#*headcanons

[forlix]

· . ˚ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞

— the little mannerisms you pick up from the members of stray kids over the course of your relationship.

words・3.7k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / genres・fluff, humor, borderline crack, intentional lowercase, established relationship(s) / warnings・minsung’s are suggestive, touch of anxiety in felix's, jeongin's is lowkey gross LMFAO

a/n・massive shoutout to @/http.dwaekkii on tiktok for their edits about the boys' habits, which i consulted for chan, changbin, seungmin, and jeongin (and to @astraystayyh for beta reading hehe. what would i do without u). these were sooooo fun to write, hope u guys enjoy (｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )

chan + getting shy easily. poor thing gets embarrassed so quickly as it is. throw you into the mix and it’s just critical hit after critical hit. defense lowered. no health potions left. he folds like a lawn chair with a massive smile and a whiny “stooooop” every time you say something even remotely affectionate. the habit is adorable, and you love it to pieces.

but you like poking fun at it even more. “god forbid i find my literal underwear model of a boyfriend attractive,” you’d say, or something along those lines, which of course only triples his embarrassment and on more than one occasion results in him starfishing on your kitchen floor, his hood pulled over his face.

fast forward however many months. he’s still the worst compliment-receiver you know, but you discover one arbitrary afternoon that it’s rubbed off on you.

the two of you are cuddled together on the living room couch in your usual fashion, your legs thrown over his thighs and his hands tracing absently over your shins as you relay to him something you overheard on the subway. the conversation is painfully normal. you’re almost bored. you pause to take a breath, and he murmurs, out of nowhere, in the dreamiest tone: “so damn beautiful.”

“wha—huh? what is?”

“you. your voice, your face, everything. i‘m lucky.”

your expression of bewilderment persists for around ten seconds, and then slowly, so slowly, you begin to sandwich your head between your knees, balling yourself up like a spooked armadillo. chan wonders if he should call an ambulance.

“love?” no response. “what, uh, what’s happening right now, exactly?”

no response. no response. then, hoarsely, “you can’t...say shit like that…randomly.”

he notices two things after that. one, your skin is burning hot enough to fry something upon, and two, you’ve formed a fist in the fabric of his hoodie, which you only do when you’re pretending to be annoyed at him. the puzzle pieces fall into place, and he starts grinning like a madman.

“you’re…embarrassed?”

the guttural groan you emit is more than enough of an answer, and the cute aggression that overcomes chan is fucking debilitating. he wraps his arms around you and hauls you entirely off the couch and onto his lap, littering kisses over your face until it finally resigns into a matching smile. all intent to continue feigning grumpiness erased with the drop of a hat. you drape an arm over his neck.

“you’re so good to me, channie,” you sigh helplessly. “i love you.”

“love you more, baby.” he imprints these words directly upon your lips, then pulls away, giggles. “that was very me of you, by the way.”

“i know, right? i was just about to say.”

minho + butt touching. it’s quite simple, really. if lee minho is within proximity of someone’s buttocks, he will, as he lives and breathes, make it known. will it be a coy little swat or a yelp-eliciting, full-bodied grab? nobody ever knows, not even him. the unpredictability is what makes it exciting.

but it takes a while before this starts applying to you, because the way minho touches you is…different. doting. there’s no other way to describe how he always holds the nape of your neck while kissing you, how he rests a hand against the small of your back whenever he leads you somewhere, how during the nights you can’t sleep he guides you to the place on his chest where he knows his heartbeat is loudest. he even drags you into his trademark headlocks the same way one would hold an invaluable treasure. he’s so obsessed with all of you that he never thinks to pay just your butt special attention (though it is, indeed, a special butt).

you take it into your own hands. literally.

you don’t know what prompts it—maybe you’ve simply seen minho slap his members’ asses one too many times, or maybe you’re still thinking of the specific time minho slapped changbin’s ass in passing and it fucking echoed, or maybe minho just looks especially fine in this practice outfit, a skintight tee and washed sweatpants that hug him in all the right places—but you feel a new urge today as your boyfriend swings his duffel over his shoulder, circles around the kitchen counter.

he puckers up as he nears you, silently requesting his goodbye; you give it to him, relishing for a moment in the familiar, soft plush of his lips beneath yours. then he pulls away and turns to leave, and your hand acquires its target.

“go get ‘em, tiger.” thwack!

minho jumps a foot into the air. clutches his pearls and his left butt cheek. becomes the splitting image of that perplexed blonde lady surrounded by geometry.

but when he turns around to stare at you, the smirk melting across his face betrays how he really feels about what you’ve just done. good. really good.

you, meanwhile, look genuinely confused. “it’s like it moved on its own.”

minho beams. steps towards you daintily, intentionally, like a cat catching sight of a laser beam. brings a hand to your hip, murmurs, “that’s what we’re doing now?” kisses you again, for longer this time.

you fully foresee his fingers wandering to your ass to give it a gentle squeeze, but you reach up to cuff his shoulder when it happens anyways, and his laugh vibrates against your mouth. it seems you’ll be reaping what you’ve sown from now on.

