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@tytarax2
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A scientist who loves fiction trying to explain how fictitious stuff would work in real life. (Also known as TytaraX in the underworld)
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Cozy & Romantic Christmas at Home - Klaus x Reader
Hope this is what you wanted! :)
Christmas Headcanons- Riano x Reader please!
Here you go!
Christmas headcanons for Bone Jones x Reader x Rip Staples
Sure, here it is!
Hi! Love your writing <3
Please write something for Skarra for your Christmas Special Headcanons. I don't have anything in mind 😑 but I know I'll love whatever you'll write 🙌🏻
Also, I know it's a bit early but
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!☃️🌲🎅❄️💫
Happy Holidays!
Here's my gift, a day later, but I did it. Hope u like it!
SUPA STRIKAS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL
El Matador
Christmas with El Matador is never subtle.
You wake up to rose petals leading from your bedroom to the living room, where a massive Christmas tree stands decorated in gold, red, and white. He’s already dressed impeccably, leaning casually against the doorway like this is just another day.
“Ah, cariño,” he smiles smoothly, arms opening. “Come. Christmas begins now.”
He gifts you something elegant, jewelry, wrapped perfectly, but the real gift is the way he pulls you into a slow dance right there, soft music playing. Outside, snow falls gently.
“You deserve a Christmas as magnificent as you are,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.
Shakes
Christmas with Shakes feels like home.
You’re both in ugly Christmas sweaters, laughing as you attempt (and fail) to decorate cookies. Flour is everywhere, including his face, and when you laugh too hard, he pretends to be offended before pulling you into a hug.
He gives you a modest gift, wrapped unevenly. Inside is something deeply personal, a photo, a bracelet, something tied to a memory you share.
“I just… wanted it to mean something,” he says quietly.
You end the night curled up together on the couch, his arm around you, Christmas lights glowing softly.
Klaus
Christmas with Klaus is peaceful.
Snow falls outside as the fireplace crackles softly. He’s wearing a thick sweater, sleeves rolled up as he finishes cooking dinner. Everything smells warm, cinnamon, spice, something sweet.
He hands you a mug of hot chocolate and pulls you close, resting his chin atop your head.
“I don’t need much,” he says quietly. “Just you. That’s enough.”
His gift is simple but thoughtful, something warm, something useful, and the way he watches you open it tells you everything.
North Shaw
North isn’t big on festivities.
But he shows up anyway, hands slightly stiff as he hands you a small gift. Inside is something carefully chosen, something that tells you he paid attention.
You walk together through quiet streets lit by Christmas lights. No rush. No pressure.
At some point, his gloved hand brushes yours, then stays there.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, voice low but sincere.
Rasta
Christmas with Rasta is loud in the best way.
Music fills the room, lights are everywhere, and he’s already dancing before you’ve even sat down. He pulls you into the rhythm, laughing freely.
His gift is colorful and heartfelt, handmade, maybe, and he hugs you tightly when you thank him.
“Christmas is about love, yeah?” he grins. “And I got plenty of that for you.”
You dance until your feet hurt and your heart feels full.
Twisting Tiger
Twisting Tiger’s Christmas is surprisingly gentle.
You sit together on the floor, quietly wrapping gifts, soft instrumental music playing. He listens more than he speaks, but when he looks at you, it’s steady and warm.
His gift is meaningful, protective, symbolic.
“I may not say much,” he tells you, “but you matter.”
Later, he rests his forehead against yours, calm and grounding.
Cool Joe
Cool Joe makes Christmas look easy.
He cooks, jokes, and flirts effortlessly, leaning against the counter as he hands you your gift with a playful grin.
“Careful,” he teases. “Might steal the spotlight.”
But when the night winds down, his tone softens. He pulls you into a slow dance, one hand resting securely at your waist.
“Best part of Christmas?” he murmurs. “Sharing it with you.”
Big Bo
Christmas with Big Bo is full of food and laughter.
He cooks WAY too much, insisting you eat more, always checking if you’re warm enough. His gift is big, literally, but his smile when you hug him is even bigger.
He laughs shyly when you thank him.
“Just wanted you to feel happy,” he says simply.
You fall asleep on the couch with his arm carefully wrapped around you, like he’s afraid to disturb you.
Eagle Eye
Eagle Eye plans Christmas perfectly.
Every detail is intentional, lights, timing, gifts. He watches closely as you open what he got you, observing your reaction with quiet satisfaction.
“You like it?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
Later, you sit together in silence, watching snow fall outside.
