oozey mess
Three Goblin Art
sheepfilms
hello vonnie
occasionally subtle
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Sade Olutola
YOU ARE THE REASON
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Cosmic Funnies
trying on a metaphor
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Xuebing Du
tannertan36
styofa doing anything
Cosimo Galluzzi
we're not kids anymore.
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Misplaced Lens Cap
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Brazil
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seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Brazil
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@how-serene
so here's the facts...
Hello! You can call me Cas. I am a writer in their 20s who has a deep love for the horror genre (films, books, etc.) and music. My inbox is always open to chat. Thank you to anyone who reads my work.
Masterlist | Request Rules | AO3
it’s missing ghost!bob o’clock right now…
💍anon - I just finished re-reading my favourite book, and now I'm just wondering what you think the lads guys would be like for a reader who is also a massive bookworm?
(also, I love love love your darker stuff so please don't be worried about posting it!❤️)
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Bookworm
𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb
𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ just pure fluff
> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ The boys with a bookworm reader
If you want more head cannon prompts to practice on, then allow me to assist (or if youd rather write something not loke a head cannon, a drabble a fic whichever, then just choose a LAD man! Whatever is comfiest for you!)
So i was looking back on some pictures of myself, some professionally done ones. I distinctly remember the photographer telling me not to smile in my pictures.
I don't have a bad smile mind you, least I dont think sso, but now whenever it comes time to smile for a picture, I get all insecure.
So how would the LADS men react to hearing such a story? Or maybe when taking some professional pictures, .aybe the photographer is mean to reader and our boys step into defend us! ( because having someone angry on your behalf feels nice)
Course if this isn't something you wanna do that's fine, just thank you for taking the time to read this!
well... hi! ngl i had both fun and quite a challenge with this one. i really struggle writing sylus and xavier at times, and i can't lie that it is hard to adapt a scenario for all the LIs... BUT it was fun nonetheless (kudos to those authors who really nail writing headcanon scenarios!!) anywayyyy i hope you enjoy them! i did think writing a short scene for each of the LIs fit this scenario better~ (p.s. not proofread)
Headcanons - Smile for me? (aka the LIs reassuring MC about their smile)
Rafayel
Rafayel always had a keen eye for beautiful things. So naturally, whenever inspiration struck him, you were most often than not either the reason or part of it. You’d never doubted it, that he found you beautiful. He seemed especially happy himself whenever you were beaming with happiness and good energy, smiling at him until your cheeks hurt.
That was, until you had to accompany him to a magazine photoshoot. He was reluctant to go, because he disliked this sort of stuff. But you thought you’d spare Thomas the headache and promised to accompany him instead.
Now here you were, surrounded by staff and makeup artists, while Rafayel was posing in the middle of the setup, as he did for the past hour, his eyes occasionally seeking you. You were happy he seemed to at least tolerate the idea of being photographed 20 times per minute, or at least not pouting at you between breaks.
It wasn’t until the photographer asked for a set of pictures with the two of you, something about looking good on the front page. You smiled politely and followed Rafayel in the center of the setup, following the photographer’s instructions. Everything was fine, until you smiled a little too brightly, making the photographer sigh subtly and ask you to refrain from doing that, because it won’t look good at all, and would seem too fake.
The smile never left your face faster.
The photographer, oblivious, was already rattling off the next pose. Rafayel did not move. His hand found the small of your back instead, warm through the silk of your dress, broad, possessive in a way, and stayed there, anchoring you while he tilted his head slowly, “Sorry, repeat that, please.”
The photographer repeated it, less confidently this time.
“And here I thought I heard you wrong,” Rafayel’s mouth twitched, “Interesting. Because I’m pretty sure I’m the one whose face is on the brief. And I’m pretty sure I asked her to be in the shot because she has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever painted. So we can either do it the way I want, or you can find someone else’s gallery to leech off.”
He didn’t raise his voice once, but quite frankly, he didn’t need to. The studio went very still around you, and you watched the photographer reassess the entire situation and his entire afternoon in real time and arrive at the only sensible conclusion.
“...Of course, Mr. Rafayel. Apologies. Whenever you’re ready.”
Rafayel hummed, but you knew he was still displeased. He turned his head and looked at you, his eyes moving over your face like he was making sure nothing had been damaged.
His thumb stroked once against your spine.
“Smile for me, cutie.”
“Raf—”
“Mhm. Give me the proper one. The one that hurts your cheeks.”
