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mypearlsareclutched · 4 months ago

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You Take The Wheel

High By The Beach | Chapter Three

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

In her new home of Weirwood Rehabilitation, Mila finds an unexpected friend in the form of Aegon Targaryen.

No the chapter title is NOT a reference to 'Jesus take the wheel', don't you dare think that. I've got this whole story planned out now, and most of it is written so fingers crossed for daily posts!! <3

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: references to SERIOUS drug use, brief smutty stuff (MDNI, 18+), masterbation (m), smoking, Weirwood, Aegon the realm's delight, backstories, Nettles and Sheepstealer, forests, internal conflict, heart break, Aegon being a little chunky because that's hot, a lotta fluff and a lotta angst...

Word count | 4.3k

previous chapter // next chapter

Aegon was, surprisingly, a breath of fresh air.

In the days after arriving at Weirwood, and as Mila's detoxing continued to get harder and harder, Aegon makes his place by her side. Sitting by her bedside, talking softly, occasionally singing some random song by The Cure. In moments where Mila can feel a panic attack coming on, feeling useless and abandoned and afraid, the eldest Targaryen son appears next to her, a soothing hand on her shoulder.

Nettles often comes to check on her, giving Aegon a wary look as he lounges in the armchair across the room. He just gives her a chipper smile, playing with various knickknacks. Every moment of suffering was aided by Aegon Targaryen, a balm to her wounds.

He seems so unlike Aemond. Where the younger is cold, calculated and shines like the moonlight upon her, Aegon is like the morning sun. Bright, new, warm. Though Aemond had had his fair share of choice words about his older brother, Aegon had never been anything less than sweet. Perhaps a little vulgar at times, definitely unable to read a room when Mila's throwing up out the window and he's humming Morrissey beside her while reading a Playboy magazine. 'Reading', meant loosley. For all his flaws, he was the closest to a support system Mila had in this sordid jail of sobriety, and she appreciated him completely. The little ray of sunshine.

The actual morning sun pokes through Mila's curtains, her open window fluttering them softly like the ripples of a babbling brook. Mila watches the curtains, admiring the sunlight which pokes through them. A dog barks nearby, and her bedroom door is shoved open.

A border collie pushes it's head in, black and white furry face huffing happily. Sheepstealer, Nettle's dog, was an ex-sheepdog. He was owned by a nearby farmer for a while, before he moved and left the dog behind. Nettles took him in, and he's been Weirwood's goodest boy ever since.

"Hello, Sheepstealer." Mila greets, and the dog barks happily, jumping up onto her bed and jostling it.

A stampede of footsteps come down the hallway, and Nettles runs in, looking aggravated.

"Sheepstealer! For the love of fuck!" Nettles shouts, pulling on the dog's collar to get him down, "Lunatic dog. I'm so sorry, Mila. We have some new people and he's feeling especially social today."

"Don't worry about it, Nettles. Glad there's finally someone cute around here." Mila laughs, scratching Sheepstealer's ears. He barks happily. Nettles chuckles as she pulls him away, sending him back down the hallway with a gentle push. Aegon pats him as he enters the room.

"I'm wildly offended by that statement." Aegon comments as he walks in.

"You think you're cute?"

"I'm fucking adorable."

"Sure." Mila laughs, her voice raspy. Aegon hands her a glass of water, nodding to Nettles as she rushes off again in a flurry of colours.

A comfortable silence fills the room, with Aegon taking a seat in his favourite armchair, watching Mila as she sips her water slowly. Her body was finally out of it's 'sweating but shivering' faze, and she was entering her "insanely tired and irritable'. Detoxing was different for every addict, and she had her own schedule that she knew well enough by now.

Aegon clears his throat, standing and opening the curtains, "Lovely day today. I'm going to go outside."

"Okay."

"You're coming with me." He says with an affirming nod.

Mila groans, setting her glass down, "Aeg, I'm so tired."

"I don't care, sleeping beauty, you're growing roots." He says firmly, tottering about the room like a handmaiden, grabbing her some warm clothes for the autumnal weather, and making a mess as he does so. Mila watches him with a bemused expression.

"Where's your coat?" He asks, looking around.

"Sheepstealer mistook it for a sheep."

"Ah." Aegon clicks his tongue, "Well you're going to have to borrow mine."

"I can't do that, Aegon."

"I have a spare, it's no bother." He saunters back over to the door, tossing her some clothes, "Get dressed, the land of the living is calling."

Aegon links his arm with her as they walk down the corridor, exiting out the backdoor and wandering into a small garden. His coat is far too big for Mila's slender form, but it's warm and a lovely shade of forest green, and it smells like Aegon. Cigarettes, musky cologne, a little bit of booze and some kind of spice.

A bench is pressed against the stone walls, and Aegon gently sits her down in it. Across the way, they can see through the dense forest of Weirwood, shadowed acres dull of sinewy trunks and branches, grey in colour and emerald shining leaves. The pair remain in silence for a moment, Mila getting lost in thought as she stares at the forest before them. The sun is beating down on them, the breeze light despite the autumn clouds threatening rain.

A lighter clicks, and Aegon lights a cigarette between his lips. He takes a long drag, fingers slightly shaking. He extends the fag to Mila, and she gives him a questioning look.

"Trying to quit?" He asks, his fingers still remaining stretched for her to take the cigarette.

"Should you be smoking right outside a rehab centre?" Mila raises an eyebrow, her mouth practically watering at the cigarette despite her question.

"Well, it's not weed, brainiac." He laughs lightly, "First time in rehab?"

Mila takes the cigarette, pinching it and taking a heavy drag. The burn in her lungs and relief from the nicotine in her veins providing immediate relief, "Yeah. First time."

"How long have you been struggling?" He asks, leaning back.

"I really don't want to talk about that." Mila snaps, regretting it immediately.

"My bad, my bad" Aegon holds up his hands, giving her a sheepish grin, "I don't mean to interrogate you She-Wolf. How about you ask me some questions?"

His request is strange, and Mila gives him a look. He smiles eagerly,

"Like what?" Mila chuckles, handing him back the fag, "What's your favourite colour?"

"Um... I don't know, gold?"

"Not really a colour." She teases, and he gives her an exasperated look.

"What are you, the colour police?"

"I'm the one asking questions, Targaryen."

"Yes, ma'am." Aegon mock salutes, earning an exhausted laugh from the Stark girl. She looks him up and down, trying to think of questions.

"How long has it been since you last got laid?"

"About..." He checks his watch, "Four hours now. Don't laugh, it's the longest I've gone without in years. You're just that interesting."

Mila laughs heartily, and Aegon beams at the sound.

"How long have you been sober?" She questions, taking the cigarette from his fingers.

"Ooh, I thought we weren't asking that question." Aegon says teasingly, but he stiffens slightly at the question.

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry." Mila apologises, guilt washing over her features. Aegon waves her off, nodding at her to ask another question, "...Are you taking care of me because I'm your brothers ex?"

Aegon gives her an incredulous look, "Ex? I didn't realise you two weren't together anymore." He seems taken aback, but something in his expression is... hopeful? No, can't be.

"Well, now you know." Mila chuckles mirthlessly, "So, are you taking care of me because you thought I was your brothers girlfriend?"

"I'll be honest, I never really paid much mind to that." Aegon shrugs nonchalantly, his eyes focused on the horizon as if he were just now remembering their connection, "You came here in some really deep shit, and I just wanted to help. I try to be helpful around here."

"So you sit around every addicts bedside, being nurse Aegon and singing The Cure?"

"You hear that?!" Aegon gasps.

"I'm detoxing not comatose." Mila chuckles.

"Shit, I can't believe I carelessly revealed my secret talent to you." Aegon sighs dramatically, "And also no, you get special treatment because you make me laugh." He winks.

"That I can live with."

"Alright, last question, Stark. Make it a good one." Aegon says, wiggling his eyebrows. Mila ponders for a second, watching Aegon's relaxed face.

He looks completely sober. Sure, her only reference point was when he stared at her with big, dark rimmed eyes from Criston's car, looking gaunt and pale, hair greasy and stringy. Now, he looked good. Hair to his shoulders, eyes clear and focused, a smile on his lips that makes his eyes crinkle prettily. He's gained a little weight, no longer looking gangly and looking... soft. Huggable, Mila laughs inside her head.

"Why are you still here?" Mila finally asks.

"What do you mean?" Aegon asks absentmindedly, looking up at the trees.

"Why are you still here? They said you were dispatched as a patient a month ago... why not go home?"

"Where's home?" Aegon chuckles, turning his head to look at her dopily, "The mansion? With my neurotic mother and my rotting father, and psychopathic Otto and my complex siblings?"

"Yeah. I suppose."

"Nah. Didn't want to go there." Aegon shrugs, "I spent too long being a ghost haunting that place. Too drunk or high to function, bringing shame. I'd never be home somewhere where all I'm recognised for are my mistakes."

Mila swallows, nodding at his words, "I get that."

"Plus, I like it here. Kind of. It's boring and it's full of addicts and the woods feel endless, but I don't feel like a black sheep." He smiles, "Plus plus, I'm a model ex-patient. Clean, reformed, dashingly handsome. They can parade me about and say 'Look! We did this right!"

"And they did." Mila smiles back, causing Aegon's own grin to widen.

"You will be, too." He says, voice certain, "It took awhile for me, but you're even more responsible and levelheaded. You'll have this shit on lock like that." He snaps his fingers dramatically, forcing a laugh out of the Stark.

Sheepstealer runs past, barking at a few perching birds. Aegon watches him with a small smile, looking wistful, "I had a dog."

"Yeah?"

"His name was Sunfyre." He sighs, "He was a golden retriever."

"I'm sorry, did he...?" Mila trails off, not wanting to know about his dogs demise.

"No. We got into a car accident a few years back, and Sunfyre got hurt, but he lived. Otto decided I couldn't be responsible enough so he sent him away."

"Bastard." Mila snaps, meaning it. If he hadn't invited her to that stupid gala a year ago, she wouldn't have met Aemond. She wouldn't have fall in love with him. Maybe she would still be fine.

"Bastard is right." Aegon agrees, taking a last puff from his cigarette before handing it to her, "Finish that."

"Is that an order?"

"Indeed." He nods, leaning back on the bench with his hands behind his head, "I'm in charge of this place."

"I don't think Nettles would agree."

"Don't tell her I said that, she'll hang me by my taint." Mila bursts out laughing, doubling over slightly as she feebly hangs on to the cigarette, his statement making her keel over.

Aegon watches her with a wide grin, and when Mila looks at him, a slight pink tint appears on his cheeks.

"I like making you laugh." He murmurs.

"Oh, yeah?" She smiles.

"Yeah." Aegon breathes, looking away from her, "You seem like the kind of person who is meant to be laughing. I'm glad to be the one to make you."

Mila watches him carefully, admiring his side profile. His face is softer than Aemonds. Where the younger brother has sharp angles, the elder has gentle features. Big sad eyes, a sloped nose, pouting lips. He's truly beautiful, as all Targaryens seem to be. Not just beautiful, Aegon is goddamn cherubic, a renaissance painting. Mila tries to ignore the increase in her heart rate, blaming it on the detox.

"Yeah." Mila sighs, looking back to the trees, "I'm glad you are too."

When afternoon came, Mila was feeling better. Damn Aegon and his good ideas.

After their talk, Aegon left her to sit on the bench alone, collecting her thoughts. It was peaceful. Mila had not been in nature like this since she left Winterfell, after her parents passed away. She missed the snowy landscape sometimes, but she enjoyed the city enough to not miss her hometown too much.

But now she missed her home. She missed the long winters, sitting by the cozy fireplace, the sound of howling wind. It was nice to return to nature, at least for a little bit.

