#◜andy: headcanon.◞

[gethellbcnt-m]

let it be known that Niffty and Andy are not only friends, but they share the love language of clogging your arteries with delicious baked goods and various other dishes

do not be surprised if you gain a little weight.. it's from all the love they put into their cooking !!

[gethellbcnt]

andy tags !

◜andy: inbox / replies.◞ ◜andy: behavior.◞ ◜andy: headcanon.◞ ◜andy: in character.◞ ◜andy: mirror / faceclaim.◞ ◜andy: isms.◞ ◜andy: playlist.◞ ◜andy: aesthetics.◞ ◜andy: desires / shipping.◞ ◜andy: attire.◞ ◜andy: abilities / skills.◞

◜andy / v. main.◞ 🇸​🇦​🇫​🇪​ 🇮​🇳​ 🇸​🇮​🇳​🇩​🇪​🇷​ 🇪​🇾​🇪​🇸​﹐🇲​🇾​ 🇫​🇮​🇷​🇪​ 🇳​🇪​🇻​🇪​🇷​ 🇩​🇮​🇪​🇸​.

[kidovna]

from this fic by @andiwriteordie

[miss-conner3]

En Español: Aquí

“A Very Special Fleece”

Context: Under the scoop of increased faith in the cult, Ando decides to listen to the advice of the Red Crown.

I remembered that I never put the suit on the Ando of this universe (ouo)

Well, better now than never, ¿right? XD

This takes place after Ando's blunder with his first marriage and before Narinder's defeat (7u7)

¡I hope you like it!

Extra: A very distinctive distinction (owo)

[sugarwarachan]

touch starved shoji if you’d be so inclined 🫶🫶🫶

nonnie I AM so inclined, hope you enjoy!! this one kind of got away from me, in the best way possible ;) I really had to set the scene!!

touchstarved!shoji who’s been discriminated against his whole life and is rightfully apprehensive about meeting the newest member of his support team

touchstarved!shoji who finds himself melting around you, slowly opening up about his likes, his past, his goals. he always makes such focused eye contact when he listens to you, even if you don't notice his glance darting occasionally down to your lips

touchstarved!shoji who is grateful to his mask for hiding the fierce blush on his cheeks when you use his shoulder to steady yourself when you stumble near his desk

touchstarved!shoji who asks you to accompany him on a mission as tech support, asking around to make sure accomodations are to your taste

touchstarved!shoji who is absolutely SCRAMBLING when you both arrive at the inn and all the other rooms are booked

touchstarved!shoji who keeps a respectful distance from you in the only bed left, every cell in his body aware of yours

touchstarved!shoji who feels like he’s dreaming when you scoot closer to him, your thigh swinging over his, the scorching hot pulse of your pussy on his hip

touchstarved!shoji who feels like he’s dreaming when you scoot closer to him, your thigh swinging over his, the scorching hot pulse of your pussy on his hip

touchstarved!shoji who makes sure no part of your body goes untouched, unkissed, unmarked, “you’ve no idea how many times i’ve thought of this, darling - still nothing could have prepared me for how beautiful you are” (the sincerest dirty talk of all time)

touchstarved!shoji who has you fluttering around his thick cock, makes the end of one arm into a mouth to suckle at your clit until you scream

touchstarved!shoji who cradles you against him as you fall asleep, already planning out how he's going to ask you to marry him

other touchstarved! mha boys here.

[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

Transdrew headcanon my beloved

[eeflux]

i can picture regulus doing that "when ur accent slips accidentally" trend

[julysn]

i was thinking andddd (nsfw content.)

andrew graves shotgunning during sex 🤷‍♂️

(if you don’t know what shotgun kissing is, basically someone will smoke something and exhale into the recipients mouth)

quick notes: hi this is like a quick thingy i wanted to post before i write that andrew graves smut that i've been ignoring since march. also this is the first time i've written something formatted like this so....

ALSO IS THE SMOKING ACCURATE?? i've never smoked

you're sitting on andrew's lap, similar to that one devlog art of andrew and ashley. his cock is inside of you, except this time, he isn't thrusting into you, you're riding him.

one of his hands is on your thigh, the other holding a cigarette clasped in-between is fingers. as you ride him, letting out soft whines, he just gazes at you with lustful eyes.