(good luck.)

changbin + the Cackle™. yes, you said something exceptionally funny. yes, you expected changbin to find it funny too. but you couldn’t expect the godforsaken noise that left his mouth as he threw himself straight into the tree planter behind you.

your mind spun with frantic questions as you helped him out of the dirt. had the spirit of spongebob just usurped his vocal cords? were you on a date with the wicked witch of the west? most importantly—

“are you well?” you sputtered, which only made him laugh harder and his laugh so much crazier, so you started laughing, too. and you were goners, falling over each other until you’d been reduced to watery eyes and sore cheeks, your giggling interrupted only by the sound of you slapping his thigh every so often, heartily enough to reverberate around the little park in which you concluded your second date.

that’s how you fall for seo changbin: laughing. with a reckless, breathless abandon you didn’t think possible. stumbling across empty sidewalks, spitting noodles across dining tables, begging for mercy on studio couches. wrestling under tear-stained comforters, starting (and re-starting) silly stories, huffing into beaming kisses. the list goes on.

you never quite get used to that chortle of his, too busy enjoying its insanity to notice how your own chuckles grow shorter and shriller, how they gradually develop an edge like the chittering of a forest dweller.

you complete your transformation on your ninety-eighth date. 

no, changbin doesn’t say anything exceptionally funny. no, he doesn’t expect you to find it exceptionally funny, either. he expects least of all for you to fold over the kitchen island and start cackling like cruella de vil on helium.

jisung turns around from his seat on the couch. chan’s footsteps come to a halt as he emerges from the bathroom. both of them have fear in their eyes as they witness your undoing.

the only thing on changbin’s face, though, is unfettered delight.

“b-baby,” he sputters with a growing smile. “are you—”

you lift your face off the marble surface and turn to face him. the entirety of your forehead and the point of your nose is covered in flour. you blow a cloud of the stuff out of your mouth like a dragon awoken from slumber.

he loses it.

the two of you make your way onto the floor in slow motion, ending in a tangled heap against the side of the counter. changbin tries to clean off the flour and smears it all over your cheeks instead. you are zero help whatsoever, smacking his bicep like that’ll help you catch your breath. your synchronized, diabolical laughter reaches every corner of the apartment. your happiness reaches every nerve ending.

chan and jisung look at each other and sigh. jisung takes a video.

hyunjin + side-eyeing. this man is so god awful at controlling his face, bless him…and DAMN HIM.

on one hand, you love how in tune with his emotions he is, how confidently he puts them on display. and you love your synergy. you come closer to believing in soulmates every time you glance his way and discover your exact feelings written all over his features; it’s a special type of happiness, sharing a brain with your favorite person in the world.

on the other hand, you think there’s a time and place for candor, and he tends, well, not to think at all. during many a precarious situation, you’ll catch him wearing an expression so transparent that he might as well arrange the words THIS IS STUPID AND I HATE ALL OF YOU over his head in neon lights. cue a dig of your heel into his toe, a hiss of pain cut short by your piercing glare. if you’d known ahead of time that dating hwang hyunjin would have you doing so much damage control…you’d still date him, let’s be real. but you do get stressed at times.

the night the tables turn, you’re at a celebratory dinner for your coworker’s birthday. small caveat: you can’t stand her. she’s the type to spontaneously combust if she goes two minutes without talking about herself. certainly doesn’t help that she’s downing champagne like water, and her lips are looser than ever.

hyunjin comes with you, fortunately. or not. he spends the whole evening trying so hard not to laugh: snorting into his bread, excusing himself to “cough.” you think he actually starts doing breathing exercises at some point. you’re so, so grateful that he’s here, but you’re also deathly afraid that he’s gonna bring out those neon lights in front of your entire office.

then, she flirts with him.

from the opposite end of the table. perfectly wasted but still knowing perfectly well that he’s yours. the whole patio goes silent. hyunjin’s jaw hits the table.

your fork clatters to your plate.

FUCK time and place.

the side-eye you give her is devastating. truly masterful. your brow furrows. your eyes turn to slits. your gaze does the up-down-up of unadulterated incredulity. hyunjin recognizes the motions straightaway and starts smiling so hard his whole face hurts.

you take your boyfriend’s wrist and stand up. he follows suit. you don’t say a thing as you leave the restaurant, and you don’t have to. the intensity of your disdain was more than enough; anything more and she might’ve started crying.

once you’re on the curb outside, hyunjin pulls on your interlocked hands, brings you close. his lips brush against the shell of your ear. you hear laughter and his smirk in his voice: “you might be the sexiest person on earth."

jisung + how he applies lip balm. that han jisung is the pioneer of modern day babygirlism is the worst kept secret in the world. that han jisung applies lip balm the riveting way he does, however, is unknown even to you. until one morning.

you pop into the bathroom and make your usual beeline for your toothbrush, only to end up motionless in front of the sink, staring. jisung is a bit off to the side, hair pinned back by a cinnamoroll headband, eyes glued to his phone, hand holding a tube of chapstick that you can actually see getting shorter in real time. he looks so pensive, so concentrated. how long has it been since he last blinked? you’ve half a mind to pull out a stopwatch.

finally, he rubs his lips together, recaps the chapstick, and makes eye contact with you in the mirror. a smile crosses his face, equal parts confused and amused.

“baby, your mouth is open.”

you close it. then you open it again, and your words come out in a barely-contained laugh: “what on earth did you just do?”

“what do you mean?”

“the—” you point at his mouth, then do your best impression of an elementary schooler trying to color inside the lines. “—that.”

jisung looks aghast. “that was LIP BALM.”

“no, i know what it—you’re so—i meant, why do you apply it like that?”

jisung continues to look aghast. “like what?”

“like you’re one of socrates’ prized pupils and the answer to the universe’s formation lies at the bottom of—” you step in close, reach into the pocket of his sweatpants. “—this tube!”

it might be the craziest thing you’ve ever said to him. he bursts into laughter, the kind that leaves him no recollection of what he does with his limbs, and when he can see straight again he discovers he’s pressed you gently against the counter. his fingers latched around the hem of your top, his grin inches away from yours. can’t stay away from you to save his life, this one.