“I see everything,” he says softly. “Especially you.”
Skarra
Christmas with Skarra surprises you.
He pretends not to care, scoffing at decorations, but somehow there are decorations. He hands you a gift with a casual shrug.
“Don’t read into it.”
Inside is something incredibly thoughtful.
When you look up, his expression softens, just slightly.
“Merry Christmas,” he mutters.
Later, he lets you lean against him, arm loosely around your shoulders.
Dooma
Christmas with Dooma is calm and understated.
There’s no grand decorating, just soft lights and the gentle hum of the heater. You sit beside him, sharing a blanket as snow taps lightly against the window.
He hands you a small gift, wrapped neatly. It’s practical, something you’ll use often.
“I noticed you needed one,” he says simply.
The way he lets you lean into him, his arm solid around your shoulders, says more than words ever could.
Ja Nein
Ja Nein approaches Christmas with military-level precision.
The tree is perfectly decorated. Dinner is exactly on time. Gifts are stacked in a neat line.
But when it’s your turn, his composure softens.
“I… hope this is acceptable,” he says, handing you your gift.
It’s thoughtful, something that shows he listened, even if he never said much. When you smile, relief flickers across his face.
“Merry Christmas,” he says quietly, meaning it with his whole heart.
Uber
Christmas with Uber feels steady.
You cook together, moving easily around one another, no words needed. He hums softly while preparing food, occasionally glancing your way just to check you’re smiling.
His gift is understated but meaningful, something meant to last.
“Christmas doesn’t need to be loud,” he says.
You spend the evening talking quietly, sharing warmth and peace... And maybe doing some pranks to Ja Nein.
Liquido
Liquido’s Christmas is slow and indulgent.
Dim lights, soft music, good food, everything is curated for comfort. He hands you a glass, clinking it gently against yours.
“To us,” he smiles.
His gift is elegant and personal, and when you thank him, he brushes his thumb against your hand, lingering.
The night ends with you curled together on the couch, warmth shared easily.
Ninja
Ninja isn’t great with words.
He watches quietly as you decorate, occasionally stepping in to fix something when you struggle. When it’s time for gifts, he hesitates before handing you yours.
“I thought… you’d like this.”
It’s handmade. Something he clearly spent time on.
He looks away when you hug him, but his arms tighten just a little.
Thor
Thor brings energy to Christmas.
There’s laughter, noise, and a little bit of chaos. He’s constantly pulling you into conversations, games, and playful teasing.
His gift is big, flashy, and enthusiastic, very on brand.
“Merry Christmas!” he laughs, wrapping you in a warm hug.
By the end of the night, you’re exhausted in the best way, leaning against him as the celebration winds down.
Supa Fran
Christmas with Supa Fran is unpredictable.
Half the decorations don’t match. Cookies are slightly burnt. Someone definitely forgot the wrapping paper.
But it’s fun.
She hands you your gift with a sheepish grin.
“I tried.”
It’s heartfelt, and when you laugh and hug her, she relaxes immediately.
You spend the night talking, laughing, and enjoying the imperfect joy of it all.
Bone Jones x Reader x Rip Staples
Christmas with Bone Jones and Rip Staples is chaotic affection.
Bone Jones is loud, teasing, and constantly trying to get your attention, while Rip plays the calmer role, keeping things steady.
They surprise you with a shared gift, something meaningful, chosen together.
Bone throws an arm around you. Rip rests a hand on your back.
“Guess you’re stuck with us,” Bone grins.
You spend the night sandwiched between them on the couch, warmth on both sides, laughter filling the room.
Riano
Christmas with Riano is tender.
He lights candles, plays soft music, and speaks in gentle tones. His gift is carefully chosen, something personal that shows how much he notices you.
“I wanted this to feel special,” he says.
You sit close, sharing quiet conversation and warmth, the world feeling smaller and softer.
When midnight comes, he presses a kiss to your hand.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispers.
Masterlist
Hey everyone! 🎁✨ This year I’ll be doing Christmas Special Headcanons for Supa Strikas.
Here’s the lineup so far (you can still request more!): El Matador, Shakes, Klaus, North Shaw, Rasta, Twisting Tiger, Cool Joe, Big Bo, Eagle Eye, Skarra, Dooma, Ja Nein, Uber, Liquido, Ninja, Thor, Supa Fran, Bone Jones/Rip Staples, Riano
You can request: 🎀 Specific characters or pairings (x Reader / x S/O) 🎀 Scenarios or themes 🎀 Other characters if I missed your fave!