“baby, is that all you're gonna do?" you complain, lips slightly pouty, just the way he likes it.

".. what?"

“no kisses or nothing?" you complain again, batting your eyelashes and doing your best to give him a sweet, puppy dog look. you even start rocking your hips a bit harder, faster, anything for his attention. a smirk crawls up your face as you listen to his groans getting more frequent

"fine." andrew surrenders, sighing lightly but smiling as he takes a drag from his cigarette. the two of you lean in, meeting in the middle, yet instead of the two of you making out, his lips ghost over yours, almost brushing against yet not enough to be a real kiss.

you let out a soft whine as he exhales the smoke through his mouth and into yours, coughing lightly. "babe, i thought we were gonna make out or something."

he just smirks in return, taking another drag from his cigarette.

[rizdoodles]

The tentacles of octopuses possess a certain degree of autonomy. Octopuses have a unique and complex nervous system, distributed in a decentralized manner. About two-thirds of their neurons are located in their tentacles rather than in their central brain.

This structure allows the tentacles to perform movements independently of the central brain. Each tentacle contains a network of neurons capable of processing information and coordinating actions such as object manipulation, locomotion, and food searching. The tentacles can thus react to local stimuli and make simple decisions without requiring approval from the brain.

[cannibal-pentecost]

I believe yuri could save them 🙏♀️🏳️‍⚧️💖💗💖💗😈

Audrey vs Andrew comparison under the cut

[cami040405]

Can I request Brahms and any other slashers that you want but with a female reader who plays volleyball a lot likes to play in the garden or inside the house.

Slashers with a Female Reader who Plays Volleyball

Summary: You’re an energetic girl who loves playing volleyball, whether in the garden or inside the house — and each of these slashers has their own unique reaction to your playful spirit.

Includes: Brahms Heelshire, Charles Lee Ray, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair & Pearl.

A/N: I loved writing this request, I don't watch much about volleyball but I used to play in school so it brought back good memories, I hope you like it!

Brahms Heelshire

The silence of the Heelshire estate was something you’d grown used to, though it still felt like the walls breathed when your back was turned. The house groaned with age, but never more than when you were alone—truly alone, or at least that’s what you told yourself.

To pass the time in the cavernous, echoing manor, you’d taken up your old habit again—volleyball. It started small: just tapping the ball against the high walls of the drawing room, bouncing it off your forearms, sending it back into the air over and over. The rhythm soothed your nerves. The thunk of the ball against stone echoed through the halls, reminding you there was still life here—your life.

But one morning, you decided to take it outside.

The garden behind the manor was wildly overgrown, vines twisting over stone benches and patches of white roses blooming wildly without supervision. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something that didn’t quite belong. You stepped barefoot onto the grass, volleyball tucked under your arm, and tossed it into the air with a laugh. For once, the eerie silence didn’t feel suffocating.

You served the ball hard, watching it arch through the air and bounce off the trunk of an old tree. It rolled off into the rose bushes, and you sighed—then blinked. The ball... rolled back. Slowly, as if pushed by a hesitant hand.

You stood still, a shiver running down your spine. "Hello?"

No answer.

Not even the wind dared to whisper.

From then on, it kept happening. Every time the ball rolled too far, it was returned. Gently. Deliberately. And sometimes, when you weren’t looking, the ball would already be sitting at your feet again, as if someone anticipated your next move.

Eventually, you stopped pretending you were alone.

"Brahms," you said aloud one evening, glancing toward the ivy-covered wall that concealed the old window. “Is that you playing with me?”

The air was still. You turned away.

Thump.

You gasped and spun around. The ball was bouncing slightly where you’d left it on the bench — though no one was in sight.

From then on, it became a routine. In the garden, in the drawing room, in the upstairs corridor with the old wooden beams—you would serve and volley, and he would return the ball in his own quiet way. Sometimes he knocked it over from an unseen angle. Sometimes you’d hear soft footsteps just behind the wall. You started speaking to him as you played, your voice warm and playful.

