#{{don't know what time of headcanon this is but *shrug*}}

[le-panda-chocovore]

Okay I made a couple posts about it already but this is one of my favorite headcanon so

Imagine Teacher Nagisa who's like the most basic and forgettable person when you first meet him, he has zero presence, he could stand next to you and you wouldn't even notice. So, this Shiota-sensei is teaching in a school full of delinquents and you wonder how the fuck does he handle them but the guys all seem scare to him somehow ?? The dude isn't higher than a badminton net what the fuck. Shiota-sensei is nice and gentle and patient with students and other teachers, but sometimes his aura is....off. you don't really understand why, it's gone in a second, but sometimes you feel unease next to him.

And then a few months after knowing him, you see him getting home with Politician Akabane Karma. They look close, calling each other by first name. You ask them how do they know each other.

"We were in the same class in Middle School," they say, and it makes sense, things like that happen.

Two months later there's a picture spreading on social media of Young Actress Yukimura Akari on what seems to be a dinner date with Shiota-sensei. People magazines and stan accounts debate on Who Is That Guy and Are They Dating ??? But you know that guy, he's your colleague, the one who doesn't really like being center of the attention. So next time you see him you ask about that picture. "Oh, yeah we were in the same class in Middle School, we kept contact, but we're not dating." He says as he laughs. It makes kind of sense, celebrities have lives too, they went to school and made friends there. It's funny though that someone as invisible as Shiota-sensei is close to this actress.

It's less funny when Government Official Karasuma Tadaomi does a presentation at the school to prevent students against illegal weapons, and talks to Shiota-sensei during the coffee break as if they've known each other for years.

"He used to be my teacher."

"You were in the army ??" You asks, baffled. That would explain things but also raise a lot more questions.

"No, in Middle School I mean."

"Huh." What kind of Middle School did this guy went ???

It doesn't stop there, because one day they run into CEO Asano Gakushuu during a class trip and he politely greets Shiota-sensei and asks him how Akabane and the others are doing. Asano apologizes for something and Nagisa says that it's all forgiven already, and that it wasn't that bad.

"Middle School again" you ask dubiously.

"Yeah but we weren't in the same class," He shrugs it off as if it was normal. You start to believe he's making fun of you.

It's been a year now and you all have a new class. Shiota-sensei says a friend of his just opened her nature reserve and she proposed a full visit for their school.

"What kind of friend ?" You wonder, because you're afraid of the answer

"From Middle School. We were in the same class during the last year."

You hate that your assumption was right.

Your students are delinquents, so as such there's no surprise into discovering that they love motorbikes and race cars. You and Shiota-sensei hear them talking about the brand they want to buy during lunchbreak.

"Oh I know that one, it's own by a friend of mine !" Shiota-sensei says, because of course he does.

"A middle school friend ?"

"Well, we weren't exactly friends, but we were classmate yeah."

"Who could have guessed," You roll your eyes and he doesn't understand the sarcasm. You don't care. You're done.

You thought you were done until there's that huge tech event in the city to present the new inventions of engineer genius Horibe Itona. As a huge nerd, you go there, and you're surprised to see Shiota-sensei and a lot of his other friends too. You say Hi and you start commenting about Horibe's inventions and how much you admire him.

"I'm not that much into new technology," your colleague confess.

"Why are you here then ?"

"He invited us, and I'm not turning down a friend. I'm glad to see how far he went given how he was when I first met him."

"...And you met him at?"

"Middle School."

You sigh and stop talking.

You're a lut to leave the school at the end of the day when Shiota-sensei stop you.

"Hey, so, my friend gave me four tickets for his baseball match but I can't be available at this date. I know you like baseball so, do you want them ?"

You hope your eyes don't shine to bright when you ask which team and he tells you the National Japan Team. He gives you the tickets. They're VIP places, the best view, and allowed you to meet the players after. You can't accept that, but Nagisa insist because it's a gift and his friend got them for free anyway.

"Wait, who's your friend ?"

"Sugino Tomohito."

"....THE PITCHER ????"

You get used to it, so when the Art Gallery present the collection of a certain Sugaya Sosuka, you ask Shiota-sensei if he knows him and if he thinks he can obtain a visit for your class.

"We weren't really close but I'll see what I can do !"

You thank him and don't ask more questions. Nagisa might have a strange contact list, but you have Nagisa in your own contact list after all.

love post canon assassination classroom because these kids spent a school year becoming quite possibly the smartest, most elite spec ops soldiers in the entire country and they all have a unique and intense desire for bloodlust and now they're just running around japan. imagine you just walk into work one day bitching about your annoying landlord and your co-worker offers to kill them for you as the first solution and it's all vaguely uncomfortable because you can't tell if they're joking or not. and then when you shoot that down they present another fucked up, convuluted plan on how to make the landlord not bother you and now you're a little scared of the random person in the office next to yours. sometimes this same coworker says "i know a guy" and you're unsure if it's known politician akabane karma or the head of the department of defense karasuma tadaomi or olympic baseball player sugino tomohito or famous actress kayano kaede or the guy who runs the killer ramen shop down the street or your deliquent nephew's teacher. because that's what interacting with one of the 3-E kids in adulthood would be like

[luv-lock]

ֹ ⊹ # TRASH BELONGS TO TRASH CAN .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Conner Kent x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

It starts with panties.

Yeah.

Conner is that kind of guy.

It’s not romantic.

It’s not fate.

It’s not some world-shaking love story.

It’s a pair of stupid pink cotton panties peeking out when you bend over to tie your shoe outside a Metropolis strip mall.

That’s it.

He’s flying low, bored, looking for something—someone—to kill time with, when he sees you.

Barely a flash of pink lace and thigh, and something in his brain just short-circuits.

Like a dog catching a scent.

He drops out of the sky without even thinking.

You don’t see him.

You don’t even notice him.

You just stand up, brushing your skirt down, humming some silly, happy little song under your breath like you don't have a single brain cell to rub together.

And when you turn around—

Christ.

Your face.

Your stupid, perfect, sweet face.

Big wide eyes.

Soft mouth.

A face like a goddamn Disney princess, all sunshine and innocence and "golly gee whiz" plastered on you like you stepped straight out of a coloring book.

He stares.

Like a moron.

Mouth slightly open, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

You blink up at him, confused but not scared, tilting your head like a puppy.

"Hi!" you say brightly, like he's not the one who just fell out of the sky like a lunatic.

Conner almost laughs.

Almost feels sorry for you.

You're obviously dumb as a bag of rocks.

Sweet and soft and easy to rip apart.

Like tissue paper.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

God, you’re exactly his type.

Short skirt. Tight top. Pretty tits. Even prettier lips.

The kind of girl who’s either too good for him or stupid enough to fall for the first smile.

And God, he wanted to fuck you.

Not love you.

Not know you.

Just fuck you.

Another notch on the belt. Another story to brag about to Bart or Tim or whoever the hell cared.

Because that’s what Conner did—

Pretend he was the king of the world so nobody noticed he felt like garbage underneath.

Trash.

He always felt like trash.

You just happened to look like heaven.

You end up talking.

Well, you talk. He mostly stares at your mouth and imagines your panties again.

You tell him your name.

You tell him you're new to the city.

You ask him if he wants to be friends.

Friends.

Nobody ever asks him that.

Not without wanting something.

Not without the cold gleam of "what can you do for me?" behind their eyes.

But yours—

Yours are so soft.

So fucking trusting.

Like you really think people are good.

It’s laughable.

It's pathetic.

It makes him want to punch a wall and hold you under his jacket at the same time.

He plays it cool.

Shrugs, smirks, tosses some dumb line about "showing you around sometime."

You giggle.

Actually giggle.

Like a cartoon bunny.

He wants to fuck you stupid.

He wants to keep you on a leash.

He wants to smash your stupid, trusting heart into pieces.

But instead—

Instead he finds himself offering to fly you home.

You accept without blinking.

No fear.

No suspicion.

You just trust him.

Superboy.

The clone. The lab rat. The trash.

And somehow, it’s worse than if you hated him.

It spirals.

He doesn’t mean to get attached.

Really.

He tells himself it’s just a game.

Just a quick fuck.

Just another dumb girl who’ll cry when he forgets to call.

But then you're smiling at him.

Waving at him.

Bringing him stupid little homemade cookies wrapped in pink napkins because "you thought he might get hungry after patrol."

You don't ask him for favors.

You don't drool over him.

You don't flirt like the girls at the clubs.

You just exist.

Soft and warm and good.

So fucking good.

And it drives him insane.

He watches you when you sleep sometimes.

Just to make sure you’re safe, he tells himself.

He learns your routines.

The cafe at 9am. The bookstore at 2. Home by dark.

He memorizes your smell.

Sweet. Something like strawberries and chocolate.

He catches himself smiling at nothing sometimes, just thinking about you.

God, he's pathetic.

God, he doesn't care.

He thinks you’re the last pure thing he’ll ever touch.

He thinks you’re an angel who was dumb enough to fall into the mud with him.

It’s subtle, at first.

Like the way a vine wraps a tree—

Slow.

Gentle.

Inevitable.

Conner doesn’t notice when it happens.

He doesn’t notice how he stops spending nights with random girls.

Doesn’t notice how he starts flying lower, slower, in case he spots you in the crowd.

Doesn’t notice how the inside of his head starts filling up with your voice, your laugh, your tiny hands shoving a paper cup of hot chocolate at him like you’re offering him a crown.

It’s stupid.

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

But when you smile at him, he feels—

God.

He feels good.

He feels real.

Like he’s not just a science project wearing skin.

You treat him like he's normal.

Like he's better than normal.

You look at him like he’s a superhero.

You look at him like you believe he's good.

It gets addictive.

You get addictive.

It creeps up on him during the little things.

He starts waiting outside your favorite cafe before you open the door.

He pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him.

He starts asking if you like the way he styled his hair.

You tell him he looks "sooo handsome," and he practically preens.

He picks fights just to hear you fuss over him.

He lets villains punch him a little harder because he likes the way you patch him up after, scolding him with trembling hands.

He hates it when you frown.

He hates it even more when you go quiet.

The first time you don’t text him back, he almost levels an entire city block.

Not because he’s mad. Because he’s scared. Scared he did something wrong. Scared he lost you.

Because somewhere along the way, without him even noticing—

Your approval became his leash.

He doesn’t realize it yet.

He just knows he feels like a good boy when you smile.

And he’ll do anything to make you smile.

You’re careful.

You’re so, so careful.

You make him think it’s his idea.

You make him think he’s the one leading.

When you pout and ask for little things—

"Would you carry my groceries for me? You're sooo strong."

"Would you help me put up my bookshelf? I can't do it alone…"

—he practically falls over himself to please you.

When you laugh at his jokes—real, big, stupid laughs like you're absolutely delighted—

he feels like he could rip the sun out of the sky and gift it to you.

When you pat his head and call him "my hero"—

he fucking glows.

He thinks he’s protecting you.

He doesn’t realize he’s sinking into you.

Molding himself into whatever you want.

A dog with too many teeth and too much violence, just waiting for you to snap your fingers.

A broken, pretty boy who was just dying for someone to scratch behind his ears and say:

Good boy.

And the best part—

the part that keeps you warm at night, humming to yourself in the dark—

is that he still thinks you’re just a sweet little thing.

He still thinks you’re innocent.

He still thinks he’s the dangerous one.

Poor Conner.

Poor dumb puppy.

He has no idea the real monster is the one holding his leash.

Then come the tests.

Tiny. Harmless.

You don’t mean it, not really—

You just flirt a little.

Bat your lashes at the barista. Laugh a little too sweet at the grocery store clerk.

You even hug one of your classmates a second too long after class, right where you know Conner's flying overhead.

You peek from the corner of your eye and see him.

Standing across the street.

Fists clenched.

Eyes burning red for a heartbeat before he crushes it down.

Poor baby.

He doesn’t come over.

Doesn’t make a scene.

He just watches.

Takes the knife you're plunging in and buries it deeper in himself.

When you finally catch up with him later—acting all clueless, all bright-eyed and soft—you ask if he’s okay.

You look up at him with those stupid, glittering eyes like he’s your whole world.

Conner cracks.

Not in a big way.

Not yet.

Just a little.

His hands shake when he touches you.

He laughs a little too hard at your jokes.

He won't stop looking at your lips.

He clings.

You’re so nice to him.

You let him.

You lean into his touch.

You beam when he picks you up like you're made of spun sugar.

You whimper when you scrape your knee, and he nearly tears the concrete apart.

You make yourself so soft for him.

So small.

You know exactly how to slip your hands around his throat and make him say thank you.

It festers inside him.

A need.

A sickness.

He’s never needed anyone before.

Not really.

Girls were just girls.

Things he touched and threw away.

He was trash. He knew it.

But you—

You feel like home.

When you call him your "best friend," he swears the world stops spinning.

When you slip your little hand into his big, calloused one—smiling up at him like he's your knight—

he thinks maybe he can be someone.

Maybe he deserves you.

Maybe he’s worthy.

You watch it happen.

Watch him rot for you.

Bloom like some ugly, beautiful weed, all tangled and desperate.

You know the cracks in his armor now.

You know he wants to be loved.

Wants to be wanted.

And you know you’re the only thing keeping him together.

You turn the screws.

You start making sad little comments.

"I bet you’ll get tired of me someday… everyone does."

"I know you’ll leave me too. It’s okay. I’m used to it."

"I don’t really matter, right? I mean, you're Superboy. you have real friends."

Conner loses it every time.

"No! I won't!"

"I swear— I swear to God, I’m not leaving you!"

"You’re all I want— all I need— please don’t say that—"

He’s practically begging.

Choking on it.

You hide your smile in his shoulder when he hugs you too tight, like you might vanish if he lets go.

Poor baby.

Poor broken boy.

You’re poisoning him with kindness.

Feeding him a steady diet of guilt, fear, and worship.

And he’s drinking it down like salvation.

Sometimes you catch him just staring at you.

Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Like he’s trying to brand you into his brain.

Sometimes you pretend not to notice.

Sometimes you catch his gaze and tilt your head, all concerned and soft:

"Are you okay, Conner?"

And he always looks away, ashamed, ears burning.

He mutters something about you being beautiful.

About you being the only good thing he’s ever had.

You are not good. You never were. But you smile and kiss his knuckles like he’s your hero anyway.

You’re rotting together.

You’re just smart enough to know it.

You’re pulling him down into the same darkness that hollowed you out years ago.

Making him a little sicker, a little sweeter, a little more yours every day.

It’s not fast.

It’s not violent.

It’s slow.

Tender.

Patient.

Like two animals bleeding out together in a beautiful, quiet room.