The city outside was still half-asleep when the smell of coffee began to drift through the apartment. You blinked awake to the faint sound of a spoon clinking against a mug, followed by the low hum of someone trying to remember the rest of a tune.
It was always strange hearing him hum. On the field, The Mangler’s voice came out like steel on stone, sharp commands, guttural German phrases that made even forwards hesitate. But here, barefoot in gray sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that looked two sizes too small on his frame, he was all warmth and clumsy rhythm.
You padded into the kitchen wearing one of his shirts, hair still a mess. He noticed immediately, and smiled, small but genuine, as though the sight of you was the first good thing he’d seen in days. “Guten Morgen, Liebling,” he murmured, his accent curling softly around the words. “You slept long.”
“I was warm,” you mumbled, leaning against the counter, “and someone left no room for me to move.”
He turned, mock-offended. “I take only my half of the bed.” You raised a brow at the memory of him sprawling diagonally across the mattress like a felled tree. He caught the look and chuckled—an actual, rumbling laugh that filled the kitchen and made the mugs tremble on the shelf.
He poured your coffee first, the way he always did, two sugars, no milk, and handed it over carefully, like he was passing you something fragile. His hands could block a ball traveling a hundred kilometers an hour, yet he held your cup as if it might shatter under his touch.
You took a sip and leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his chest through thin cotton. “What’s the plan for today?” you asked.
He thought for a moment, gaze drifting to the window where early sunlight painted the floor in gold. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Von Push-up said rest day. So…” He looked down at you, eyes crinkling. “We rest.”
And that was exactly what you did. He read for a while, some historical novel, glasses sliding down his nose, while you folded laundry beside him on the couch. The TV played quietly in the background; at some point, his arm found its way around you, heavy but reassuring, and before long, both of you had dozed off again, a heap of warmth and peace.
Later, when rain began to patter softly against the balcony, he stirred. “Pizza?” he suggested sleepily.
You smiled against his shoulder. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep before it arrives.”
He grinned, lazy and content. “No promises.”
For a man who had spent most of his life behind walls—stadiums, strategy, precision, these Sundays were sacred. Here, no drills, no shouting, no pressure. Just quiet laughter, the smell of coffee and rain, and you, fitting perfectly against the chest of the Iron Tank’s most unguarded secret.
Masterlist
Ever wondered why Big Bo is bald?
...
Well, he with hair would be just too much for us mortals.
All hail Big Bo and his big ass head 🫡
💅💅💅
@luckyangelballoon
Coming back with my beautiful drawings (I'm being sarcastic)
Why do you guys think Cool Joe is not so cool rn???
@luckyangelballoon
Song: Fantastic by King Princess
It’s the way he says your name, how the sound rolls off his tongue and reverberates through you. It’s the look in his eye, the slight smile playing on his lips, and you’re drawn to him like a moth to flame... again.
Your fingers are on his wrist as he pours the beer, and it’s like the room has narrowed to just this moment, this touch.
He doesn’t look at you, but you know he’s aware of the contact. He’s always been like that — attuned, magnetic.
You ask something meaningless, just to hear him speak, to watch his eyes light up.
He answers, and then he’s looking at you, really looking, and the air feels charged, dangerous.
His fingers are under your chin, tilting your face toward his, and you know this is wrong, but it feels so right.
Then he’s kissing you, and you’re kissing him back, and it’s all heat and want and years of history between you.
His hands are on your hips, your waist, your neck — everywhere. He’s like fire, consuming, and you want to be burned.
You pull away, breathless, but his lips are on your neck, your collarbone, and you can’t think straight.
He knows you, knows how to undo you, how to make you forget everything but the way he makes you feel.
And you know him too, know just where to touch to make him groan, to make him lose control.
It’s like falling, weightless, inevitable.
You don’t even make it back to the bedroom. The balcony door is open, and there’s a breeze cooling your heated skin, but you barely notice.
His hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours — that’s all that matters.
You’re frantic, desperate, years of tension released in this one moment.
And when it’s over, you lay there, breathing hard, trying to process what just happened.
You always do this, fall into the same patterns, the same mistakes.
But as he pulls you close, kisses your temple, you wonder if maybe this time, it could be different.
Maybe this time, you won’t let go.
His hands are still on your body when your phone vibrates, a shrill sound cutting through the afterglow.
You tense, but he just sighs, his breath warm on your skin.
“Leave it,” he murmurs.