You felt your throat do something stupid. He was watching you with that infuriating, patient softness he reserved exclusively for you—the one that always made you feel less like a person and more like something very precious and treasured—and you smiled because you couldn’t not, embarrassed and full and a little wet at the corners of your eyes, and the camera went off three times in quick succession before either of you noticed.
The photographer chose one of those for the cover.
Later, in the car, when you mumbled something self-conscious about the whole thing, Rafayel who was sprawled in the passenger seat, scrolling through the proofs on his phone, tipped his screen toward you without looking up.
“Look at this. Look at her, cutie. Tell me again that smile shouldn’t be on a magazine.”
You looked. Your whole face was on fire.
“I have been trying to paint your smile for months. Months. Do you know how many canvases I’ve gone through? Because I can’t get it right. Because every single time you smile at me it’s different, and every single time it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and some guy with a camera told you to stop, just like that.”
His thumb traced the corner of your mouth. Your eyes stung.
“You smile however you want,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice cracking open into something raw and unhidden and so entirely him. “Smile so wide it blinds everyone that looks at you, okay? I’ll make sure to get it right after, I promise.”
You kissed him before you could think about it
He saved that photo as his lockscreen on the way home.
Zayne
It came out at dinner, unceremoniously, the way most of your soft confessions did with Zayne—sandwiched between a comment about the weather and you asking him to pass the salt. I never really like smiling in pictures, some photographer told me not to once and I guess it stuck.
You said it lightly. You did not mean for it to land.
Zayne set his fork down.
It was the smallest gesture, but you knew Zayne. Setting the fork down meant you had his full and undivided attention, and his full and undivided attention was rarely a comfortable thing to be on the receiving end of. The corner of his mouth tightened. The corner of his eyes did the same.
“That was unprofessional of him.”
“It’s fine, Zayne, it was years ago—”
“It’s not fine. He was wrong to say that, and to make you feel like you had to believe him.”
He crossed the table. Stood in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your chin up to meet his eyes—green and steady and warmer than he’d ever let you see. His hand came up, cool fingertips brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that made the ache in your chest bloom slow and sweet.
“When we were children,” he offered quietly, “you used to smile at my snow seals.”
“The ones that looked like snowballs?”
The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “They were anatomically accurate.” his thumb grazed your cheekbone. “That smile is one of the few things I’ve carried from that time. I’d rather not hear that someone convinced you to put it away.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked hard, fast.
“Your smile is one of my favorite things about you.”
That was the problem with Zayne, that was always the problem, because he never said anything he didn’t mean, and you were left sitting there with your face on fire and your throat doing something stupid while he calmly and tenderly looked at you
You did not bring it up again. Zayne, however, did.
It was two weeks later. A hospital fundraiser, formal portraits in the lobby, you on his arm in a dress he had not been able to take his eyes off all evening. The photographer was one of those important, brusque men who treated his subjects like inventory, and when you smiled politely at the lens he barked at you to fix your face.
Zayne’s hand that was resting on the small of your back went still.
He tilted his head, only a fraction, but it was enough for you to feel—for the first time, vividly—exactly why his interns at the hospital were a little frightened of him.
“I’m sorry.” his voice was perfectly level. Perfectly polite. Perfectly cold. “Could you repeat that. I want to make sure I heard you correctly.”
The photographer did not repeat it. Zayne raised one eyebrow slightly, waiting.
“That’s what I thought. We’ll be using a different photographer for the rest of the evening. Thank you for your time.”
He walked you off the floor without looking back. His thumb rubbed one slow, grounding circle against your spine.
In the car, he reached across the console and tipped your chin gently toward him with two cool fingers.
“Smile for me.”
“Zayne—”
“Humor me.”
You did, embarrassed, helpless. He looked at you for a long, quiet moment. Then he leaned across and kissed you slowly, making you smile against his lips even more.
Xavier
Xavier found out the way Xavier found out everything. By watching very carefully, by giving you his undivided attention.
You were lying on his chest on the couch, idly scrolling through old photos on your phone while he drifted in and out of his usual soft afternoon doze, when you flicked past one a little too quickly. You didn’t think he’d noticed. It was foolish hope, because Xavier always noticed.
“Go back.”
“It’s nothing, Xav—”
“Go back, please.”
You sighed and did. He looked at the picture for a long moment, making you chew on your lower lip, a bit nervous of what he’ll think. What he’ll say. You were not smiling in it. You looked beautiful and remote and a little sad, and your stomach did the small uncomfortable lurch it always did when you saw photos of yourself from those years.