And when he finally realizes it—

when he finally sees that he can't breathe without you—

it’ll already be too late.

You’ll already have your leash tied around his throat.

And he’ll be smiling through the choke.

It starts stupidly.

A guy you barely know—some loudmouth from your psych class—tells you you’re “too pretty to be walking home alone.”

Offers you a ride.

Winks at you.

It’s harmless.

A mosquito buzzing in your ears.

You giggle, play dumb, say "thank you."

Smile sweet and empty.

Because you know he’s there.

You know Conner is there.

Watching.

You always know.

You feel the air shift before you even see him.

Conner’s behind you the next second, tall and tense, his whole body coiled tight like a spring about to snap.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t say anything.

But the look he gives the guy—

the sheer, crushing rage behind it—

it’s enough.

The guy blanches.

Mumbles something about being late.

Slinks away like a kicked dog.

You stand there.

Batting your lashes.

Feigned confusion painting your face.

"Conner?" you whisper, small and sweet, reaching up to touch his arm.

"What's wrong?"

He looks down at you—jaw flexing, fists curling and uncurling at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You can feel the way he’s trembling.

Not fear.

Not sadness.

Something worse.

Something primal.

"Don’t," he grinds out. His voice rough. Raw. "Don’t ever smile at guys like that."

Your breath hitches.

Soft. Perfect. Vulnerable.

"I—I didn’t mean to upset you," you whisper.

You sound like you're about to cry.

You even let your bottom lip tremble.

And that's it.

That’s what breaks him.

Conner’s hands snap out—

one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair—

and he drags you into him like he’s drowning.

The kiss he slams in your lips isn’t sweet.

It isn’t careful.

It’s filthy.

Starving.

Possessive.

Like he’s trying to mark you.

Bite you.

Make you bleed love for him.

He kisses you like he hates you.

Like you’ve ruined him.

And you—

you kiss him back.

Soft and syrupy at first.

Little whimpers into his mouth.

Clutching at his shirt like you don’t know how to breathe without him.

You give him everything.

Everything he wants—

everything he’s too scared to ask for.

You let him take.

Let him devour.

When he finally pulls back, you're both panting.

Your lips are swollen, your eyes big and glassy.

Conner’s chest heaves like he just fought a war.

His pupils are blown wide—so dark you can barely see the blue anymore.

He looks wrecked.

Broken open.

He stares at you like you hung the stars just to have something pretty to look at while you destroyed him.

"I—"

He chokes on it.

The words are too big, too much.

You reach up.

Cup his stupid, handsome face in your gentle hands.

Smile that soft, doomed smile you know he can’t survive.

"It’s okay," you whisper.

"I like you too, Conner."

You don't.

You never did. Not really.

Not the way that he loves you.

But he doesn’t know that.

And he never will.

Because he falls to his knees right there.

Buries his face against your stomach like a man praying to a god that doesn’t hear him.

And you—

you just thread your fingers through his hair, humming sweetly.

Like a mother comforting her sick little boy.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dean Winchester x F. Reader, Beau Arlen x F. Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

AN: I haven't done one of these in a while! This one was requested by the lovely @luci-in-trenchcoats. 💜

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, spiciness/implied smut

Headcanon: How Dean, Beau, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to you (getting caught) wearing his clothes.

Dean Winchester

Ugh, what a cocky SOB. 😆 (And yet, not the cockiest of them all.)

You've been doing it for weeks now, without comment from him.

But every time he sees you in one of his undershirts, getting ready for bed, it's always accompanied by a little once-over. A curve of his lips. A smirk, if you will.

He likes the look of you.

He likes that you're his.

And he likes the fact that you feel comfortable enough to steal his clothes.

He also likes welcoming you into bed next to him, with a hand running up your back, or venturing under whatever undershirt you've decided to slip on to feel the warmth of your skin.

"'S this mine?" he asks. You give him a quirking smile.

"You know it is," you say, with playful challenge.

Dean accepts that with a hum and leans in for a kiss as payment.

Sometimes that one stolen kiss leads to another, simmering with heat. And he’ll take great pleasure in taking back his shirt, casting it to the floor and rolling you underneath him on the bed.

But it doesn't stop at his undershirts. You steal his plaid ones if you want something to comfortably drown in when you're doing research, or just lounging in the bunker. The material is soft from several hundred washes. (The red and black one is one of your favorites.)

Rare though it is for him to wear hoodies, it's rarer still, because Dean can never even find one in his side of the dresser.

That's because you're keeping it hostage on your side, buried under your lingerie. (Even if he tried to find the hoodie, odds are he’ll get distracted.)

It gets to the point where he can hardly find anything of his.

His brows furrow as he rucks through his drawers for something clean to wear, while clad in only his most threadbare sweatpants.

"Damn it, woman. Where are my shirts?" he grouses.

You bite your lip and pretend to keep reading your book. You're already safe in bed, covered up to your chest by the blankets.

"I don't know. Have you done your laundry?" you ask, smiling to yourself. Dean catches you, with a suspicious brow raise.

He climbs into bed and snatches the covers away from you. You yelp at the suddenness and try to grab at them, but it's too late.

He discovers that you're wearing one of his newer shirts, which he had to buy to replace the ones he just can't seem to find.

"Are you kidding me? This is Theft in the First goddamn Degree!" he exclaims, even though he's close to laughing at the way you're already giggling. He manages to pin you underneath him on the bed, and he has half a mind to take this shirt back as well, by whatever means necessary.

And yes, tickling is one of those means.

"Sweetheart, for the love of God. Why do you keep taking my shit?" he asks, in a way that's half-serious in his frustration, but also half-teasing.

You shrug shamelessly, still smiling. You run your hands up his bare arms and shoulders, and back down his chest.

"I don't know. It's comfortable," you say. But your eyes lower as your face begins to warm with a blush. "Makes me feel safe...like you're always with me."

At that, the tension in Dean's shoulders eases. His smile can't help but soften around the edges as he looks down on you, now with fondness. After a while, he lets out a deep sigh.

"All right," he says.

You grin, because you know he's given up. You lean up for a kiss that successfully distracts him.

Dean still gets annoyed sometimes when he can't find a specific item of clothing in his drawer, but now, all he has to do is go over to your side of the dresser.

There he knows he'll eventually find what he's looking for.

Beau Arlen

Heh, in this episode of “Whose Hat is it Anyway”...

Beau's wardrobe reminds you of a cowboy in modern times.

Lots of browns and beiges, lots of slacks and buttoned-down shirts tucked in with an army of belts to choose from (even though the man only owns a few pairs of boots). Not to mention a slew of jackets that often pull the look together.

But being that he's new to Montana (specifically, Montana winters), you like to buy him sweaters. Cable-knits and soft ones in earth tones that you think bring out his eyes.

Beau accepts whatever you get him and graciously wears them. He trusts your judgment on what looks good on him, and he appreciates the way you think of him.

It's just one of those ways, however small, that you show that you care and that you're looking out for him.

One night while he's working late, however, you find yourself trying to reorganize the closet. The man is "organized chaos" at best, and you find one of his sweaters on the floor. It's a nice burgundy one that you bought him recently.

Ooh, so soft, you think, while feeling the fabric between your fingers.

You don't know what possesses you, but you decide to slip out of your pajamas and try it on yourself.

SO damn soft, you realize, as you practically drown in the sweater. It hangs about to mid-thigh.

Then you see one of his beige Stetsons hanging on the wall. A sneaking smile curves your lips, before you slip on his hat.

To complete the ensemble, you dig into the recesses of your closet and find a pair of your old cowboy boots. You go out into the bedroom and check yourself out in the mirror with a growing smirk.

"Hey there, darlin'," you try to impersonate your boyfriend's subtle Texan twang, and even his mannerisms by winking at yourself, tipping the hat forward.

You giggle at your own silliness in this moment, but alone in your own house, who freakin' cares? You should feel free to dance naked through the whole damn place if you feel like it.

So you spin on your heel and do a little twirl in your boots.

"Who's the sheriff now, huh?" You mime a pair of guns with your hands and shoot at your reflection. "Psh, psh!"

But that's when you catch sight of one Beau Arlen, leaning against the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed. An amused grin is plastered to his face.

You freeze in shock, still with your "gun hands" held up.

"Oh, don't stop the show on my account," Beau says slyly. He gestures at you. "Please, continue."

Your hot blush spreads from your cheeks and quickly begins to travel down your neck. "Uh...I was just...you know, cleaning the closet. You're very messy, you know!"

Beau snorts and draws closer. Those green eyes of his take in the full sight of you, down your bare thighs and cowboy boots, and back up to your embarrassed face. You bite your bottom lip on reflex.

"You know, I like what you got goin' on here," he says, waving a hand down your form. "But it's just...it's missing something."

He takes his badge with the gold star off his belt and pins it to your sweater.

"There you go. Perfect fit," he says, even as his hand slides up the slope of your back. You find yourself pulled further into his orbit as you try (and fail) to stamp down a smile.

"You're late, you know," you remind him. Beau bows his head and presses a kiss into your neck. You feel his smirk there.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. Gonna arrest me, or let me off with a warning?" he teases. His other hand comes up to adjust the hat on your head. You smirk and cling to his arms over his dark brown jacket. It's one of his nicer ones.

"I think I can let you off," you play along. You lean up to skim your lips across his cheek, and closer to his ear. "But only for good behavior."

He has to chuckle then. "I can accept those terms..."

Beau's hands slip under your stolen sweater and begin to slide it up your body, inch by inch.

"Though I'm gonna need you to keep the boots on," he says lowly, just before he claims you with a searing kiss.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, here we go. 😅

As with most things, it's a point of pride for Ben.

He'd prefer you be too fucked out to move, let alone put on clothes after he's finished with you.

On the rare occasion that your body doesn't feel too much like warm molasses after a few hot rounds with your boyfriend, you like to at least grab one of his discarded shirts to cover yourself.

If he still has energy, he'll take that as a challenge. He'll try to slip his hands underneath whatever shirt you've found and divest you of it, so he can start devouring you again.

However. Ben does like seeing you in his clothes, in a possessive, claiming way.

There are days when you just want to be swallowed up in one of his large, comfortable shirts as you lounge about the house.

Ben sometimes watches you putter around, cleaning, working, cooking, reading, or watching TV in nothing but his clothes. He wonders if you're even wearing panties. You could be bare faced with a severe case of bed head, but his eyes will still occasionally follow you.

His expression doesn't reveal too much, but he likes it. (And because you know him, you know it too.)

Maybe he'll catch you as you pass by, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You startle with a yelp, but then you grab onto his arms and smile.

"Can I help you, sir?" you tease.

"Think you can just walk by me, looking sexy as fuck?" he remarks. He steals a slow, thorough kiss. You cup his face and bring him back in for more, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"You know why I like wearing your stuff?" you ask. Your smile hints at teasing.

Ben arches a brow. "Why?"

"Because it keeps you looking," you reply. And you reach a hand around to slap his ass, for good measure.

Then you saunter away from him to get back to what you were doing.

Or at least, you try to.

Ben grabs your hand and pulls you back towards him, back into the cage of his arms, where he falls back into the trap you've so often laid. And he finishes what you started.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I hope you guys enjoy this! Who had your favorite reaction: Dean, Beau, or Ben? 😘

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Big Sky Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Dean, Beau + Soldier Boy Tag List (Part 1)

@melancholictearz @spnwoman @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @rizlowwritessortof @anticxrrupt @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky

@teehxk @midnightmadwoman @agalliasi @venicesem @deans-spinster-witch

@chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @deansbbyx

@mimaria420 @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken

@deanfreakingwinchester @skyesthebomb @this-is-me19 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore

@agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @emily-winchester

@tearsfortheyouth @solo-pitstop-vibes @dope-trope-105 @liuope @beautyvaliant

@xxlaynaxx @beskarfilms @tmb510 @iamsapphine @roseblue373

@lacilou @jackles010378 @waywardxwords @waynes-multiverse

[lambilegs]

listen, lowkey, I feel like sevika would love interacting with a feisty!reader. like, I get why people headcanon her as preferring a partner who's more submissive or, like, lenient with her. but, I don't know, something tells me she'd relish in having a partner who gives her a hard time. someone who she can bicker and argue with back and forth, someone who doesn't just ride with her shit no matter what. she'd like having someone who actually challenges her, and questions her stances, opinions and strategies. someone who gets her to reflect on her actions and give them even more careful consideration than she already does on her own. someone who makes her think even harder.

and aside from a moral standpoint, she would just playfully love it too. something about you looking up at her with a glare whenever she messes around with you has her abdomen stirring with desire. she feels like a teenager again, vying after the attention of someone who is constantly tiring of her. but, she can't help it. she likes when you punch her arm after she makes a cheap shot at one of the guys she's gambling with at the last drop. when you scoff at something tough she says, and teasingly coo that she's just a big softie, dammit, she can't help but feel like one with the way your words are affecting her. when she jokingly wraps an arm around your shoulders, you shrug her off with an eye roll, and when she props her elbow on your head as though it's an armrest, you pretend to bite at her wrist, to which she laughs and wiggles the mechanical fingers, saying, "you sure you wanna do that?"

sometimes, she tries to flirt with you. she'll ask you to go on a walk with her, or sit with her in her corner of the bar when she does repairs on her arm. hey, who said romance is dead? there've been times where you smile, heave a sigh and drawl out, "well, since there's nothing else better to do," which usually incites her pulling out a chair for you and gruffly sitting on her own, getting to work. it's nice, really. you chatter away, she learns more about you, gets more intrigued, then you leave, and she feels just a bit more hollow. it's a vicious cycle. but, she can't resist going back to it, over and over again. especially when there are little moments where it feels like her feelings might be returned. like when she asks you to do one of the above, and you scoff and say, "why don't you ask one of the girls you saw at the brothel today?"

it surprises her the first time, to say the least. but, she grows to like it. a lot. the way you stiffen up next to her when another woman eyes her with desire, how you snap and glare at her when you hear from babette that sevika paid a visit the night before. it feels like you already have your claws sunk into her before she even got the chance to ask you out. and shit, does she really enjoy that. how possessive you are, how livid you get with her for showing attention to anyone who's not you.

she nearly likes it just as much when you direct that anger to someone else. an ex-friend you're steaming with rage over, a disrespectful enforcer, someone who gives sevika, or actually anyone else in the undercity, shit. the way your nostrils flare with the deep breaths you take, how sweat lines your brow, that motion when your eye twitches. she can't help but admire the intensity of what you feel, and how you have the courage to deliver it to someone who deserves it. whether they fuck with you, your people or the city. and on some occasions, with sevika.