You do, he just turns off your phone and tosses it over the balcony.
“You don’t have to worry,” he says, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “No one will find us here.”
You should be alarmed, should push him away, but you don’t.
Instead, you sink back against him, feeling safe, feeling wanted, feeling everything you’ve been missing.
And as you drift off, wrapped in his arms, you can’t help but wonder — what happens when the sun comes up?
The sun is too bright, too insistent, and you blink against the harsh light, momentarily disoriented.
Your head aches, and you’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or from hitting it against something. Memories of last night are fuzzy, fragmented — the party, the drinking, the arguments, the makeup sex.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
Song: Indecent Proposal by Romeo Santos
“You’re not like most of the girls I meet, you know.”
I look up from where I’m taking notes on my phone to see Rasta leaning casually against the balcony railing, a few steps away from me. His suit jacket is open, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants, and the champagne flute dangling from his fingers looks almost delicate in his large hand.
“Most of the girls you meet aren’t reporters covering a charity gala,” I say dryly, not looking up as I continue to tap away at my phone screen.
Rasta chuckles softly and I can feel his eyes on me. He’s been watching me since he arrived. I don’t know why, but he keeps glancing in my direction and looking away again. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. Or maybe he does and he’s trying to make me uncomfortable.
It’s not working, though.
I’ve been a sports reporter for two years now, and I’ve met all sorts of players, both nice and rude. Rasta isn’t the first arrogant player I’ve interviewed, but I’ve never met a player who was quite so… confident in his abilities. He talks about himself the way a father might talk about his favorite son, with so much pride you can’t tell if he’s bragging or just stating facts.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a reporter like you before,” he says after a moment.
My fingers slow on the screen. “A female reporter?”
I look up and raise a brow at him. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to laugh at me. It makes me want to roll my eyes and throw something at his head. But I’m on the job, so I do neither of those things. I just stare him down.
I’ve met men like Rasta before. They think the world revolves around them just because they have a lot of money or fame. But I’m not easily intimidated. I’ve faced worse things than a rich man and his pretty smiles.
“No, I know lots of female reporters,” Rasta says. He pushes off from the railing and moves to stand in front of me. “But none quite as pretty as you.”
I sigh. “Well, thank you. But you don’t need to flatter me. I’m here to do a job and that’s it.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, moving closer. I can smell his cologne. It’s warm and rich, just like the golden champagne he’s been sipping all night. I find myself leaning forward unconsciously, drawn in by the smell. He looks down at me, his dark eyes studying my face, and I try to take a step back, but there’s a stone pillar behind me. I can feel it against my back.
I’m trapped.
Rasta raises his flute to his lips and takes a sip, then smiles at me over the rim of the glass. “I’ve been watching you all night, you know.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mhm.” He nods. “You’ve barely taken your eyes off me the whole time.”
I scoff and fold my arms over my chest. I’ve barely taken my eyes off him? Is he serious right now?
He leans in. “And every time I look at you,” he whispers, his face so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, “I see you staring at me like you want to eat me up.”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t breathe. My heart is hammering in my chest, and there’s an ache between my legs. It’s sudden and intense, and it startles me a little. It’s not like me to get flustered this easily. But there’s something about Rasta, about his smile and his voice, that makes me want to forget my job and my professionalism. I want to do things I wouldn’t normally do.
I want to kiss him.
I force myself to take a slow step away from him, and then another until I’m standing a few feet away from him. I take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to get a grip on my emotions. I turn back to face him and raise a brow. “So, about that interview…”
Rasta just grins at me. “Oh, I can give you an interview. But not right now.”
I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
He looks over his shoulder at the party behind us, then turns back to me. “The night is still young,” he says, his voice soft and low, like he’s telling me a secret. “We have plenty of time for an interview.”
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Rasta’s grin widens. “You need a ride?" he asks. "My car is outside.”
I don’t know what possesses me to say yes, but the next thing I know, Rasta is leading me to his car in the parking lot, his hand on the small of my back. His black Ferrari looks like something out of a movie. It’s so shiny that I can see my reflection in it.
“Wow,” I say, running my hand along the hood of the car. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a nice ride.”
Rasta laughs and opens the passenger side door for me. “Get in,” he says.
I do, and he climbs into the driver’s seat. He starts the car and pulls out of the lot, the engine rumbling beneath us.
“So, where are we going?” I ask, looking out the window at the city streets.
“Somewhere quiet,” Rasta says.
I nod, even though I have no idea what he means. I don’t even know where we’re going. But I trust him. And for some reason, that terrifies me.