“Why aren’t you smiling, starlight?”
So it came out. Quietly, into his collarbone. The photographer years ago, the offhand comment about how it didn’t suit you, the little knot it had left somewhere in your chest that you’d never quite managed to pick loose. Xavier listened without interrupting. His hand kept stroking, slow and steady, up and down your arm. When you finished, he was quiet for so long you thought, briefly, that he’d fallen asleep.
He hadn’t.
“He was wrong.”
Just that. Soft and final, the voice he used when he was stating something he considered a fact about the universe, making you let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding.
“Your smile is the best thing in the world, the brightest light in the universe. I don’t think he knew what he was looking at.”
You did not know what to do with that. You hid your face in his shirt instead, holding back tears. He let you.
The next time it mattered was three weeks later, a magazine feature on rising hunters, lots of lights and a photographer who kept snapping at you to drop the grin—it doesn’t suit your bone structure. You felt yourself start to wilt. You felt the old reflex come back, the fold-in one, the be smaller one.
Xavier was leaning against the wall by the equipment cart in his own uniform, half-shadowed the way he always seemed to be. He pushed off it, face unreadable.
He walked into the frame, slid one arm around your waist, and tilted his head at the photographer with that pleasant, rather calm expression that had fooled approximately seven hundred Wanderers into thinking he was a pushover.
“She smiles or we don’t shoot.” said softly. Said very softly.
The photographer coughed lightly, changed his approach with the speed of a man who had just realized the ceiling was on fire, and the next ten frames were nothing but you laughing, because Xavier was murmuring something stupid against the shell of your ear about how the photographer’s mustache looked like it had personal opinions, and you were trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.
The shot they used was the one where you were cracking up.
You found the printed copy three weeks later, framed on his nightstand. He had not mentioned it once, which was worse, because now you couldn’t hold your tears back anymore.
Caleb
Caleb already knew.
That was the thing that got you, when you finally pieced it together. He’d known for years. He’d been there for everything—every school photo day where you’d pressed your lips together, every family picture where you’d angled your face just so, every time you’d caught your own reflection mid-laugh and flinched.
He’d been watching and taking note of every single time it happened, waiting for the right moment to bring it up.
The right moment, apparently, was a quiet evening in his apartment in Skyhaven, you curled up on his couch with a blanket while he cooked something that smelled like garlic and you had been craving since the last time you visited him. Your phone buzzed with a reminder of the new Association ID photos due tomorrow, and you groaned.
“What’s up pips? What’s got you all grumpy over there?” he glanced over his shoulder, wooden spoon in hand.
“Photo day at the Association.” you pulled the blanket higher. “I hate photo days.”
Caleb turned off the stove, wiped his hands on a towel, crossed the room with an easy stride and sat on the arm of the couch, looking down at you.
“Is it because of the smiling thing?”
You stiffened. “How did you—”
“Pips, I know you better than anyone,” he scoffed lightly, ruffling your hair, “I was there. Fourth grade, when the school photographer told you your smile was too gummy and you should try closing your mouth a little. You practiced in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes before the retake.” his eyebrows knitted together, clearly displeased at the memory, “You missed recess that day.”
The memory hit like a sucker punch—sharp and specific and so small it shouldn’t have mattered, except that it did, it always had, and the fact that he remembered the recess part made something crack open behind your sternum.
“You remember that?”
His hand found the top of your head again. Fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that contradicted every sharp, commanding air he’d honed in the years since— Colonel, pilot, the version of himself that could make a room go silent with a look.
“I remember everything about you.” he stated it like a fact, smile vanishing and turning his features into something dead serious, “Including the part where you came back from that retake looking like someone had taken something from you.”
Your throat closed. He tugged gently at a strand of your hair, tipped your face up. His eyes—purple and warm and so familiar it made your bones ache—searched yours.
“I should’ve said something back then.” his voice dropped, the playfulness stripped away, leaving something raw underneath. “I should’ve told that guy he was wrong. I should’ve told you—” his jaw worked, “You smiled at me after every basketball game. Didn’t matter if we won or lost. You were always there in the stands, grinning like an idiot, and it was the only thing I looked for.”
Oh.
A tear slipped. Then another. You pressed your face into his side, breathing in laundry soap and engine grease and something warm beneath both, and his arm came around you tightly, pulling you closer.
“Smile in the stupid photos,” he murmured into your hair. “The real one, pips. The big one that makes your eyes crinkle and the one that makes my heart beat faster every time I am lucky enough to witness it. I don’t care what some hack said, and neither should you.”