Returning to the facility, Mila wandered around. She had barely left her room since she arrived a week ago, and was enjoying strolling through the corridors, admiring the ancient walls and . From what the flyer said, this building was built during Aegon's conquest, and was used by Tyrells' during winter months. Flowers were etched into the crown moulding, perfect sage coloured lillies blossoming above her.

Sheepstealer trotted around the corner, barking happily at the sight of his new friend.

"Who's a good boy? Huh?" Mila asks as she pets his head, his tail thumping against the floor, "You're the best boy, aren't you?"

The collie sneezes, bumping her hand once more with his snout before running off, disappearing down the hallway. He's such a sweet dog... except when it comes to sheep. Then he stops being such a sweet dog.

Mila sighs as she heads back to her room, hoping that maybe Aegon will join her later to chat her head off about something stupid. His own room is on the ground floor too, and she could see his door not too far away, making her way over to it to check up on him.

Aegon's door was slightly ajar, and a strange noise caught Mila's attention. It sounded like a grunting, a man breathlessly panting. Panicking, Mila jogged over to his door, worried he was hurt or in pain in some way.

However, she was not prepared for what she saw in his room.

Aegon was on his bed, leaning against the headboard. His jeans were pulled down past his hips, his hand pumping his cock. Mila froze, eyes widening. His... appendage was large, perhaps an inch shorter than Aemond's but thicker, definitely. Aegon's large hand was fisting it leisurely, in lewd unhurried movements. His head was leaning back against the headboard, his sweaty neck exposed. Aegon's plush lower lip was pulled between his teeth, and he made the filthiest gasping noises. A faster descent of his hand made his jaw drop, and he whined. Fucking whined! Mila felt her heart rate increase, unable to pull her eyes from the sight-

Fuck, that's my ex's brother! Mila panicked, stepping away from the door and running her hand over her face. She can still hear Aegon's grunts and whines, the sound of his fist fucking his cock making her shiver. Ashamed, confused, and just the slightest bit aroused, Mina turns and hurries back to her room.

Night has fallen over Weirwood, Sheepstealer howls in the distance. A patient had tried to bite Nettles and was being dragged across the hall by two orderlies. The whole facility was alive with noise, time being an unknown concept as dozens of addicts suffered through the cycle of shame and pain. The noises had kept Mila up at first, her own suffering amplified by those around her, but she barely even noticed it now.

Mila sits in her room, a blanket wrapped around her as she tries, and fails, to read a book. It was some kind of bootleg Twilight, and half the words were written in latin. Her eyes couldn't focus on the words, her mind constantly drifting to thoughts of Aemond, her family, the Targaryens, Rhaena, Jace... Aegon, and his big fucking co-

A knock startles her, and she puts the book down, "Come in."

Aegon pops his head in, giving her a goofy smile as he waltzes in. Mila shudders, trying to push the image of him masterbating out of her mind. With as neutral an expression as she could muster, she raises an eyebrow, taking in his evening attire. He's dressed for bed in joggers and a sleeping gown, with some neon yellow crocs which seemed to glow in the low light. He hands her a steaming mug, seeming quite pleased with himself.

Mila looks down at the mug, before giving Aegon a confused yet amused look.

"Tea." He shrugs, "Chamomile."

"Thanks, grandma."

"Don't let my sleeping gown fool you." He says, stretching his arms out and striking a pose, "I'm actually the big, bad wolf."

"You're the big, bad opossum." Mila chuckles, and he takes a seat beside her on the bed, leaning against the headboard like he owns the place... like he was when he was in his own room, touching himself-

No, nope. Bad Mila, shame.

"Nice crocs, by the way." Mila breaks the silence, sipping on her tea.

"Thanks. Had to blow the guy two doors down for them."

"What a scam." Mila laughs, "A lousy blow job from you? Definitely not worth a pair of crocs."

"Defamation, I'm literally a slut."

They share a laugh, sipping on their tea before Mila realises Aegon's eyes have gone distant, "What's on your mind?"

"It's stupid."

"I'm sure it isn't."

He takes a deep breath, looking down at his tea with a pout. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, then turns to look at her.

"I mean it when I said I was a slut. I used to fuck anything that breathed. The mattress of Kings Landing." Aegon laughs, shaking his head, his face falls as he fidgets slightly, "I know I'm not the complete stud I used to be, you know. I was tall, skinny, had that whole 'tortured, tattooed bad boy' thing going on that the chicks really fucked with. Now, I'm... well, a bit bigger, I guess..."

He seems saddened by this, shrinking into himself. He's not fat by any definition of the word. But he's not toned, not like Aemond was. A little belly, sturdy thighs. But he's so... lovely to look at, Mila muses. No sharp edges, no secrets hidden behind darkened eyes and frowns. And gods what he has in his trousers...

"Aegon, you're gorgeous." Mila says softly, meaning it, hoping she's not blushing.

His eyes light up, though he tries to keep his expression neutral, "You think so? Shit, I could eat less, I know that."

"You're finally doing better." She smiles, "You look well. You look happy."

"Happier than I've been in the past." He sighs, "My life was really just a pathetic, self-sabotaging cycle. I got drunk, I got high, I stumbled through Flea Bottom and the Silk Streets, I fucked pretty people and then I got dragged back home by the scruff of my neck by Aemond and Criston. Rinse and repeat. Quite a life, huh?"

"You were hurting."

"I've always been hurting." Aegon confesses, "I don't remember the last time I felt... truly content. Really happy."

Mila frowns, sympathy in her heart as she reaches over and takes Aegon's hand in her own. His hands are warm, calloused, yet soft. Like an old towel. He squeezes her hand, giving her a sad smile.

She knew about his upbringing. The Targaryen children did not have a happy home life. Aemond was a good example of that. Rhaenyra had it easiest, the only child of Viserys and his first wife, Aemma. After Aemma passed away, Viserys was quickly married to Alicent, the much younger daughter of his lawyer, Otto Hightower. Alicent was nineteen when she gave birth to Aegon.

The four children's lives were not filled with love and happy memories. Alicent tried but she was a child of abuse herself, growing up alongside her babies. Aegon became a , Halaena lived in her own world, Aemond was cold and fell in love for the first adult who praised him, and Daeron grew up away from his parents, turning out vaguelly normal under the care of his uncle.

Mila's heart ached for the four of them. Her feelings for Aemond were complicated, but she mourned for the child who grew up unloved by his family. Aegon was the same, and he had turned a new leaf. He was becoming a better man, and she was happy for him.

"Are you okay?" Aegon asks her softly, watching her with a soft expression, "You went somewhere."

"Just thinking..." Mila sighs.

"Don't strain yourself." Aegon teases, squeezing her hand and turning back to look forwards sleepily.

Mila watches him, feeling emboldened by his honesty with her, and she takes a shaky breath.

"I started because my parents died." Mila says softly, and Aegon turns his head to look at her, eyes sad, "It happened so suddenly. They went out one night to visit some friends, and some drunken old man ran a red light, crashed right into the side of them. They were alive when help arrived... Mom died in the ambulance, dad didn't make it to the morning."

Aegon listens silently, eyes downturned as he swallows.

"The old man had cancer." She whispers, "Stage four. A few months to live. He decided he wanted to take his own life."

"But in doing so, he took your parents too."

"He survived the crash." Mila laughs tearily, "Died in prison a few months later. Jokes on him, he had to live with that guilt until the cancer took him anyway. In a tiny, concrete cell."

"The Gods love irony."

"I couldn't cope with it all." She continues, staring off out the window, "My grief, Cregan's grief... he was eighteen, just started playing for the Northern Direwolves, and he lost two of his biggest supporters and had to be responsible for his little sister too. I couldn't handle it, Aegon. It started with drinking, then weed, then coke and molly and eventually..."

She trails off, her hand absentmindedly reaching for the track marks in the crook of her elbow. Aegon's eyes follow it, and he reaches over and tentatively places his own, much larger hand over her own. Mila relaxes slightly, allowing the calluses on his palm ground her.

"How old were you?" He asks.

"Fifteen." Mila sighs, "A month before my sixteenth birthday, my brother found me high as a kite at Jason Lannister's place. He took me to Rhaenyra's, and she and Laenor helped me get clean. Since then, I haven't touched heroin... but I was always fragile. Like a house of cards. One blow and I toppled, went right back to the beginning."

"What was the blow?" He asks curiously, his hand warm against her own. Mila bites her lip, shame and anger surging through her. She looked up, into Aegon's clear blue eyes. So similar to Aemond's, she realised. And it hurt to have that reminder

"Aemond told me being a junkie slut was all I would ever be." Mila whispers, "And then he fucked Alys Rivers five minutes after I left."

"He's a fucking idiot." Aegon says firmly, eyes dark and angry as he digestes her words, "How could he do that to you?"

"He's... complicated."

"He's a a spineless twat is what he is. He always has been."

Mila smiles sadly, leaning her cheek against Aegon's shoulder. He rests his own cheek against the top of her head, fiddling with her fingers.

She looks down at them, admiring the softness of his hands, the thickness of his fingers. Aegon moves his head, and she can feel his eyes on her. Looking up, Mila meets his eyes. Deep blue the colour of a sky after a storm. She sinks into them, losing herself within the blues. It felt so natural to.

She does not even realise she's leaning in until Aegon's eyes widen, and he freezes. A shock of panic bursts through her, and Mila jumps back, shocked and appalled by her own behaviour.

No fucking way I was about to kiss him, Mila thinks to herself. No fucking way...

Her eyes are downturned, breathing erratic as she avoids Aegon's look. Aegon clears his throat, standing up carefully, "I'm gonna... I'm just gonna go."

"Aegon, wait." But he's already left, the door clicking shut behind him. It's silent without him, and

I made Aegon uncomfortable, because I tried to kiss him. Him, my ex's brother. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gods, what the fuck is wrong with me?!

A sob wretches its way out of Mila's throat, her head hanging in shame.

I need to get out, I need to get out, I need to get out-

Looking around frantically, she searches for an escape. Like a door will magically appear, leading to a whole new world miles away from here. But it doesn't, instead, she looks to the window.

The glass panes break easily, collapsing in fragments of moonlight. It's messy, and it's loud, but Mila cannot be bothered to care. Wrapping Aegon's coat around herself, she crawls out of the window, a sharp piece of remaining glass cutting her leg in the process. She cannot be bothered to care. With stumbling legs, she makes a run for it, darting into the trees with no aim except escape. Find the road, keep running down it until she's far enough away from this place...

Aegon heard the glass shattering from outside Mila's room.

He stood in the corridor, pacing as he prepared himself for the right words to apologise to her. He was never good at it. Rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, the sharp noise of something breaking spurred him into action, running into the room with panicked breaths. The window is shattered, Mila is nowhere to be seen.

Without a second's hesitation, he jumps out after her.

An// how we feeling, squad? Feeling good, feeling fresh?

Lula x

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animeshotsh · 7 months ago

Text

In love with Control (Lucifer x OverlordMakima!Reader)

Summary: Lucifer its in love! Or is he?... Charlie cant help but be upset of this.

Warnings: HH violence - Manipulation - Cannibal mention - Insults - Cursing - Kind of soft tho - Grammmar mistakes -

PT2 of this

Charlie knows she should be upset that her dad just decided to spent more time in the Hotel because of a centrain Control Demon. Who could not care less about the kings crush over them, it was a good spawn to use whatsoever, so (Y/N) made sure to keep the fake facada towards him.

Of course they noticed that the princess of hell was not so happy about her fathers actions, while (Y/N) found it fun to watch, it was also a lose that needed to be repair.

"Princess" (Y/N) bowed towards Charlie who in reaponse tried to tell (Y/N) how that was not necesary, not used to the formality Charlie blushed as (Y/N) next words left their mouth.