We drive for a while before Rasta pulls over into a quiet, secluded area. It’s dark here, and the only sound is the distant hum of the city. I look over at Rasta, who is watching me intently.
“So,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Are you ready for your interview?”
I laugh, shaking my head. I can’t believe I let him talk me into this. But at the same time, I’m glad he did. There’s something about him that makes me feel alive, like anything is possible.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
They head to the backseats. After a while, the windows are all fogged up.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m in my bed, fully clothed. I sit up and look around the room, trying to remember how I got here. The last thing I remember is going to the gala and talking to Rasta.
Then it hits me. The car. Rasta and I in his car, doing things I never thought I would do with a complete stranger.
I groan and bury my face in my hands. What was I thinking? I barely know him, and yet I let him take me to his car and have his way with me.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
Song: E-girls are ruining my life! by Corpse Husband / Savage Ga$p
“Didn’t think you’d last in a place like this. You’re a superstar,” she mocked, voice low.
Her lips were painted black with lipstick; a silver chain looped around her neck and cascaded down her chest. Joe was entranced by her eyes. They were deep and dangerous, as if she already knew everything about him. His hands were on her waist, moving with the rhythm of the music that played in the background. He could feel her breath on his skin, hot and teasing.
“I can handle more than you think,” he retorted, his grin faltering for the first time that night. She laughed, a sound that was both mocking and enticing. He felt her fingers trace the chain around his neck, tugging gently.
“You know, I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be with someone like you,” she whispered, her lips barely touching his ear. “Someone who’s used to being in control all the time.”
Joe’s heart raced. Her words were a challenge, a dare he couldn’t resist. “Oh yeah? And what do you think it’s like?”
She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his skin. “I think it’s time you learned what it’s like to let go.”
He matched her energy, his hands firm on her hips as he pulled her closer. “You play with fire, girl.”
She smirked, her fingers still toying with his chain. “Only if it burns the right kind of way.”
They stumbled out of the club, the neon lights of the street signs blurring into the moonlight. Joe’s hands were on her shoulders, guiding her as they walked. Her apartment was close by, a small studio filled with vinyl records, incense sticks, and posters of bands Joe had never heard of.
She pushed him onto the couch, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Choke me like you hate me,” she whispered, her voice husky. “But you love me.”
Joe’s hands found her neck, his fingers gently circling it. He could feel her pulse quicken, her breath catch. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. “You’re such a brat,” he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice. Only a twisted sort of affection.
She opened her eyes, a wicked smile playing on her lips. “And you love it.”
He did. He loved the way she pushed him, the way she made him feel both in control and completely at her mercy. It was a dangerous game they were playing, one that neither of them was ready to end.
By the time the sun started to rise, Joe was gone. But on her nightstand, the silver chain he always wore was coiled like a snake, a reminder of the night they had shared. A night where power shifted like the shadows on the wall, where dominance and submission were just two sides of the same coin.
The night was a blur, a mixture of sweat, laughter, and the kind of reckless abandon that only came with being young and fearless. They had met at a party, thrown by mutual friends in a cramped apartment that smelled of cheap beer and broken dreams.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
Song: Delete by Katie Angel
It is common knowledge that the two are never official, even if the signs were all there.
They had the same chemistry as when he was younger. They would look at each other differently from the rest of the world, even if they were still together. The tension was obvious whenever they met. It was more than that, even if that was what they kept telling everyone.
Everyone knew what they were to each other. It was clear that there was something that was more than what was apparent on the surface.
It was something more.
It was months after they broke up—or whatever that was—when she came back into his life.
They were not on the same speaking terms anymore. They only see each other on occasion, and they try to avoid each other most of the time.
But the moment they see each other again, they know what will happen. He tells himself it’s only for this night, and she tells herself they will delete their messages tomorrow morning.
The rest, they leave to chance.
The sex was a bit rough.
She was teasing him, and he was angry because he still wants her. His hands on her thighs were firm, and the way he touched her was not tender but not cold. It was an intoxicating mix of lust and nostalgia.
When he kisses her, she laughs against his lips. “You still hate losing control.”
He kisses her again, and when she parts her lips, he replies with, “You’re the only one who made me.”
The night is all adrenaline and skin. They tell each other that this is the last time it will happen again, even if they have said that many times already.
He finds her earring the following morning.
By sunrise, she is gone.
He deletes their chat history again, just like the last times.
But he cannot delete the perfume that lingers on his shirt.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