[glamourscat]

May i please request headcanons, maybe a drabble of the batboys where reader is trying so hard to pretend that they don't know anything about their partner being a vigilante because they want to be told with trust and the boys are growing increasingly concerned about their s/o's obliviousness bcs like?? and the their s/o keeps saying things like "haha yeah!! red robin's super underground but that costume is pretty good timmy!" and "oh? i do have a thing for morally gray men, lovely red hood costume" whenever they accidentally see parts of the costume and can't pretend they didn't see it

idk i just think it would be funny af, ty in advance!!

i decided to go for drabbles. they are quite long so i only did jason and tim. should i do dick, maybe steph too, in the near future? let me know!

"You can't be serious," Jason thought. It's not that you're blind, and he’s not exactly being subtle. He knew from day one that being involved with a civilian meant the topic of his nightlife would eventually come to light. Before getting together you two had been friends for a long time, but he never quite managed to outright say, "Hey, by the way, I’m Red Hood." How do you even drop something like that into a conversation? 

Yet, as your relationship grew, more milestones came along and suddenly, you two were approaching your 2 year anniversary. Now, more than ever, as you found yourselves living together, Jason knew it was going to be harder to explain his secret. How many lies could he keep telling about going to help Roy or some emergency with Dick? How many nights could he still sneak out after you’d fallen asleep, only to return aching from a patrol?

So, he started leaving subtle hints. From his domino mask to his gloves… but hell, at this point, he might as well leave his whole costume out, because how in the hell are you not picking up on the clues?

“You know, Jay, that vigilante... What's his name? The one in red? Oh right, Red Hood. He’s pretty cool, right? I mean, he has a different approach than the others, i think some would say morally gray. I mean, hot.. Anyway, but—oh, wait, this is a lovely Red Hood costume! I didn’t know you were a fan too?!”

At that moment, Jason didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or do both at the same time. Maybe by accident—maybe not—he had left his entire costume out. And it wasn’t exactly cheap. The fabric was thick, heavy, it was definitely not something you’d find at a Spirit Halloween. Yet, you just folded it, didn’t ask any questions, and continued with your little chat.

“Doll, you got a moment?” he asked, trying to keep his tone as calm as possible because he was seconds away from laughing his lungs out.

“Yeah, Jay?” You looked at him, internally sweating. Did you give anything away? Did he suspect that you knew?

“You know, doll… that… the costume. I mean, it’s not fake, right? I…” He sighed, trying to find the right words.

“It’s real. Because I’m the Red Hood.” There. He’d said it. A relieved sigh left his lips as the words came out. Now comes the hardest part: your reaction. Would you laugh? Be shocked?

“Oh, yeah. I knew.”

What?

“What—? I beg your pardon?” Jason asked, his voice laced with disbelief, eyes scanning you to figure out if you were lying.

“I mean, you’re not exactly the most subtle, love, are you?” You said, amusement dancing in your eyes as you tried to hold back a smile. “Besides, I found out a while ago. I was just waiting, I suppose. It wasn’t my place to ask or say anything. I figured when you were ready, you’d say something.” You shrugged nonchalantly.

“Wait… when did you find out?” Jason raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“Well, you see… It wasn’t that hard. At the beginning of our relationship when I’d tell you, ‘Hey, I’m going out with my friends tonight,’ and then coincidentally, when something happened—because it’s Gotham, let's be honest—there you were, Red Hood, swooping in to save the day. Always fleeting, never lingering too long. But what was really odd was that both Red Hood and my new boyfriend had the exact same walk style. Not to mention, Jay, mask or no mask, costume or no costume, I could still recognize you. Even in a crowded room.”

Jason just stood there, stunned. How had he missed all the signs? A part of him was relieved, he didn’t have to keep lying, but another part of him couldn’t believe he had been so obvious. You were too sharp for him to pull anything past you. And to think he was under the impression he had you fooled…

As he looked at you, he realized there was more to your patience than just waiting for him to confess. You’d known, but you’d never pushed him. It made him wonder how long you had really been aware. But now that it was out in the open, Jason found himself surprised by how easy the weight of the secret seemed to fall away. He’d been carrying it for so long, and yet, with you, there was no judgment, no shock. Just acceptance.

"You've always been patient with me," he murmured, his voice soft but grateful.

You gave him a warm, knowing smile, stepping closer. "Because I know you, Jason. And I know what you're doing matters. It’s a part of who you are, just like everything else."

Tim was stressed, but to be fair, Tim was always stressed. You two had been dating for a good while now and had been friends for much longer. However, somehow, he still hadn’t brought up the whole vigilante thing. Maybe it was because he was scared, or maybe it was due to his own selfishness. For once, he just wanted someone to see him as Tim and only Tim. But the truth was, he couldn’t exist without Red Robin. He knew that. And it had been too long. He knew he had to say something. But… does he?

Still, something didn’t sit right with him. It was the way you weren’t questioning him anymore on why he was always so tired, why sometimes he had to be gone for an entire week or why he trained so intensely. His physique, though not the most built, was still incredibly fit for a “simple rich kid.” And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand if you were just pretending not to notice or if you honestly hadn’t put it together. But when you suggested what costumes to wear for Halloween, he almost passed out on the spot.

“Yeah, I mean, we can do a couple’s costumes or… I don’t know, Tim. We can always go as… hmm? What about we go as vigilantes? I can be Wonder Woman and you can be Red Robin. It’s pretty underground. I’m sure the costume will look great; besides, you already have a good replica in your wardrobe. Fits like a glove, no?”

Like, this had to be a joke, right? Sometimes Tim wondered if his life was some kind of reality show, secretly followed by cameras just to capture his reaction to these weird, questionable moments.

He froze for a moment, staring at you, trying to piece everything together. Was this your way of telling him you knew? Was this a test?

“Uh... you... know?” he asked, his voice betraying a mix of confusion and disbelief.

You look at him confused. “Know what?” You shrugged, casually leaning back in your chair.

Tim blinked, his mind racing. He was smart, very so, but at this very moment he felt like the most ignorant being on planet Earth. He looks at you and you look at him and for a moment there is this unspoken, silent battle.

“You know, that I am Red Robin.” he says, quietly. Eyes searching yours for an answer.

“And what if I do?” you reply back equally quietly.

He had expected a lot of things. Shock, anger, even confusion, but not this calm, almost nonchalant acknowledgment. And yet, a wave of relief washed over him. You weren’t angry or disappointed. You weren’t even all that surprised.

“I’ve always known, Tim,” you continued, your tone softening. “You’ve been dropping clues left and right. The late nights, the cryptic phone calls, the strange bruises... And don’t even get me started on your ‘training’ routines. I never pushed because I knew you’d tell me when you were ready. And now, here we are. Although… I certainly did not imagine it to happen in such a way” you say, letting out a small soft laugh. 

Tim let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging in a way that felt like he’d been carrying a weight for far too long. "I didn’t want to burden you with it. I didn’t want to be Red Robin to you. I just wanted to be... just Tim."

You smiled softly, walking over to hug him. “And you are. You’re Red Robin, sure, but you’re not just that; are you? You’re Tim. My Tim. Two things can coexist at the same exact time, this is just what makes you.. You, ya know?” 

Tim stared at you for a moment, hands around your waist, his mind still processing. It was as if the entire weight of the secret identity he’d been carrying all this time suddenly evaporated. He had been so worried about how you would react, but now that it was out in the open, there was nothing left to hide.

"Thanks," he whispered, his head dropping to your neck. Hiding, but not really. It was more or so a way to feel you even closer. 

Your head gently resting against his, brushing a kiss against his hair. “Always, Tim. You’re still the same guy I fell for. I love you.”

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[ram-bles]

a crumb of nsfw daisuke?

daisuke x reader | headcanons

requests/inbox: open

[ 🔞 minors dni ]

woah. from sweet to spicy. ill give this a try!

wrote this on mobile, sorry for the fuckass formatting.

gender neutral reader. sillies. lots of sillies. weed mention (like once).

🌺 c'mon, he somehow sneaked in some of his secret stash'a magazines. he's still a guy after all.

"Dai?" "Yeah?" He's busy on his Gameboy, but he acknowledges you, tilting his body to show his face but his eyes were glued to the screen. "Did you steal these porn mags from Jimmy or someth—" A pink blur suddenly pushes you away, using his feet to kick it back under his bed. "DUDE. PRIVACY. C'MON NOW."

🌺 You've probably caught him once or twice even before you two were a thing. It wasn't hard to, after all, you both shared a room.

Too lost in the sauce to even notice you, so you had to clear your throat. You've never seen someone so shocked to the point he doesn't know whether to shove his dick back in his pants, hide under the blankets, or try to do both at the same time but completely failing. He's stuttering your name out along with strings of apologies. Don't get your dick caught in your zipper now, Daisuke. "I didn't know you were there! Shitshitshit- I'm so so sorry- Aghhhh." He felt pathetic, whining in embarrassment. Daisuke ends up just pulling the blanket over the entirety of him. "You could've just asked me for help, y'know." He stares at you, scandalized as if he wasn't rubbing one off just moments ago. "How the fuck was I s'posed to know?!" You shrug, amused. "Dunno." "Man, fuck youuuu." "Happily." "Get over here already, please!"

🌺 Outside internship though? Weed before sex seems like something he'd do. I can't explain why.

🌺 Feeling his rings on you... in many ways.

🌺 Pretty sure we all agree that he's into praising. Both giving and receiving.

🌺 You know he's having lots of fun when the pitch of his voice goes high. Squeaking, voice cracking, whining.

🌺 Speaking of how vocal he is, he's probably loud too. But, since you're in the ship now, he'll try his best to keep it down, either on the pillow or you. He'll also be rambling about random things just so he doesn't finish early.

🌺 Dirty talking? ❌ He'll be cringing like there's no tomorrow. He'll make a discord (or whatever equivalent) kitten joke about it if he does.

🌺 Unintentional dirty talking though... That's another story. Or should I rephrase, more-so leaning towards cussing.

"Fuck— you're sosososo pretty..." His hands were pressing the back of your knees, folding and spreading your legs for him. He whines your name out, resting his length on your abdomen while he impatiently waits for your permission. "C'mon, pretty. I'll be this deep inside you." - "Feels good. Feels so good." He's panting and rutting into you like a dog. "You should- nh- loosen up a little- shit- if you get any tighter I think I'll cum..."

🌺 Quickies galore. Sure, it's less risky, but with his libido? Anyways, he's pretty easy to please anyways. A round or two would probably be enough for him.

🌺 Wearing his clothes while at it? Mega turn on for him.

🌺 Well, yes his libido is high, but you still need to be straightforward with him. He can't take hints...

"Want head?" "?!? Who's head?!" "YOUR DICK." "YOU'RE CUTTING IT OFF?" "WHAT? NO, I MEANT SUCKING YOUR—" "Good morning to you both too." "CAPTAIN?"

🌺 He loves giving and receiving hickeys. You would have to remind him everytime not to mark too high on your neck.

🌺 His aftercare involves lots of cuddling and lots of smooching.

🌺 Ending with a silly note. The first time you've done it with him, he ended up saying thank you since he didn't know what to do.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Vergil, and Dante reacting to his petite gn s/o wearing his coat please?

Dante

he had come home from a mission, thankfully a quick one and the sight he saw you wearing his trademark red coat, it was more then he could ever thought would be waiting for him back home.

it was even better in his opinion.

his first words when he come back home are; 'wear my coat more often sweetheart, seriously don't stop wearing it i nedd to see you in it more often to make sure i'm not dreaming... for undisclosed purposes.'

seriously this man will try to find any and every way to get you to wear his coat, he needs it like his lungs need air.

he's got a taste of the image of you in his coat and now it's something he wants to see as often as he possinly can, even if it wasn't weather apropriate, he didn't care.

the first time he sees you in his coat he couldn't try to hide his excitment even if he could try, it's so aparent but he doesn't really care at all.

all that mattered was that you were wearing his coat and you looked perfectly sexy in the ruby red attire.

and if you were to try and take it off, he's right before your eyes and keeping his coat over your shoulders.

'keep it on, there's no need to take it off now im here, it just means we can match now.' he jokes as he takes in just how nicely his coat looked up close and his mind was decided, his coat was yours without question.

'so what's the specially ocassion?' he would ask, seeing as you never had done this before, and he was gone for quite a bit, so he was just curious if there was more to you just simply wearing his coat.

you shrug 'i missed you and wanted somwthing that reminded me of you while you were gone, reminding me that you were safe and come home to me sooner or later. i'd just have to be paitient.'

dante smiles softly as he kisses your forehead, his hands rubbing up and down your arms through his coat.

he was not expected that to be your awnser, however he couldn't blame you as he would often find himslef missing you while on missions, so he was secretly thankful that the feeling of missing one another when apart wasn't something only he felt.

especially if missing him would lead to more times like these where you wear his coat just to feel him near you for comfort. he wasn't going to stop you, not like he wanted to anyways becuase it only gives him an excuse to oggle you shamelessly for hours on end.

what can he say?! his baby looks good in his coat, it'd be a crime on his behalf to do such a thing and not admire his sweetheart wearing his clothes. he runs hot enough for the both of you so he doesn't really need his coat as much as he needs, it was only to add to his coolness.

'well then my coat is yours to uses to your hearts content sweetheart but make sure you wear it even if im here, i'm liking what i'm seeing and i never want to forget such an gorgeous sight.' he winks as you lightly slap his shoulder as he kisses your forehead again, holding you against him tightly as he could.

Vergil

he's frozen for a minute upon seeing you in his blue coat, but need i say that it brings a posessiveness out of him.

more specifically his demon side that's happy to see you wearing something of his so cassually, hopefully it should make it know to others that you were happily taken.

so his inner demon wants to see you in his coat more often, even if it didn't exactly make sense for you to be wearing it.

it also didn't help that the deep blue coat suited you perfectly in his eyes before averting them upon feeling the surge of pride and possessivness overcome him.

especially if anyone thriving for your attention was present, it would be the biggest fuck you ever in letting them know you were unatainable, you weren't for their prying eyes only his and his alone.

he's not use to such a thing happening to him, so he's not going to be aware on how to bring it up to you other then; 'you're wearing my coat, why is that?'

hes a curious one and genuinly means nothing by it other then to understand that there was someone who could easily love him and want to be adorned in his clothes.

god forbid you tell him you missed him, that concept is lost on him for as far as he is aware you'd be the only one willing to miss him.

especially when he leaves for long periods of time, never telling you where he was off to only the fact that he would come back to you before using Yamato to open a portal and leaving through it.

a forhead kiss might be given or a kiss to your hand, but even that is used sparingly by the man who treated you as his equal. he's romantic but don't expect him to show it all of the time like his brother.