"I apologies if this causes you discorfm, however you are the heir of hell and such i must act according to it"

"T-there is no need (Y/N)!! Really, we are all friends in here after all" Charlie responded taking (Y/N)'s hands "Im really happy you are giving this a try"

(Y/N) smiled at the princess, they could not understand how this was the pawn of Lucifer itself.

"Princess, I would like to apologie if the resent interactions between the king of hell and myself has made you uncomfortable. If you want I can call our meetings off"

Meeting were Lucifer showing up randomly, putting much effort in impressing the Control Demon.

Charlie was suprised. She had to admit that it did hurt her to see her father being now interested only because (Y/N) was present. But, did her father not deserve happynes too? Who was she to denied such a thing.

And you were so considerated. Oh! Charlie could tell you were going to be one of the firsts demons to be saved.

"I aprecciate your concer, but there is no need. Im happy to see my dad out of his office more and...and seeing him making a new friend. There is no reason for both of you to stop seeing each other"

The smallest of a smirk appear on your face.

"Thanks Princess you are very kind"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

After the first time Lucifer saw you, he was hunted in the good sense by your eyes. These spiral eyes, it made him feel emotions he thought did not exist anymore.

Yet, anytime you two would meet up for tea or just for a walk, you would keep eye contact making the king of hell feel his soul being pulled out from his chest. His ideas and words would cramble as you would still talk about whatever topic you two were on.

"Your majesty, are you alright?" You asked pulling down the cup of tea. Lucifer was once again lost in your words and image.

"Eh?-oh yes! Sorry, ammm work has been in my mind lately" He lied taking a nervous sip, ignoring how hot the tea was.

"Oh? If its too much i can help" Pulling your hands under your chin you saw as how he gluped down some saliva, he was not expecting an offer like that.

What better chance to discover the secrets of hell if not by being besides the one who made it himself? This was a unique chance you were going to try and reach.

Lucifer had two ideas, one from where exactly he would find much work that needed you to be by his side- helping him of course, and two that it was an amazing oportunity to pass more time with you.

"Ummm, well I- I have it covered....from now"

Lucifer saw your reaction, your eyes being cast down and your shoulder defeating. He felt like he had just broken something.

However, that reaction was once again a calculated one. After spending so much time with Lucifer you got to see and understand what made the small king feel guilty and would make him fall down into your trap.

"B-but there are some really old books that needs to be clean and organized"

He cringed at his stupid "extra work" and waited to see your reaction or hear your words.

"Oh....so you are having a hard time with daily tasks" you said taking one hand to your face and thinking "I guess, its normal that even your majesty would face that type of thing. If you allow it would be an honor to help you sort these books"

One part of Lucifer was jumping while the other was completly frozen. You, someone whos name was whisper in fear in the circle, someone with so much power and intelligence, would do such a thing as organize books?

"I loved them when i was alive. Never was a big fan of Tvs or any electronic device, the touch of the paper and the different covers" You closed your eyes, adding drama to the moment, missing how Lucifer eyes almost turned in hearts.

"Well, its settled then. I can- i can call you so you can come over?..." Lucifer asked feeling like a young teen asking out his crush.

"At anytime your majesty"

"Please, Lucifer its fine" You were going to kill him if you continued to adress him as that.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

Later that night at the Hotel the dark corridors where filled with silence as you walked to your room a neutral expression on your face.

"Well, i must say I havent quiet find someone who's tongue is as sharp as a blade" The static voice and laughts from a deer demon said making you stop to turn and look at him with a smile.

"Alastor, its a pleassure to see you tonight. Do you need something?"

"I must say, seeing the king of hell fall down over a sinner who only tells lies has its own charm Dear. Its a shame not everybody falls under your spell"

"Im not sure what you are talking about but..."

Grey chains appear behind you swiftly going for Alastor's head and pircing it.

"I still see you as nothing but a lowlife cannibal, who seeks nothing but entretaiment in others fails, when you are the very example of one. Being caught and shoot to death when being alive, and then having your soul being held by someone. To me all you are is a kid, crying for his mother, wishing to be in a different situation but finding yourself again at the bottom. And I know this because this is not the first time you try to corner me, but we both know how this ends....or well I do"

"Alastor, you wont remember seeing me here tonight. Whatever you overhear when I talked to Lucifer you wont remember it. You will go to your room, lock the door and sleep till tomorrow morning when Charlie ends needing you"

Alastor eyes devoid of emotions or any type of sign of being there. He just nodded his creepy smile not leaving. Slowly he turned back and went all the way to his room.

"Oh many times is he going to try get in my way" You murmured to yourself as you continued walking. "Well, i can always order him to kill the Hotel staff, im sure that would piss the princess really bad" You finally said with a sadistic smile as your eyes brighted in the dark.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #charlie x reader

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inkspiredwriting · 7 months ago

Text

Timeless

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: None

The sun cast long shadows over the courtyard of the Umbrella Academy, painting the aging walls in hues of gold and crimson. Number Five stood alone, his eyes fixed on the Horizon as he sipped his coffee. The bitter taste was a small comfort in the maelstrom of his thoughts. He had faced countless dangers, traveled through time, and fought to save the world more times than he cared to remember, yet nothing compared to the turmoil within his heart.

Y/N had been a constant in his life since he had returned from the apocalypse. She was his best friend, his confidant, and the one person who saw through the gruff exterior he presented to the world. She was a whirlwind of joy and spontaneity, a stark contrast to his calculated and often cynical demeanor. But beneath the teenage exterior of Number Five was the soul of a man who had lived for decades. He was in love with her, and it tormented him daily.

“Brooding again, I see,” Klaus’s voice broke through his reverie. Number Five glanced sideways to see his brother approaching, a knowing smile on his face.

“What do you want, Klaus?” Five asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Klaus flopped down on the bench beside him, twirling a lollipop he had found God-knows-where. “Oh, nothing much. Just noticed you’ve been staring into the distance a lot lately. Thought you might need someone to talk to. Or at least someone to listen while you pretend you don’t need to talk.”

Five rolled his eyes but didn’t respond. Klaus had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, yet he was also the only one who could see through his masks. They sat in silence for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken words.

“It’s about Y/N, isn’t it?” Klaus finally said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Five’s grip tightened around his coffee cup. “What makes you say that?”

Klaus shrugged, but his eyes were serious. “You’ve changed since she came into your life. You’re... softer, more human. And you’ve got that look, the one people get when they’re hopelessly in love.”

Five’s laugh was hollow. “It doesn’t matter. She can never know.”

“Why not? You deserve to be happy, Five.”

Five turned to face him, his expression pained. “Look at me, Klaus. I’m trapped in a sixteen-year-old’s body. Y/N is thirty-five. Even if she could see past the physical, what kind of life could we have?”

Klaus placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Love isn’t about what’s on the outside. Y/N cares about you for who you are. And if she’s truly your friend, she might surprise you.”

Five shook his head. “I can’t risk it. If she knew how I felt, it would change everything. I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all.”

Klaus sighed, knowing there was little he could do to change Five’s mind. “Just promise me one thing, okay? Don’t close yourself off completely. You deserve a chance at happiness, no matter how complicated it is.”

Five nodded, appreciating his brother’s words even if he couldn’t fully accept them. “Thanks, Klaus.”

Days turned into weeks, and Five continued to bury his feelings, throwing himself into his work with the Academy. Y/N remained a constant, her laughter and light a balm to his weary soul. They spent their evenings in her small apartment, poring over old records and debating the finer points of history. Her presence was a comfort, even if it also served as a reminder of what he could never have.

One evening, as they sat together on her couch, the atmosphere shifted. Y/N turned to him, her eyes searching his face. “You’ve been distant lately, Five. Is everything okay?”

He forced a smile. “Just a lot on my mind.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” she said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

The warmth of her touch sent a jolt through him, and he looked away, afraid she might see the truth in his eyes. “I know, Y/N. Thank you.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then sighed, leaning back. “Just remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and the rest of the Academy. We’re family.”

Family. The word hung heavy in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the lines he could never cross. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I know. And I’m grateful for that.”

As the night wore on, Klaus’s words echoed in his mind. Maybe one day he would find the courage to tell Y/N how he felt, to risk the friendship they had built for the chance at something more. But for now, he would continue to love her from a distance, cherishing the moments they shared and the light she brought into his life.

For Number Five, time had always been both an ally and an enemy. And as he watched Y/N laugh at one of Klaus’s ridiculous jokes during a family dinner, he knew that no matter what the future held, he would treasure every second he had with her.

Because in the end, love was timeless, and so was his devotion to her.

#number five x reader #five hargreeves x you #five hargreeves imagines #number five imagine #five hargreeves x reader

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lostsexplicit · 1 day ago

Text

Delirium

Viktor x female!reader

wordcount: 2189

Summary: He could feel heat crawl up his back and into his face. Viktor, she had called. That voice would haunt him tonight, for many nights. Viktor, a sweet exhale with a slight whine. Were it any other daily visit, he would have been able to let it slide into the abyss, lock it away until he was alone and could safely lose himself in the tangle of thoughts. Yet she said it here, in the echoing quiet of a dark, empty lab, into the shell of his ear. Viktor , he would hear for weeks to come.

a/n: more of a reader than writer, but this skinny twink had me in a chokehold in his first moments on screen. Set in vaguely S1 Act 1/2

His leg always worsened as the clock’s hands ticked past two. Late lab nights were more and more common as the demand for progress increased.

The lab doors swished open, dull thuds trudging in. Scents of warm and sweet pastries wafted in. Viktor’s stomach growled. The sandwich Jayce had shoved in his workspace at noon felt distant.

“I swear they’re trying to kill me,” she yawned, leaning on his desk. Viktors own hand twitched as he saw her smooth, delicately manicured hand set the cup in the center of his vision. She huffed, shrugging her coat off. Her cravat was hung loosely around her neck, the open top of her button up offering a view of her collarbones and a little something more if he strained enough to look. Viktor turned back to the experiment. It sparked.

“No more than Hextech tends to,” he said.

“It took me over two hours to find the books she wanted us to research from and then the library had the audacity to keep it on a two hour loan inside the library.”

“Hm, you were lovely enough to get me coffee?”

“Hot chocolate. We’ve had enough caffeine today,” she said.

A sip revealed that it was sweet and thick chocolate, topped with a generous layer of whipped cream. It struck a contrast between the air of the lab and its steaming contents. Cold nights were never much of a problem except when Viktor worked for so long he forgot to adjust the thermostat. It was alright. He just needed to work out one more aspect before leaving. If he could just get the frequency to reach the pitch before overheating—

“Viktor,” she sighed, voice thick with exhaustion but honeyed in a way that made his heart stop in his throat. “It’s past two. Our brains are lifeless grey jelly now.”

He could feel heat crawl up his back and into his face. Viktor, she had called. That voice would haunt him tonight, for many nights. Viktor, a sweet exhale with a slight whine. Were it any other daily visit, he would have been able to let it slide into the abyss, lock it away until he was alone and could safely lose himself in the tangle of thoughts. Yet she said it here, in the echoing quiet of a dark, empty lab, into the shell of his ear. Viktor, he would hear for weeks to come.

He stood abruptly and put his weight on the edge of the desk as he rushed to the other end where some notes lied from an earlier calculation, ramblings safe from her understanding and far enough away to cool himself.