“do i actually?”

“yes! holy shit, it’s so cute.” your arms circle around his neck, also without an ounce of thought, also through a fit of giggles. “no way you’ve always done that, right?”

“i don’t know. i’ve never thought about it.” a pause. a tilt of his head, with purpose. “am i…doing it wrong?”

the question is a trap and you realize it too late. your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips—a ray of sunlight glistens off the pink plush like a paid actor—then back to his eyes. let’s find out.

you lean in. so does he. and his mouth tastes and feels like melted fucking sugar. it’s such a pleasant surprise that you actually moan, and he chuckles against you. lifts you onto the edge of the sink. your mind really goes empty after that, save for one thought. i have to start doing that.

felix + checking his own pulse. you saw it from afar, the first time.

he stood by the stage’s entrance just before curtain up, pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of his neck. eyelids sealed closed, chest heaving. you tilted your head, puzzled. worried. then the concert began, and you pushed the image to the back of your mind.

it returned to the forefront right before bed.

“you do it when you’re nervous?”

“yeah. forces me to ground myself. turns off the world for a bit.” the hand rubbing circles into your back paused. “wanna give it a go?”

“what, checking my pulse?”

“mine.”

you lifted your head off the pillow. felix took your hand from where it sat upon his ribs, isolating two fingers and nestling them over his jugular. his quickened heartbeat pressed into your skin like the world’s gentlest tattoo.

the sixty seconds began and concluded in total silence.

“well?” he whispered.

“ninety-three,” you answered, lightheaded from the sheer intimacy of it all. “you’re nervous right now?”

“something like that,” he hummed. pulled you down, kissed you deeply. there were no more words exchanged that night.

the habit surfaced more than you knew. while driving to visit your parents. after a stupid argument with a bouquet of flowers tucked beneath his free arm. you started doing it for him in the times he couldn’t, and he’d cover your hand with his own and kiss the top of your head silently, gratefully.

two years have passed since, and you’ve vanished from the dinner table.

felix asks the nearest waiter for directions to the restrooms. you don’t notice when the door swings open, unmoving in your spot over the sink, your pointer and middle finger pressed against the side of your neck. 

his hand finds your hip. you let him turn you around and bring you to his chest; he glances at the crystalline droplets studding your lashes and falling from your cheeks. his eyes convey what his mouth doesn’t need to, not anymore.

let me.

you do.

his fingers replace yours the moment you drop them from under your jaw, the movement like clockwork. he counts your every heartbeat with unblinking concentration, his heart growing heavier the higher the number climbs.

the sixty seconds begin and conclude in total silence. 

“well?” you whisper.

“hundred and six,” he answers. to his confusion, a smile pulls at your lips. 

he wonders if it’s a trick of the bathroom lights when he sees the tiny box you pluck from your pocket, but there’s no mistaking the reality of the diamond ring that sits behind its open lid.

the earth slants under his feet.

“crazy.” you giggle through your tears, run your thumb over his cheekbone. “that’s how many years i want with you.”

seungmin + poking eyes(?) he’s hardly touched puppym when your voice is slicing through the living room air like a fucking beyblade. 

“KIM SEUNGMIN, UNHAND HIM THIS INSTANT.”

do you have a sixth sense just for this? he throws his hands up in exasperation. “he’s literally me. i’m allowed to do whatever i want with me.”

“he’s not you, he’s our son.” you pop out of nowhere to swipe the plushie from over your boyfriend’s shoulder. “my son, if you keep this up.”

“just say you hate me and my preferred avenues of self expression.”

upside-down, he watches you dust off puppym’s face and smooch his forehead with a tenderness that makes seungmin unhappier than he lets on. you then tuck him into your jacket pocket. the little shit’s expression looks strangely smug poking out of its cotton capsule.

“i’m asking you to not gauge his eyes out, not to deliver me the holy grail,” you say. “you’ll survive.”

but then he feels your hands on either side of his face, and you lean over him like the mj to his peter, leave a kiss on the space between his eyes, too. he has zero say in the bashful smile this brings to his face.

“but why do you do that, seriously?” you mutter.

“i have no idea,” he replies. “but it’s fun. try it.”

“i’ll think about it.” you lean in again, and he nearly forgets what you were talking about in the first place when you kiss him on the lips this time. “okay, i’ve thought about it. no.”

“hate you,” he says despite the literal hearts in his eyes, and then you’re off to work.

puppym takes strikingly after his father. they have the same bangs. the same compulsively squeezable quality. the same little :3 that can only allude to sinister plottings. you’d be loath to admit that you sort of comprehend seungmin’s poking predisposition.

one night, seungmin falls asleep before you even finish your nighttime routine, and you spot in his peaceful, upturned face an opportunity.

you lie belly-down on your side of the bed. your fingers splay into a peace-sign in the air. your smile stretches further into a cheshire grin the closer you bring your hand. you’re just about to reach the ends of his eyelashes when—

“I KNEW IT!”

you almost catapult into the ceiling. then you try to make a mad dash for the bathroom. but seungmin shoots a hand around your wrist like he’s actually peter parker and pins you down before you so much as take a step. your only remaining option is to sulk about your foiled plans. (and blush, because, well, you’re under him.)

“amateur,” he tsks. “you gotta test my breathing to make sure i’m asleep first. shit’s foolproof.”

you blink at him for a few seconds. his words finally click.

now you almost catapult him into the ceiling.

