#headcanons post

”ᴄᴏʟᴇ ʙʀᴏᴏᴋꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴅɪʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʟᴇ ʙʀᴏᴏᴋꜱᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴅɪʜ”

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍 𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍…𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍. 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗆𝗌.

— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗋 (𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋) 𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝖽, 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗒..

— 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗌 𝗎𝗉 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾. 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗀𝗎𝗒, 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇.

— 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒, 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗉, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌.

— 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗇𝗇𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗋. 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗄, 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎..𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒.

— “..’𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒..𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍..𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽..” 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗒, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗈𝗑𝖾𝗋𝗌.

— “𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗈𝗄𝖺𝗒. 𝗂𝗆 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾.” 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍..𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽. 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗀𝗎𝗒’𝗌 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗌 𝗈𝖽𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

— 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇, 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝗀𝗈𝖽..𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄..𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄..𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽..?..𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄..”

— 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆, 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗋𝖺𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾. “𝗁𝖾𝗒..𝗌𝗌𝗁..𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾, 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽..”

— “𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉..𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉..𝖺𝗁𝗁..𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍..” 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖾𝖼𝗁, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄.

— 𝗍𝗁𝖾 “𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄” 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌.

— 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄, 𝗈𝖼𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗆. 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝗋𝗒𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗑 𝗂𝗍𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿.

Wylan paying Kaz to write "Jesper Llewellyn Fahey, will you marry me?" In Zemani and giving it to Jes as a document to read out.

Jesper being absolutely baffled because that's Kaz's chicken scratch and he highly doubts that the bastard of the barrel is proposing to him. Then he sees Wylan's face and he realises.

They write their vows together, with Wylan dictating his bits, and Jesper reads them during the ceremony as one piece. Wylan's parts are full of metaphors and musical references, Jesper's are a little too straightforward. They both cry. A lot.

They walk down the aisle together, and spent the night before together as well because Jesper can't resist a little bad luck, even now.

Jesper wears a dress in lime green and neon yellow tulle, covered in little sky blue flowers, in honour of their first meeting. Wylan wears barrel clothes as well, a plum coloured silk shirt and navy blue waistcoat with jurda blossoms embroidered on it. He doesn't want to get married as a Van Eck.

Nina and Inej come home for the occasion. Inej is the "maid of honour" (for Jesper) and Nina is a "bridesmaid". Kaz begrudgingly agrees to be Wylan's best man. Marya walks with Wylan and Jes down the aisle. Colm officiates.

Jesper insists on doing a bouquet toss, only to throw it directly into Kaz's lap. ("I am not a single woman, Jesper. I feel you may have missed the point of this.") While Inej grins at him in a mildly threatening manner.

If I didn't had self body issues and more money maybe I myself would dress more cute.

College!007n7 x reader with a cute fashion sense headcanons

warnings: afab!reader, possible OOC, short

Benjamin pointdexter boyfriend headcanons

Dating Ben Poindexter Would Include

A/N: Of course! i pourred a lot into this one because Dex is one of my favourites, he is so complex and interesting!🥰I

Really hope you like these @jjovin3221 . So sorry it took so long, I have so many requests and wanted to do them in order. Working on your other requests too! Also: if anyone reads this who send me a request, I am working on them aswell 😊🤞 Enjoy reading! 💕😁💫

Marvel Masterlist Masterlist

-you move into the quiet brick building on a gray afternoon and notice the man who lives a few doors down because he’s the only one who offers to help carry boxes. He’s tall, clean-cut, and careful in a way that feels almost choreographed. “Ben Poindexter,” he says, like a line from a report. You catch the faintest twitch of a smile when you thank him. Later, you’ll realize that precision isn’t arrogance; it’s armor

-you meet him again in the mailroom. Every envelope in his hands is stacked perfectly flush. He sorts your letters without being asked, then apologizes for touching them — an odd, earnest apology that makes you smile. He looks relieved, like he passed a test he didn’t know he was taking