“I’m getting better, you know. I bet you can’t block this one.”

Thunk — the ball came back faster than you expected, nearly smacking you in the face. You laughed breathlessly. “Okay, okay! You win that round!”

Then one day, he left you a gift.

It was a crudely drawn net, assembled with bits of string, bent curtain rods, and even a few toys from the attic. It stretched awkwardly across the garden path. The moment you saw it, your chest ached with unexpected affection. Brahms... he made this. For you. To play.

That evening, you served the ball over the makeshift net, and before it hit the ground, it was swatted back—hard. You stared.

He was there.

For the first time, Brahms stepped out of the shadows. The porcelain mask glinted in the twilight, his body tall and lean, covered in his familiar layered clothes. His breathing was shallow beneath the mask. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

You smiled. “Want to play with me for real now?”

A pause. Then... a slight nod.

So you played.

For nearly an hour, the manor grounds echoed with the sound of laughter and soft thuds. He never spoke, but his body language—careful, deliberate, almost childlike—told you enough. When you missed, he tilted his head, waiting for you to retrieve the ball. When you scored, he gave a tiny, frustrated stomp that made you giggle.

But the most surprising thing was how gentle he was. Despite his looming presence, he never hit the ball too hard. He watched you with obsessive, unblinking attention, like you were the only thing he could focus on. His shoulders tensed when you winced from a bad landing. And at the end, when you collapsed onto the grass in exhaustion, he walked slowly toward you.

He crouched beside you, the volleyball cradled in one hand.

You looked up at him through your sweat-damp hair. “You were really good.”

He tilted his head again. Then, he gently reached out — his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

No words. Just soft breathing behind porcelain. The ball rolled from his hand and bumped against your knee like a promise: Let’s play again tomorrow.

And somehow, in the middle of that lonely, haunting manor, you realized something strange.

You weren’t lonely anymore.

.

Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)

The ball bounces once, twice, then slams into the wall and rockets back toward you. You grunt softly, shifting your weight to spike it back with the heel of your palm. The old wooden floor of the abandoned house you and Charles had holed up in creaks beneath you with every jump. Dust dances in the afternoon sunlight pouring through a broken window. You’re sweaty, winded, and fully immersed in the rhythm of the game.

“Jesus, babe,” a raspy voice cuts through your focus, “you tryin’ to bring the whole damn house down?”

You glance to your right, just in time to see the small, redheaded figure perched on a crate — plastic legs swinging casually and a mischievous smirk plastered across his Good Guy doll face. Chucky.

You shoot him a grin. “You’re just mad I almost hit you last time.”

He snorts, hopping down with a little “thud” and dust cloud. “You wish. Your aim sucks. If I were human, I’d be filing for emotional damages.”

You chuckle, bouncing the ball once more and slamming it into the wall. It ricochets hard, missing Chucky by a foot.

He blinks. “Okay, now you’re doin’ it on purpose.”

You shrug playfully. “Maybe.”

The thing about Charles is: he acts like he couldn’t care less. But after a few days of watching you play, he can’t help himself. He starts tossing snide comments from the corner. Then he “accidentally” nudges the ball back when it rolls away. Finally, one afternoon, he stands in front of you, fists on his tiny hips.

“Alright, alright, fine. Let’s do this. Bet I could wipe the floor with you.”

You raise a brow, trying not to laugh. “You do realize you’re like... two feet tall, right?”

He bares his teeth in a grin. “Size ain’t everything, sweetheart.”

You grab the ball and gently toss it his way. He doesn’t even flinch — catches it expertly and launches it back with surprising force for a doll. It hits you right in the chest, making you stumble back a step.

“What the hell, Chucky!” you laugh.

He shrugs with feigned innocence. “Oops. Guess I am stronger than I look.”

It becomes a weird, chaotic game between the two of you. Chucky runs around the room like a rabid squirrel, sometimes using objects to bounce the ball in wild directions. At one point, he uses a chair to gain height and slam the ball like he’s playing dodgeball. You swear he’s enjoying it way more than he lets on.