“HOW MANY TIMES?”

jeongin + eating food in one bite. so you might be an instigator.

“hwuck,” he grumbles around the whole ice cream cone in his mouth, face scrunched up in a brain-freeze-induced wince. “ayee ith waz a bah iyeah.” (translation: fuck, maybe this was a bad idea.)

“you got this. just take it slow,” you urge, except he’s stopped moving and speaking and closed his eyes as if he’s descending into a deep sleep. you’re actually concerned for about two seconds, and then his jaw begins to oscillate leisurely like an elderly cow in his favorite pasture. false alarm.

after some time, he swallows, beams. “so am i the fucking best or what.”

“yeah you are,” you echo, and he swings an arm over your shoulder, plants a chocolatey kiss on your temple. the two of you celebrate his daesangs with less enthusiasm.

“when are you doing that with me, by the way?”

“the one-bite thing?” he nods. “mmm, coaches don’t play.”

“mmm, this one will.”

“doubtful.”

fast forward a few weeks and you, jeongin, and his younger brother are sitting cross-legged on the porch in his backyard. three full-sized oranges rest in the center of your makeshift circle. damn is yoon hard to say no to. (runs in the family.)

“the rules!” he declares. “eat the orange whole! first to swallow it wins! you can’t spit it out!”

you wait. “is that it?”

“yes!”

why was the delivery so grand?

jeongin places a fond hand atop his brother’s head. “i’ve brought you a new loser, yoonie. get excited.”

you feign an indifferent scoff, but jeongin spots the fire that ignites behind your eyes like that of an anime protagonist, the resolute grip with which you palm your orange. he smirks. he’s never known you to take trash talk sitting down. or sitting cross-legged on his porch.

yoon counts you off. “ready…”

“good luck, coach,” jeongin sings.

“shut up, pipsqueak.”

“set…GO!”

in amusing unison, you and yoon try and fail to fasten your teeth around even half of the fruit. jeongin, meanwhile, fits the whole thing into his black hole of an oral cavity and launches into that dumb cow impression again.

desperate times call for desperate measures.

you rip the orange from your lips. “yoon! your brother’s ticklish, right?”

both yang siblings’ eyes widen—the younger’s in growing delight, the older’s in impending horror.

the latter reacts first. “ay, ay, ay, ah ahes eh ooles!” (translation: wait, wait, wait, that’s against the rules!)

but the former moves first, and you’re right behind him.

jeongin weakens when the younger boy assaults his sides, crumples when you target the back of his neck, the sounds leaving his mouth getting progressively louder and somehow even less intelligible.

he eventually has to spit out the orange to avoid death by pulp going down the wrong pipe and spins around in indignation, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. but his annoyance—

you’re back on the floor, gnawing hopelessly at the the orange again. “ih ih eawahin, ooh.” (translation: this is embarrassing, yoon.)

yoon replies, “huh?” (translation: huh?)

—dissipates, immediately.

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[dramaticals]

can you please do soft!theo headcanons?

theodore nott + being soft headcanons

Theo has a hard exterior that makes him appear distant and cold. He's notorious for brooding and his tone is typically drenched with sarcasm. It'd take some time and the right person to crack the shell and reveal the more soft and loving side of him.

Once the shell is cracked—oh boy. Theo doesn't hold back.

He'll always find a way to be close to you. He can be content with just being shoulder to shoulder, casually brushing knees as you sit beside him in the library. But if the situation allows for it, Theo will sling his arm around your shoulders, plant forehead and temple kisses, and suggestively (and in rare occasions, not-suggestively) position his hand on your thigh. He also develops the habit of twirling a few strands of your hair around his slender fingers, mindlessly and tenderly fidgeting.

Theo's the type of guy to pull you close to him as you cuddle and keep warm by the fire. As avid readers, this is also the prime time for the both of you to read.

Theo's sarcastic and dry humour doesn't suddenly vanish when you've gotten his guard down. It's prominent, but less harsh. He's teasing you, making you laugh and roll your eyes at how far he plays into the bit, and his eyes will absolutely light up in amusement and adoration if you play and banter back.

"Nice shirt." Theo smirks. "Thanks, it's yours."

And as much as he'll deny it, Theo truly enjoys seeing you in his sweaters and shirts. He'll feign annoyance as he gives you something of his to wear after an intimate session, knowing too well that he wouldn't see it again for another few weeks, but he loves it. It's like a subtle yet very obvious way that tells everyone that you're his when you end up wearing it out in public. And the best part is, you never have to ask him for them.

Theo loves hard and shamelessly, and it'll be so obvious to you and everyone around him how smitten he is with you.

[captainofthedauntless]

I cannot stop thinking about how much Leo would adore domesticity help

Fuckin.... dishes. Cleaning the table after a family meal, his family in the next room all happy and full, and seeing you wash a plate off in the kitchen, and he just implodes a little. Any time you offer to clean up he's right there with you, wiping up crumbs and collecting dirty lasagna dishes from the stove and packing up the leftovers. It's like meditation and a little like cocaine, he thinks, the way he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of the way you look doing something so normal. He's microdosing on a normal life, and then you crack some dumb joke neither of you will remember in five minutes but he'll remember the warm, bubbly feeling that goes with his laugh until the day he dies.

Laundry, too. Folding your towels so you don't have to, thinking about how nice the warm, soft fabric feels on his hands, thinking about how much it feels like your smile. Looking up at you from across the pile of freshly-dried clothes and trying to match the way you fold your shirts and letting out a sheepish laugh when you try not to laugh yourself at his attempts.