-the next morning, your paths cross at the coffee cart outside. He orders the same thing you do, purely by coincidence, or maybe because he noticed. He lingers until your drink’s ready. “I keep seeing you,” he says, almost to himself. “Guess the universe likes repetition.” You laugh; he ducks his head, surprised he made a joke

-soon you realize he times his exits so you ride the elevator together. He stands at rigid attention, eyes on the floor numbers, until you speak first. Each exchange is small — weather, work, rent prices — but his focus makes it feel like confession. He listens too closely, storing your words like coordinates

-he starts mirroring you without meaning to: your phrasing, the rhythm of your steps in the hallway, the exact tilt of your head when you greet the doorman. You should find it strange, yet it’s gentle — like someone learning a new language by imitation

-once, you bump into him while juggling groceries. He catches a rolling apple mid-air with reflexes that make you blink. “Occupational habit,” he murmurs. His hands linger for half a second on the bag, steadying it, before he draws back, as if even kindness must be rationed

-your neighbors call him quiet, polite, private. You start calling him Ben. It slips out one evening, casual, and he freezes. Then something softens in his face. “No one’s called me that in a while,” he admits. It sounds like permission

-he notices everything: the day you change your perfume, the way you hum when locking your door. “New scent,” he says once, catching you in the hall. “Jasmine?” When you ask how he guessed, he shrugs. “It’s what calm smells like"

-there’s structure to him — coffee at 6:00, run at 7:00, work until late. When you start waving from your balcony during his jogs, he always waves back at the exact same spot in the sidewalk. Predictability feels like affection with him

-one night the building’s power flickers. You meet him on the stairs, flashlight in hand. “You okay?” he asks, voice low, careful. When you nod, he still insists on walking you to your floor. At your door he hesitates, thumb tapping against the flashlight handle like he’s counting seconds to stay steady

-after that, you start finding small, precise favors: your doorknob fixed when it squeaked; your umbrella returned after you left it in the lobby, a note that simply says Saw it on the ground. Didn’t want it to get lost. The handwriting is exact, blocky — unmistakably his

-he’s nervous around warmth. When you bring him cookies as thanks, he stares like they might detonate. Then, very quietly: “I don’t… usually get things like this.” You tell him it’s just sugar and butter. He still eats them with soldierly focus, like each bite might vanish if he blinks

-you learn about his work through fragments — “field agent,” “federal,” nothing more. But the way he scans exits when you’re in a café together tells you everything. When you tease him about acting like a bodyguard, he answers, “old habit. Helps me keep the noise down.” You never ask what the noise is

-rain catches you both outside one evening. He insists on giving you his jacket even though he’s the one who’ll freeze. The fabric smells like clean soap and steel. You hand it back at your door, but he shakes his head. “Keep it until it’s dry.” His tone makes it sound like a promise, not an offer

-under the easy conversation, there’s tension — not danger, but intensity. His attention feels weighted, magnetic. When you talk, he watches your mouth just a beat too long, then blinks hard, as if scolding himself for it

-he starts texting you: curt, formal messages that somehow feel intimate because they’re from him. Made it home? Elevator’s out again. Goodnight. You tease him once — “You’re worse than my mom.” He actually laughs, quiet and startled. “Guess she’s got good instincts"

-sometimes, when he smiles, it looks rehearsed; sometimes it’s real and lights up his whole face. The first time you see the genuine version, you forget whatever you were saying. He notices your pause and immediately goes still, as though joy is something he has to apologize for

-occasionally, you find him waiting in the lobby when you arrive home. He says nothing at first, holding his coat tightly closed, a neutral expression on his face. “Coincidence,” he mutters when you notice him. You know it’s not, but you let him keep the pretense. You step closer, brushing against his arm, and he stiffens, then slowly relaxes, letting the contact stay. Small, careful gestures are his language of intimacy