'i missed you and i found it lying in your study and wanted to feel closer to you' you'd tell him before moving in taking it off, only for Vergil to put a hand on your shoulder.

'there is no need to remove it, keep it if it grants you that much...comfort and consols your soul to a quiet.' he tells you as he allows to admire you in his clothes, feeling a deep purr threatning to spill from the back of his throat.

needless to say from that moment onwards vergil will start to leave his coat more often at your place, signalling that he wants you to wear it and gets a look within his eyes when you do greet him in his coat.

dante has probably seen you in his brother's coat once, only once because Vergil stabbed him repeatedly and chucked his body throat a portal made by Yamato, his eyes glowing and a tad demonic as he growled. 'mine.'

vergil doesn't fuck with what's his and his alone, and even if he may not voice how much he likes you in his coat, his actions sure will.

[chanelrolls]

Love and Deepspace Men as College Students AU

pairings. sylus x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, xavier x reader, caleb x reader

notes. my headcanons of how and what would they be if they were set in an alternate universe of a college setting. requests are open!

SYLUS

Everyone knows Sylus. Whether it’s because of his absurd wealth, the way he dominates the racing scene, or how he carries himself among the crowd, he’s the kind of student people admire from afar but rarely dare to approach.

Definitely owns the most expensive bike on campus. He would pull up to lectures late, engine roaring, only to park in the most inconvenient places. The professors hate it, but no one dares to tell him to stop.

Never attends classes on time. He shows up whenever he feels like it, slides into his seat without a care, and still manages to ace every test like it’s effortless.

His major is a mystery. Seriously. Some say he’s in business because of his family’s influence, others think he’s in engineering because of his obsession with bikes. The truth? He’s studying something completely unexpected. (Design)

The one who gets professors to bend rules. He hands in assignments late, yet somehow convinces the professor to accept them. Probably through sheer confidence and the undeniable fact that his work is always top-tier.

People constantly try to get on his good side. Fake friends, clingy admirers, opportunists, he sees through them all. It’s a rare feat to actually earn his trust.

People think he’s cold, but he’s actually just selective. He doesn’t waste words on people who don’t matter. But when he does care? His presence is all-consuming, and he keeps those people close to him.

Has a reputation for getting into fights. He doesn’t start them, but if someone dares to push him? He ends them. Fast. Brutally. Efficiently.

Despite his reputation he's ridiculously smart. No one expects him to be the guy who casually dismantles complex theories in class. He doesn’t even study much, his mind just works differently.

He doesn't date, at least not publicly. People wonder if he’s ever been in a relationship, but no one has proof. His affairs, if they exist, are shrouded in complete secrecy.

He knows the underground side of the university too well. He’s got plenty connections, some legal, some… not so much. The kind of guy who could get his hands on things no regular college student should have access to.

SCENARIO

It’s late. The campus parking lot is empty, except for the flickering streetlights and the distant hum of a few motorcycles.

You’re walking toward your dorm when you hear the deep purr of an engine slowing to a stop.

You glance over your shoulder. It turns out to be Sylus.

He’s sitting astride his bike, helmet balanced on his thigh, one hand gripping the handlebar loosely. His gaze? Fixed directly on you.

"Didn’t take you for the type to stay out this late," he murmurs, voice low.

You shrug, trying to ignore the way the cold air makes you shiver. "Didn’t take you for the type to care."

A slow, lazy smirk spreads across his lips. "I don’t." A lie. You can tell.

He watches as you move closer, eyes flickering down for a fraction of a secon, too quick, but you catch it anyway. You don't want to make your conversation longer with someone this well-known, so you walk ahead, hoping that that's the end of it. Until you hear him speak again.

"Need a ride?" It’s an invitation wrapped in something dangerous. How unexpected.

You hesitate, then tilt your head. "Why would you...?"

Sylus chuckles deeply, like he wasn’t expecting the challenge. "Guess there’s only one way to find out."

And just like that, he tosses you the helmet. As if he already knew you’d say yes.

ZAYNE

The epitome of a model student; Perfect attendance, straight A’s, every professor’s favorite. If there’s a student the university would use in a promotional video, it’s certainly him.

Teachers' favourite

Always impeccably dressed. Button-down shirts, slacks, polished shoes—never a wrinkle, never a stain. He treats college like a corporate internship, and it shows. He also often walks around with long trench coats, it's his favourite piece of clothing.

Sits in the exact same seat every lecture. Second row, dead center. First row is too eager and attention-seeking, but anything further back is inefficient.

Has the most organized notes you’ve ever seen. Typed, color-coded, formatted like a research paper. If you ask to borrow them, he’ll hesitate before sighing and handing them over.

Never late, never rushed. His schedule is meticulously planned. If he’s ever late, something catastrophic must have happened.

Carries a leather-bound planner around. Digital calendars are unreliable for him. He writes everything down, from deadlines to coffee appointments, in perfect cursive.

He's always chosen as a delegate for external competitions or division-level activities, earning several awards.

Rarely seen at campus cafeterias. If he does eat on campus, it’s either a perfectly balanced meal prepped in advance or something minimal like black coffee and a protein bar.

Always smells expensive. Not overpowering, just subtly present. Clean, crisp, like fresh pages of a book mixed with something chic and sophisticated.

Somehow has dirt on everyone. He doesn’t gossip, but he listens. A passing remark, a detail others overlook, he collects information without even trying, possibly even using those against those people when needed.

Once you earn his attention, it’s hard to shake it off. If he chooses to focus on you, it’s deliberate. And his attention is the kind that lingers, even when he’s gone.

SCENARIO

It’s late. The campus library hums with a quiet stillness, the air thick with the scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee. You’re seated at a wooden desk, buried under an avalanche of textbooks and half-written notes, struggling to finish an assignment.

“Your handwriting is inefficient,” comes a smooth voice from behind you.

You glance up, blinking as Zayne pulls out the chair across from you, uninvited but completely assured of his place there. He sets down a sleek leather journal, flipping it open with precise movements.

You scoff. “Not all of us are programmed for perfection.”

His lips quirk—just slightly. “Clearly.”

You glare, but he’s already scanning your notes, his sharp gaze dissecting your work with effortless precision. Without asking, he reaches over, flips your notebook around, and rewrites an equation.

“You missed a variable.”

You stare at his elegant script, then back at him. “Do you enjoy making people feel incompetent?”

Zayne exhales, amused. “No.”

His fingers brush against yours as he slides your notebook back. It’s fleeting—so subtle you might’ve imagined it.

"Then what?" You ask. But when you meet his gaze, there’s something else there, something unreadable, something intentionally left for you to decipher.

And for the first time tonight, your exhaustion is replaced with something else entirely.

RAFAYEL

Skips classes religiously, claiming the "academic system is a plague on creative minds." He’s only seen in class when he’s legally required to be there—or when he’s bored enough to entertain himself with a professor’s suffering.

If he does attend, expect dramatic sighs, exaggerated eye rolls, and the occasional muttered insult about how the syllabus is “the death of passion.”

Knows everything about everyone. It’s not that he seeks out gossip—it simply comes to him. He has a way of prying secrets out of people with nothing more than a lazy smirk and a well-placed question.

Unapologetically nosy. If you so much as whisper in the hallway, he’s tilting his head, eyes alight with curiosity, waiting for the drama to unfold.

Despite his disdain for academics, he has the highest scores in philosophy and art history—because, according to him, “those are the only things worth knowing.”

Causes scandals effortlessly. One time, he casually implied that two professors were having an affair, and within a week, half the campus believed it. Was it true? He won’t say.

His art is chaotic, emotional, sometimes terrifying, and always raw. Professors either worship him or think he’s insane—there is no in-between.

Constantly broke despite having expensive tastes. Has a habit of buying ridiculously overpriced lattes just for the aesthetic of holding them.

Everyone thinks he’s a flirt, but he’s actually just very comfortable with physical affection. Will drape himself over his friends, lean against them, play with their hair—but the moment it’s turned on him? Flustered beyond belief.

The type to disappear for days and then show up like nothing happened, holding a new painting and a cryptic comment like, “I was emotionally exiled to the mountains.”

Claims to be a “nihilist” but secretly gets way too invested in people’s love lives. Will drop devastatingly accurate predictions about who’s going to break up next.

Often idles in the clinic when it's physical education time, just because he doesn't want to sweat.

SCENARIO

It’s midnight when you find him, half-sprawled on the studio floor, surrounded by unfinished canvases. The room smells like paint thinner and something distinctly him—smoky, a little sweet, like the remnants of a late-night adventure.

“You’re out past curfew,” he drawls, not even looking up. He’s playing with a paintbrush between his fingers, tapping it idly against his knee. “Breaking the rules? How rebellious of you.”

“Rafayel, I need to close this room now. Ms. Evans told me so.” You cross your arms, stepping over a discarded sketchbook. “You aren't allowed in here this late.”

He finally looks up, eyes gleaming with mischief. “No. But neither are you, so now we’re both criminals! How romantic.”

You roll your eyes but step closer anyway. He’s watching you now, head tilted in that way he does when he’s analyzing something—or someone.

“You should go,” you tell him.

“So should you.” His lips twitch. “But instead, you’re here. Seeking me out. Really suspicious of you, but it's okay, I get people who have crushes.”

You sigh, exasperated. “Rafayel—”

“Shh.” He shifts, suddenly closing the space between you, paint-streaked fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is warm, even through the cold air of the studio.

“I have a theory,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer. “I think you like me.”

Your heart stumbles. “Excuse me?”

“I think,” he continues, ignoring your attempt at indignation, “that you pretend I annoy you, but you keep coming back.” His fingers trail higher, barely grazing the inside of your wrist. “I think you’re more interested than you want to admit.”

You swallow hard, pulse betraying you. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. "That's what you like about me."

XAVIER

Rarely speaks in class, but when he does, it’s always something unexpectedly insightful. Professors are lowkey impressed.

His navigation skills are atrocious. He’ll confidently walk into the wrong lecture hall, sit through 20 minutes of an advanced physics course before realizing he’s supposed to be in philosophy.

Has a perfectly neutral expression 99% of the time. No one ever knows what he’s thinking, and it drives people crazy.

Falls asleep in the most inappropriate places. He’s been found dozing off in stairwells, under trees, and even once, standing up in a crowded elevator.

He doesn’t understand social norms at all. If someone tells him a joke, he’ll just stare at them before giving a delayed, monotone “Ha. Ha.”

Awkward in a way that somehow makes him more attractive. He doesn’t try to be charming, and yet, that’s what makes people drawn to him.

Has absolutely no idea he’s a campus heartthrob. People whisper about him, but he’s too oblivious to notice.

Has an oddly intense gaze. Even if he’s not trying to be, the way he stares at people makes it feel like he’s reading their soul.

Carries a handkerchief like some 19th-century nobleman. And yes, he will hand it to you if you’re crying.

Oblivious to flirting. Someone could directly say, “I like you,” and he’d just nod and go, “Noted.”

His humor is so dry it’s almost undetectable. Half the time, you can’t tell if he’s joking or being serious. One time he approached you suddenly while you read a book about being different, "How many yous would I find in the next school year?" Huh? "Being different, right?"

The most inconveniently attractive person on campus. He’s not trying, but the rolled-up sleeves, the lazy ruffled hair, the calm but unreadable expression? Yeah. It’s a problem.

A student council member but always absent during meetings.

SCENARIO

It’s late, probably too late to be out walking around campus. But here you are, beside Xavier, the cool autumn air pressing in around you.

“You should go back to your dorm,” he says, his voice as calm as ever. “It’s getting late.”

“You’re literally out here too.”

He tilts his head, like he hadn’t considered that. “…Fair point.”

The two of you walk in silence for a while, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. He doesn’t say much, but that’s normal. Being with Xavier isn’t about filling space with words.

Then, out of nowhere...

“Do you want to hold hands?”

You nearly stumble. “What?”

He just looks at you, expression unreadable. “It’s statistically safer to walk in pairs. Handholding ensures proximity.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s… the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugs. “I know.” But his hand is right there, fingers slightly curled, waiting.

After a beat, you sigh and take it. His grip is warm, steady—but then, a slight squeeze. A tiny motion, but enough to send a shiver up your spine.

When you glance up at him, there’s something different in his expression. Just for a second, an almost-smirk. A teasing, knowing glint in his eyes.

Like he’s enjoying this.

You squeeze his hand back.

And he lowers his head to smile.

CALEB

The golden boy of the campus. He’s effortlessly popular—everyone knows him, everyone likes him, but he doesn’t care for any of it.

A natural-born athlete. Captain of the basketball team, but he’s also good at soccer, swimming, and anything that involves physical endurance. He lives for competition.

Too charismatic for his own good. People are drawn to him, but he keeps a natural distance, his warm exterior masking the fact that his attention is extremely selective.

Flirty without meaning to be. It’s not intentional. He’s just too smooth, and it drives people crazy. A smirk here, a casual arm around someone’s shoulders, it all means nothing to him.

Has had dozens of love confessions, but never accepted a single one. No one knows why.

Straightforward and assertive. If he wants something, he takes it. If he doesn’t like someone, they know.

Has a ridiculous amount of stamina. Can play a full game, go to the gym, and still have energy left to pick someone up and carry them effortlessly.

Would rather fight than argue. He’s not one for petty debates, he settles things physically or with an unshakable finality in his tone.

Territorial as hell. His seat in the cafeteria? His parking spot? His people? All his. No one touches them.

Cooked once during a cookery lesson and was annoyingly good at it. Now people keep begging him to make food, but he only ever does it for someone specific.

A terrible tutor. He has zero patience for slow learners and will resort to bribing, challenging, or outright intimidating someone into getting the right answer.

He doesn't always resort to violence, no. When someone pisses him off, tying the person's bag around their chair is all that he needs to do. Sometimes, secretly putting huge rocks inside the bagpack.

Cannot sit still for long periods. He’s either tapping his foot, spinning a pen, or stretching every five minutes.

Despite his unpredictability, he's ranked as the valedictorian of his batch.

SCENARIO

The student lounge is crowded. People are chatting, studying, and lazily scrolling through their phones between classes. You’re sitting on one of the couches, laughing at something your friend just said when Caleb suddenly slides into the seat next to you.

No warning. Just an unbothered, entirely possessive claim of the space beside you.

“Hey—” You barely have time to react before he does something even bolder.

His arm slings over the back of the couch, effectively caging you in. His fingers tap lazily against your shoulder, casually.

You turn, confused. “Caleb…?”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s staring at your friend instead with a forced smile, his usual easygoing nature laced with something colder.