Straightening up, scrubbing surfaces, organizing clutter, fucking cooking (which is a whole other post)- he just eats up every second of it, because it's safe. It's calm and comfortable. You're letting him into your life or helping him with his, you're taking care of a problem together, you're a team, you're his partner.

And when you let him help you? You're tired from work or dealing with a flare up or depressed or overwhelmed and you let him break down the boxes littering your floor and pick up the dishes that seem to multiply every time you blink? You trust him with your things enough to let him take over part of your to do list? His ass is in heaven. He hates that you're not yourself but he fucking loves feeling useful and he wants nothing more on this planet than to be useful to you.

Then he's hit a wall some time, right, he's exhausted and stressed and can't take one more instance of bullshit or he'll just crumple like a tower of blocks, and you offer to take care of some task for him. Maybe it's just making his tea or maybe it's putting equipment away in the dojo or maybe it's being an extra set of hands for Donnie in the lab so Leo can meditate instead. And this man feels it physically. It's like a hot bath or that perfect stretch after he wakes up. You put a hand on his shoulder and he looks at you and you smile, and say I got it, and he gets hit with such a strong wave of I love you that he has to take a second to get himself together.

In summary Leo's an acts of service bitch and in this essay I will-

[monsterboness]

foreplay

pairing: lars ulrich x female reader

warnings: NSFW, smut

a/n: something for my lars babes so you know i haven't abandoned you

let's not kid ourselves here, lars isn't the biggest guy in the world and he's fully aware of that

he knows that there are many more ways to pleasure you other than using his dick and he’s gotten very good at it

any time he offers to use his mouth on you is better than your birthday and christmas combined

he knows every single nook and cranny of your body and how to please you

loves breasts. he can’t get enough of them. even if he’s not in the mood for sex, he’ll still play with your tits just for something to do with his hands.

he always starts off by just taking them in his hands and squeezing them, but at some point the feeling of him pinching and tugging at your nipples becomes too distracting and you’ve got some wetness that needs to be taken care of

being a drummer, he knows the best rhythm to use his fingers on you

he could play with you with his fingers all day

even when you beg him to stop, he still wants to keep his hands on you

he’s a receiver more than a giver, but when he does give, he’s very passionate about it

he could spend hours going down on you, licking and sucking at your sensitive flesh until you’re pulling his hair and squeezing his head between your thighs

if he’s feeling particularly generous, he’ll do everything to make you feel good and not expect anything in return.

but don’t expect it to happen all the time, he doesn’t get called ‘the prince’ for no reason.

[alienguts]

Bruce + Bookworm S/O (Bruce Wayne x GN!Reader HCs)

Warnings: none

A/N: just a little something i thought of while at work. Part 4 of Picking Up the Pieces is still in the works!

Despite being someone who has No Spare Time™, Bruce is very well read.

He was reading the classics by the time he was ten years old, so he's got the reading skills and the literary chops, he just doesn't have a lot of time.

While his favourite titles are by authors like Charles Dickens or Sun Tzu, he doesn't know a lot about modern authors.

Sure, he knows who Stephen King is, but he doesn't know Stephen King.

He's been asked at charity events for schools and libraries what he thinks of recent releases, and while he tries to have at least a vague idea of what's the hottest thing, he usually has a default answer.

Depending on what mood he's in, he either refers back to the classics, or plays on the 'dumb playboy' persona and says that he hasn't read a book since high school.

When he found out that you were a huge bookworm, he tried to become more knowledgeable about modern literature.

You likely met in a bookstore that he took Damian to and struck up a conversation with you over a book that you were reading the back of.

You'd noticed him numerous times while browsing and often overheard the store's staff talking about Bruce Wayne and his pushy son, but you never thought that he would ever talk to you.

Your first date was, of course, in the bookstore's café and he treated you to whatever you wanted, including books.

You didn't want to push your chances with him, but he was happy to get you that special cloth bound edition that you thought you wouldn't be able to afford.

The study is your favourite room in the entire Manor, and he learnt that quickly.

You get to have a Beauty and the Beast library in real life, things don't get better than that!

Most of the books there are old editions or academic journals that have been accumulated in the 100+ years people have lived in the Manor.

Eventually, some colour will be incorporated into the shelves and there will be an eclectic mix of covers in amongst all the brown spines.

There are times when Bruce has come home very late from a gala or from patrol and found you still awake, reading in bed.

"Sweetheart, I think you should get some sleep now." "Just let me finish this chapter first."

God help him if he ever tries to take a book out of your hands.

He's fought gods, monsters, serial killers, and weird giant crocodile men but he wouldn't even think about taking a book from you while you're reading.

[helraising]

the thing about helena is that she accommodates always -- not just as a teacher, but as a vigilante too! she's learned ASL and she knows how to speak conversationally in a multitude of languages; she's learned to pick up signs of adhd, autism, panic attacks, depressive episodes, and whatever she'd be seeing commonly as a teacher in not just kids but also adults, but instead of diagnosing you, she just observes what you're struggling with and adapts accordingly without making a big deal out of it; if she hears that even one of her JL teammates has dyslexia, she remakes all of her powerpoint for the next meeting stat to use more accessible fonts; she's very mindful of people's allergies, phobias, and other triggers

and she never says she's accommodating for you, she either asks "would it help if i do this?" or just does the thing and sees if it helps you or not; she also would still do these things for you even if you're not actually disabled but still struggle with it

she cares a lot, but she's a reserved asshole outwardly

[demonicsuffrage]

Bruce has a strict 'no metas/powers (except duke) allowed in Gotham' policy in place but it has a clause, BYOR (Bring Your Own Robin)

No one is allowed entry untill and unless they can produce their very own certified robin-shaped identity card

Whenever someone with even a hint of supernatural powers in them arrives at Gotham, they're first met with Bruce standing at the city border with a notepad in hand

Bruce: State your name and purpose.