“See?” he pants after a particularly intense rally, hair a mess and plastic limbs scuffed. “This is fun. I mean, it’s not murder, but it’s... y’know. Not bad.”

You’re sweating, collapsed on the floor with the ball under your arm. “Glad you approve.”

Chucky walks over — a little awkwardly, his tiny joints clicking — and sits beside you.

“You’re a freakin’ weirdo, ya know that?” he says after a long pause.

You glance at him. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

He smirks, then nudges your shoulder with his little plastic hand. “I mean it. Most people run from me. You? You just keep hittin’ balls off my face like I’m part of the furniture.”

“You’re my favorite decoration,” you tease, flicking his forehead.

He bats your hand away but doesn’t move from your side. In fact, he leans against your arm. It’s subtle. If you weren’t paying attention, you might think he was just tired.

But you feel the weight. The warmth. As strange as it is, he’s relaxing beside you. Like your chaotic little games give him something he didn’t know he craved.

Normalcy. Or at least something close to it.

“I guess you’re not so bad, doll,” you whisper after a beat.

Chucky scoffs — but you catch the way his head dips slightly.

“Yeah, well... don’t go soft on me, alright?” he mutters, eyes flicking to yours. “I still got a reputation to keep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He leans back on his tiny arms, gazing up at the dusty ceiling with a soft grunt.

“Next time,” he says, voice low, “I’m building us a net. And I will win.”

You smile, watching him — the world’s most dangerous killer trapped in a child’s toy — plotting out your next volleyball match like it’s a war.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

.

Bo Sinclair

The sun beat down hard on the dusty back lot of Ambrose, heatwaves dancing above the cracked pavement. But that didn’t stop you. You stood barefoot on the dry grass patch near the old Sinclair house, volleyball in hand, the worn seams rough against your fingertips. You tossed it into the air, giving it a satisfying thwack as it soared up and down in your little game of keep-up.

Bo leaned against the porch railing, a cigarette pinched between his lips, hidden eyes watching you from behind his sunglasses. His expression was unreadable — mouth curled in a smirk, head tilted ever so slightly.

“Ya really playin’ that out here?” he called out eventually, voice dripping with amusement. “Ain’t exactly a beach, sweetheart.”

You caught the ball against your forearm and turned to face him, sweat clinging to your skin. “What, you afraid I’ll hit a window?”

He snorted. “Nah, more like afraid you’ll pull a muscle swingin’ around like that.”

But you knew Bo. Beneath the teasing, his gaze lingered a bit too long on the curve of your waist, the way your shorts hugged your hips, the smooth line of your thighs flexing when you leapt to catch the ball again. He’d always act too cool to care, but that fire behind his smirk said otherwise.

“You can either come play or keep staring like a creep,” you teased, bouncing the ball off your knee before catching it again.

Bo chuckled low in his throat and flicked the cigarette into the dirt. “Fine. But when I win, you’re makin’ dinner tonight.”

“Oh, you think you���re gonna win?” You raised a brow, tossing him the ball.

He caught it easily, rolling it from one hand to the other before stepping onto your makeshift court. The two of you didn't have a net — just a line marked in the dirt with a stick, like kids inventing their own game. But it was enough.

The first serve came hard. You were faster. You dove, kicking up dust, and sent it flying back. Bo cursed, not expecting your reflexes.

“You didn’t say you were tryin’ out for the damn Olympics,” he muttered, laughing breathlessly as the game began to pick up heat. You darted around the court, giggling when he fumbled a save. He groaned dramatically, wiping sweat from his brow with a swaggering flair.

“Need a break already, old man?” you called.

“Old man, my ass,” he growled, lunging after the ball. You barely avoided his tackle, stumbling backward — and that’s when it happened.

Bo didn’t accidentally fall. He caught your waist and pulled you down with him, the two of you tumbling into the grass in a heap of limbs and laughter.

The ball rolled off toward the porch, forgotten for the moment. Bo pinned you beneath him, hands planted beside your head, breath warm on your cheek. His sunglasses had fallen off in the scuffle, revealing the full force of those piercing blue eyes. His grin softened, something more raw flickering behind the cocky attitude.