“Are you leaving?” Caleb asks in a deceptively polite tone.

Your friend hesitates. Then, after a forced chuckle, stands up. “I—yeah, I have class.”

They’re gone in seconds.

You blink, not being able to say anything.

“What?” Caleb finally turns to you, his smirk lazy, but his eyes? Entirely unrepentant.

You frown. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He hums, tilting his head slightly, watching you too closely.

“Didn’t I?”

The implication hangs in the air. Like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s already decided what’s his.

[pomefioredove]

😭😭 Please make more hcs of yuu's admiration club plss it's so cute and I ended up reading it so fast 💔💔 feel free to delete or not reply!<3

original post (riddle, leona, azul, vil)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Yuu Admirer Club! 2

type of post: headcanons characters: jamil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, ortho's part is strictly platonic

Kalim has never been one to ask for permission

Jamil's whole life at school is centered around adapting to Kalim's chaos

but this isn't chaotic

it's... quiet. too quiet

it takes him all of ten minutes to realize Kalim isn't in the dorm

of course, Jamil has his suspicions...

he's had his own little fantasies about running away with you

I mean WHAT who said that

as much as he'd like to enjoy the peace and quiet for once,

he knows he'll get in trouble if anything happens

and knowing Kalim, something will happen

so, now, he's standing in Ramshackle's foyer, arms crossed

"what are you doing?"

Kalim is sitting on the floor, weaving friendship bracelets

"oh, I'm gonna stay here. I like it. look, I made you one, too!"

"you cannot stay at another dorm, you are the housew-"

hmmmm... wait a second

Jamil's whole disposition changes, and he smiles all big

"you know what? you deserve a break. I'll just take care of things at Scarabia while you're gone,"

he turns to you "keep him away from open flame."

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Idia knows better than to worry when Ortho goes off on his own

I mean... he still does, but he knows not to

it's just a few hours... just a few hours...

but it's getting dark now, and Ortho's been radio-silent

completely blipped off the map...

Idia slips into his computer chair and starts going through the security cam feed

courtyard is empty, classrooms are dark, even the- what's that?

a familiar electric blue glow is coming from...

he switches between cams to get a good look

and it's Ortho... and you

having some kind of mock tea party with empty cups. some stuffed animals, a few other first years, even Grim is there...

Idia snorts

but... the more he thinks about it...

no. no, he cannot be jealous of his little brother playing toys with the prefect

that would be pathetic. even for him...

still, he can't help but envy Ortho's social skills

maybe, if he could actually talk to you, his yuu admiring club wouldn't have to be an account he secretly runs and folder on his computer...

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

it's unusually quiet in Diasomnia tonight

usually, Malleus would enjoy the stillness of the evening, but there's something quite eerie about it now

"Lilia... have you any idea of where Silver and Sebek are?"

the vice housewarden, upside-down, shrugs

how strange... Malleus cannot recall a time where Sebek has left him alone for more than a few hours

it's... worrying

of course, he goes to you first

not out of suspicion, but because few others could give him a coherent answer while trembling with fear

when you open Ramshackle's door, there you are... and there's Silver... and Sebek...

both asleep in the foyer behind you

what a sight

you explain that some of the boys had started a "Yuu Admirer Club" and surprised you with an impromptu meeting

a sour look crosses Malleus' face

"don't be mad at them, it's my fault. I didn't have the heart to wake them," you say.

"oh, I'm not upset that they've decided to spend their time with you. I understand completely. I am, however, a little upset that I was not invited to this "Yuu Admirer Club"."

[understrangeforbiddenskies]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ i look to you to see the truth

nat scatorccio x fem reader

↣ some headcanons about antler queen!nat in a relationship cus she's going through soso much this season i can't help but want to comfort her :(

*+:｡.｡ warnings / season three spoilers, slight travis diss sorry, angst

𝄞 fade into you - mazzy star

+ asking you for reassurance after a meeting, knowing you'll always tell her the truth because she trusts your words and choices over her own.

+ nat wanting you to keep the relationship a secret, worried about how the girls would react. she doesn't want anyone turning against you or treating you differently because you're with their queen.

+ noticing nat staring at you while you do your chores. you make sure to look back and study her expression just in case she needs you for something.

+ sneaking into her hut late at night when you can't sleep, quietly laying down beside her (she doesn't fall asleep until she feels you holding her).

+ nat sneaking into your hut while you and everyone else are busy doing their chores, feeling the most comfortable in a place that reminds her of you.

+ defending her when the girls gang up on her, always re-stating that she's trying her best as antler queen and shutting down any negative conversations about her if you hear them.

+ she loves forehead kisses. she never directly told you she loves them, but every time you kiss her forehead she can't help but smile at you.

+ noticing travis giving you the occasional weird look, wondering if he knows something. you shrug it off, knowing nat wouldn't want you worrying about it.

+ you rarely saw nat cry but after she became the antler queen, it became more frequent. she'd come to your hut with tears in her eyes, sitting down beside you as she rests her head on your shoulder. the only noise you'd hear was a quiet sniffle or a gentle sob.

+ the first time you kissed, you were lying beside her after you snuck into her hut, this time facing her. you studied nat's face, wondering what she was thinking. you felt her breath on your face, watching her eyes close as you slowly leaned in. you hesitated until you felt her lips press a little harder against yours, a gentle hand finding its way to your waist.

+ on the days where you had little to no chores, you would both sneak away and walk around the woods for a little while. getting even a slight bit of privacy was rare but you cherished it nonetheless.

+ never outwardly saying 'i love you' to one another, preferring to show each other through little things like linking pinkies, giving her berries you find when scavenging, holding her during the night, listening to her ramble about how much she hates being the antler queen.

+ any time nat is upset you distract her by talking about all the things you could do once you get rescued, easing her mind almost immediately.

+ being the only one, other than nat, who knew where coach ben was. she trusted you enough to tell you the truth and you swore to take it to the grave.

+ often times the other girls will notice you sharing clothes with nat. they don't think much of it because, after all, everyone shares a few items of clothing anyway.

+ letting her draw little patterns on your hands with her fingers, knowing it soothes her after a particularly hard day.

+ loves slow, gentle kisses, especially the ones where you're both smiling against eachothers lips. it reminds her how truly loved she is by you.

[gothicfied]

Bf!Nam-gyu / Player 124 Headcanons

Pairing: Boyfriend!Nam-gyu x fem!reader (No Squid Game AU)

Warnings: Mention of drug use/withdrawal, other than that it's just fluff (maybe a teeny tiny bit of angst), not proof read (english isn't my first language)

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who you met at the club he worked at during a night out with your friends. He took one look at you and knew he was in love immediately — Your makeup, your dress, your hair, that you spent hours trying to style it, just everything about you was perfect. He genuinely had to stop what he was doing for a second to get his thoughts straight.

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who just couldn't help but give you drinks on the house, trying to make small talk with you. The music was loud, blaring out of the speakers not far away from the bar, but he didn't need to hear you. For him, it was enough to see you up close, to see you smile and laugh at his cheesy attempts at pick-up lines. He laughed along, trying to overplay his nervousness, which didn't quite work.

જ⁀➴ It wouldn't have been the first time that Boyfriend!Nam-gyu took a girl back home with him that he met at his work, but you were different. He wasn't staring at your body, looking down your cleavage when talking to him, no, he was actually interested in getting to know you. During your short conversation, he could just tell how kind and lighthearted you were. After all, not every girl would entertain his flirting.

જ⁀➴ After a few times seeing you around the club again, Boyfriend!Nam-gyu had secured your phone number, which you wrote down on his hand with a little heart next to it. You couldn't exactly tell why you liked him this much, hut he was weirdly charming and appreciated the fact that he wanted to take you out on a proper date some time. He was cute, you couldn't deny that, so you took up on his offer.

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who stayed true to his word and texted you right after his shift, setting up a date and time for a meeting outside his workplace. He already had everything thought out in his head, perhaps even imagining little scenarios about you before falling asleep.

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who could now actually introduce himself as your boyfriend after a couple of dates, long phone calls and deep talks late at night when you'd stay over at his place. The two of you had developed a strong bond in no time, finding out that you had more in common than you first thought. And, in your opinion, he was the best partner you could wish for. Nam-gyu was attentive, always noticed if you felt bad and cheered you up, funny.. what wasn't there to love about him?

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who you helped get clean and also get a better job. The first few weeks of withdrawal weren't the easiest on him nor your relationship, but you absolutely made it work. You'd comfort him during a breakdown, wiping his tears away for him and hold him against your chest. Your nails would scrape the back of his neck, making him let out a shaky sigh.

"I'm.. sorry about that, baby-" Nam-gyu sniffled, taking a deep breath before looking up at you. "There's nothing you have to apologize for," you replied back, a bit shocked about the fact that he would think he needed to say sorry for crying. "I'm here for you, okay? I love you, don't forget that."

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who would frequently buy you your favorite flowers. You'd always ask him what the occasion was and he'd always just shrug, claiming that he didn't need an occasion or a reason to maks you happy.

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who would try to help you while baking something, but would mess everything up he was involved with. Cookies came out burnt, brownies didn't fully bake through.. whatever it was, it just didn't work out. But, you two had fun while doing it and that was all that mattered. Well, not all the time maybe (you reaaaaally wanted those chocolate chip cookies).

જ⁀➴ Boyfriend!Nam-gyu.. who kisses you awake every morning, even if you could sleep in. Whenever he has to wake up before you, he'd pepper kisses all over your face, partially to also annoy you.

You slowly opened your eyes at the feeling of Nam-gyu's lips against your, turning your head away from him. He laughed and tried to lean over to give you another, but you weren't having it. "Leave me alone!" you blurted out, eyes still closed and all.

"Jesus, can't I kiss my girlfriend goodbye anymore?"

"No."

"Why? What did I do?"

"I hate you."

"Good morning to you too, princess."

[pathologicalreid]

a special occasion | S.R.

moving your daughter into a toddler bed brings about some interesting conversation

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: mom!reader, dad!spencer, the f word, talks about having another baby but not necessarily suggestive, extremely accurate emily prentiss characterization word count: 1.36k a/n: this is the spencer reid dilf agenda: father's day edition! this entire fic was born from a headcanon that spencer is stupid good at building ikea furniture. also, this is technically the family from cryptic, but you don't have to read that fic to know what's happening here. it's just easier than making/naming a new baby every time.

“Emily started trying to teach her to swear,” Spencer told you, pulling a bag of screws out of the cardboard box splayed on the floor in your toddler’s room.

While he started to check whether or not all of the pieces were there, your eyes followed your daughter as she ran around the room, pulling each toy out of her toy box and setting it on the other side of the room. “I think we should consider ourselves lucky that Em waited until she was two to start her campaign,” you responded, thanking your daughter as she handed you a baby doll.

The crib had already been taken apart and was ready to be stored in the basement, and the pieces that were organized on the floor would eventually create a toddler bed. Right now, the floor was just covered in wood and screws – tiny pieces that set your mom instincts on high alert. Looking at the pieces, Spencer raised his head, “Hey, Nellie, can you hand me that screwdriver?” He asked your toddler, pointing at the screwdriver on the floor for her to grab.

You tried to hide your smile as Eleanor picked up the wrench from the floor and proudly presented it to her father. He thanked her, and as she toddled back to her toy box, you slyly passed the screwdriver to your husband. “Welcome,” she said softly, “welcome, welcome, welcome,” she echoed.

After reading about how important it was to involve your toddler in setting up their big kid bed, you and Spencer set out to include Nellie in every step. She picked the bed frame, the sheets, and everything she could possibly need for the bed. “Did you tell Emily not to teach her swear words?”

“Of course I did, but I’m pretty sure she started up again when I left the room,” he informed you, using the screwdriver to attach two pieces of the base together.

Humming, you glanced over to Eleanor, “I’d have thought Derek would be the one to start it,” you muttered, watching as she ducked her entire head in the toy box, obviously looking for a particular toy.

Spencer continued working on putting the pieces together, faltering in his movements as Nell made her way back to where the two of you were sitting. She made her way around the bed parts and unceremoniously sat down next to her father, her pigtails – his handiwork – bouncing as she plopped to the ground. “Hi princess,” he greeted, taking a moment to hug her into his side before returning to his construction work.

Eleanor happily waved the wooden hammer she had retrieved from the toy box in the air, “Help daddy,” she offered giddily, kicking her feet as she watched him complete another step in the process.

“Here, can you hammer this right here?” He asked her, pointing to the part he had just fastened, having her hammer at the screw – she was none the wiser. “Good job,” he praised her before reaching over for the next piece.

Furrowing your brow, you watched him work as Nell hammered at the carpet in front of her, “You’re not even reading the instructions.”

He shrugged, “I looked at them before I started, but I don’t need them,” he said casually, adjusting his arm as Eleanor leaned into him.

You rolled your eyes, “Don’t tell me you can just visualize the way the pieces go together in your giant brain.”

“Okay,” he answered simply, a small smirk sprouting on his face, “I won’t tell you that.”

Groaning, you laid back on the carpet and stared up at the ceiling, “I have been building furniture for years and you’re telling me I could’ve just handed it off to you?” Every bookshelf you had put together while he was off on a case, you could’ve just saved it for him.

Nellie had started creating a song about her love of hammers, continuing to hammer at the floor. “Oh, hey, be careful,” Spencer said gently, “those screws are sharp,” he told her.

Your head snapped up to see her reaching out for the pile of screws on the floor, and Spencer was doing his best to redirect her to the bolts. “Sharp,” she echoed solemnly, leaning back and holding her hammer with both hands.

“Can you say hammer?” You asked, pointing to the apparatus in her hand.

Holding it up proudly, she gave you a toothy grin, “Hammer!” She fumbled over her “r” sound, but Spencer assured you that it was a skill that she had plenty of time to develop.

As Spencer finished putting the bed together, you continued asking Eleanor to name the bits and bobs around her bedroom. “You’re so smart, lovebug. You get your brains from your daddy,” you told her.

“But you’re pretty like your mama,” he instantly responded, not even looking up from what he was doing to talk you up to your daughter – as if the two of them didn’t have the same big, brown eyes.

You pulled yourself up to a sitting position, smiling as Nell stood up and walked over to you, “Mama,” she said, turning around and taking a seat in your lap. “Bed?” She asked, looking over at the spot where her crib used to reside.

Switching from the screwdriver to a hex key, Spencer smiled at the two of you, “Almost,” he answered.

Gently dropping a kiss on the top of her head, you smiled fondly down at your toddler, “Do you remember picking your new bed out?” You asked while you pointed at the frame your husband was nearly finished with and the pile of fresh sheets she had chosen.