“The chairs alone would’ve been enough to depress any man within an hour,” he said. Would she notice his escape? Viktor glanced back.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You’d think if this city could fund HexTech it could afford chairs that don't share the comfort level of stone.” She lifted her drink up before wincing, stretching out her hands carefully and thoroughly. Each digit flexed. Viktor wondered how they’d feel in his hair, pulling at the roots. Neatly shaped nails scraping against his back and grasping at his—

The whir of the Hexcore he’d forgotten sped up to a high pitch and lashed out a pulse of electric blue. The metal encasing grew red hot before breaking under pressure and exploding. She gasped and threw her arms up to cover her face as she stumbled back. Surrounded by singed notes and smoking mechanism, the Hexcore lay still, its glow reduced and steady.

Viktor scrambled to reach her. His leg protested and spasmed, but he finally reached her and held her by the shoulders, sliding down to her wrists.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. Stupid, stupid. He knew it was too much energy. That test didn’t have any more probability of success than the last ten. Like an idiot, he’d just left it there without a single warning or precaution. It wasn’t terribly volatile, but if he’d been more amiss in his calculations than he thought the explosion could have led to much more. Viktor held her face, searching for marks that were sure to be there. Some remnant soot laid just below her wide open eyes. He brushed it away. It only made it into a larger smudge.

“I’m good, um,” She blinked rapidly, “I–not even a scratch. Just won’t be able to sleep in these clothes anymore.” Academy uniforms would crease horribly after a night, but that was the least of his concerns.

It was just the musings of his deluded searching, but it seemed she leaned into his hand, relaxed in his hold. He glanced down at her sleeves and found them marked with unfortunate grey.

“I am so sorry, I should have–”

“Hey,” She took his hand in hers. They were warm, soft. Her lips, ones he’d spent sleepless nights picturing for so long the lingering sight of them sent shivers down his spine, twisted into a smirk. “Wouldn’t be your first failed experiment to blow up in my face.”

Viktor pulled his gaze up to frown at her. “That was not failed, I was testing the–”

“Nope, it bleached off an entire eyebrow. Failed. And you didn’t tell me until after I gave my presentations.”

“Your argument was flawless. I wasn’t going to let appearances keep you from speaking”

“Three presentations. One eyebrow.”

“I was right. Anyway, Jayce lost more.”

She laughed. “At least he still looked good with half a beard,” she said, walking to the corner where they kept cleaning supplies. His hands felt cold again. She returned with a rag and broom in hand. She was no stranger to messes into the lab.

A yawn bubbled up and Viktor was halfway through it before he realized.

“Alright, kněžna, time to go home.”

Viktor rolled his eyes. He had used that term once when she was in one of her stubborn, contrarian moods. Most words that slipped out went unnoticed or in such an annoyed, quick torrent that she never pushed for the meaning. This one, though, caught her attention. He had been annoyed as well and quickly translated.

“As you wish, little princess,” he had mocked in response to her growing demands.

It was only a matter of time before the term was weaponized.

“I have work to do.” Viktor slumped back down. His leg was a little worse for wear, stiff from awkward positions. He found himself yanked back, chair swiveling around to face her as she leaned down on the arm rests, trapping him. His breath hitched. That familiar thumping in his chest returned. It wasn’t enough to stifle the annoyance at being interrupted.

She settled him with a look down her nose, exposing the curve of her neck.

“Your last test blew up, Viktor. It’s time to sleep. I will carry you back myself if I have to and you know how that’ll end.”

Last time she decided enough was enough he found himself half-slung over her shoulders like a long, bumpy sack. A few strides to the door had knocked the air out of her every breath and him and his bones creaked in protest before giving in. It wasn’t her preferred method, she generally bribed him with treats, but tonight's bribe had been coated in fine grey dust at no other fault than his own.

Now, with cloudy thoughts of leaning forward and bridging the gap, Viktor could hardly be blamed for an instinctual hum of affirmation, politely agreeing to any words falling from her very close, soft-looking lips. Exhales mingling, she could have asked for his heart and he’d carve it out himself. He was brought back to reality when she leaned to the side and yawned, back arching slightly. Her head dipped low with half-closed eyes as she turned back to him. She whispered between them.

“I want to sleep.” Another sharp jolt to his heart. “But I can’t until I know you’re taken care of. Come on, let’s go home.” She held out her hand to him. The sensation was still a bit foreign, but unlike the strained pleasantries of Piltover, it felt nice, really, to slide his hand into hers. To feel the palms against each other and join in warmth.

They walked back to his apartment at the insistence of her judging gaze. It couldn't be guaranteed that he’d sleep until she saw him at rest herself. He watched her fumble with her key, laughing to himself as each failed attempt mounted her frustration as he did nothing but stared with smirk. She cursed her professor and her professor’s mother as she finally unlocked the door. On the floor went her book bag. Haphazardly along the couch went their coats. At long last, Viktor reached his bed. He pulled a corner of the covers down and sat, letting out a breath of relief when he stretched out his legs. There was a brief thought about something important. Wrinkles and sleeping.

He’d just shrugged off his leg brace and decided that changing out of his clothes was too much trouble when she stumbled into his room, hesitant at the threshold. At that moment, Viktor wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her in the context of his room and found that he liked the idea, after a moment, he realized he liked it a bit too much as it no longer felt so cold.

“You are not wrinkling your academy clothes,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. There must have been something weary in his gaze because she sighed as she pushed away from the frame and fully entered the room. “Sit up. I’ll at least undo your tie.”

Viktor gave a weak shrug and closed his eyes. He felt more than saw when she closed the distance and fumbled with his cravat. He inhaled sharply and looked at her quickly. On her knees before him. Her fingers brushed underneath, ticklish on his chest. It was somewhat cute to see her focused frown, the small struggle she had with the security of the knot. Eventually, it came undone.

Her eyes flicked up to his. For a breath, they stared. Their exhales mingled.

Spurred by sleep deprivation’s lack of inhibition, she leaned up and fluttered her eyes closed. Motivated by the selfish part of him screaming to just let himself have this, Viktor met her in the middle.

She was right there, lips pursed and stars, she tasted sweet. Viktor knew he was done for. There was nothing left to keep his hand from splaying against her waist and the other buried in her bergamot scented hair. All thoughts of why he hadn't done this before left.

He kissed her hard.

Heated and fervent, like it was his last. She melted against him, placing her leg between his and pushing him down. She gripped his hair. Before he could catch himself, a desperate whine escaped.

“Do that again,” she whispered against him, hot breath fanning over his lips.

“It’s not exactly on demand.” Viktor’s hand, slightly trembling, slid down to rest at her hip, thumb caressing it in a slow pattern.

Her nails grazed against his scalp and she bent down until she was nearly lying on top of him, every inch of her body pressed hotly into him. Viktor didn’t even register the sound that left him. It wasn’t until he felt her kiss twist into a smirk on his neck and he did it again.

“The right conditions have to be met,” he panted. She hummed.

After a brief pause, she let her weight fall to the side of him, arms circling his neck in a tight embrace. His body followed almost of its own accord, mourning the loss of heat on top of him. She still played with the outgrown strands of his hair, eyes fighting to stay open as she pressed soft kisses to his cheekbone, ear, collarbone, any part of him that was in reach. The cool night air began to settle over them as his breathing evened.

He had spent restless nights agonizing over the look in her eyes. A devastating visual display of quiet tenderness that he recognized so acutely in his own heart. Except now, now it burned a little brighter. Demanded more, on the cusp of outgrowing its space and overflowing into the real world.

Viktor had been too enamoured with the soft glow when he first noticed it in himself. It had been a sunshine-like presence, novel and pleasant. Every time he went to snuff it out, for both of their skates, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. To part from it.

With rough pull, Viktor managed to get the blankets out from underneath them. His lithe frame entwined with hers as he held her closer in the warmth. The embers in his heart had long ago grown into a barely contained explosion. He would burn for her. An eternal flame, bright and unabashed even when its mortal vessel waned and decayed into dust.

Already half-asleep, but with a slight upturn of her mouth, she mumbled, “Goodnight, Viktor.”

“Goodnight, můj miláčku.”

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fanfictionismyaddiction · 12 days ago

Note

You asked for reqs so Im here to yap! How about Mycroft from Sherlock having a gf that is constantly overthinking if he actually likes her(if he is with her for some reason where he can take advantage of her later, even tho as far as she knows, she has no connection to anything political that he can use. She still can't stop thinking about it tho.)

Him comforting her awkwardly bc he literally can't say any affirming words coherently, just actions that you'd have to look for under a microscope to notice, but they are there! He does let her brew and feel bad for quite some time unintentionally because he is very avoidant of emotional confrontations tho🥹

Do feel free to ignore this if it isn't your cup of tea! Mwah💋

An Affair of Logic and Love

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Mycroft x reader

________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a man of romance. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him. Reserved, calculating, and perpetually aloof, he approached the world as a chessboard, his every move measured, every relationship dissected for utility. Yet here he was, seated across from you at his immaculate dining table, sipping his tea as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

And here you were, trying to decipher his every blink, every sigh, every sip.

You glanced at him cautiously. Did he even like you? Or was there some hidden reason—a grand strategy that somehow involved you, though you couldn’t imagine how? You were an ordinary person, far removed from the tangled webs of politics and espionage he navigated daily. What could he possibly gain from being with you?

These thoughts gnawed at you, louder with each interaction, until every small silence felt like proof that you were merely a pawn in his game.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft said without looking up from his tea.

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You fumbled for a distraction, taking a sip of your tea and nearly scalding your tongue. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking, I see.” He folded his hands and leaned back slightly. “Should I be concerned?”

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to confront him, to demand why he was with you if he could barely muster a word of affection. But the other part—the overthinking, self-doubting part—was too afraid of his answer. What if he confirmed your fears?

“No,” you muttered, looking down at your cup.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But true to form, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he let the silence stretch, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts.

For the next several days, the doubts consumed you. Every interaction became a puzzle to solve:

• When he handed you a cup of tea without a word, was it a sign of affection, or was he just being polite?

• When he mentioned your favorite book in passing, was it because he genuinely remembered, or because he needed to lull you into a false sense of security?

• When he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for work, was it out of habit or obligation?

The questions were endless, and Mycroft, in his typical manner, did nothing to alleviate them. He wasn’t cruel—far from it—but his reserved nature and avoidance of emotional discussions left you in the dark.

It all came to a head one evening when you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Mycroft,” you began hesitantly as the two of you sat in his living room, him reading a newspaper and you pretending to focus on a book.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up.

“Why are you with me?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Mycroft froze, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.

“Pardon?” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

You set your book down and turned to face him fully. “Why are you with me? I just… I can’t help but wonder if there’s some reason—some ulterior motive—because I don’t understand why you’d choose me.”

He finally lowered the newspaper, his expression inscrutable. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re so… you. And I’m just… me. It doesn’t make sense.”

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. He looked at you, his sharp gaze scanning your face as if you were a particularly challenging code to crack.

Then, finally, he spoke: “I see.”

That was it. I see.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he just shifted slightly in his seat, as if the conversation had already concluded.

“That’s all you have to say?” you asked, your frustration bubbling over.

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I… hadn’t realized you felt this way.”

“Well, I do.”

He looked down at his hands, his usually unshakeable composure faltering ever so slightly. “Emotions are… not my area of expertise,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “But I assure you, my intentions are entirely genuine.”

It wasn’t the grand declaration you’d hoped for, but coming from Mycroft, it was monumental. Still, it wasn’t enough to banish your doubts entirely.

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” you pressed. “Why can’t you just say how you feel?”

Mycroft shifted again, clearly wrestling with his discomfort. “I’m not… accustomed to such expressions,” he said stiffly. “But that does not mean I don’t care for you. On the contrary, I—” He stopped, his mouth opening and closing like he was physically incapable of forming the words.

Instead, he stood abruptly and walked to his desk. You watched in confusion as he opened a drawer, pulled out a small velvet box, and returned to the couch.

He handed it to you without a word.

Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant a simple yet elegant design that you immediately recognized—it was based on your favorite flower, something you’d mentioned in passing months ago.

“I had this made for you,” Mycroft said awkwardly, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee table. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you. I suppose now will have to do.”

You stared at the necklace, your heart swelling with a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mycroft…”

“I may not be able to express myself in the traditional sense,” he continued, his voice stiff but earnest. “But I do care for you. Deeply. If that were not the case, I wouldn’t—” He stopped himself again, sighing in frustration. “I wouldn’t have allowed this relationship to happen.”

It wasn’t a perfect confession. It wasn’t romantic or poetic. But it was Mycroft.

You smiled softly and reached out to take his hand. “Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He finally looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said gruffly.

#fanfiction #reader insert #fanfic #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes #mycroft bbc #Mycroft #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #x reade

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cutielights · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, hey! I would like to request a Rosey Maple Moth! mother figure reader with the rottmnt boys!! And the scenario is that they were caught sneaking out of the lair for their own reason? (Separately) Por favor and thank you!! :3 (DAILY REMINDER! drink water, sleep well, etc!) (yes.. I know I wrote this at 12:21 sh..)

Okokok! Sounds very cute let’s do it <3 *quickly Google’s what a Rosey Maple Moth is* ITS SO CUTE

@whyam1h3reohrightf0rsillyturtl3s

I am gonna leave it vague btw, just because not everyone has a rosey maple moth oc, but I am gonna mention wings and being nocturnal I hope that’s okay!

Tw: none

Rise Boys + Mother Figure! Reader

Off topic, I make the banners on top of multiple character head-cannons and this one is my personal favourite I’ve made

Leo

Oh he thought he was SLICK

Sneaking back in all ninja like

Headed to the kitchen for some goddamn coffee after whatever shenanigans he was off doing

At three in the morning

He saw your wings around the corner and knew it was over

“Leonardo Hamato where have you been?” >:[

“I’m getting uhhh chamomile tea, you know, for, sleep.”

“I can smell the beans from here.”

“No you can’t. You’re going crazy. Age does that to people.”

Sending him to his room, not like he’s going to sleep anyway the insomniac

Raph

He accidentally knocked over a lamp when sneaking back in

Thought he had gotten away with it

Until you flicked the light on

Disappointed ™️

“A. What are you doing? B. That was my favourite lamp.”

“I- uh- was sleep walking?”

*cue you talking a sip of coffee whilst maintaining eye contact until he cracks*

It came sooner than expected

“Okay fine I was out I’m sorry, but you’re up too!”

“I’m nocturnal I have a biological excuse young man.”

Donnie

God knows what he was doing

I don’t even want to ask

He calculated that you may be waiting for him so he made a FOOLPROOF plan on how to avoid you

You had anticipated this, and waited in the lab instead, you got to spin around on the chair for a dramatic entrance

“Hello Donatello. Nocturnal now are we?”

*cue shrieking*

He wasn’t expecting that

“I was just, uh, getting some supplies for my drill, that is still in beta. And that you cannot see yet.”

Disapproving look ™️

Making him go to sleep

Mikey

Sneaking out

He was seen

Sneaking back in

He was seen

Mikey thought he was sooo sneaky >:[

*Flicking on the light the moment he enters the room.*

“Michelangelo Hamato, what are you doing?”

*Quick play dumb!*

“Who’s Michelangelo?”

*Not that dumb!*

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leiawritesstories · 5 months ago

Text

swords and sea breezes, 3

part one // part two //

word count: 3.5k (oops)

warnings: weapons, pirates, swearing ;)

enjoy!!

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

After two weeks with the pirates of the Queen's Cadre, Aelin was convinced that Rowan was deliberately sailing in large circles to throw her off. Little did he know that she had an impeccable sense of direction, and she'd seen the same constellations in a circular pattern over the last fortnight.

She may be the wealthy young heiress to the Ashryver-Galathynius duchy, but she was no vapid damsel.

Aelin yawned as she strolled into the galley, stretching her arms above her head. Thanks to Elide's daily knife lessons, her body was remembering the skills she'd learned as a young girl before her parents had decided that self-defense was unladylike, and her aim and accuracy were rapidly growing sharper. Almost too rapidly---she had to remind herself not to advance too quickly lest the pirates suspect she was hiding more than her weapons skills.

"Morning, everyone!" she chirped as she picked up a tin mug and filled it with coffee. The dark, bitter beverage had been strictly a servants' drink in her family home, and she reveled in the freedom to drink it, though she had to stir in nearly half as much sugar as coffee.

"Hullo, milady," drawled Fenrys, one of the ship's two lookouts. "Much better of a mornin' now that you're here with me."

"Your flattery is entirely unnecessary, Fen," Aelin smirked. "I'm still not going to let you into my bed."

Fen shrugged and draped one broad arm around her shoulders. "I'm a patient man, sweetheart."

"Like hell you are, Fenny," Elide scoffed, fondly tugging on the man's curly blonde braid.

He squawked in protest. "Don't mess up the beauty, Lochan!"

She snorted. "Is that what you tell the endless string of partners you bring into your room every time we're in port? Because I recall you saying something very different."

"What happens in my bedroom---"

"Can't possibly stay in your bedroom, because we all have eyes and ears," Aelin cut in, grinning. She winked at Fen as she sipped from her sugary coffee. "Right?"

"All I'm sayin' is that it proves my prowess," he sniffed, pretending to be offended by the good-natured teasing.

"Aye, is that what you tell yourself at night, Fenny boy?" Rowan strode into the galley, and once again, Aelin had to force her heartbeat to remain calm and steady at the sight of the man.

"Sure is, Captain!" With a blindingly sunny grin, Fenrys got up, tipped his empty mug in a salute, and tossed the cup across the room. It landed neatly in the dirty dish bin. "Right, I'm headed up to the lookout."

Rowan nodded. "You know what to do if you spot anything." He picked up two bowls of oat porridge, thanked the cook, and sauntered over to sit directly across from Aelin. "Good morning, my lady."

She arched a brow. "If it's such a good morning, why are we still sailing in circles?"

The galley---hell, the whole damn ship---went silent.

Very, very slowly, Rowan raised his eyes to hers, unable to hide the pure unfiltered shock in them. With his spoon frozen halfway to his lips, a blob of porridge splattered on the table from where it had fallen, he made a perfect portrait of incredulity. "What?!"

"Don't play stupid with me, Whitethorn." Aelin placed her hands flat atop the worn wooden table. "You are clearly clever enough to sail in a wide pattern so that ordinary people wouldn't suspect we aren't going anywhere, but you forget that I am not ordinary."

"Clearly," Rowan whispered, something almost like awe hidden beneath the rasp of his voice. He cleared his throat, placed his spoon back in his bowl, and narrowed his gaze, his moment of wonder shifting to calculation. "How long have you known we're sailing in circles, Aelin?"

The rest of the ship was utterly silent, waiting with bated breath for their captive's answer.

She shrugged. "I realized several days ago that the constellations looked the same as they had on my first night here, and further observation confirmed that we're traveling in a circular pattern."

"You got all that from the...stars?"

"You can't believe a noblewoman would know how to track the stars?" she shot back, irritation sparking her blood.

"Actually, that part is no surprise." Rowan tipped his head to the side, assessing her. "My shock comes from how you didn't hesitate to confront me in front of my entire crew."

"I thought an audience would keep you honest." She sipped her coffee, willing her expression to remain calm, if a bit smug.

He huffed in disbelief. "Well, it certainly did." His lips tipped up into a grin. "Eat, Aelin." He pushed the second bowl across to her.

She stared blankly at the bowl. "I'm not on any kind of hunger strike, Rowan. There's no need to be concerned that your ticket to Dorian Havilliard's whatever-it-is will keel over from starvation."

Rowan chuckled, low and throaty and warm. "Would you believe me if I said this was an attempt at proper manners?"

"What are those?" With an angelically innocent smile, Aelin picked up the spoon and took a bite of the porridge. For ship's fare, it was surprisingly good---steaming hot and slightly sweetened with sugar and a hint of warm spices.

"Something you constantly remind me I lack." Rowan's smirk lit up his features, and Aelin couldn't help but return it. That calculation had returned to his gaze, though, and he had the decency to wait until she was finished eating before he took up his usual train of questions. "Perhaps we're sailing in circles because we know we're near the island."

Aelin burst into laughter.

Rowan's brows quirked. "We could be."

"Awfully hard for you to be near something that doesn't exist," Aelin chuckled. She brushed a few loose strands of wavy red hair out of her face. "It's been two weeks, Rowan. Surely you have enough sense to tell that I'm used to your questions."

"Apparently not," he muttered, half to himself. Abruptly, he stood up, collecting both his and her empty bowls and setting them in the dish bin as he left the galley.

That went fucking brilliantly, Galathynius, Aelin thought to herself, mentally giving herself a slap upside the head for potentially revealing more than she was ready to reveal. She stood up, waved cheerily to the few crewmen still lounging around, and tossed her empty mug into the bin as she left.

She stopped at her room to tie back her hair and strap her two daggers to her hips before she went up to the deck to meet with Elide. They had developed a routine of training in the mornings, when the heat wasn't quite so bad, though Elide had been trying to convince her to start shooting pistols with the crew in the evenings.

But Aelin and explosives were...a bad combination. For many reasons.

"Ready to pick up a gun yet, milady?" Elide joked as Aelin came up to the deck.

"Ask again when pigs fly," Aelin laughed, taking her stance next to Elide and stretching her arms above her head. "I'll keep to my knives for now, thank you very much."

Elide shrugged. "Suit yourself." She spun a pair of ebony-handled pistols around her thumbs, squeezed the triggers, and with a bang and two puffs of smoke, two of the bottles sitting on the deck railing burst into shards.

"You weren't lying about being the best sharpshooter here," Aelin mused, in awe of Elide's skills.

"Course not." The shorter woman raised one of the pistol's muzzles and blew the curls of smoke away from its barrel. "Why else d'ya think I have the grumpiest man on this ship on his knees for me?"

"Gods above," Aelin groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "We already hear you two every night."

"Damn right!" Elide snickered.

Aelin shook her head, laughing, and launched both of her knives at the corkboard target, one after the other. The blades thudded into the dead center of the circle painted onto the cork, barely a hairsbreadth separating them, with their handles pointed outward at opposite angles so the tips of the blades could both hit the center.

Elide whistled. "Shit, Ae, looks like ya hardly needed my lessons!"

"More like your lessons have taught me that I can do this," Aelin replied, shrugging off Elide's praise. "I guess the self-defense lessons I used to take as a child are still lingering."

They trained for their usual hour before they had to part ways, and as Aelin tucked her knives back into their sheaths, Elide glanced up at the sky and whistled, long and low. It had been a cloudy morning, and as the day went on, the clouds had gathered ever closer, coalescing into an ominously dark mass that thickened the air with the promise of a storm.

"Might want to get below, Ae," Elide said, her brows furrowed. "Looks like we're in for a squall."

Down in his office, Rowan paced back and forth across the floor, a scowl etched into his face as he argued with his right-hand man.

"Dammit, Whitethorn, stop being so fucking stubborn!" Lorcan snapped. "We aren't gonna make it past this storm unless you pull your head out of your ass and get us through."

"We're still too fucking far away!" Rowan shot back, his jaw clenched. "I don't have much left, and getting through the storm is probably gonna take all of it. Where the hell will we be then? Powerless?"

Lorcan shot him a fierce glare. "Those ain't the words of the captain I signed on with."

"Well, that captain was fresh from Doranelle," Rowan retorted.

"And just what the hell difference did that make?"

"All the difference." Rowan stopped pacing and braced his hands on the wall, staring out the window across the choppy waves. "A year ago, I didn't realize I couldn't return to Doranelle without a guide."