-he fixes things in your apartment without being asked. A crooked frame. A stuck window. “Can’t leave it uneven,” he mutters. You say thank you; he only nods, but the faint flush in his neck betrays how much it matters to be appreciated for something harmless

-walking home together becomes routine. He keeps half a step behind you, scanning alleys out of reflex. You tease him — “Relax, this isn’t a mission.” He meets your eyes and says softly, “feels like one when you’re there.” It shouldn’t make your heart skip, but it does

-the night of the first kiss is almost silent. He walks you to your door, rain ticking on the awning. He looks like he’s arguing with himself — jaw tight, hands in pockets. When you turn the key, he blurts, “you make the noise stop.” It’s the most vulnerable thing he’s ever said. You step closer, and he meets you halfway. The kiss is hesitant, trembling, like precision giving way to feeling. When he pulls back, breath shaky, he whispers, “goodnight, (yn).” The way he says it sounds like he’s memorizing the word for safety

-the morning after your first kiss, you notice the way he watches you from the doorway before leaving for his own day. His posture is rigid, but his eyes linger on you longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing your shape. You smile softly and he flinches slightly at the gesture, adjusting the collar of his jacket with a nervous, precise movement. “Did I… do something wrong?” he asks quietly, voice careful. You shake your head. “No, Ben… you were perfect.” That answer makes him exhale slowly, as though he’s been holding his breath without realizing it

-over the next few days, he keeps a careful distance, moving with his usual precise posture but stealing glances when you’re not looking. He doesn’t speak much at first, but the smallest slip — a finger brushing yours on the elevator railing — sends a subtle shiver through him. He steps back immediately, murmuring, “sorry… I didn’t mean to…” The apology is unnecessary, but you can see the fear of overstepping etched into his every line

-when he’s near you in the hallway or the lobby, there’s a quiet tension, as if he’s constantly measuring his own reactions. You notice how he counts the steps beside you, the exact rhythm of his breathing. “I… I just like knowing you’re safe,” he says, voice low, barely above the hum of the building. You catch the vulnerability behind the words — he’s trying to communicate something bigger, something he doesn’t yet have a vocabulary for

-he begins small rituals — walking you home when it’s dark, always making sure you have your keys, noticing the pattern of your grocery runs. When you tease him about it, he stiffens slightly, then shrugs. “It’s… habit,” he says, but the way he glances at you as you unlock your door tells you it’s much more than that. This is his method of caring — of anchoring himself through you

-sometimes he “accidentally” arrives with small things you didn’t ask for: a cup of coffee from your favorite café, a snack you mentioned liking once. He presents it with the formality of someone delivering a report. “You mentioned this last week,” he says, avoiding your eyes. “I remembered.” Your chest tightens — it’s a small act, but it carries the weight of him noticing every little detail about you

-flirting is awkward for him. He’ll stare at you and say flatly, “you look… distracting today.” You laugh, teasing him, and his eyes dart away briefly before settling on you again. “I mean… distracting in a way that’s… difficult to ignore,” he adds quickly, as if the clarification can somehow make the emotion less real. You can’t help smiling at how tense he gets when he tries to express something vulnerable

-texts are short and clipped but punctual. Even a simple “OK” carries the undertone: I’m thinking of you, I need to know you’re there. Sometimes you reply with playful teasing, and his response is delayed by a few seconds — a pause that makes your heart race, because you know he’s carefully considering each word, guarding his own feelings even as he reaches out

-Dex builds routine around you — Friday takeout nights, Sunday morning walks, Thursday coffee runs — things that anchor him as much as they do you. When you have to cancel, he doesn’t get angry. Instead, he tightens his jaw slightly, the faintest shadow passing over his expression, and nods. Later, he double-checks you got home safely, walking the route he imagines in his head. That is his way of handling attachment: controlled, precise, a quiet devotion