Nodding slowly, Nellie watched Spencer place the mattress on the bed frame before inviting her to come try it out. He reached out his hand for her, and she took his index finger in her tiny hand before he helped her up on the bed, “What do you think Nellie?” He asked, straightening out her ladybug overalls from where they were getting twisted up.

“Big,” she answered, releasing her hold on his finger and laying down on the mattress. You checked the time on your phone to make sure she wasn’t missing a nap.

Spencer stood up, picking her up as he did so, he held her close, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “You started climbing out of your crib every night, so you got to upgrade to a big girl bed,” he explained to her. You shuffled over to grab the sheets and start making the bed. “Alright, did Aunt Emily teach you a new word last night?”

From the way she smiled at him, you knew the answer to the question and that she had been informed that Emily would get in trouble for teaching her the word, “Fuck!”

Clamping your hand over your mouth to stop from laughing, you heard your husband sigh behind you, “Did Aunt Emily tell you that you shouldn’t say that?”

“Speshul cay-shun,” she sounded out the answer as he let her down, she went back to the bed that you had just finished making. You helped her up on the bed and she proceeded to lay down on the comforter, patterned with multi-colored flowers.

While she explored her new bed, you stood next to your husband, “Shame we have no use for the crib anymore,” he murmured to you, snaking an arm around your waist.

Raising your eyebrows, you turned to look at him, “Oh, you are fishing right now, Spencer Reid.” You were half joking, half scolding as you beamed up at him.

Spencer placed both of his hands on either side of your waist, “I am merely stating a fact,” he said, feigning innocence.

“Pointedly, stating a fact,” you corrected him, “It’s definitely something to consider.”

“Fuck,” a small voice said from behind the both of you, causing your head to snap back to your daughter, who was now making snow angels on her new bed.

You cringed slightly, “Maybe we’ll revisit after we solve this issue.”

He looked fondly over at the toddler, “You have to admit, it is a special occasion.”

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤWHORE’S FANTASYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : John Constantine x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?

☆⁠ NOTES : There are some +18 parts. Minors DNI. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You don't notice him at first.

Not really.

You're too busy tugging the hem of your cheap purple dress down over your thighs, smeared lipstick staining the corners of your mouth.

Mascara streams down your face, thick and ugly, like bleeding spiderlegs across dead eyes.

You’re half-high, half-drunk, standing barefoot behind the shitty little bar where the real dirtbags like to crawl, and you’re lighting another cigarette with shaking fingers. The end of it flares like a dying star, and you pull the smoke into your lungs like you’re hoping it'll fill the hollow parts of you.

You stink of alcohol.

You smell like roses.

You taste like regret and somebody else’s hands.

He sees you.

God help him, he sees you.

John Constantine, bastard mage, conman, addict, cynic — he’s not a savior. He’s not a white knight.

He's just another piece of shit who recognizes his own.

He flicks the end of his cigarette into the gutter and watches you struggle with the strap of your dress, tits half-hanging out in the yellow light of the alleyway.

You should look pathetic.

You should look cheap.

You do.

But somehow, you look... more, too.

There’s something about you, something cracked and shining and wrong.

Like a broken mirror catching all the wrong reflections.

Something that crawls under John's skin, burrows between his ribs and digs in sharp little claws.

He tells himself it's nothing.

Just another lost girl.

Just another night.

But he’s lying.

Already, he’s lying to himself.

He lights another cigarette and steps out of the dark.

“You alright there, love?” he rasps, voice like a bad memory, smoke curling from his lips.

You look at him with those dead doll-eyes. No fear. No real interest, either. Just this slow, heavy indifference like you're already halfway in the grave.

You shrug.

You hitch your dress up higher.

You don’t bother pretending to be shy. You gave up pretending a long time ago.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice raw from cheap whiskey and cheaper choices.

John should walk away.

He knows this kind of girl, the ones with nothing left to lose. They eat you alive without even meaning to. They rot you from the inside out.

He should turn around.

He should let you slip back into the filth where you came from.

Instead, he laughs.

Soft, almost pitying.

“Just a light, sweetheart,” he lies, flicking open his battered silver lighter even though his own cigarette is already burning between his fingers.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious, but too tired to care.

You let him light your cigarette anyway, leaning in, close enough that he can smell the roses in your hair, the smoke on your skin, the slow stink of desperation leaking off you like cheap perfume.

You don't know it yet, but you've already cursed him.

That first night, he doesn't touch you.

He just watches you, out the corner of his eye, as you stumble back inside the bar, laughing that dry, broken laugh at something nobody else can hear.

He tells himself he won't come back.

He tells himself it's none of his business.

He tells himself he’s already got enough bloody ghosts to haunt him without adding another.

But he does come back.

Again.

And again.

You don't really notice him after that first night.

Not the way he notices you.

To you, he's just another face in the blurry noise of your nights — another man with a lighter, another set of boots tracking dirt across the floor.

You don't know he comes back.

Every night now.

You don't know he sits in the corner, half-drunk, chain-smoking, pretending to mind his own business while you keep carving pieces off yourself and handing them to anyone who asks.

You're too far gone to care.

Always high, always halfway between laughing and crying.

Your eyes — God, those fucking eyes —

half-lidded, lazy, dead as winter, but still so pretty it makes something sour twist in John's gut.

It happens on a Tuesday.

You’re outside again, the bar's back alley, slumped against the crumbling brick wall like a broken doll.

Dress bunched up around your hips, one shoe missing, a cigarette burning forgotten between your fingers.

You’re shaking. Coming down hard.

You’re muttering to yourself under your breath, something sharp and ugly.

John watches you for a long time before he moves.

He hates himself for it.

Hates that he cares.

But he moves anyway.

Without thinking, he fishes a crumpled wad of cash out of his coat pocket and crouches in front of you, holding it out like a white flag.

"Here," he says gruffly, avoiding your eyes. "Get y'self something to eat. A bed, maybe. Somethin' better than... this."

You blink at the money.

Then at him.

And then — slow, crooked grin splitting your face — you laugh.

That dry, brittle laugh, like something breaking.

You grab the cash with one hand — and with the other, you reach for his belt.

John freezes.

You’re clumsy, sluggish, but determined, tugging at his pants like it’s just the most natural thing in the world. Like this is just how the world works:

money = you.

"Y'wanna fuck me, right?" you slur, eyes glassy but sharp underneath. "Go on then, mister. Paid up, didn't you?"

He grabs your wrists, not rough but firm.

Pushes your hands away.

"Christ," he mutters, like a prayer, like a curse. "That’s not why—"

You tilt your head at him, mascara streaked down your cheeks, lips dry and cracked.

You look at him like he's the crazy one.

"Then why else you givin’ me money?" you ask, so blunt it cuts.

"No one gives girls like me free rides, mister."

You grin again, crooked and sad, and your dress slides even further up your thighs.

You don't even notice. Or maybe you do. Maybe you just don't care.

John exhales smoke through his nose, staring down at you, feeling something black and oily coil inside his chest.

"Pity," he says finally, bitter. "Maybe I’m a stupid sod with a savior complex. Maybe I’m just drunk."

You squint up at him through the smoke and the haze, studying him like he's some strange animal you've never seen before.

Then you shrug.

Simple. Easy.

Like you’ve already decided it doesn’t matter either way.

"Y'can fuck me if you want," you say, almost sweetly. "You're not ugly."

John laughs. A short, sharp, broken thing.

He almost wants to take you up on it, just to feel something real for a change.

Almost.

Instead, he shakes his head, rubs a hand down his face.

"Go sleep it off, love," he says, voice rough. "Get a hot meal. For once."

You clutch the money to your chest like it’s something hole.

Like it’s the first good thing anyone’s given you in a long time.

And you just smile at him —

this soft, stupid little smile that shouldn't hurt to look at, but somehow does.

John tells himself it's still just pity.

Just a bit of guilt, a bit of bleeding heart nonsense.

But when you stumble away into the night, barefoot and laughing under your breath, he stays there, standing in the alleyway like a man who's just been punched in the gut.

And he watches you go, smoke curling around him, cigarette burning down to the filter between his shaking fingers.

He doesn't leave.

Not for a long, long time.

He sees you again three days later.

He’s not looking for you —

at least that’s what he tells himself.

Just grabbing a pint.

Just passing through.

You find him first.

"Hey, mister."

Your voice cuts through the noise.

Soft. Small. Almost shy.

He turns, half expecting the same disaster he left behind in that alley —

the smeared makeup, the too-short dress, the wild deadness in your eyes.

But you’re different this time.

You're...

sober.

No makeup.

No booze in your veins.

No cigarette dangling from your fingers.

Just you —

barefaced, raw, skin looking almost too thin for your bones, but real.

Alive.

You stand there awkwardly, hands buried deep in the pockets of a too-big hoodie, cheap sneakers scuffing the pavement.

You don’t look like the kind of girl who sells herself to survive.

You just look like a girl.

"I’m not a beggar," you say suddenly, fidgeting. "But... thanks. For the money."

John blinks, caught off guard.

You flash a little smile — nervous, genuine, heartbreaking.

"Mister's a good man," you say.

It punches something deep in his gut.

He’s not.

You’re wrong.

He’s done worse than you could imagine.

But you say it like you believe it. Like it’s fact. Like it's written somewhere in a book bigger than either of you.

He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.

"You hungry?" he hears himself asking.

You light up. Not much, but enough.

A flicker. A spark.

"Yeah," you say simply.

You spend the day together.

It’s stupid.

It’s perfect.

You get street food — cheap, greasy chips wrapped in newspaper.

You drag him through the streets like a manic little hurricane, pointing out dogs that look like goblins, shouting compliments at old ladies, daring him to race you down alleyways.

At one point, you find a children's park — some half-dead little patch of grass and rusting swings.

You bolt for it like a kid.

"C'mon, mister!" you holler, kicking your shoes off and running barefoot through the patchy grass. "Play with me!"

John stands there like an idiot for a second, cigarette halfway to his mouth.

Then he sighs. Drops the smoke. Crushes it under his boot.

And jogs after you.

You end up pushing each other on the swings, spinning until you're both dizzy, laughing like two drunk ghosts.

You even convince him to climb the jungle gym — which ends with him cursing and almost falling on his ass.

You laugh until you wheeze.

He grins despite himself.

You’re smiling.

Really smiling.

Not that broken, brittle thing he’s seen before.

This one’s messy and real and full of life, like you don’t know you’re supposed to be miserable.

For a few hours, you’re not a ghost.

You’re just a girl.

Later, you sit side by side on the grass, lighting cigarettes with shaking hands.

The sun's sinking, staining the sky blood-red.

John takes a drag, exhales smoke in a long, slow stream.

"You..." he starts, hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

"You gonna... y'know. Work. Tonight?"

You turn your head slowly toward him.

Wide eyes.

Clear and open and a little confused, like you genuinely don't understand the question at first.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp, bright, cutting.

"Why?" you grin wickedly, teeth flashing. "Mister wanna make his money’s worth?"

John winces.

You elbow him lightly, still laughing under your breath, cigarette bobbing between your fingers.

"Nah," you say finally, settling back on your elbows, face tipped toward the sky.

"I’m good. Probably won’t need to for a week, thanks to you."

You tap ash into the grass.

"Guess you bought me a vacation, mister."

There’s a strange peace in your voice.

No bitterness. No shame.

Just simple, stupid gratitude.

John wants to say something —

something clever, something to fill the aching silence between you —

but the words stick in his throat.

You crush the cigarette out on the sole of your sneaker, rising to your feet in one fluid, tired motion.

"See ya, Mister," you say, tossing a lazy wave over your shoulder as you drift away into the gathering dark.

John stays where he is, sitting on the grass, smoke curling around him like a noose.

He watches you go.

Again.

And he tells himself it’s just pity.

Still just pity.

It’s a week later.

Exactly a week.

John remembers, because you said it.

Because your voice — lazy and teasing and sweetly poisonous — stuck in his bloody head like a song he can’t turn off.

"Probably for a week," you’d laughed.

And now it's been seven days.

He tells himself he’s just passing through.

That he’s not looking for you.

He’s lying to himself. He knows it.

The night air smells like piss and diesel.

The streets are sticky with old rain and regret.

The city yawns open, ugly and hungry, swallowing girls like you whole.

He’s late.

He knows it the second he spots you.

You’re stumbling down a filthy back alley, shoes dangling from one hand, the other hand dragging along the brick wall for balance.

You’re half-folded over, bent at the waist like you’re trying to walk on a sinking ship.

Your pretty dress is twisted.

Your hair’s a mess.

Your mascara — the little you bothered with tonight — is bleeding down your cheeks.

You giggle.

It’s a wet, broken sound.

You take two more steps, your legs buckling.

John’s moving before he can even think.

You're about to hit the concrete when John lunges forward and catches you.

"Whoa there, love," he mutters, arms wrapping around your shaking frame.

You giggle again, breathless against his chest.

"Heyyy, Misterrrr," you slur, blinking up at him with those wide, beautiful, dead eyes. "You gonna fuck me nowww?"

John frowns, adjusting his grip on you.

Your body is practically boneless in his arms, and you reek of cheap booze and something sweeter underneath —

roses wilting in dirty water.

"You alright, pet?" he tries, voice low.

You don’t answer.

Just hum some tuneless nonsense under your breath.

Your fingers tug weakly at the sleeve of his coat like a child needing comfort.

"Christ," he mutters, pulling you closer.

"You’re a bloody mess."

You nod cheerfully like you heard him, but you're not really there, not really.

Your head lolls back and you grin up at him — wide, dumb, beautiful — before you suddenly double over and—

you vomit all over him.

All over his coat, his shirt, his bloody boots.

John grimaces, steadying you as your whole body shudders.

"That's alright, love," he says quietly, patting your back while you cough and gasp and sag against him.

Still — something twists deep in his gut.

Doesn’t even think about it.

Instead, he just tightens his grip and scoops you up —

like you’re something precious, something fragile, something he’s terrified might break if he’s not careful.

He takes you to his flat.

It’s not much —

just a shitty little place that smells like old books, cigarettes, and alcohol.

But it’s clean.

It’s safe.

He strips off his ruined coat, tosses it into the sink, and carries you to the couch.

You’re half-passed out by the time he gets you there.

You’re murmuring under your breath, little nonsense things, like a kid muttering in their sleep.

John finds a blanket.

Tugs it up around your chin.

Your face is flushed.

Your lips are parted.

You look so fucking young like this. So stupidly young and vulnerable.

He pulls a chair close to the couch and sinks into it heavily, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

He watches you.

He watches you all night.

He doesn't move.

Doesn’t sleep.

Not really.

When he finally dozes off — just for a moment — the dream hits him hard.