“You always this competitive, darlin’?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

You smiled up at him, brushing your hair from your face. “Only when the prize is worth it.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then slowly lifted back to your eyes. “Oh yeah? What exactly’s the prize?”

You didn’t need to answer. The air between you was already electric. Bo’s hand slid up your thigh, slow and deliberate, the game long forgotten. His smile curved wickedly.

“Maybe we should play more often,” he muttered, lips brushing against yours.

From the porch, Vincent opened the door just enough to scowl at the noise.

“Shut up, Vin!” Bo shouted without looking, before lowering his voice to a murmur only you could hear:

“Let him pout. We’re busy.”

And in that moment, tangled together in the golden heat and wild grass, laughter fading into quiet, you realized:

For all his gruff edges and crude humor, Bo Sinclair would meet you halfway — even if it meant playing your game.

.

Vincent Sinclair

There was something almost sacred in the way your laughter echoed through the quiet halls of the House of Wax. Amid the scent of aged timber, melting wax, and silence, you brought with you a rhythm Vincent hadn’t heard in years — the thud of a volleyball against old plaster walls, your footsteps light and quick, the occasional sound of your amused exclamation when it hit something it shouldn't have.

At first, Vincent watched from the shadows.

He had stumbled upon you by accident — barefoot, in a soft tank top and shorts, hitting a scuffed volleyball back and forth against the wall of an abandoned side room near the wax museum. The light poured in through the broken glass above, catching on the sweat at your temple, turning you into something ethereal. He was mesmerized. Not just by your movement, but your joy. You were playing alone, but it didn’t feel lonely. It felt like you were inviting the house to come alive with you.

Every hit of the ball was like a heartbeat in the stillness. Every time you smiled, it made his chest tighten.

He didn’t approach right away. Instead, he retreated to his studio, but your presence kept creeping in. That night, instead of sculpting, he stared at a blank wax head, his mind full of you — your laughter, the bounce of your hair, the delicate arch of your back as you reached for a ball midair. His fingers itched to carve it, but he didn’t. Not yet.

The next day, you found a net.

A crude thing, fashioned from old rope and what looked like wax-dipped wood poles, strung up between two doorframes in one of the larger open spaces. You paused, eyebrows raised in surprise. It hadn’t been there before. At first you thought it might be Bo’s weird way of teasing you — until you noticed the craftsmanship. The way the cords had been wrapped, the symmetry, the precision.

This was Vincent.

A shy smile touched your lips. “You want to play, don’t you?” you whispered to no one, holding the ball close.

From then on, you returned to that room daily. Sometimes you practiced alone, sometimes you'd "talk" to the room, your voice teasing the silent watcher you knew was there. “I bet you’re watching me again, huh?” you’d say playfully, spinning the ball in your hands. “You could at least come out and join me. I promise not to hit you in the face.”

One day, he did.

You turned and nearly dropped the ball when you saw him — tall, still, his face half hidden by his long black hair and mask, gloved hands hovering near his sides. He didn’t speak. He never did. But you didn’t need words.

You smiled softly, offering him the ball. “Wanna serve?”

Vincent stepped forward with hesitation, as though afraid to scare you, and took the ball. His hands were surprisingly gentle despite their size. He tossed it up clumsily and hit it — not hard, but enough that it cleared the net and bounced at your feet.

You giggled, catching it. “Not bad.”

That became your thing.

You played together in the dusty open rooms of Ambrose, your laughter balancing the silence he’d once taken comfort in. Vincent moved awkwardly at first, more used to crafting beauty with his hands than catching or batting a ball. But over time, he learned your rhythm — learned how to step forward just enough, how to push the ball back with his palms without hurting it or you.

He rarely looked you in the eyes, but he always watched you. Your joy became a quiet obsession for him. You reminded him of what life might have been if it weren’t coated in wax and blood.

And on the days you stumbled — scraping your knee on a broken tile or collapsing to the floor, flushed and laughing — Vincent was there. Immediately. Kneeling beside you, his gloved hands brushing your skin gently, eyes wide with concern. He didn’t like seeing you hurt.

One day, after a long session of play, you flopped down on the floor with a sigh, arms spread wide. 