Kon: Kon-el, here to hangout!

Bruce: Your Robin?

Kon, flourishing Tim from behind him: Ta-Da!

Tim, waves: Hey Bruce

Bruce: Approved, you may enter

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce: Name and purpose?

Hal: Here to investigate a case, Hal Jordan

Bruce: Your Robin?

Hal: I.... don't have one?

Bruce: Denied

Hal: What?! But-

Bruce: Denied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce: Yes, Wally, where's your robin?

Wally: Oh shit lemme just- *zaps away and returns with Dick, who was in the midst of brushing his teeth, in a bridal carry*- Here!

Bruce, grumbling a little: Fine. Approved.

Dick: You gotta stop using me as a key already, man

Wally: Blame Bruce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce: Name and purpose?

Clark: Clark Kent, here for our monthly barbecue

Bruce: Robin?

Clark, producing an actual robin bird: Does this count?

Bruce:.....yes

[lorkhanagendaposting]

"A society that separates its lore masters from its horny posters will have its headcanons written by prudes and its erotic fanfic by fools."

[forlix]

· . ˚ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

— the moments in which the members of stray kids realize how they truly feel about you.

words・1.4k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / warnings・depictions of conflict and anxiety in hyunjin's and han's / genres・domestic fluff, smidges of hurt/comfort, established relationships

a/n・thought i'd try out a new fic format :-) i had so much fun writing these and hope you like reading them just as much. any and all feedback is appreciated, as always!

chan is in a heated staring contest with his notepad when the door opens, and he knows that it’s you who comes in, but his head is miles away, tangled in an amalgamation of syllables and rhythms. he goes on to forget that you’re here for a short while, poring over the unfinished lyrics in front of him with undivided focus. that is, until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

you’ve just pulled a chair up next to his desk. “lemme see,” you say, gesturing to the notepad. there’s a surprised pause, and then chan places it in your hand, scoots closer to you.

you spend the next two hours talking him through his block, but there are periods when you fall silent to brainstorm or to write something down, and chan takes those quiet opportunities just to look at you: wearing one of his old t-shirts, your hair still damp from your shower, completely concentrated. and he knows, then, that he wants to marry you.

minho doesn’t realize he loves you in a singular moment. rather, he has a faint inkling for some time, and then the rug is randomly pulled from beneath his feet, and all of a sudden he can’t remember a version of his world that didn't have you at its center.

there are times when he’s especially aware of his feelings, though. like when he throws a witty remark in your direction and your retort comes back twice as sharp. when your eyes and smile light up like lanterns as you talk to him about your passions. when one (or all) of his cats hover at your side as you go about your day. when he returns home after a grueling practice and you’re there to offer him your comfort, no matter his withdrawn demeanor or sweaty skin.

he is a quiet lover, and sometimes he worries that he’s too quiet, that you have no idea what’s going on inside him every time he looks at you. but words have never really been necessary with minho. you know. you just do.

changbin is greeted by a chilly breeze when he emerges from the gym, and he silently chastizes himself for forgetting to bring an outer layer yet again. but the temperature moves to the back of his mind when he spots you, waiting on the sidewalk, as you said you would. a familiar grin breaks across your face when you see him, and he feels its shape against his lips when he runs over and kisses you, in lieu of hello.

“what are you feeling for dinner?” you ask once he’s pulled away, and he realizes that you’ve pressed something to his chest: one of the hoodies that he keeps at your place, still soft and warm from just coming out of the dryer. and boom—the epiphany hits him, instantly and unequivocally.

he is dumbfounded for a moment, just processing the newfound discovery; and then, out of nowhere, the two of you say the name of the same restaurant at the same time. he swears he never believed in soulmates until he met you.

hyunjin has always held so many emotions in his heart so fervently, to the point that they sometimes overflow in the form of words that he doesn’t believe, in a tone that he doesn’t intend. and it happened again today, when he spoke to you the wrong way in a moment of pure impulse, and the surprise on your face morphed into poorly-disguised hurt.

a few hours later, the weight of his actions sits heavily on his shoulders. when he lifts his phone to call you, his hands are shaking a little, and a breathy apology spills from his lips the moment he hears you on the other end: “i’m sorry, angel. i’m trying, i promise. i really am.” to which you answer, “i know, hyune. i forgive you. we’ll keep trying together, okay?” and your words pull his heartstrings in a new direction entirely.

he asks if he can come over, you say yes, and he tells you he loves you as soon as you open the door. he’s done hiding his heart from you.

jisung’s contagious grin and raucous cackle come easily to him for the most part, but there are times when he forgets how it feels to laugh or to breathe, times when he wants only to hide from the world and all of its scariest parts. and when you see his figure in the doorway tonight, his face cast in a nameless shadow, his shoulders sunken in quiet defeat, you understand immediately that this is one of those times.