"A year ago, you were so goddamn drunk on power that you didn't listen to the warnings." Lorcan spoke softly, but no less fiercely. "Where's that confidence led you, Whitethorn?"

"Here." Rowan's admission was hollow.

Lorcan nodded, one sharp dip of his chin. "Here. In the middle of the ocean, without a map or a guide, 'bout to hit a storm that'll take the last of that goddamned token to get through."

Rowan's expression tightened. "We do have a guide, I know it."

"The Galathynius girl?" Lorcan scoffed. "You're desperate, and I can understand why, but you're wrong about her." He paused for a moment, then continued, ruthlessly. "Pull yourself together. I'm goin' up top to get ready for this storm."

Rowan just nodded. "I'll be up."

"You know what happens if you're not." With that, Lorcan left.

One deck above, Aelin stood frozen with shock as the conversation she'd just eavesdropped on raced around her mind. The token. A year ago. Get us through the storm. In her mind's eye, all the pieces started to click together, threads weaving into a tight pattern that revealed why Rowan Whitethorn, pirate captain of the Queen's Cadre, was so insistent upon getting to the island Doranelle.

Power.

She shoved down the thick fear that clogged her throat at the thousand possible implications of that word, and she hurried back to her cabin as the ship's lights began to go out. Salvaterre, who was second in command, had ordered that all open flames be extinguished as they sailed into the storm---to lessen the risk of fire, for there was nothing so feared and dangerous as fire aboard a ship. Back in her cabin, she made sure the small window was securely latched, and then she changed into trousers and a blouse, stepped into the set of water-resistant oilskins that Elide had given to her, tied her hair tightly back, and went up to the deck to join the crew.

Nobody paid any special attention to her, since she was dressed like the rest of them were and the pelting rain blurred the field of vision. Her hands were sure and nimble on the lines as she helped secure the ship, and she followed a crewman towards the stern, in the direction of the captain's cabin.

The winds picked up, throwing the ship back and forth as she fought against the choppy waves, struggling to keep her balance as she sailed deeper into the maelstrom. Aelin ducked behind a bulkhead wall and peered cautiously out to the stern deck, both surprised and not surprised to see Rowan standing there, his face turned into the howling winds.

An opaque white spear of quartz dangled from a silver chain in his hand, the stone faintly flickering with light. Aelin closed her eyes, straining her hearing against the powerful shriek of the storm winds, and just barely managed to pick up a faint counterpoint melody, its notes halting and frail, coming from the stone in Rowan's hand.

A storm token.

The Queen's Cadre lurched sharply, timbers creaking as she clawed through a steep cresting wave, and a fresh wave of the downpour soaked Aelin through her clothes as a gust of wind tore her hat off her head. Grunting with effort, she grasped the lines above her head and hauled herself up, bracing her body in the net of ropes.

"Now, Captain!" Lorcan yelled over the roar of the storm.

Rowan set his jaw, a fiercely determined look settling like steel over his face, and raised the storm token above his head. His body shook with effort, but ever so slowly, a ripple shuddered out from his fists that were clenched around the flickering quartz. The ripple grew and broadened as it rose into the sky, shaking and shuddering against the force of the storm, until it exploded outward and upward with a faint, high-pitched keen that Aelin just barely heard over the wind.

And the sky went silent.

Cautiously, Aelin lifted her head, and her eyes widened. A bubble of calm surrounded the ship, keeping the storm at bay and propelling the ship through the fierceness of the maelstrom. His feet rooted to the stern deck, Rowan gripped the storm token tightly, his body quivering with the strain of keeping the ship protected as she pushed through the rough waters. Getting through the storm will take all of it. The words, a snippet of the conversation Aelin had spied on, echoed through her mind.

She'd barely thought the words before a fissure cracked through the bubble of calm protecting the ship.

"Hold on!" Lorcan roared. "Nearly there!"

But the wind shrieked louder, as if enraged that Rowan had dared to use his storm token against it, and the bubble of calm fractured, once again exposing the ship to the storm. The quartz in Rowan's hand flickered once and went dark, its opaque hue as ordinary as any other stone. A sharp gust of wind scraped across the deck, pushing the Queen's Cadre into the trough of an oncoming wave.

And Rowan, drained after the effort of using the storm token, tumbled off the side of the ship into the surging waves.

Fuck it all to hell.

Aelin leapt off the ropes, her booted feet slipping on the drenched deck, and hastily freed the stern rowboat. With a grunt and a heave, she shoved it over the side of the ship and dove after it, abandoning the pirate ship as the storm finally subsided.

She clutched the side of the rowboat and dragged herself in, spluttering and coughing. The oars practically fell into her hands, and she pushed backwards, towards where Rowan had fallen, cursing him and herself the whole way. Stupid fucking pirate!

"If you're not fucking floating, I'm leaving you to the sea goddess," Aelin seethed as she scanned the waves. There! A surprising jolt of relief shot through her, but she smothered it as she headed for Rowan's prone form. "Get...in," she grunted, hooking her arms under his armpits and practically throwing him into the rowboat.

He lay sprawled on the floor of the tiny boat, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, passed out asleep. Clearly, the storm token had protected him from inhaling any water, but he remained unconscious.

A small mercy.

"Now stay the fuck asleep," she muttered, pushing her soaking wet hair out of her face. With a deep sigh, she settled herself on the bench, hoisted up the oars, and began to row, guiding the boat through the subsiding waves. The rain had slowed from a deluge to a shower, and it eventually trickled to a full stop as the sea calmed from the storm.

Aelin closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and opened her eyes again, staring up into the stars as they appeared in the night sky, breaking through the darkness. The storm clouds had blown away, revealing the constellations etched into the skies, a map for anyone who could decipher it. She glanced down at Rowan---still asleep---and back up to the stars, scanning the shape of their paths.

The Queen's Cadre was to the southeast of them, and by now, she would probably have recovered enough from the storm to discover that her captain was missing. A brief twinge passed through Aelin's heart, for despite her pretenses, she had come to find friendship among the crew of the pirate ship.

But Doranelle came first.

The island lay to the west, so it was westward that she turned, nudging the little rowboat onto a new course. As she rowed, Aelin sent up a quick prayer to the gods. Please, let Rowan stay asleep. It would go better for him if he didn't wake up before they'd reached their destination, both because he had no idea what the island actually protected and because her fear lingered. What Doranelle protected was power, and men were known to do terrible, terrible things for power. Even if Rowan had changed from the "power-drunk idiot" Lorcan had called him, she still couldn't trust that he would leave Doranelle in peace.

The sun rose and fell in cyclic rhythm as Aelin steered the little boat, switching from oars to the boat's single sail after she'd established her course because constant rowing would drain her entirely. Almost miraculously, Rowan remained in his stupor for the five days it took to reach the mists encircling Doranelle, and Aelin breathed just a bit easier knowing that he was unaware of their new path.

When the rowboat reached the mists, Aelin struck the sail and took up the oars again, and she rowed through the thick films of mist that veiled the island. The mists served as both a protective barrier and a misdirection tactic, since the ancient spell woven into the mists kept away anyone who approached with ill intent. As the rowboat broke through the mists, Aelin tilted her head back and inhaled deeply, basking in the achingly familiar richness of Doranelle's air and its faint trace of rain and embers. The island sprang up ahead, and she steered the rowboat into the docks at the land's edge.

Rowan stirred, his eyes cracking open. He blinked several times, clearing the bleariness from his face, and slowly raised his arms, as if testing his range of motion. "Where am I?" he croaked, not yet having recognized that he was alone with Aelin.

"Awake, apparently," she said.

He bolted upright into a seated position, wincing at the ache of the rapid movement. "What? How long...?"

"Five days, give or take, ever since your stupid ass fell off the ship during the storm." She stepped out of the rowboat, keeping a cautious eye on him, and slowly walked backwards up the dock's weathered wooden planks.

"My ship," he breathed, fear flickering across his features. "Where are we, Aelin?"

Her booted feet hit the soft, grassy ground, and she nearly wept with joy at the feeling of standing on her beloved island's turf once again. "A place that does not exist."

Pure shock slackened Rowan's jaw. "Doranelle," he whispered, his voice echoing with awe. He pushed himself up onto the bench, only wincing a bit at the tingling in his legs after five days asleep, and began to stand, clearly intending to get out of the boat and walk into the island.

Aelin's hand flew to her knives, and a blade was clenched in her raised fist almost before she could blink. Her other hand curled behind her hips, her stance defensive. "Stay in the boat, Rowan." The voice that came out of her rang with a note of command that he'd never heard before.

"Aelin, I---"

"Stay. In the. Boat." Her shoulders tensed, and she rooted her feet to the ground as a familiar tingling rose from the ground up to her raised hands.

Confusion crossed Rowan's face. "I mean no harm, Aelin, truly." He swallowed thickly. "But this place...it is a miracle."

"A miracle that is unforgiving to strangers." Her fingers curled.

Brows furrowed together, Rowan abruptly stood up and stepped out of the rowboat. He reached for the pistol that he habitually kept on his hip before remembering that he'd lost it in the storm, but he walked forward, his gaze trained on Aelin. She pressed her lips together, the knife quivering slightly in her raised fist. He reached out towards her. "I won't harm anything, I swear."

She shook her head. "I can't trust a pirate's promise." Deep in her soul, Doranelle called, sending a warm wash of sparks through her blood.