“You’re a surprisingly good partner, you know that?” you said to him, voice breathless. “You don’t talk much, but I always know when you’re listening.”

Vincent knelt nearby, his gaze fixed on your face, unmoving.

Then, slowly — painfully slowly — he reached forward and brushed a lock of hair away from your cheek. His hand lingered a second longer than it should have. Then he pulled back, as if ashamed of himself.

You didn’t flinch. You reached up and took his hand.

“I don’t mind the silence,” you whispered, looking into the slits of his mask. “I hear you anyway.”

Vincent’s hand trembled slightly in yours.

He still didn’t speak. But after that moment, he never hid again. He waited for you every morning by the net, volleyball in hand, and you knew — with every serve, every shared breath, every lingering glance — that he was falling in love with you the only way he knew how:

Through quiet devotion…

Through the rhythm of a game…

And through the echo of your joy.

.

Pearl

The sun hung low over the cornfields, dipping the old farmhouse in a soft golden glow. The only sounds were the whispering breeze, the chirp of crickets, and the rhythmic, satisfying thump of a volleyball striking the ground.

You’d been playing for nearly half an hour, sending the ball against the weathered barn wall and bouncing it back with practiced reflexes. The open yard became your makeshift court, with hay bales and an old wooden crate marking your boundaries. You were barefoot, your hair tied loosely, dressed in a light blouse and shorts that already had dust on the hems. Out here, no one cared about appearances.

Or so you thought.

From the porch, Pearl watched.

Her pale hands clutched the rail, her thin shoulders stiff with something between fascination and envy. You knew she’d been watching you for days now — quietly, like a ghost behind curtains or through the screen door. But she never approached. Until today.

You caught her eyes just as you set the ball for another spike. Her cheeks flushed like roses under candlelight. Caught, she stood slowly and took cautious steps toward the yard, her floral dress fluttering in the wind like the fragile wings of a dying butterfly.

“I used to dance,” she said out of nowhere, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “Long ago. Before everything got... harder.”

You smiled, walking toward her with the ball in hand. “You still move like a dancer,” you said sincerely. “Want to try playing?”

Pearl blinked, surprised. “Me? Oh, no... I’m much too old for that.”

“You’re not,” you replied gently, offering the ball. “It’s not about age. It’s about joy.”

She stared at it like it might crumble in her hands. But slowly — hesitantly — she reached out and took it. The ball felt foreign, rubbery and light, nothing like the velvet and lace she once knew. Still, she held it like it mattered.

The first serve was clumsy. The ball rolled along the ground and bumped your foot. She gasped and covered her mouth like she’d offended you. But you laughed, genuine and full, and she relaxed a little.

“Let’s try again,” you said, resetting.

It took a few tries, but Pearl began to giggle — awkward at first, then with genuine delight. Her cheeks glowed, and her laughter sounded like music trapped in a box for years, now finally let out into the summer air.

You volleyed back and forth, not worrying about form or rules. Just play. Pearl twirled once as she moved to the ball, then caught herself, embarrassed.

“Old habits,” she mumbled, brushing hair behind her ear.

“I love it,” you told her. “You look beautiful when you dance.”

Her breath hitched. No one had called her beautiful in a long, long time. Not since before Howard, before the war, before life grew dull and quiet.

You moved closer, gently taking the ball from her hands and setting it down. “Pearl,” you said, “you don’t have to be someone else to be worth something. Just being here with you — it’s... it’s enough.”

She looked like she might cry. Not in the dramatic, angry way you sometimes feared — but in that soft, aching way of someone who had never been told they were enough.

And then, she leaned in.

It was cautious, trembling — like the kiss of a girl long denied touch, long denied affection. Your lips met hers under the fading sun, warm and fragile, the air filled with the scent of dry grass and hope.

When you pulled away, Pearl’s hands remained tangled in your shirt.

“I’ve never had anyone want to stay,” she whispered. “They always want to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to hers. “Not tonight. Not if you want me here.”

She smiled, small and soft. “I want to play again... tomorrow.”

“Then we will.”