-the first time you reach for his hand in public, he freezes. His muscles lock, posture stiff, eyes widening slightly. When he finally intertwines his fingers with yours, it’s careful, almost hesitant, like he’s testing whether closeness is permissible. The gesture sends a thrill through you — and you can feel the intensity of him restraining his own impulses, tethering himself to the moment

-on bad days, he doesn’t know how to comfort with words. He brings order to your chaos: folds laundry, aligns books, makes precise meals. It’s not emotionally expressive, but the thought is clear. You lean into his methodical care, feeling the rare softness behind his rigid exterior. When he sees you relax, a faint, unpracticed smile tugs at his lips — and for a moment, he allows himself to be present in it

-his apartment is immaculate. Everything is aligned perfectly, a reflection of his inner need for control. You move a picture frame just slightly, and he silently corrects it. When you tease him about it, he merely shrugs, eyes averted, but there’s a flicker — a small, protective possessiveness, a subtle way of saying: I care enough to notice

-when anxiety hits, Dex taps his thumb against his index finger, counting silently. You catch his hand to stop him. “I’ll be your grounding technique,” you say with a soft laugh. His chest rises and falls, eyes tracing yours, a faint blush appearing. “I… I might need that,” he murmurs. That single admission feels monumental, because it’s him letting you in without the armor of perfection

-you become the center of his calm. When stress hits him, he doesn’t yell or lash out. Instead, he seeks proximity to you, just your presence, steady and reliable. He doesn’t say thank you — he doesn’t need to — but you feel the weight of his reliance and the fragile relief it brings him

-one quiet evening, after a simple walk and dinner, you stop at your door. Dex hesitates, just barely, as if measuring the distance between safety and chaos. Then he reaches for your face, fingers trembling slightly, and whispers, barely above the hum of the street: “You’re my North Star.” He kisses you — careful, deliberate, trembling — a perfect blend of restraint and need

-you feel it all: trust, desire, and the rare flicker of vulnerability he’s allowed to break through. No flourish, no theatrics — just precise, heartfelt declaration that you guide him through his own storm. It’s his version of saying “I love you,” and it hits harder than any grand gesture could

-dating Dex means that small routines suddenly feel monumental. If he walks you home, he times each step with precision, pauses at every corner as if mapping danger, but you know it’s more about him feeling anchored. You tease him about it, and he just tilts his head, voice calm but tense: “I need to know you’re safe. That’s all.” It’s possessive, yes, but not cruel — just a reflection of how he processes intimacy

-he memorizes the details you never notice yourself — your favorite mug, the book you pick up on lazy afternoons, the way your hair falls when you’re thinking. When he brings you a coffee exactly the way you like it, he looks almost sheepish. “I… remembered,” he murmurs. You smile, telling him he’s perfect just for being himself, and for a moment, the armor cracks and he lets a soft smile surface

-Dex checks in constantly — not demanding, but tethered. A text: “Did you get home?” or “Are you okay?” Each one carries weight because you know it’s him trying to balance care and control. You reassure him with a simple “I’m fine, Dex,” and the relief in his eyes is almost palpable. He exhales as if he’s been holding back an ocean of worry

-possessiveness shows in subtle ways — a hand lingering on your lower back when others pass, a slight narrowing of his gaze if someone flirts. He never oversteps; it’s his body signaling alertness, his way of keeping the world at bay. You gently call him on it once, and he tenses, whispers, “I just… can’t help it,” as if confessing a weakness

-he’s not always emotionally available. Some nights he disappears into quiet corners, pacing, counting steps, muttering to himself. You hover nearby, unsure. If you reach out and ask, he stiffens, then finally admits, “I… need a minute. It’s not you.” That honesty, though sparse, is his way of letting you in

-flashes of Bullseye appear subtly. The first time, it’s during a tense moment outside your building — someone bumps into him on the stairs. His posture snaps, the air changes, precision in every micro-movement. Seconds later, he’s apologizing to you for tensing, face pale and voice tight: “I… I didn’t mean to… I just… I’m sorry.” It’s brief but startling, showing how his control can fracture instantly