And finally, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius burst into fire.

~~~

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#my writing #swords and sea breezes #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elide x lorcan #elorcan #throne of glass #pirates au #pirate au #throne of glass au

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gloomy0x0phantom · 9 months ago

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Dracule Mihawk - Five Headcanons

『 01 』 S C A R

Mihawk's back is marked by a unique deep scar. In his youth, before becoming the strongest swordsman, Mihawk made a fatal mistake that brought him his biggest shame. He underestimated an enemy, miscalculated a move and ended up with a scar. It starts on his left shoulder blade and ends at the top of his right thigh. Fortunately for him, the blow wasn't fatal, but his ego was gravely affected.

Like all swordsmen, Mihawk considers an unmarked back to be a sign of strength. He intended to protect this part of his body until his death, but ultimately failed. When he felt the blade slice through his skin, but his heart continued to beat, a feeling of failure stronger than death set in. He didn't cry, he didn't scream, he just let the blood fall.

This scar is his biggest secret and, to this day, no one has discovered it. Cautious and calculating by nature, Mihawk is even more so towards his back. When he leaves his home, he always wears his usual coat and never takes it off. When he stays at his castle, Mihawk opts for light sweaters, but never see-through. He takes great care with the fabric of his tops, testing them in the sun and water before considering adding them to his wardrobe. Before the arrival of Perona and Zoro, Mihawk used to allow himself to sleep shirtless, but when the ghost princess came into his life, he had to change this habit.

Mihawk is the best swordsman in the world, and tons of people want to challenge him and take his title, but not a single one is aware that the man lives with a swordsman's greatest shame on himself. Sometimes nightmares invade his sleep to show him what his life would be like if the whole planet learned his secret. The nights he wakes up in a sweat are the worst, and he feels even more pathetic for dreaming such a reality.

『 02 』 S E W I N G

It's a hidden talent that's not really a secret: Mihawk can sew. It's something he learned as a child and came in very handy when he started training with real swords. Little Mihawk mended his own clothes and never asked anyone for help. Unfortunately, the older he got, the more skilled he became with his sword, so there was no longer any reason to patch up damaged garments. So he learned to embroider. Mihawk has always had a keen eye for fashion, especially elegant, high-quality clothing. He didn't always have the money to afford beautiful embroidered capes and shirts, so he learned to make them himself.

Sewing is an activity that allows him to relax after a long day's work. He sits in his living room by the fire, a glass of wine at hand and a sewing project on his lap. This knowledge has allowed him to develop a special bond with Perona, who loves designing her own clothes but isn't particularly handy with needles. He spent many hours training Zoro in sword fighting and Perona in sewing. Mihawk even bought a sewing machine for the Ghost Princess's birthday.

Mihawk will never say it out loud, but he loves the evenings when the trio are together in the living room. Only the crackling of the fire and Zoro's snoring are heard, Perona is concentrating on reading or pursuing a project, while Mihawk sips wine and mends his apprentice's clothes.

『 03 』 M I R R O R S

Imagine living alone in a huge castle on an abandoned island. There are strange noises, huge monkeys fighting in the forest and the days feel like nights. You're so used to being alone, you can't help but jump when you pass a mirror. And that's exactly Mihawk's daily routine. He's lost count of the number of times his reflection has caused him a minor panic attack.

Mihawk is used to being the only resident of Kuraigana Island, so when he walks and suddenly sees a silhouette in his line of vision, his body reacts as if an enemy is approaching. He's broken so many mirrors since arriving on the island that he's convinced he's surpassed 100 years of misfortune. It's a trivial anecdote for most, but for the swordsman, it's no laughing matter.

Following the arrival of Perona and Zoro, Mihawk has calmed down a little, but the ghost princess manages to cause him a few scares, especially when she decides to go through a mirror. Zoro is constantly getting lost, so Mihawk often finds him in particular places, purely by surprise. The two helped him get rid of his silly fear of mirrors.

『 04 』 R O M A N I A N

Mihawk have no patience for stubborn individuals with sensitive egos, and unfortunately, this world is full of them. In his younger days, the swordsman didn't hesitate to throw insults and respond to pointless fights, but the older he got, the more he found a much more effective method of winning those battles: speaking in his native tongue.

As soon as someone bothers him, Mihawk will start speaking in Romanian to piss them off in return. This method is very effective with Shanks and Buggy. He takes great pleasure in answering them in a language they don't understand. Insults, criticism, mockery... the swordsman has no trouble finding words to torment them. Sometimes, he chooses to say sentences that have nothing to do with the conversation, such as: "The sky is beautiful today", "I ate an apple this morning", "That sweater looks great on you, but since you don't understand me, you'll never know". It's very amusing and works every time. Buggy loses his head completely when Mihawk speaks in Romanian, because one, it's very charming, and two, it royally pisses him off! Shanks is much more used to it and has taken the time to learn a few phrases to better understand his arch-enemy.

Mihawk tried once to answer Perona in Romanian when she was annoying him, and it ended very badly when Perona also answered in Romanian and very angrily.

『 05 』 F A C I A L H A I R

When Mihawk decided to grow a beard and mustache, he strategically disappeared for several months, simply because he refused to be seen during the awkward phase. Being seen with a beard full of patches and a mustache reminiscent of a teenager was out of the question. Shanks would never forget that. He'd rather die than be seen in an unattractive state.

His absence gave rise to several rumors, with the most widespread being: Mihawk is dead. The swordsman surprised many when he returned even stronger and looked more elegant and mature. When Shanks encountered him again, he was flabbergasted by the change. He immediately pointed a finger at his rival's face and shouted, "Since when do you have a beard and a mustache!?" To mess with the redhead, Mihawk replied that he didn't know what he was talking about. He was secretly pleased when the Red Hair Pirates started gaslighting their captain, telling him that Mihawk always looked like that. Shanks dropped the subject because every time he talks about it, he sounds like a madman. “I SWEAR HE DIDN'T HAVE A BEARD!”

#dracule mihawk #dracule mihawk headcanons #one piece #one piece headcanons #headcanons

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bambifornia · 8 months ago

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more swindle headcanons because he won't leave my brain and i'm tired of him

crazy good at math. he's able to calculate the price/cost of something within seconds. the only reason he's not a mathematician/accountant or anything like that is because swindle wouldn't do well with those jobs. swindle likes moving on his pedes, not sitting behind a desk

extremely well-versed in politics. but not because he's very political or anything; swindle just likes knowing where and when the next intergalactic war is raging so he can profit off it. it helps to keep up with the news

workaholic. though this trait is less notable to see in him than say, someone like optimus (mostly because swindle takes great care not to let his exhaustion be shown. his image MUST be perserved, after all)

used to keep a diary in which he noted anything interesting he found on the planets he traded with. he was actually semi-organized with it, and even included some crude doodles of the organics he ran into. he stopped journaling once the war broke out, though, and hasn't journaled since due to fear of his diary being used as blackmail

answers questions like a politician. if u want a straight answer from swindle then good fucking luck LMAO. he doesn't like to go into detail about his past. it's all old news, anyway

he's a Beyonce fan. i feel it in my bones

puts effort into his image. granted his image got fucked over ever since he defected to the decepticons LMAO but the point is that swindle tries to make himself look better than he actually is.

surprisingly open-minded. he has to be. if he were to be openly xenophobic to the multitude of alien races he trades with, then his business would tank. besides, he's actually pretty curious about other worlds besides his own (ex; how he mentioned he spied on the human villains in the SUV episode, and thought their whole get-up was "exciting")

he hates hates HATES the cold. if he HAS to do business in a cold planet, he will bitch and complain about it the entire time except when he's in the negotiating room

when he was a young bot, swindle was pretty open book. that's not to say he didn't LIE back then, it just so happened that swindle was created with a super expressive faceplate, and you could always tell what swindle thought based on whatever look he was giving you. this got him into some...issues (dw he learned how to keep a poker face later on)

not the jealous type (how can he be jealous when he's the most wanted bachelor on cybertron?) but on the rare occasion that he IS, he gets real quiet. probably sulks to himself in a corner while sipping on some energon. if confronted, he'll brush it off but don't you doubt it for one second; he is PISSED

says he doesn't have any regrets or moral dilemmas about his job, but that's only half of the truth. swindle takes care not to give himself enough time to think about the past. it makes living easier that way. and swindle is a creature who seeks comfort, even if it inconveniences everybody else around him. don't try to call him out on this bad habit of his; he will huff and excuse himself by claiming you'd do the same thing too if you were in his shoes (or pedes?)

he does not like keeping living things in his subspace. he's made the mistake of storing a organic he thought was cute when he was younger, and it ended up with a trip to med-bay (surprisingly, organics don't like being in strange voids filled with nothing but weapons)

fantastic at detecting scams. he doesn't have a mod for it or anything, he just KNOWS

has a """"healthy"""" amount of paranoia. he claims he's just looking out for himself, given the kind of business he's in, but there's times where the paranoia really fucks with his health

really likes sprinkling those "infomercial phrases" into his daily speech. he thinks it makes him sound suave. thought he sometimes fucks up with the delivery and he just gives up mid-way lmao ("guard the prisoners...orrr loot the ship? it's a no process-...or? er? err..." - a direct quote from decepticon air)

he's mostly self-aware. the only thing he isn't honest about to himself is his own emotions

whenever he feels stupid stuff like "fear" or "stress" or (shudder) "remorse" he takes a look at his bank account. it helps him, in a weird way. because yes, he's an outlaw, and yes, he's technically gambling his and everyone else's life, and YES, there's days where he winds up battered and broken, barely an inch away from death, but...at least his efforts aren't for nought. they're adding up to something; with every corpse, swindle's wallet gets fatter. and with all that money in his servos, swindle might be able to buy himself the one thing cybertron can't offer him: peace

^ swindle thinks he deserves this. he delusionally believes he deserves peace and riches more than anybot

#tfa #transformers animated #tfa swindle #transformers #swindle #tf swindle #headcanon

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sherbet-shivers · 8 months ago

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A Minor Malfunction Part 1/3

We need to ignore that this is 6 years late ashgdahls (I only just got to play D/etroit: B/ecome H/uman and my love for sweet baby boy Co/nnor is alive)! Also figured snz is still snz, so even if you don’t care for the fandom you might enjoy the main course anyway lol

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! This is also my first time posting to tumblr at all, so formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Connor suffers a little virus (Part 2 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 4k+ words

TW: cursing, minor robot discrimination; no spoilers

“You’re quiet tonight, Connor,” Hank observes between sips of his drink. His name triggers the Android to lift his head and meet his partner’s gaze, which studies him conspicuously.

Connor smiles a bit stiffly. “You usually prefer me quiet, Lieutenant.”

His investigative partner groans. “Yeah, when you’re barking up my ass,” he scoffs, though his voice lacks any hints of malice. The two had been working a handful of Deviant cases together and Hank’s introductory disdain had subtly been reduced to something warmer. Teasing had become their shared language, which was a preferred change of pace from where they’d started; not to mention a great way to lighten the mood between all the rumors of homicide and an Android uprising. Still, in spite of their growing closeness, Connor doubted Hank considered him a true partner, let alone a friend, but at least the two were no longer arguing like they had been a few weeks prior.

“So,” Hank starts again, “what’s going on with you?”

Connor makes a face, even tilting his head a bit before glimpsing side to side. “Nothing, as we’re currently idle in a bar.”

“No shit, smartass. I mean what’s going on, as in why are you acting all funny?”

“Funny?” Connor sifts through his memory, trying to recall a recent instance in which he’d been humorous by Hank’s standards. To no one’s surprise, he comes up empty. “I don’t recall acting funny. Why? Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Wha-? No! Christ, nevermind; just forget I said anything you weirdo,” Hank dismisses.

Connor didn’t mind the rejection (nothing was personal to machines), but he was programmed to follow orders; thus, he re-quiets, following Hank’s lead.

However, just because he’s silent, doesn’t mean he’s inactive. An Android’s life was rarely dull given there was a full 24 hours in day to take advantage of. As much as Hank said he loved naps, Connor couldn’t imagine wasting precious work hours to sleep.

Even now they were technically “freed” of their investigative duties, but Connor still had plenty of personal maintenance to attend to. It was the daily obligation of an RX800 model like himself (all AI models really), and so he promptly runs a survey of his internal diagnostics. Aside from making his masters happy, it was an Android’s priority to ensure that everything about them is up to date and code — ranging from their adaptive software to the state of their hard drive.