You laughed, wet and muffled against his shirt. His arm tightened, chin resting on the top of your head.
“And if the photographer gives you trouble tomorrow,” he added, deceptively light, “give me his name.”
“Caleb.” you warned, even though you were smiling through your tears.
“I’m just saying. Gravity is a very persuasive force.”
Sylus
You didn’t tell Sylus.
Naturally, Sylus found out anyway, because privacy was a concept that existed for other people in other, less surveilled relationships. The Twins—bless their chaotic, undying loyalty to gossip—had mentioned it to him after Kieran caught you pressing your lips together in the middle of a photo during some event, and you’d waved it off with a quick, “Oh, I just don't smile in pictures. Old habit. A photographer said it didn’t look good.”
So when he brought it up three days later in the warmth of his study, you weren’t surprised. You were just... tired of it.
“A photographer.” Sylus turned the word over like he was inspecting it for structural flaws. He was standing by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of wine, and the city lights of the N109 Zone cut across the sharp lines of his face. “Told you not to smile, and you took his word for it.”
“It was a professional opinion, Sy.” you didn’t look up from the book you weren’t reading.
“It was an insult.” he crossed the room, that unhurried prowl that always made your pulse do something inconvenient. Stopped in front of your chair and leaned down, one hand bracing against the armrest, the leather creaking softly near your head. “And a stupid one.”
“Sylus—”
“Look at me.”
You looked. Those red eyes, close and warm and stripped of their usual sharp amusement, held something you’d only started recognizing recently—something that lived underneath the teasing and the power and the walls. Something that ached, something stupidly tender.
“Sweetie.” his long fingers found your chin, tilted it up. “You truly think I don’t notice? Every time someone pulls out a phone, you go still. You arrange your face like it’s a mask.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw. “You think I like that? Watching you hide?”
The lump in your throat swelled. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why does it still bother you?” the tone’s too soft. Almost too tender for you to be able to brush it off.
Your eyes burned. He waited until you found your voice again, until you were sure your voice wouldn’t tremble. He was good at that, when it mattered—at carving out a silence and holding it open for you.
“Because I believed him,” you breathed, and the admission tasted like something bitter and small. “And now I can’t stop.” you closed your eyes briefly, wincing, “I already know it’s stupid, you don’t have to say it.”
When you finally opened your eyes again, you noticed his expression changed entirely. It wasn’t mocking or pitying it any way you expected it to be. What was left was quieter, rawer, the door you weren’t supposed to see standing wide open.
He leaned in and pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth, right where your smile started, right where you always caught it and pulled it back.
“Then I'll just have to keep reminding you just how beautiful it truly is,” he murmured against your skin, “until you believe me instead.”
What truly made you feel seen was weeks later when Sylus made good on his words. He’d been roped into one of those tedious things—a charity his name was attached to, a glossy society piece—and he’d insisted that you be in the shot with him. You were in some absurd dress that cost more than a small car. The photographer had been clipped with you all afternoon and you had not said anything, because saying something would have meant naming the small unpleasant feeling still present in your chest, and you’d had enough practice at not naming it.
“Less teeth, please.”
You stopped smiling, the same old reflex.
Sylus, beside you, did not appear to react. Sylus never appeared to react, but his thumb where it rested at the base of your spine, dragged one slow, considering circle. You were a bit tense and nervous that he would say something harsh, even though you knew him better than that.The photographer did not notice. The photographer was not that observant.
“Sweetheart.” Sylus’s lips just brushed your temple lazily, “Why did you stop smiling?”
“He told me to.”
“Is that so?” That was all he said. He turned very slowly and looked at the photographer with an expression that had not changed at all and was, somehow, exponentially worse for it.
“Pray tell, what is your name?”
The photographer told him.
“Lovely. Pack up.”
“I—sir, we haven’t finished—”
“You’ve finished.” The same drawl. The same mild smile. “You’ve finished a great deal, actually. The shoot, this commission. Your contract with my organization. All of it. Very industrious of you. Do go.”
The photographer went quickly, clocking he was, most likely, in danger. Sylus turned back to you, expression softer now, a little wicked, and he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of attention that always made your knees do something embarrassing.
“Now. You. Smile for me, kitten.”
“Sylus—”
“Indulge me. I’m replacing the photographer.”He raised his phone. You could not help but laugh, surprised and helpless, your face hot. He took the picture exactly then. The look on his face when he looked at it was the closest thing to unguarded you had ever seen him wear.
© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!
🏷️: @aiycnlyme, @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden, @w0ndert1nk, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @2affectionate4z, @daisybbyxx, @kokoa21, @imaginationofafan
🔗 - comment to be added to the taglist for future fics
nobody “writes like ai” as long as they write, then they write. period. there’s no “writing like ai”. because by saying someone “writes like ai”, you’re implying that ai actually writes and that ai is the blueprint. but what ai does is mimic human-made works.
ai writes (aka they’re mimicking) like humans. not the other way around.
saying “this writer writes like ai” is the equivalent of saying “your work looks like those other works that copied yours”
have your cake (and eat it too)
yandere! L Lawliet (death note) x gn! reader
cw; L is his own tw, imposter syndrome, explicit nsfw, mdni 18+
genie's notes; yayyy commissioned piece for @ozzgin !!! thank you ozzy my beloved for giving me the opportunity to write about my man ♡ if this feels long that's bc it is LOL i was having sm fun writing it got to 4k words,, can you tell i'm bonkers for this guy,, nevertheless, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing :D
“Take a picture,” you murmur. “It’ll last longer.”
“I know.”
You spare the man sitting besides you a quick glance. Despite the numerous dossiers emptied out onto the oak table before you, the detective’s attention is transfixed solely on you. Has been, for the past few hours.
“Ryuzaki?” You try again, hoping he’ll get the hint this time.
Stop fucking staring at me.
David Dastmalchian as Gurathin in Murderbot — 1.10 "The Perimeter"
hii i think i'm late for this... but better late than never, right?
i don't know how familiar you are with david's characters in 2025 (josh, joe, the gemini killers, gurathin, joseph and the gun for hire in dust bunny), but... how do you suppose they'll treat their mini me??
hi anon! I love getting asks so never assume you’re late to asking me something ^-^.
I’m only familiar with a handful of David’s characters (bob taylor, johnson, abner, wojchek, jack delroy, and murdoc). I don’t really know much about his other roles - feel free to spam me about them - so I can’t really give much of an answer, sorry.
15/100
The Third Myth Collection
how would Jack Delroy react to his teenage daughter dating a boy?
I don’t think he would have a dramatic reaction. He would probably be mildly interested but not ask any in depth questions. I can see him not being very knowledgeable of what goes on in his kids lives. So, he probably wouldn’t even notice until someone told him that his daughter was seeing someone. However, if his daughter were to date someone in the industry who is established and well known (probably a teen heartthrob of some kind), I can see him being the type to casually mention their relationship on his show a couple of times. Perhaps even tries to come across as if he knows him personally, as if they are close. Would try to convince her to stay in the relationship as long as possible, because it’s good for publicity.
it's fine i don't even need to be part of social groups or friend groups anyway (giant hole appears in my chest spontaneously) ? what's that
Same with the prev anons asks but, who do you think are great dealing with the teens?
Like on a scale from afraid of em, dislike em, and like them
Immediately, I think Johnson would probably be the best, but I can imagine him offering advice to any troubled teenagers that come along. He's sort of in the middle, doesn't dislike them or anything, he won't bother them or make annoying comments about "the youth". I actually think the teens in his neighborhood would probably respect him, or see him as a older brother figure (who doesn't talk much).
Bob Taylor and Abner would definitely be the types to cross the street to avoid a group of teenagers. Are most likely afraid of them, and wouldn't even make eye contact. Silently pray that they aren't noticed at all.
I want to say Jack Delroy dislikes teens, just due to his character (and maybe the time that he's in). Would try and act polite around them, but makes snarky ass comments under his breath when they aren't listening. Maybe envies their youth, especially when he notices that he's getting older and his career is sort of at a standstill.
imagine urban explorer!reader stumbling upon ghost!bob one afternoon, but being unable to capture him on camera. so instead they spend the time drawing him so that they have some sort of proof that they met.
mhhmm i love your headcanon about dad!jack. i've always thought that he'd be mentally not there (given his desire for being number one). however, i do imagine him having a ‘healthy’ relationship with his kid while on the screens (just to please the public eye; common sense). what do you think about that? 🤔
oh anon I can TOTALLY see him attempting to appear close with his child in front of the camera, and trying to keep up the appearance of being a good father figure. I can also see all of the pressure he puts on his kid to be in the limelight and do something in the industry would cause them to rebel. here’s an interesting question though: how do you think Jack would respond to his own child becoming more famous than him?
CALEB CODED