“do you wanna talk about it?” you ask as he approaches you. silently, he shakes his head: not tonight. but his body language asks for what he cannot verbalize. you extend your arms toward him, and he buries himself in them the second he’s close enough to, his face nestling the crook of your neck, the tension in his limbs melting at your gentle touch. you stay there for a long time, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, coaxing him back to the ground, back to you.

wherever he chooses to hide, he thinks he’d like to take you with him.

when felix opens his eyes, the space in the bed next to him is empty, and the faint scent of flour and sugar wafts through the gap beneath his door.

he gets to his feet, throws on some clothes, and wanders in the direction of the smell, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—and the sight that awaits him makes him wonder if he’s still dreaming. you’re standing at the stove, still in your pajamas, hair slightly disheveled from your rest, and there are pancakes in the frying pan before you; sliced strawberries on the cutting board next to the stove. and the look of sheer focus on your face, as if staring at the pancakes will cook them faster, absolutely destroys him. (and he knows in that moment that he wants to wake up to you for the rest of his life.)

with an enamored smile, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulls your back to his chest, and presses a light kiss to the nape of your neck. “morning, beautiful,” he mumbles sweetly. “how fucking lucky am i?”

being around you makes seungmin feel like a kid with a crush. he smiles brighter and laughs louder. he opens like a lotus in bloom when you say his name. the floaty sensation he gets when you kiss his cheek or hold his hand persists for hours afterward—and none of it makes any fucking sense to him. it’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, but he’s never believed that love could feel like this, straight out of a sonnet.

now, your head is on his shoulder, your body rising and falling in your slumber. seungmin looks at your interlocked hands where they rest on his knee, and at the current track displayed on his lockscreen: “still” by day6, a song about losing and loving, about regret and reminiscence. those bright days between us are over, the lyrics go, and he makes a silent promise to your sleeping form that the bright days between the two of you will never end.

the word "love" still doesn't cross his mind, but it is etched all over his face, and carved into his soul.

you and jeongin are telling each other about your days over dinner when your phone lights up with an incoming call, and he nearly spits out his mouthful when he sees who it’s from. for a few seconds, the two of you just stare at each other in flabbergasted silence. but then, you raise your phone to your ear: “hi, grandma! to what do i owe this pleasure?”

and the voice of his grandmother comes back through the receiver. she tells you that she’s just gone on an evening walk and found herself thinking of you, so she wanted to see how you’re doing; if you’re taking care of yourself. you rush to thank her, looking entirely flustered, and a bit like you’re about to burst into tears.

with that, the two of you launch into chatter about everything under the sun: grocery store discounts, the recent humidity, jeongin’s bad habits, you name it. and it finally dawns on jeongin how inextricably embedded in his life you have become—and that he doesn’t want it any other way.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[dramaticals]

following instructions: part two (headcanons)

pairing: theodore nott x reader

author's note: mdni. i never planned for a part two, so here's some notes / headcanons on what would happen next. it's slightly nsfw since the first part was smut. au where characters at hogwarts are aged up to be 19+. / requested by anonymous.

✧ read part one: following instructions ✧

You and Theo continue to have meaningless, frustrated sex every so often which spans over a few months. Lots of bickering during it all. There's an unspoken challenge now of who can get the other into a moaning mess the fastest.

Theo wins majority of the time, but you refuse to verbally say so (he knows).

Outside of sex, Theo continues to get on your nerves, as always, but a part of you starts to get used to it and even like it.

Theo finds himself looking for you in every class you share, stealing glances and sending teasing and suggestive looks your way. He knows how to get you flustered and he'll use that knowledge whenever inconvenient for you. This frustrates you because you're just trying to pay attention in class, but you feel the heat pooling below and you're constantly squirming.

When you confront him after class, Theo's sporting his classic smug expression, knowing he did his job well for you to be lecturing him like this.

Theo'll tower over you, eyes trained on yours as you tell him off, but all he's thinking about is putting your potty little mouth to use.

At an all-houses party, the two of you are mingling in different circles, talking to your own set of friends. A Ravenclaw comes up to you and starts chatting you up aggressively. He's irritating and you can't quite shake him. You're almost ready to pull your wand out and jinx him until you feel a strong, familiar arm on your shoulders, tugging you close to him protectively. Almost instinctively, you relax into Theo, snaking your arm around his torso

Theo shoots the Ravenclaw a deadly look, making them shut up and slink away, moving on to their next target.

"Why did you do that?" You ask. "Annoying you is my job." Theo shrugs.

And he just keeps his arm around you for the rest of the party, an effective deterrent to any and all other suitors, but you honestly didn't mind, and Theo didn't either.

[alienguts]

Halloween Parties (Ash Williams x GN!Reader)

Warnings: mentions of alcohol

Ash isn't a lover of Halloween, but he does like going to parties

Don't expect him to have a costume, though. He hasn't done that since he was a kid.

The most he'll do is have a smear of fake blood or lipstick on the corner of his mouth and say he's a vampire, or have one of those arrow headbands

If he really isn't in the mood for even a bare minimum costume, he'll just put on nicer clothes and say that he's a werewolf just not when there's a full moon.

He prefers house parties to going out to a bar because it costs a lot less, but he doesn't mind going out either.

Ash's main goal when going out for Halloween is to just get wasted and have a good time with his honey, which is something he can do anywhere.

Some of his favourite Halloween memories have been just hanging out at home with you watching a movie marathon and getting drunk - because that doesn't necessarily require getting dressed up, or getting dressed at all.

He's not the biggest fan of horror movies - he prefers action or comedy - but he will watch them with you if you want him to

He may even use it as a way to get some sugar, but it doesn't always work.

When it does work, you can guarantee that things will get steamy and the movie gets forgotten about.

Don't expect Ash to dance at a party if it's not a slow song - his style of dancing is bound to draw some stares and if he's not tanked up he'll get a little self conscious

When the occasional slow song comes on, he'll dance with you, but it can also just be an excuse to touch your butt in public.