-when he’s relaxed with you, it’s breathtaking. He allows himself to be playful — a slight grin when you joke, teasing comments about your habits, even letting you ruffle his hair. It’s rare, fragile, but you treasure it because it’s the only time you see him unguarded

-domestic moments are surprisingly tender. He’ll line up your pens without asking, fix something in your apartment, or make small meals. He never announces these acts as gestures of love, but they are — and you make sure he knows by letting him see your appreciation. His stiff exterior softens slightly, eyes crinkling with the faintest amusement

-dating Dex means learning to read silences. A pause can mean he’s angry, anxious, or simply processing. You lean into it, giving him space while whispering reassurance: “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He watches you, almost holding his breath, and that tiny trust is monumental

-even casual touches feel loaded with intention. A brush of his hand against yours, a careful arm around your shoulder on the elevator — each one is both a claim and a comfort. His possessiveness is tempered by restraint; he knows the line, but the intensity of feeling is always apparent

-he has rituals: checking that your door is locked, making sure you got home safely, remembering exact times when you leave and return. You tease him gently, and he stiffens slightly, then mutters, “it helps me… feel calm.” It’s his way of coping with intimacy — obsessively, but not harmfully

-arguments with Dex are rare but intense. His anger isn’t loud; it’s precise, calculated, and unnerving in its stillness. One misplaced word can make him tense, but he withdraws immediately when he sees your discomfort. “I… I don’t want to upset you,” he whispers, voice tight. That’s when you realize his self-control is fragile, and your reassurance is like a balm

-there’s a shift the first time you see his temper flare. It’s not yelling — it’s restraint stretched to breaking. His tone goes clipped, his posture military-rigid. You can see how much effort it takes for him not to explode. Later, he apologizes, voice rough: “I don’t want to be that guy with you.” You just say, “then don’t be. You’re allowed to be angry, not cruel.” It stays with him

-he’s intensely loyal. If someone crosses a line with you, even subtly, he notices. The protective streak is quiet but undeniable. He won’t lash out immediately, but his focus narrows, his posture sharpens — you see the Bullseye precision beneath the surface. Later, he apologizes for scaring you: “I… I can’t always stop myself from reacting. I’m sorry"

-when you’re together, he notices patterns in your moods. If you seem tense, he adjusts — more space, softer voice, small gestures of comfort. “Do you need me to… just be here?” he asks. You nod, and he simply stays, quiet, grounded, tactile in ways that feel protective without being overbearing

-physical intimacy is tentative at first. Hand-holding, gentle touches, small kisses — all measured, careful, but charged with emotion. When he does kiss you, it’s deliberate, precise, yet trembling at the edges, as if he’s both savoring and restraining the intensity

-he begins to let you see the cracks: brief moments of vulnerability when his control slips, guilt shadowing his sharp eyes. “I… I’m not good at this,” he admits once, voice barely above a whisper. You take his hand, press your forehead to his, and murmur, "you’re trying. That’s enough.” The relief that passes over him is almost visible, fleeting but deep

-dating him means constant negotiation of trust. He sometimes wants to double-check, reassert, make sure you’re safe — and you accept that as part of loving him. In return, he learns small ways to step back, showing growth in restraint without losing the intensity of his care

-humor emerges in rare bursts. He’ll mimic your expressions playfully, or make an awkward quip in a quiet moment. The humor is dry, precise, almost a peek behind the wall. You laugh softly, and he watches you closely, eyes sharp, calculating — then finally, just barely, allows himself a genuine smile

-dating Dex means realizing early that his affection doesn’t come softly — it comes with weight. He watches you like you’re something rare and breakable, his eyes never quite relaxing, as though he’s memorizing the rhythm of your breath. You’ll catch him sometimes, gaze flicking between your lips and your pulse, not with hunger but with awe, like he’s trying to remind himself you’re real