It’s you.

Of course it’s you.

Your body under his.

Your mouth gasping his name.

Your nails digging into his skin.

Hot and dirty and desperate.

His.

He jerks awake with a sick, guilty twist in his gut, heart hammering against his ribs.

You’re still sleeping, innocent and oblivious, curled up like a child under the blanket he gave you.

John scrubs a hand down his face.

"Fucking hell," he mutters.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

You don’t remember a damn thing when you finally stir hours later.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket like a cocoon, staring down at your hands.

When you see him, you blink.

Confused.

Flickering through memories that aren’t quite there.

"I... um," you start, frowning. "Did I...?"

"You threw up on me," John says dryly, tossing a clean t-shirt over the back of the chair.

"And passed out. Real classy."

You flush — a soft, miserable red creeping up your neck.

"Sorry, mister," you mumble, cheeks burning. "Didn’t mean to be a bother."

John ruffles your hair, chuckling dryly.

"S’nothin’, love. You’re alright."

You sip the coffee that he gave you, curling your bare legs under you, shrinking into yourself like a kicked dog.

John doesn’t like that look on you.

Not one bit.

He makes you breakfast —

burnt toast and greasy eggs and orange juice that tastes like tar.

You eat like you haven’t had a real meal in days.

He watches you across the table, smoking and pretending he’s not watching.

When you’re finished, you wipe your mouth on your sleeve and stand up awkwardly.

"I should... go," you say, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

"I'll drop you," John says quickly — too quickly.

You blink at him, surprised.

"Really, mister. It's fine—"

"I insist," he says, already grabbing his keys.

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you get home safe.

He tells himself it’s not because he needs to know where you live.

He’s lying again.

The walk to your place is quiet.

You lead him through crumbling back alleys and graffiti-smeared stairwells until you reach a battered old building that looks half-abandoned.

You pause at the front door, shifting from foot to foot.

"This is me," you say softly.

You smile — small and sad and shy.

"Thanks, mister," you add. "For... y'know. Not letting me die in a gutter."

John shrugs like it’s nothing.

Like it didn’t cost him anything.

Like he didn’t dream about you all fucking night.

You wave again —

that same lazy little wave —

and disappear inside.

John stands there for a long time after you’re gone.

Smoking.

Thinking.

Feeling things he doesn’t want to name.

He can’t stop thinking about you after that.

He tells himself he’s just worried.

Just making sure you’re alright.

But it’s not just that.

It’s the way you looked curled up in his blanket.

It’s the way you smiled at him like he was the only good thing in a world full of monsters.

It’s the sound of your voice — broken, brutal, beautiful.

He starts going back to the places he might find you.

Starts listening for your laugh.

Starts noticing every girl with a cigarette and mascara-smudged eyes and thinking, There she is. That’s her.

But it’s never you.

And the empty ache in his chest just grows bigger and bigger.

It becomes a ritual after that.

Every night now, John comes to take you home.

Doesn’t matter where you are, what you're doing.

He finds you.

In some shit-stained alley.

In the back of some filthy dive bar.

In the arms of strangers.

Sometimes he catches you mid-fuck —

bent over some broken table, some guy's hands bruising your hips, your eyes half-closed, mouth open but silent.

Sometimes you’re wiping your face with the back of your hand when he gets there.

Cum glistening on your cheeks, your lashes, your lips.

John doesn't say anything.

Doesn't yell.

Doesn't judge.

He just shrugs out of his coat, drapes it over your shoulders, and leads you away like he’s guiding a sleepwalker.

But it eats him alive.

Every time he sees another man's hands on you, another man's cum dripping down your chin —

something black and ugly and furious wakes up inside him.

He hates it.

He hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his cursed, miserable life.

So he starts giving you money.

Not much, at first.

Crumpled bills tucked into your pocket with a gruff, embarrassed cough.

"Buy yourself a proper meal, yeah?" he mutters, looking anywhere but at you.

You smile — that soft, broken little smile — and take it without question.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t ask for more.

But John sees the change almost immediately.

You stop letting strange men touch you.

Stop letting them buy your drinks, pull you into dark corners.

You cling to John instead.

Follow him home like a stray cat.

Sleep curled up on his couch, wearing his t-shirts, stealing his cigarettes.

And he lets you.

He fucking lets you because somewhere along the way, he stopped being your savior.

And started being your jailer.

You just don’t realize it yet.

You trust him.

God help you, you trust him because he’s the only man who hasn’t tried to fuck you.

The only man who doesn’t look at you like you're a thing to be used and thrown away.

John keeps telling himself that's all it is.

That he just wants to protect you.

That it’s not about the way your t-shirts ride up over your thighs when you stretch.

Not about the way your bra strap slips off your shoulder when you laugh.

Not about the way your lips wrap around the neck of a beer bottle absent-mindedly when you're not even thinking about it.

It’s not about any of that.

It’s not.

Until the night it is.

You're sitting on the couch, barefoot and cross-legged, wearing one of his shirts that’s far too big on you.

Talking.

You were rambling about your past again—

About shitty foster homes and shittier men.

About how you learned real young what men really wanted.

About how you stopped believing in fairytales because your prince charming turned out to be another monster with rough hands and a mean mouth.

You were laughing when you said it.

That pretty, broken laugh of yours.

Like it didn’t hurt anymore.

Like you didn’t care.

John should be listening.

He really should.

But he’s not.

He’s staring.

At your lips, moving so soft and easy.

At your chest, rising and falling with every careless breath.

At the hint of skin peeking out when you shift, the worn fabric of his shirt clinging to the curve of your tits.

He feels his cock twitch in his jeans.

Hardening.

Throbbing.

And suddenly he’s not hearing a word you're saying anymore.

Just staring.

Just wanting.

You don’t notice at first.

You're still talking —

some story about some bastard who left you bruised and bleeding and crying at a bus stop.

But then you glance at him.

Catch the way his eyes are dark and heavy and fixed on your mouth.

Catch the obvious, aching bulge in his jeans.

Your smile falters —

just for a second.

Just a flicker of something sad and brittle flashing across your face.

And then you smile again.

A dull, tired smile.

Like you're used to this.

Like you expected it all along.

Like it doesn’t even hurt anymore.

You crawl across the couch to him.

Settle between his knees.

Fingers working open his belt like it's just another job, just another disappointment.

John grabs your wrists.

"Wait," he rasps, voice cracked and desperate.

You look up at him.

Not angry.

Not pleading.

Just resigned.

"’S'alright, mister," you murmur, that flat smile never leaving your lips. "You’re different, yeah? It’s fine."

He wants to tell you no.

Wants to shove you away and run and never see you again.

But he doesn’t.

He lets you.

Lets you free him from his jeans, your small hands working his cock free, hard and throbbing and leaking pre-cum.

Lets you take him into your mouth —

warm and wet and willing.

Lets you suck him off slowly, lazily, like you're doing him a favor you don't even care about.

And it feels good.

God, it feels so fucking good.

Better than anything he’s had in years.

Better than magic.

Better than whiskey.

Better than the cigarettes burning a hole in his lungs.

He groans low and broken, one hand finding its way into your hair, guiding you with trembling fingers.

You don't protest.

You don't flinch.

You just take it.

Take him.

Until he’s spilling into your mouth with a raw, guttural gasp, the world going white around the edges.

Afterwards, you sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Still smiling that awful, empty smile.

John pulls his jeans back up with shaking hands.

Silence stretches thick and suffocating between you.

Finally he croaks out, "Do you... do you hate me now?"

You tilt your head at him, considering.

Shrug.

"Hate’s a strong word," you say lightly. "I'm just disappointed."

The words slice into him sharper than any blade.

But you don’t seem to notice.

Or maybe you just don’t care.

You stand up, stretch your arms over your head, and yawn like a cat.

"It’s fine," you add, already wandering toward the kitchen.

"Not that it matters. You're the one paying me now, right? ‘S'all good."

And somehow, that hurt worse than anything.

Worse than if you had screamed at him.

Worse than if you had slapped him across the face.

He just sat there, jeans still undone, staring at you.

At the hollow place where your soul used to be.

At the pretty, broken thing he was slowly making his own.

After that night, something inside you changes.

You’re not sweet anymore.

You’re not soft.

You still smile —

God, you always smile —

but it’s dull now.

Lifeless.

Like a neon sign buzzing in a dead city.

You're full.

Full of disappointment, full of resignation, full of the ugly truth.

John's just another piece of trash.

No different from the rest.

Just another man who wanted something from you, no matter how pretty he dressed it up.

John tries to pretend it’s love.

Tries to kiss you like you're a fucking miracle. Tries to touch you like you're made of something holy.

But you're not.

You’re empty.

You're a vessel. A cracked and leaking thing.

And he’s just another man filling you up with his filth.

Another Mister who wants something and takes it.

You don't hate him.

You don't love him either.

You just accept it.

Same as you always do.

Then it happens again.

And again.

You don’t protest.

You don’t pull away.

You let him touch you.

Let him rut against you.

Let him use you.

But you don't feel it.

Not really.

You don't kiss him with your mouth.

You kiss him with your absence.

You moan because you know he likes it.

You arch your back because that's what they want.

You scratch your nails down his spine because someone taught you that men like to feel owned, just a little.

But your eyes are always distant.

Wandering.

Dead.

John notices.

He notices everything.

How you never meet his eyes anymore.

How your smile never reaches your cheeks.

How you don't fall asleep curled against him like you used to.

You just lie there —

cold, silent, naked —

like a broken doll someone forgot to put away.

Sometimes, when he’s fucking you, he talks to you.

Whispers your name into your neck.

Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you are, how much he needs you.

You don’t answer.

You just whimper prettily when you think you’re supposed to.

It drives him insane.

Because you’re there —

but you’re not.

He can touch you, own you, fill you —

but he can’t reach you.

You’re a locked room he lost the key to.

You’re a dead girl smiling.

One night, he’s rougher than usual.

Not violent.

Just desperate.

Hands grabbing too tight.

Mouth bruising your skin.

Fucking you deep and hard, like he's trying to break through whatever walls you’ve built between you.

You let him.

You always let him.

Afterward, he collapses beside you, panting, sticky with sweat and shame.

You roll away from him, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Silent.

Smiling.

He touches your hair, brushes it back from your face.

"You’re not... you're not mad, are you, love?" he asks, voice raw.

You blink slowly, still smiling that awful, empty smile.

"Nah," you murmur. "You’re just Mister, right?"

You say it so sweetly.

So gently.

And it cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

John doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know how to fix this.

Doesn’t know if he can.

So he just lies there, listening to you breathe, feeling the space between you turn colder and colder.

Like a grave filling up with dirt.

After that, it gets worse.

The sex is mechanical now.

A transaction.

A ritual.

He gives you money.

You give him your body.

He holds you like a lover.

You let him.

He kisses you like you're precious.

You let him.

He tells you he needs you.

You let him.

But in your eyes —

God, in your eyes —

he sees it.

The truth.

He’s no different.

He’s nothing special.

He’s just another man who fucked you when you were too broken to fight back.

Just another name on the list you’ll forget one day when you're drunk enough, dead enough, free enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even blame him.

You just accept it.

Because that’s all you’ve ever known.

And John...

he hates himself more every day.

But he still keeps coming back.

Keeps reaching for you like a man dying of thirst reaching for a poisoned cup.

Keeps hoping for a miracle that never comes.

Because you’re already dead inside.

And he’s the fool who helped bury you.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[mya-valentine]

Hi! it's me again! I'd like to request a few genshin men/boys and most of them are my favs like at least like 14 of them😂 fluff please

I wanted to request a Diluc, Razor (it's fine if you don't do him, but I'm pretty sure he's at least 16 or 17) Xiao, Wanderer, Cyno, Al Haitham, Neuvillete, Kinich, Ororon (there's lack of Ororon love) and Dainsleif. I wanted the headcannon to be like:

their friends asking fem!reader: What do you see in him?

reader: he makes me laugh

i wanted to see this kind of headcannon for so long (i hope it's okay if i can request this much character😅)

Headcanon: He Makes Me Laugh

Diluc

At a cozy café in Mondstadt, you and your friends sit around a small table, sharing stories over steaming cups of tea. One of your friends leans in, eyebrows raised. “Diluc? Really? What do you see in him?”

You take a moment to think, a smile creeping onto your face. “He makes me laugh,” you finally reply.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances. “Diluc? The serious, brooding one? How does that even work?”

You lean back in your chair, recalling a recent night at the tavern. Diluc had been tending bar when a customer made a ridiculous drink request. With a straight face, he had leaned over to you and said, “If I serve one more ‘secret drink’ request, I might just invent a potion to erase memories of it.”

You burst into laughter, and he shot you a quick, playful smirk, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. The moment had felt electric, a fleeting glimpse of the softer side he rarely showed anyone else.

As you reminisce, you can’t help but grin, feeling warmth in your chest. “He’s got this dry wit that surprises me. You just have to know where to look.”

One friend rolls her eyes. “Okay, I can see it. But how do you get him to show it?”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe he just needs someone to break through the brooding exterior.”

Diluc, standing nearby, overhears your laughter and smirks, catching your eye with a knowing look, as if he appreciates the affection behind your words.

Razor

Your friends are gathered in your room, sprawled on the floor as you all catch up. Suddenly, one of them narrows their eyes and asks, “You’re with Razor? What do you even talk about?”

You can’t help but giggle at the question. “Oh, you have no idea. He makes me laugh!”

Your friends exchange confused looks. “Razor? The one who spends all his time with wolves?”

You nod, recalling a beautiful morning walk you took with him through Wolvendom. “The other day, we were watching the sunrise. He looked at it, wide-eyed, and said, ‘Looks like egg yolk spilled.’ And then he asked, ‘Why do people say ‘crack of dawn’? Dawn don’t break…’”

Your friends burst into laughter, imagining Razor’s serious face juxtaposed with his innocent, childlike observations.

“He’s not trying to be funny, but he has this way of looking at the world that’s just… refreshing,” you explain, a soft smile on your lips as you think about him.

One friend grins, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, I guess if you’re into that… unique perspective.”

Razor, who has been listening from the doorway, looks a bit confused but intrigued. “I like egg yolk. It is good food,” he adds earnestly, causing another round of laughter.

Xiao

In a quiet corner of Liyue Harbor, your friends sit across from you, disbelief painted on their faces. “Xiao?” one asks, incredulous. “But he’s so… intense and brooding! What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh,” you respond, shaking your head at their expressions.

Your friends exchange skeptical glances, clearly struggling to understand how someone as serious as Xiao could ever be funny. “Seriously?” one of them challenges. “How?”