Ash is a big fan of pulling an 'Irish goodbye', which works a lot better when the only person he knows in a room is you. You'll know when he wants to go because he'll follow you around like a baby chick and give plenty of hints.

He truly does like parties but everyone has a limit and wants to go home at some point, including Ash.

As long as real monsters don't make an appearance, Ash considers it to be a good Halloween.

[hurtspideyparker]

YES the Thunderbolts have a fantastic team as family dynamic, yes they are living in Avengers tower, yes history is repeating itself and 2012 tower fics are so back. BUT!

instead of "Alexei eating poptarts" or "Yelena in the vents", we must come up with new headcanons and make history

Bob always does normal domestic chores, often getting in the way of important missions and spy business. "All I'm saying is Bucky is our best sniper" "It would be a much quieter assassination if I just slipped into the condo and cut his—" "Hey sorry guys, anyone have laundry? I'm doing a load"

Yelena and her guinea pig always eat meals together at the dining table. Everyone has their Chinese food or barbeque, meanwhile the rodent is loudly munching on a salad right beside them

Bucky is the mom and always keeps them on track. "Ava you have a dentist appointment in the morning, and bring Bob so they can add him to the insurance. Lena how was therapy? Alexei, I said no vodka until dinner"

Alexei is always coming up with new promotional ideas for the team. Cartoon tv show, cereal, toothpaste flavour...every day he thinks he's come up with the next big thing. Whenever they actually get put into production (Wheaties) he collects and saves it, and won't let anyone use a different product. (He threw out Yelena's frosted flakes and it took both Bucky and John to get her to stop attacking him)

Ava likes to phase and sneak attack her teammates at random. She claims it's for training but really she just thinks it's funny hearing them scream

John gets blamed for everything, even if it isn't his fault. Especially if it isn't his fault: "who ate the last bagel?" "John." "Where's my hair straightener?" "John had it." "Whose turn is it to unload the dishwasher?" "Johnnnn"

[asinglebluefeline]

I'm a very big fan of the “one of the ways Batman fights crime is by making the bad guys afraid he could be anywhere”. The “he’s not in every shadow, but he could be in any shadow” thing.

I think it would be fun to mix that with the way the rest of the batfam is drawn when they're in shadows:

the glowy eyes and splashes of vibrant colour, especially with Nightwing's symbol looking like it's actually reflective.

So now I'm thinking:

imagine if Gothamites realized that dangerous people get really uneasy when they keep seeing things that, out of the corner of their eye, might look like a vigilante. To the point that they avoid areas where, let's say, an old poster on the wall is just that shade of yellow that keeps jumpscaring them every time they turn. Or that old trash can that still has a patch of green paint that hasn't peeled away yet. Not even realizing what makes them nervous, just knowing that a particular place makes them jumpy. Stuff like that.

So to keep themselves a little safer Gothamites just start… adding little things like that in their neighborhoods. Nothing that outright references the Bats - stuff like that might get vandalised or just lose the effect if it's recognised, but things like:

- plants on window sills in flower pots or vases in bright colors

- little shiny trinkets in the windows that just might be mistaken for a flash of a utility belt

- colorful curtains get very popular for children's bedrooms

- someone sticking a piece of blue reflective vinyl on a chimney visible from the street, so that as you walk you see a little flash of electric blue when the light from streetlights hits it just right

- people painting a pair of dots with glow-in-the-dark white paint high up on walls by fire escapes or in dark alleys, that look like glowing eyes

So basically I want Gothamites to invent protective charms and amulets which have exactly zero supernatural properties and aren’t intended to have any, but still very much work lmao

[lili-home-to-embraces-and-hugs]

The Batcave has a “Do Not Talk To Me” couch. It’s sacred. It’s unspoken. It’s real.

okay so. picture this:

the batcave has one couch. it's in the corner. it’s hideous. it’s like beige or green or something equally offensive to every one of their aesthetics. no one likes the couch.

and that is exactly why it became sacred.

because one night jason just. drops onto it. full gear. bleeding. absolutely done with life. says nothing. doesn’t even take off the helmet. sits there in silence for 3 hours and then leaves.

next week tim uses it. sits there post-mission. face in hands. someone tries to ask if he’s okay and jason throws a batarang at them.

and thus it began.

Rules of the Do Not Talk To Me Couch:

You sit there? No one speaks to you.

You cry? No you didn’t.

You eat cold noodles off your chest at 4 a.m.? That’s sacred time.

If someone tries to comfort you? They are excommunicated for 12 hours.

Dick (sitting on the couch):

Damian: Grayson, are you—

Jason (from across the cave): HE’S ON THE COUCH.

Jason: I don’t make the rules.

Steph: You LITERALLY made the rules.

Jason: And I am the defender of the rules. There’s a difference.

one time damian storms in. covered in blood. absolutely furious. 10/10 rage goblin energy. throws his sword. marches to the couch. sits. arms crossed. steaming.

tim takes one look at him and goes: “i’m making tea.”

jason: “that’s acceptable. tea is allowed. talking is not.”

bonus:

once bruce sits on it.

and the ENTIRE CAVE goes silent.

tim literally freezes mid-typing. cass stops mid-flip. jason just mutters “oh shit.”

they all leave. immediately.

the couch is not ready for bruce.

extra bonus:

alfred vacuums around the couch. never says a word. leaves snacks in a silent offering. once placed a weighted blanket gently on jason’s shoulder. that’s different. he’s allowed.

[spacephrasing]

I’m starting a rumor