-he’s touch-starved in the strangest way. He craves contact but doesn’t quite know what to do with it once he has it. Sometimes, when you’re close, his body goes rigid first — then slowly uncoils, his muscles remembering that this is supposed to feel good. He’ll exhale against your shoulder, a quiet confession disguised as breath

-the first time Dex truly lets you touch his face, he goes very still. You feel his jaw tighten, the tension beneath his skin. His eyes flick away, embarrassed — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he does, too much. You whisper, “you’re okay,” and something in him fractures — that line between control and vulnerability blurring for just a moment

-his version of a kiss is precise at first, almost clinical — like he’s mapping you, learning what’s safe. Then, when emotion overrides restraint, it deepens, turning messy, trembling. He pulls back after, staring at you like he’s done something dangerous. “You should tell me to stop next time,” he murmurs, though his thumb is still on your jaw, unwilling to let go

-after that, he becomes gentler — not because he’s less intense, but because he’s terrified of losing control again. Each kiss afterward is deliberate, slower, his breathing uneven like he’s timing himself. You realize that for him, love isn’t instinct; it’s a tightrope walk between craving and guilt

-he apologizes for things that don’t need apologies — brushing your hand, leaning too close, holding eye contact too long. It’s like he’s constantly afraid of crossing a line he can’t see. You start telling him, “you’re allowed,” and watch how those words loosen his shoulders, like they give him permission to exist beside you

-when Dex is overwhelmed, he paces. His movements sharpen — exact, repetitive. It’s not about anger; it’s his way of keeping the noise down. Sometimes you’ll touch his wrist mid-stride, grounding him. He’ll stop instantly, stare down at your hand on his, and for a heartbeat, the storm in his eyes clears

-sometimes he doesn’t trust his instincts. If someone flirts with you, he’ll go quiet instead of jealous. But when you touch his arm, gently teasing, “you know you don’t have to analyze everything,” he breathes out a laugh that sounds like relief. He’s learning not every emotion needs to be a mission

-there are nights he wakes up disoriented, hands trembling, pupils blown wide. You don’t need to ask — it’s the noise in his head, the one he can’t silence. You guide him through breathing exercises. He doesn’t talk about it after, but the next morning, he brings you coffee exactly how you like it, wordlessly grateful

-you learn quickly that his apartment is immaculate. Every object has its place — weapons stored with surgical precision, couch cushions aligned. But the first thing that’s ever out of place? Your mug on his counter. He doesn’t move it. Days later, it’s still there — like he’s marking your existence in his space

-Dex has a strange tenderness for your routines. If you like to read before bed, he’ll sit beside you in silence, pretending to check his phone, but you’ll notice his eyes flick to you every few seconds, soaking in the calm. For him, domesticity feels almost holy

-his guilt manifests physically — clenched fists, jaw grinding, shoulders hunched forward. When you ask what’s wrong, he mutters, “I don’t want to hurt anyone again.” You don’t say “you won’t.” You just touch his wrist and whisper, “then stay.” And he does

-sometimes he withdraws, goes cold for hours or days. It’s not punishment — it’s fear. He’ll text you things like, “i’m fine, just need to focus,” but when you finally see him again, his relief is palpable. He’ll rest his forehead against yours, silent apology written in the trembling breath between you

-Dex is careful with affection, but when he reaches for you, it’s instinctual — a hand brushing yours, a palm on your waist, a kiss at your temple. You realize it’s not just desire — it’s orientation. He anchors himself to you physically, the way others use landmarks to stay grounded

-when you argue, his need for control shows. He’ll over-explain, twist logic into circles, trying to make sense of emotions that don’t fit neat categories. You’ve learned to stop him with a simple, “Ben, it’s not a report. It’s a feeling.” He goes quiet, exhales, and nods — like you’ve reminded him how to be human again

-despite the tension, he’s funny in an odd, dry way. His humor sneaks up on you — deadpan one-liners said without expression, the kind that make you snort before realizing he was serious. You think that’s your favorite part — when he accidentally lets himself be warm