And as the sun dipped below the fields, you played once more — not to win, not for practice, but to make the world feel just a little lighter, a little warmer, for a woman who’d nearly forgotten what it meant to be seen.

.

[gethellbcnt-m]

throws Andy headcanons at you like POCKET SAND--

♦ despite being around since the early 1820's, Andy's taken up lots of odd jobs that would guarantee him safety from all the exterminations that he's lived past thus far. it pays to be approachable and charming- or very, very good with your hands.

♦ as a side hustle and to add to his roster of many talents, the big 'ol Ragdoll picked up playing various wind instruments, his most requested positions to fill being for : trumpet, trombone, clarinet, and saxophone.

♦ his first name, Raghnall, is a play on the word Ragdoll, which is the type of cat breed he is based on ! the breed name is also a reference as to why he's so laid back and Heckin Huge, as he's a husky cat that stands at an adorable 6'7" ! and yes, his coat is just as, if not Softer, than this breed as well !

[lookingformoondrop]

could i request a boyfriend!andrew graves x reader headcannons or scenarios? i LOVE TCOAAL🫶🫶

Boyfriend! Andrew Graves x Reader - Headcanons

TW: Andy has a foul mouth, reader gets groped, Andy is a little possessive, a tiny bit of violence (-is always the answer)

♥︎Notes: I'm kind of an idiot so if you notice something is spelled incorrectly, feel free to send me a dm so i can fix it (totally not at all referring to my first Yandere!Andy x Reader post where I spelled dark as darmfk ;-;). Also this is kind of short because so many people requested for Andy x Reader, so I didn't want to pull out all the stops. I hope this meets your expectations <3.♥︎

The first thing you gotta to know about dating Andy, is that he's very touch starved.

I can just headcanon that due to his aloof personality and very broody behavior, he doesn't get many hugs...

So when you enter his life, best believe that Andy shows you this completely different side of him!

I'm talking.... Cuddling in the mornings till the point where you're almost late for work because he refuses to let you go.

I'm talking.... Andy being able to sense when you're about to go into the shower. His spidey-senses tingles, and the moment you're about to hop in, he's right there already getting his hair wet.

I'm talking.... Trapping you with his kisses when you're making food, definitely not noticing that he's causing you to burn dinner.

And no amount of protest can deter this man either.

Speaking of making food... Andrew is the master-chef of the house!

Now he's no Gorden Ramsey (as he likes to tell you whenever he makes you a sandwich), but everyone knows that one bite of his food is enough to make a sailor come back to the land.

So it's very nifty when you're sick and at home, in need to have someone take care of you.

The first time you ever got sick was when you and Andy were still living separately.

It was a Friday night, and it was supposed to be your 1-year anniversary with Andy. Unfortunately, due to some unhygienic biotch at the office, you caught a cold and had to cancel.

At first Andy didn't respond, instead leaving you on read. You felt bad, figuring that he was mad at you for canceling.

But lo' and behold, exactly 10 minutes later, that was a frantic sound of keys jiggling into the your front door.

You had gotten up from your couch-potato position to see the person who wanted to rush into your home so badly, when it occurred to you;

Andrew is the only one with another set of keys...

And with that realization, Andy burst through the door with a pharmacy store bag in one hand, and a grocery store bag in another.

In an instant, Andy made you take a disgusting amount of cold medicine, and blessed your cold home with the warmth and smell of spices and herbs (likely all from the soup).

When the food was ready, he sat you up with a pillow and hand-fed you soup for the rest of the night. You felt so bad for ruining your anniversary, but everytime you tried to apologize for it, Andrew would stuff your mouth with more soup and would say;

"I don't care about that romance and anniversary shit. We don't need to go to a fancy restaurant or an expensive place just to feel like we're honoring an important date. That date is important because it is our date. We don't need to one-up that memorable time just to remind everyone of how special it is... Y/N, you're crying into the soup."

Needless to say, you cried.

But Andrew doesn't just take care of you...You best believe he also protects.

Well, sorta.

You could be in a grocery store, at a Boba shop, in the mall, getting new shoes, it wouldn't matter, Andrew would always have his hand on your waist.

