this is when Spamton stopped receiving calls. So why exactly did Gaster stop calling?

Because Tenna is in the Prophecy. Specifically, the part about him getting cut down by the Knight (I'd add a screenshot here but I cannot fucking find it, it is in there, trust me).

Gaster was most likely aware that, if Tenna found out about his pre-destined death, he'd try to find a way to prevent it, or at the very least get better at watching his back. So, he called Spamton to say he was cutting him off, and without the Prophecy giving him advice, everything came crashing down around him.

As a result, Spamton is obsessed with finding a way to learn more about the Prophecy, and how to use it to predict the future again. He wants to be big enough to see past the darkness obscuring that knowledge from him.

As such, he recruits Kris into helping him see past the bounds of reality and find the full Prophecy. That's what [Hyperlink Blocked] is. It's literally a broken hyperlink to the Prophecy.

But if you do the Weird Route, you're likely going directly against the Prophecy. Things that are specifically pre-ordained do not happen in the Weird Route - most clearly seen with Ralsei's reaction to Susie and Noelle not going on their ferris wheel ride.

Ralsei has full knowledge of the Prophecy, and is understandably freaking the fuck out when he realizes we have just done something that directly contradicts it.

And what does Spamton have to say about your Weird Route antics?

We don't need his Prophecy anymore, because we're making our own.

But that does leave a question though. If Spamton was destined to make it big, why did he need Gaster's help? Why did his empire collapse as soon as Gaster stopped helping, if his success was pre-determined? Why did Gaster need to tell Jevil how to get King into power, and to get him to worship the Knight?

Why does Gaster's involvement specifically seem to change the Prophecy?

Because Gaster is the one writing it.

[innerfare]

Wearing His Hat

Summary: You wear his hat

Characters: Luffy, Ace, Sabo, Law, Mihawk

Genre: I'm going to say fluff, but Ace's and Mihawk's are fairly suggestive, so be cautioned

——— 

Luffy: 

Luffy is very protective of his hat. It’s his most prized possession, given to him by his beloved father figure. He’d fight the bloodiest war in human history to get that hat back should someone steal it from him. It’s for that reason he’s shocked by his own reaction when you get a little tipsy one night and pluck it off his head, placing it atop yours. 

“Call me Captain,” you tell the crew, going member by member and giving them orders, getting onto Zoro’s case for not saluting like Usopp and Chopper did. 

He doesn’t feel the urge to snatch it back, doesn’t feel even a touch of anxiety that you could misplace or damage it. Rather, he feels a sense of pride- everyone knows him by his straw hat, so if you’re wearing it, everyone knows you’re his. And it’s in that moment he realizes that you’re his- not his belonging, but his person. You’re the one he wants to walk through this life beside, the person who chose to wear his hat. 

Law: 

He works so hard- it’s one of the things you love about him. You typically try not to disturb him while he’s in the middle of a book, but every once in a while, you can see that he’s not lost in the book so much as he is holding it in his hands to keep the people around him at a distance, allowing him to think a little too much about what’s stressing him out. 

You can tell by the tension in his neck and shoulders, the way his eyes don’t really focus on the pages but rather look right through them. 

“Put the book down. It’s time for dinner.” Coming up behind him, you give his shoulders a squeeze before sitting on his desk, kicking your feet a little bit. 

“Not hungry.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

He cast you an annoyed look but said nothing else. 

Knowing he wouldn’t budge unless you jumpstarted him, you snatched his hat off his head and placed it atop yours, 

“Y/n-ah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me my hat back.” 

“If you want it so bad,” you told him with a small smile. “Put the book down and come and get it from me.” With that, you hopped off his desk and slipped out of the office. 

Law glanced down at his book. He didn’t give it another thought, just tossed it aside and climbed out of his chair to get that hat off your head, and possibly another garment or two. 

Ace: 

He was always putting that hat on your head. Everyone knew him by the orange cowboy hat, and if you wore it, they knew you were his. What most of them didn’t know, however, was exactly what he did to you when you wore that hat. 

You were sitting on the deck of the Moby Dick one evening talking to a few members of the crew over some sake when Ace passed behind you. He didn’t say anything, just dropped the hat on your head and went to talk to Marco. 

Your cheeks heated up. Grateful the darkness hid your blush, you finished your sake and told the guys you were headed to bed. Though they whined about you turning in early, they didn’t try to stop you. What you didn’t notice were the knowing looks they exchanged behind your back, the crew slowly catching on to yours and Ace’s code. 

When you reached Ace’s cabin, he was already waiting for you. He wrapped you in his arms the moment you entered. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, groping you as soon as he got his hands on you. 

“What?” You asked as innocently as you could manage. “Is there something you’ve been wanting to do?” 

“Lots of things I’ve been wanting to do.” He pushed you toward the bed. “We can start by you sitting on my face. And remember the rule- if the hat falls off, we start over.” 

Sabo: 

You and Sabo were supposed to be sparring, but he wasn’t taking it seriously. You could tell by the way he kept looking over your shoulder, the way he pawed at you instead of striking when you gave him an opening. You considered complaining, but you knew better than to nag a man like Sabo. He would just ignore you like he did everyone else who tried to get on his case about something, the Army’s Chief of Staff being an expert at tuning out voices. 

So, you decided to get creative. 

The next time his eyes left your person, you swooped in. His arms went up to block you, more out of habit than anything else, but you didn’t strike him the way you normally did. Rather, you snatched his hat off his head with a victorious laugh. 

“Hey!” His eyes widened, and suddenly, his full attention was on you. “That’s mine.” 

“Is it?” You placed his hat atop your head with a mischievous smile. “If you want it back, come and get it.” 

Sabo’s expression lit up as you issued your challenge, and as he positioned himself back in his fighting form, you had to wonder if you would regret riling up the Chief of Staff.  

Mihawk: 

Mihawk collapsed beside you, completely spent. You had a way of doing that to him, of working him up into a frenzy. He quite enjoyed the hours you two spent between his silk sheets, liked the sheen of sweat that coated his skin afterward. Without your appetite, he wouldn’t have much work to do, and Mihawk loved having work to do. 

You stood up from the bed, a little wobbly on your legs after Mihawk had them over his shoulders for well over half an hour. Accustomed to feeling sore in places you hadn’t known existed until your man made you aware of them, you reached down and picked up Mihawk’s shirt, the light shining through the pale fabric as you sauntered toward the table in front of the fireplace to refill the crystal wine glasses the two of you had forgotten in the throes of passion. 

Taking a long sip of yours, you walked back to the bed. You sat down on the edge and handed Mihawk his glass. 

“Thank you, my love.” His fingers brushed against yours as he took the glass. His other hand fell on your thigh, his thumb stroking the soft skin. “You wear that shirt rather well.” 

You noticed his hat discarded on the floor. “I think I’d wear that rather well, too.” You stood up and picked up the hat, placing it on your head. Turning, you approached the mirror on the wall, admiring yourself in the moonlight filtering in from the balcony. You stroked the soft white feather, so wrapped up in it that you didn’t notice when Mihawk rose from the bed until he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“You’re right,” he said into your neck, pressing himself into you. “I think you should wear it to bed.” 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!