-he doesn’t always know how to express love in words, but in his actions, it’s everywhere. A jacket draped over your shoulders before you ask. Your favorite takeout appearing on nights you work late. The quiet murmur before sleep: “Stay where I can find you.” It’s possessive, yes — but in his voice, it sounds like prayer

-when you first hear the name Bullseye, you don’t connect it to Dex. Not until one night, when he shows up at your door — bruised, trembling, eyes blown wide — and says, “you shouldn’t have to see me like this.” That’s when you realize: the mask isn’t a disguise. It’s containment

-you start noticing the cracks before he says anything. His hands shake after missions, his eyes unfocused — like he’s hearing echoes from somewhere you can’t follow. You ask, “you okay?” and he lies automatically, voice flat: “I’m fine.” You know better. He only says fine when he’s unraveling

-you clean the blood from his knuckles in silence. He flinches at every touch, not from pain but shame. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispers. “I do,” you say softly. “Because you won’t.” He stares at you like you’ve just spoken a language he forgot existed

-after that, he disappears for days at a time. When he returns, his eyes are colder, his words sharper. You try to reach him, but it’s like talking to the echo of a man. Then, one night, out of nowhere, he grabs your face and kisses you like he’s drowning. It’s desperate, rough, almost angry — but the moment your hand finds his cheek, he softens, breaking apart in your arms

-“you should hate me,” Dex says against your mouth. “You’re trying really hard to make that impossible,” you answer. It earns a choked laugh — one that sounds more like a sob

-he tries to end things, thinking he’s protecting you. He leaves without warning, his apartment stripped bare, his contact silent. But you find a note taped to your door: “You’re my North Star. Don’t follow me.” You do, anyway

-when you finally find him, he looks half-alive — thinner, haunted, avoiding your gaze. “Why are you here?” he demands, voice low. You step closer. “Because you left me with half a heart and a note,” you say. His jaw clenches, and his voice breaks when he says, “you were supposed to forget me”

-you don’t leave. You sit beside him on the floor, in silence. Eventually, he leans his head on your shoulder, whispering, “I don’t deserve this.” You reply, “you don’t get to decide that.” For the first time in weeks, he sleeps

-when he wakes, he’s different — quieter. Like he’s realizing the world didn’t end because you saw him at his worst. He starts coming home more often, starts talking again. You never ask for confessions. You just let him exist beside you until he remembers how

-you learn the difference between Dex and Bullseye. Dex flinches at affection. Bullseye leans into it with feral hunger, like it’s the only thing tethering him. Both are him, and both are trying. Sometimes you kiss him slow just to remind him that tenderness doesn’t have to hurt

-there are still bad nights. Nights when he’s pacing, muttering numbers under his breath, desperate to stay grounded. You keep a steady voice, saying, “Ben, look at me.” When his eyes finally meet yours, the panic fades — replaced by something like awe. “You always know how to find me,” he murmurs

-he starts letting you in on his rituals — cleaning his weapons, organizing his gear. It’s not about control anymore. It’s about trust. Letting you see the precision that keeps him from falling apart. You realize that, for him, intimacy isn’t about the body; it’s about being seen and surviving it

-kissing him now feels different. It’s not tentative anymore. It’s still careful, but there’s emotion under the restraint — the way his hand lingers on the back of your neck, thumb drawing small circles against your skin, grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, breathless, he always whispers the same thing: “Still here?” You always answer, “still here”

-Dex doesn’t talk about the past much. But sometimes, in half-sleep, he murmurs things — pieces of confessions meant for no one. You hold him through it, your fingers tracing patterns on his back until his breathing steadies. He never remembers in the morning, but his smile lasts a little longer that day

-he’s still possessive, but it’s evolved — less about control, more about protection. You see it when he reaches for your hand in public, or when he steps between you and strangers out of habit. It’s instinct now, not paranoia. And somehow, you find it comforting