Be it because he saw someone look at you, doesn't matter who or how old they are, he'll always wrap his arms around you and whisper ever so softly, "You're mine..."

It has definitely given you some weird looks over the years, but you know he means well.

And if anyone ever actually looks at you funny? It's over for them.

Andrew will make it VERY clear that you're not to be messed with.

For example, a couple of months into your relationship, you were riding the train. Enjoying a simple conversation about suspicious neighbors and whatnot, when all of the sudden some guy came up behind you and tried groping you discreetly.

Andy noticed very quickly that all the blood drained from your face. He looked behind you and noticed the old geezer trying to get a hand full of someone way younger than them, and Andrew could feel every restraint in his body snap.

In an act of "self-defense" as told to the cops later on, Andrew punched the living daylights of the guy and sent him flying into a pole.

You fussed over Andy's fist for awhile, completely forgetting about how you felt. But the only thing Andy could think about was how he should've hit that guy harder.

When you guys were finally walking home, hand in hand, you leaned on Andrew.

"I'm sorry about today Andy... I didn't mean for you to get all banged up."

Andrew snorted, "My knuckle is a little scratched up, so what? That perverted asshole had it coming for him."

You kissed Andy's cheek, which granted you a dark blush from Andy, and a grin from you.

"Thank you Aaandy~" You brushed his hand with your thumb,

Being in a relationship with Andy is a little messy, and yes sometimes a little crazy. But no matter what happens, Andy will always stick by your side.

"You're welcome, sweetheart." Andy squeezed your hand in return.

Thank you for the ask<3

[problematic-grave-girl]

Andrew and Ashley care so much about the small things.

Ashley's art is shit but Andrew goes out of his way to put them on the fridge, even if she's crumpled one up because she thinks it looks bad.

Ashley's not a fan of coffee but will go out of her way to make him a cup every morning before he wakes up, though she dumps a fuck ton of sugar into it because she doesn't think he does like it black and he's just being an edgelord.

Sure she'll complain and say the drawing isn't good, it shouldn't be up there but she loves him for it.

He'll bitch about the amount of sugar and sweetener she's dumped into his drink, he likes it better plain and black but he loves her for it.

They'll bicker when Ashley goes to take the drawing she doesn't like down from it's spot, making Andrew go out of his way and admit he likes her shitty art.

They'll bicker when Ashley calls him an edgelord for "lying about his coffee preferences" but will go out of her way to remake it.

[miss-conner3]

En Español: Aquí

“The Only One”

Being the leader's first spouse was an experience that Andy could never forget.

If only that could have lasted… a little longer.

Based on an answer to a question I received (ouo)/

The lyrics were taken from the song “I Can Read Your Mind” by The Orion Experience, which fit perfectly with what I wanted to express here <(owo)>

Although I feel like I missed the opportunity to make an animatic about it... What a pity, it will be for the next time.

Anyway.

¡I hope you like it!

Extra: Textless version, because you know, they look pretty like this too (owo)

[sugarwarachan]

your touchstarved!mha hcs are my favorite snack... would you please give this old anon a reason to live and write touchstarved!all might🙂🙂

stay with us nonnie! *insert help is on the way gif* i've gotten quite a few requests for all might and i had to straight-up do research before writing him (and by research i mean reading all might smut haha) to make sure i did him justice. a lil nervous about the end result bc i've never written for him before but i hope you enjoy!!

touchstarved!toshinori who has no idea how to capture moments of joy for himself, watches you from a distance with a resigned longing (him on his lil teaching bench 🥺)

touchstarved!toshinori who wrestles with a hundred different insecurities, trying to reason his way out of liking you

touchstarved!toshinori who hasn’t been with anyone in YEARS and is a stammering awkward mess when you first express interest

touchstarved!toshinori who is so fucking gentle with you, touches you like he can’t believe you’re in front of his eyes, "need me to touch you right here, sweetheart? use your words and tell me what you need, promise i'll make you feel so good"

touchstarved!toshinori who rains praise down on you like he’s paid to do it, “my gorgeous girl, what did I ever do to deserve you?”

touchstarved!toshinori who lets himself dream of living for you instead of living as a symbol

the touchstarved vault lies here <3