You remember a day when you and Xiao were training together on the mountain. As you stumbled over a loose rock, he caught you just in time, and without missing a beat, he said, “Are mortals always this clumsy?”

You had burst out laughing at his deadpan delivery, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He doesn’t mean to be funny, but his honesty is refreshing,” you explain, smiling at the memory.

Your friends nod, starting to see your point. “Okay, I can see how that would be amusing.”

Just then, Xiao approaches, overhearing the conversation. He raises an eyebrow. “You laugh a lot around me. Is that good?”

You grin, meeting his gaze. “Absolutely! It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

Xiao looks slightly flustered but turns away, a hint of a smile breaking through his usual stoicism.

Wanderer

Strolling through a quiet clearing with your friends, one of them shoots you a concerned glance. “So… Wanderer? The same guy who’s known for his prickly attitude? What exactly do you see in him?”

You smirk, already used to the question. “He makes me laugh,” you say simply.

They look skeptical, one raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

You nod, smiling at the memory of a recent encounter. Wanderer had once muttered something about the “absurdity” of people who thought they knew everything about him. He’d followed it up with, “Honestly, they know less about me than that rock does about erosion.” He’d pointed at a boulder, then turned to you, daring you to laugh. But you couldn’t help it—you cracked up, and he’d rolled his eyes, but with the faintest hint of a smile himself.

Your friends seem taken aback. “Wait, Wanderer said that?”

Just then, Wanderer appears, crossing his arms as he approaches. “Are you sharing my profound observations with these mortals?” he asks, feigning annoyance, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he glances at you.

You grin, meeting his gaze. “I can’t help it. You’re just so funny.”

He scoffs, muttering something about “annoying people,” but the faintest smile betrays him, earning a knowing look from your friends.

Cyno

After a long day, you and your friends gather at a cozy teahouse. One of them finally leans in with a curious look. “Cyno, though? Isn’t he a little… intense? What do you see in him?”

A grin spreads across your face as you think of Cyno’s well-meaning, if occasionally dreadful, sense of humor. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look surprised, clearly doubtful. “Cyno? Are you sure? He’s the General Mahamatra!”

You laugh at their disbelief. “Yes, that Cyno. Once, he tried to tell me a ‘joke’ about Teyvat’s elemental reactions. ‘Did you know Pyro and Hydro make steam…y results?’” You can’t help but laugh at the memory, and your friends blink at you, processing.

Then one snickers, and another gives in. “Okay, that’s actually—unintentionally funny.”

As if summoned, Cyno appears at the table. “Did I hear mention of… humor?” he asks with utmost seriousness, casting a proud look your way. “I have another one. What did the dendro traveler say to the withering zone?”

You grin knowingly, but your friends glance at each other nervously. “What?” they ask in unison.

“‘Leave it to me,’” Cyno deadpans, straight-faced. You burst out laughing, your friends struggling to hold back their smiles. Cyno raises an eyebrow, satisfied. “See? I told you humor is a valuable asset.”

Alhaitham

Gathered at the Sumeru Library, your friends can’t hide their disbelief. “Alhaitham? What do you even see in him?” one of them exclaims, shaking her head.

You grin, leaning back in your chair. “He makes me laugh.”

“Really? The stoic scholar?” they ask, bewildered.

You reminisce about a quiet evening when you found him deeply engrossed in a book. You had asked, “What’s so interesting?” He glanced up and replied, “The existential dread of characters in fiction is quite entertaining. They can’t even do anything about it.”

His deadpan delivery made you laugh, and he’d raised an eyebrow, confused by your reaction. “You find that funny?” he’d asked, genuinely perplexed, which only made you laugh harder.

Your friends start to nod, clearly amused. “Okay, maybe he has a point there.”

Alhaitham, overhearing your laughter, approaches with an amused glint in his eye. “I see you’re discussing literature. Should I be concerned?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you’re worried about being funny.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Then I have nothing to worry about.”

Neuvillete

In the refined atmosphere of Fontaine’s opera house, your friends question your attachment to Neuvillette, the reserved Chief Justice. “So, what do you see in him?” one friend asks, an eyebrow raised. “Neuvillette’s so… solemn. He barely smiles.”

You chuckle, casting a glance at the grand stage. “But that’s the thing. He makes me laugh when I least expect it.”

Your friends exchange looks, clearly unconvinced. “Really? Neuvillette?”

You nod, remembering a moment from an evening much like this one. Neuvillette had been watching an opera, his typical composed expression in place, when he leaned over and whispered, “I find it curious that, despite its grandeur, this aria is about a fish lamenting her lost pond. Dramatic, isn’t it?” His understated humor and subtle wit had made you stifle a laugh, though he looked pleased with your reaction.

One friend’s eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, he actually jokes? In his own way?”

At that moment, Neuvillette arrives, having overheard the conversation. “I merely observe the world as it is,” he says with a faint, almost invisible smile. “I trust I’ve provided adequate amusement?”

You smile up at him warmly, while your friends look at each other, slowly starting to see his appeal. “Yes,” you reply, reaching for his hand. “You certainly have.”

Kinich

As you and your friends stroll through the bustling markets, one of them nudges you, raising an eyebrow. “So… Kinich? He’s got that cold, intense vibe. What do you see in him?”

You chuckle, picturing the man who, beneath his pragmatic exterior, occasionally revealed a dry, clever humor that caught you off guard. “He makes me laugh,” you reply, smiling.

Your friends blink, visibly unconvinced. “Kinich? The Kinich? The guy who talks like every word is a business contract?”

“Trust me, he’s funnier than you think.” You recall a time when you had teased him about always being so serious. He had given you a mock-stern look and said, “Seriousness is simply efficiency applied to communication. If I were to, say, laugh needlessly, it would be inefficient—unless, of course, you think I’m funny?” His tone had been deadpan, but you had caught the sparkle in his eyes, which only made you laugh harder.

One of your friends scoffs, half amused, half disbelieving. “He’s secretly funny? Now that I have to see.”

Just then, Kinich appears, drawn by the sound of laughter. He stands with his usual composed expression, his gaze steady as he glances at you. “Am I interrupting?” he asks, though his eyes linger on yours with a warmth your friends would never guess at.

“Not at all,” you reply, a mischievous smile on your lips. “We were just talking about how funny you are.”

A single brow arches, and he replies smoothly, “If efficiency in humor is what amuses you, then I suppose I’ve succeeded.”

Your friends stare, open-mouthed, as he gives a faint smile, the smallest show of his affection reserved just for you.

Ororon

Gathered in a quiet grove just outside the bustling village, your friends share stories, each of them glancing at you with barely concealed curiosity. Finally, one of them speaks up. “Ororon? Really? He’s so… unconventional. What do you see in him?”

You smile, looking down at the wildflowers in your hand. “He makes me laugh.”

They seem taken aback, sharing doubtful glances. “Ororon? But he’s so… odd. He even lives out in the woods by himself. Isn’t he a little too eccentric?”

You laugh softly, thinking of all the moments Ororon’s uniqueness had brightened your days. “Maybe. But he’s more observant than anyone I know.” You recount a day spent walking with him through the forest, where he had pointed out a bird with feathers the color of storm clouds and said, with absolute conviction, “Look at him, he’s judging us. Clearly, he’s unimpressed with our lack of feathers.” You’d laughed, and he had given you a small, playful smile.

One friend smirks, shaking their head. “You actually find him funny?”

Before you can answer, Ororon appears, emerging from the trees with his usual easygoing stride. “Are we discussing birds?” he asks, his expression calm as he settles beside you. “I could have sworn I saw a bird earlier that looked particularly snobbish. Perhaps it’s you it dislikes.”

You laugh, reaching for his hand as your friends chuckle, finally starting to understand his strange charm. “Exactly,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze.

Ororon gives a satisfied hum, his eyes meeting yours. “See? Nature understands us well.” And in that moment, your friends see how the quiet humor of this eccentric man makes him so dear to you.

Sitting on a rooftop overlooking the stars, your friends are still trying to wrap their heads around your choice. “Dainsleif? Really? What do you see in him?” one asks skeptically.

Dainsleif

You smile softly, reflecting on your experiences. “He makes me laugh.”

Your friends look puzzled. “But he’s so serious and mysterious!”

You recall a late night when you were stargazing together. He had shared tales of his travels and then abruptly said, “In the end, I find that stars are just like people. Some are bright, some are dim, and some are just… lost.” Then, after a pause, he added with a straight face, “But at least they all shine, even if it’s just for a moment.”

You had burst into laughter at his unexpected metaphor, and he’d turned to you, a hint of confusion in his eyes as he asked, “Is that amusing?”

You nod, a warm smile on your face. “Yes! It’s all about perspective with you.”

Your friends nod, starting to see the appeal. “Okay, that’s a bit poetic.”

Dainsleif, overhearing the conversation, walks over with an amused look. “If my musings provide amusement, then perhaps I should share more.”

You grin. “Please do! We could all use a little more humor.”

.

.

.

Masterlist

[mocchii-writes]

Hi, could I please request jealous and possessive Chishiya? Thanks

Paring: Chishiya Shuntaro x fem!reader

Warnings: Aggressive guys, reader gets kinda uncomfy, mentions of showering together lols

A/n: Hope headcanons work, totally willing to expand this, tho just lmk ♡

The type to lowkey stalk you before dating

He wouldn't think of it as stalking tho. He would just want to know more about you

He would claim he doesn't get jealous, but he does

Arisu getting a little too friendly? Oh boy

He'll find a good moment to briefly pull him to the side

Arisu is innocent, he just gets a talk

It's possibly a scary one, but better than a random guy touching you up sometime

Don't they know you're his?

Well, they do now!

And he'll try to keep you out of the loop

Though you may question where he got split knuckles, he'll brush you off

He might get a little clingy after

At least, for Chishiya

"You know you're mine, right?" He'd say, not really asking

"Are you jealous?" You smiled

"That's not what I said."

You might decide to hang out at the pool for a little

but you know that never lasts long

After one too many people hugging you, or a few more guys talking to you than Chishiya would prefer, you'd feel two hands on your waist, and a swift exit would be made

He'd have a huge glaring issue

but he doesn't care, nor is it an issue to him

It scares off most problems people, though

He's the type to get silent revenge

He's not one for making a scene, usually, but if it's the easiest option, well...

You were sipping a nice tropical drink, sitting by the pool with your legs in the water, when a boy walks up to you, clearly checking you out as he sits beside you.

"Hey there." He smiles at you. He seems innocent enough, and he probably isn't aware that you're not up for grabs, but Chishiya isn't one for the benefit of the doubt. He knows how this will end, but he watches from the shade to grasp how much he could get away with.

"Hi!" You smile, waving back. The boy quickly breaks his soft exterior and rests his hand on your shoulder, smirking at you. It's almost funny if you weren't so uncomfortable.

"Wanna go catch some shade?" He stands up, pulling you with him a little aggressively. His serenade is cut short, though, as he feels a harsh sting shoot up his calf as he stumbles into the pool. A hand briefly covers your eyes from the splash, and you don't have to think twice when you're being pulled away by Chishiya, leaving a commotion behind you.

"A little aggressive, no?" You ask him. He simply shrugs in response.

He'd almost never get upset at you because you never flirt back with anybody but the man himself

Sometimes, though, he can mistranslate a situation and get upset

He usually gives you the silent treatment until he'll finally breaks, snapping something at you

"Do I not satisfy your expectations? Am I not enough for you?" He'd say angrily.

"Chi-Shi, you know that's not true. Stop it!" You'd plead.

"If you're so interested in other people, go on then." He doesn't mean it. He never does. He knows if you tried to leave, he would beg if he needed to. He truly can't live without you, but you'd never hear him say that.

Whenever he's jealous, you can tell.

He'll always deny it, but he's got a darker look in his eye, and he's probably a little clingier

Very touchy, in private more than public

He'll hold you in public if he wants to send a message, though.

When you're spending time with him (often) he probably will struggle to let you up

"I need to shower. Please let me get up." You'd smile, whining.

"Only if you let me join." You wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off his face as you struggled and eventually gave up with a sigh.

A/n: Hope this works, Anon! I was trying not to surpass the line between possessive and yandere, but I assumed it wasn't too big of a deal ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ also had some NSFW ideas for this too, so lmkkk

~🍡🍡

Send requests!!

[legalmente-loca]

23 with Dean plss!!! 🫦

Oh, I know what you are looking for and I will give it to you😏

Prompts: “Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Tags/Warnings: 18+, smut, Dean being a menace, sex in the bathtub.

You were sitting in the bathtub, eyes closed. Dean had gone on a hunt and this was your only way to relax and not think about his well-being. That's why you always said goodbye to him with a kiss and a hug, wishing him luck and asking him to return safely. You knew he was a professional and knew how to handle himself, but the fear was still there.

You were so deep in thought that you didn't hear Dean open the bathroom door. The first thing he had done when he arrived was look for you and when he didn't find you, he went to the room you both shared. He saw the closed bathroom door and the light peeking out from underneath and a mischievous smile spread across his face. He placed his bag at the foot of the bed before walking to the door.

Your body was so relaxed that your sixth sense failed when Dean approached.

“Enjoying your time alone?”

You jumped, opening your eyes in surprise. The water in the tub swayed, some falling to the bathroom floor. You put a hand to your chest, feeling your heart racing.

“God, Dean! Why do you have to be so quiet? You almost gave me cardiac arrest.”

Dean just laughed and raised both hands in peace.

“I'm sorry, honey, didn't mean to.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest, drawing Dean's gaze to that spot.

“So…” He looked over your body.

"So?"

You exchanged glances and he ran a hand over his mouth.

“Is there some space left in that bathtub?”

You smiled sideways and shrugged.

“I don't know, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe...”

He nodded and placed his hands on his hips.

“Well… We better find out.” He said before taking off his shoes along with his socks.

You laughed as he stepped into the tub still dressed, standing in front of you as the water rippled back and forth.

“What are you doin’?”

He took off his shirt and lowered himself until he was close to your face, keeping his balance by gripping the edges of the tub.

“You look beautiful like this, doll.”

He closed the short distance and kissed you, his tongue immediately intertwining with yours. You didn't waste your time, not after having him away. You ran your hands over his hard chest and lowered them to his belt, taking it off before unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them and his boxers down as far as you could.

Seconds later, he was inside you, water spilling around you as you moaned. Your nails scratching his back as his cock hit the inside of your pussy again and again, rubbing against your walls wonderfully.

“You feel so good, doll.” He rested his forehead on yours as he watched your expressions.

“I missed you.” You muttered.

“I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.”

And as it all built you felt comforted beneath him, most of your body submerged in the water, your legs around his hips and his breath on your face.

You wished it would last forever.

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