-you start to see glimpses of healing. He laughs more — real laughter, soft and unguarded. He teases you sometimes, his humor awkward but sweet. You realize that’s what love looks like for him: quiet moments of peace stitched together with effort and will

-one evening, after a long day, you find Dex sitting on the balcony, looking out at the city lights. He says, “you know, stars don’t actually guide you. They just help you remember where you are.” You smile, sit beside him, and whisper, “then I guess I’m doing my job.” He turns to you, that faint smile tugging at his mouth, and says, “better than anyone ever could”

-when you kiss him that night, it’s slow — steady, reverent. No tension, no panic. Just warmth. His hands tremble slightly, not from fear, but from realizing he can feel this much and not break. It’s a small miracle in the shape of a heartbeat

-he’ll always carry his darkness, but now, it doesn’t define him. He still has bad days — moments where his temper snaps, or guilt claws its way back — but he comes to you afterward, eyes wet, voice shaking, saying, “I didn’t lose myself this time.” And you tell him, “you don’t have to fight it alone”

-loving him means living with shadows and light at once. It’s messy, complicated, sometimes frightening — but also breathtakingly human. You’ll never forget the night he looked at you, eyes soft, voice quiet as a confession: “You saved me from myself.” You smile, tracing his scarred cheek, and whisper: “no, Ben. You did that yourself. I just reminded you where to look"

-loving Ben Poindexter is like holding a blade made of light — dangerous, dazzling, and impossible to let go. You learn his edges by touch, the places that cut and the ones that tremble beneath your hands. He’s both precision and chaos, a man who measures love in steady breaths and apologies. Some nights he’s all shadow, pacing the perimeter of his own mind; some nights he’s quiet laughter against your shoulder. You never stop being aware of how easily he could break — or how carefully he chooses not to. To love him is to live inside a storm that finally learns to whisper, to find beauty in the balance between fear and faith, ruin and redemption

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know 💕

Zenless Zone Zero headcanons

Lighter

He and how he stands up for his partner

•You may see her sleep, yes, but in reality she's a very tired woman, having been a Tsahik since 15, she constantly trained, learned raiding routes and stayed up for most of her life because of rival clans attacking because they underestimated her.

•When her hair is out of her braids, it's INSANELY frizzy due to the constant heat that's it's in, it poofs up like instant snow, Quaritch laughed at her once and he slept outside for the week.

•She has burns under her red painted areas.

•She would love coffee. And chocolate mostly, any human food you can give her she'll devour that shit, however she doesn't like cheese.

•She treats her clan as any Tsahik would do, and is soft for certain members.

•This woman's yurt is a fucking mess....Just shit everywhere....She takes offense when someone points it out, "it does not need order, it is fine...".

•She got the bead curtain that she has tangled in her headress and hair once, even though many members tried to help her she refused and took 3 hours untangling it.

•She allows certain members to come into her yurt without asking, you must be her FAVORITE to do this though.

•As much as she loves the "thunder" guns make, she can't stand thunderstorms, it reminds her of the mountain, and when she was younger and the trauma was still fresh, she used to sob herself to sleep.

•before she decorated her yurt, she used to sleep with ka'sem (Avatar frontiers of pandora, dlc from the ashes), and NO not in that way, when she was 15 she slept in his arms before she had a proper bed, it was sweet in a way.

•Riku, Wukula, Zari and Rakx were all her childhood friends.

•Ka'sem is the father that stepped up (should I write more Abt them?)

•She sings amazingly, mostly throat singing but her deep voice 🤩.

•She absolutely adored cuddling Quaritch and fiddling with his hands, she could stay there for hours if she wanted...

•If you could even get close enough to her to scratch behind her ears, ouh boy she would lay down like a cat and let you.

•She would have a ptsd attack during that one Jurassic world scene where the volcano erupts lets bffr now...