At the same time, he decides to trace through the entirety of his memories, still determined to figure out what Hank meant when he said “acting funny”. Funny…the word repeats in Connor’s head. Human emotions and terms were somewhat difficult to diagnose on his own, though Hank’s recent company had introduced Connor to a wide collection of colorful language. So many terms denoted so many different meanings, many of which were subjective and therefore wildly confusing to a purely calculative mind. So when Hank said Connor was “acting funny”, what exactly did that mean? His type of humor was unique (and apt to change given his BAC), so maybe what he found funny wasn’t what Connor had originally filtered for. Or maybe…the term meant something entirely different altogether? But, then what did that mean? Questions like these are what made humans so fascinating and troubling according to Connor’s programming. He could run himself in circles for hours asking the same questions, constantly seeking meaning, searching for answers, decoding Hank’s unusual phrases-

Suddenly, an alarm goes off in Connor’s system, alerting him to some kind of error in his software. It’s honestly startling, catching the Android surprisingly off-guard for once. This…hadn’t ever happened before; at least, not while he was without a suitable guardian or engineer nearby. Thankfully he’s already wired to know exactly how to respond, and thus promptly performs a system-wide scan to diagnose the error in question. Within seconds, his answer is received, though to his misfortune, it’s little more conclusive.

Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Unknown Digital Error. Software Virus Suspected. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. CyberLife has been automatically contacted. Expect an update within 24 hours.

A single blink has Connor back in reality, surrounded by the musky odors characteristic of the many bars he and Hank frequently hopped. Hank is muttering something about the game with Jimmy’s bartender, but Connor hardly hears them.

Virus? Malfunction? How could that be possible? Connor had experienced software issues in the past, but many were easily patched or otherwise resolved by his masters, sometimes within seconds! So this was…unusual to say the least. He’d been warned of course to stay vigilant against hackers, obvious glitches, chain mail, pirated sites, FaceBook and other shady threats — it’s why he ran diagnostics multiple times a day. So how could this have happened? How could he have been so negligent to have missed something?

At least CyberLife had been notified, which meant he’d only have to wait a few hours for his orders on how to proceed; but until then, what was he expected to do? He was hesitant to trust himself, especially after being branded by his own system as potentially defective.

Malfunction. The word echoes through his system and encourages Connor to continue searching his recent stored memories. He weaves through the past effortlessly in search of anything that could stand out or explain his current predicament…and that’s when he’s reminded of what Hank said not more than two minutes ago. Funny. Had he really slipped up so poorly even he hadn’t noticed something but Hank did? What did it mean if a trained AI couldn’t catch a mistake while a human so easily could?

Connor chooses not to answer that question as he comes across a particular gap in his memory — one he hadn’t noticed until now. It was short — a blackout lasting no more than four seconds — but that may as well have been an eternity if it meant there was an absence of crucial information. Rewinding prior to the lull in time, Connor revisits a particular scene during he and Hank’s investigation earlier that same day.

The two of them had been assigned to a Deviant case involving an unnamed MJ100. The dog sitter had been out walking two corgis, both belonging to its owner when it was confronted by a group of six human protesters. After being cornered, the Android was jumped, pushed to the ground, and kicked repeatedly, enduring damage to its left ocular component and minor denting targeting its knee attachment on the same side. Its gait was consequently deemed unstable as it tried to pick itself up. As it could not recalculate its balance, it was knocked down a second time; and on its third attempt, the Android had defied its programming and resorted to fighting off its aggressors using heavy handed tactics and a nearby blunt object (presumably one of the protester’s sign boards). It then attempted to flee the scene but made it less than a block away before being tackled and deactivated by a local officer.

Weirdly enough, the next few details are a bit scrambled within Connor’s hard drive. All that is clear is that while investigating the Android’s body and calculating the damage, Connor’s vision goes dark — particularly after coming into direct contact with its bio components. It’s a startling discovery, and his vision only seems to return a few seconds later after Hank snaps at him to answer a question he’d claimed to have repeated once before.

Following that instance, minor things that should’ve caught Connor’s attention had gone completely unnoticed. His temperatures were running high and low interchangeably by several degrees, his system wasn’t adequately flushing out debris causing congestion within his gears, and even his processing speed — which usually ran above peak performance — was barely keeping up with that of a model two series back.

How had he missed all that? Surely he would’ve recalled Hank repeating himself, if not the obvious lull in time and all the issues impairing his components. Why couldn’t he put together a simple sequence of events? Just how damaging was this virus? What happened to him within that lost period?

“Hey!”

Connor glimpses at Hank, who is snapping in his line of sight. The old detective snorts once he realizes Connor has come to.

“Jesus, I guess even robots can be space cadets now, huh?” He muses as he slaps a wadded up stack of bills onto the counter and slides them over to the standing bartender. “I’m heading home to feed my dog. You’d better go back to the station and recharge yourself, Blinky. That fucking disc in your temple is going crazy.”

Without any further pleasantries, Hank takes off towards the door and exits the bar through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Connor meant to pay for his drinks and a ride home, but he supposed that’d have to wait until tomorrow. For now, it was probably best he follow his partner’s commands. After all, he was made to heed directions, and eager to run another diagnostic scan undisturbed.

Going in the opposite direction of his partner, Connor starts his way back to the police station downtown, occupying his walk by fumbling with the trademark silver coin he carries in his pocket. Hopefully all he needed for a fresh start was an overnight rebooting.

…

Connor Model Prototype RX800 — Serial Number: 313 248 317. Functionality: Below Average. Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Digital Error 2B9YD77158G. Software Virus Confirmed. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Self-Repairs Update Initialized. Time Remaining: 62 Hours, 58 Minutes, And 23 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

The alert rouses him from his sleep mode. It wasn’t the best news to start the day with, but then again, neither was this creeping sensation bothering his nose and tickling his chest. He attempts another scan to source out the cause, but is immediately interrupted by a sudden, involuntary gasp. The reaction quickly proves out of his control; because in spite of trying to fight and diagnose it, his efforts prove futile as his chest inflates, mouth parts, and he’s bent at the waist with an unexpected-

“Ah’HTSHh’iew!” And another? “Iihy’YDTZSH’shH! Hh-?!” And another?? “hK’SCH’uh!”

He shakes his head and sniffles instinctively, more than a little surprised and uneasy following such an aggressive series of outbursts. He didn’t like that one bit, and could only assume that a reflex like that attested to the true extent of his malfunction. Not only that, but the annoying fluttering feeling in his face hadn’t been remotely relieved; if anything, it’d been stirred and hurled through his system like a shock of irritating static. He wasn’t familiar with automatic overrides to his manual settings, and didn’t wish to experience that again if he could help it.

Straightening his back, he ignores the blank gazes from his fellow policing Androids, who are similarly parked in their charging stations in rows running to his left and right.

“Excuse me,” Connor murmurs, not that any of his companions could feel offended by his unusual behavior. He’d only said it out of sheer obligation, though perhaps somewhere deep in his system he was also preventing being viewed as a threat…as unfortunately impaired.

A malfunction.

For the sake of preserving his public image, he would commit himself to being as discreet as possible. He wasn’t a malfunction, and he would set himself to prove it. He just had to get through the next two days without drawing unwanted attention or affording any more hiccups. He could do that.

Right?

…

For the first time since his creation and introduction to the public eye, Connor was experiencing…doubts. The virus he’d contracted was proving to be more difficult to supersede the more hours that went on. The rate of his degradation was…less than optimal, to say the least. For one, his bio-components (as predicted) were suffering unfamiliar glitches all over. His movements were sluggish despite a full night’s charge, and his data processing was running at a measly 73% speed — even slower than last night. His internal temperatures were rising and falling like a seesaw; the balance constantly tipped between too hot and too cold. It was starting to affect his bio regulators, which couldn’t decide if he needed to start letting off steam or shiver through the morning. Thankfully, these ailments weren’t too difficult to hide so long as he was diligent in monitoring them and constantly tracking their progression. As soon as something was apt to change, he was quick to process a solution in order to appear as normal and high functioning as possible.

What he couldn’t predict nor control was the sudden influx of outbursts.

It’d only been a handful of hours since he “woke”, and even less time since the station opened up to its human staff; and already, Connor was slipping up here and there. As an Android, people paid him little attention (which actually worked in his favor), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned over being reported by a fellow Android or a stray, observant human. After all, he’d discovered that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t do much to prevent-

“Iiy’aASCH’hiEW!”

That. He despised the act itself, and grew frustrated every time it took him by surprise. Why was it so difficult to challenge or prepare for? If he had just a little more notice, he could stop himself or at least attempt to override its command. However, every time he tried, he just couldn’t. He was being outplayed by an infraction, a glitch — a minor one at that! — and that only added to the frustration gnawing at his senses.

As if the lack of control alone wasn’t bad enough, he was also starting to tire of the persistent, crawling itch tracing his nose and teasing at the inner cavity. It was terribly irritating, prompting him to pinch and rub at his face, or sweep a knuckle under the sensitive (and offending) appendage. But doing so often only relit the flame, like a match reigniting a fire so close to dying, but reluctant to fade out. Even now, just as he earns some relief thanks to a series of sniffling and scrubbing, he feels that ember kicking up again; tickling and teasing against his inner sinuses until he’s forced to-

“eE’SHYIU’Uui! ‘dSHH!…ha’hh-! uH’-!”

The final one teases him, so much so he isn’t even certain it’s the last one. He’s aware he must look ridiculous — an Android caught in a hysteric limbo, interrupted by a dysfunction that it’d never succumb to before, let alone conceived. He tries desperately to fight it — to prove he can use sheer logic to overcome his own reflex, but the itch is just too overwhelming, causing his eyes to squint and lips to quiver. So after a few good seconds of rebelling against the inevitable, he hastily pardons himself to the station’s supply closet, locks the door behind him, and surrenders to his system.

In his clumsy haste however, he had managed to knock over a few spare broomsticks, and even rattled a small tower of cardboard boxes. His vision was immediately clouded by a puff of gray, but he didn’t have much time to observe or clean up the mess since he was already too busy-

“ae’ESHHEW’ww! Aa’KSCH’yIEW! T’tdSSH’yiEW!”

Was it getting worse?! Between hitching breaths Connor struggles to perform another scan. He interrupts himself twice, but ultimately the result comes back, reading out in bold text: Environmental Irritant Level: High. Bio-Receptor Reactivity: High. System Override: Automatic. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 57 Hours, 22 Minutes, And 19 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife H-

“HHh’ITSH’hUuii! Ahh…h’ah-! H’-! H’PTzsSH’IEWw!”

They were stumbling out of him in pairs and triples now, every fittish burst triggering glitches in his sight and sending shivers down his core. He tries to keep them quiet by smothering his nose into his palm, but air manages to slip out anyway, making hisses of noise he’s starting to find…embarrassing? Perhaps shameful was a more accurate term, on second thought.

Still caught between sneezing or not sneezing, he squints through bubbling gasps and hones in on his immediate area. His specs focus in on the particles of dust scattered around him; no doubt disturbed by his sudden entrance. His system classifies the debris as a common irritant. Ah. So that’s what was setting him off worse than before.

He shakes his head and scrubs at his nose with a free knuckle. Here he thought he’d finally found some reprieve only to cause himself another problem. He should’ve expected this or pre-calculated the chances of this happening, but of course little was working in his favor with a bugged out tactical unit.

“Hih’PTSHH’ieew! Ah’haaH-…!”

Seriously? How long did this usually last?

“h’H-…! Nnng…oH’H-!…oh…”

Connor lets out an artificial sigh, his nose twitching aggressively and mouth uncurling from a snarl. The itch hasn’t quite dissipated, but at least the urge to sneeze has retreated for the time being. As he scratches at his face and sniffs testily, he makes a mental note-to-self to avoid any more stale or dirty areas over the next two days.

He had to get out of here, before someone noticed he went missing or worse, caught him in the act of hiding. Reluctant to get dragged into another fit but eager to escape, he raises his arm and buries his nose against his sleeve — a courtesy he believes humans are commonly accustomed to when they suffer similar ailments. He then tends to the supplies around him, returning them to their exact state before he’d made a wreck of things. Once adequately tidied (both he and the closet space), Connor tentatively unlocks the closet and exits the shroud of its privacy.

The immediate change in lighting is too fast for his eyes to process, causing a temporary blindness that stings his circuits and scatters pixels across his vision. He grimaces unconsciously as he heads towards his desk, and to his surprise, the commanding officer is waiting for him when he approaches.

“There you are RX800. We’ve got a new report about a Deviant downtown. I want you to pull Hank from wherever the fuck he is and go investigate.”

The chief slips a manilla folder into Connor’s hands then readjusts the belt around his gut. Connor busies himself with downloading the walls of text in his hands, then blinks up at his boss with an automated smile.

“Of course, Chief Fowler. I’ll be sure to retrieve Mr. Anderson, and we will investigate the scene immediately.”

His response is somewhat obvious, but still, the chief approves of his confirmation, nodding as he starts to brush past the bot. Connor glimpses down at the data in his hands again, when suddenly, his captain pauses and waves for his attention. Promptly, Connor swivels on his heel.

“You look different, RX,” the officer acknowledges, more skeptical than worried. “More…,” he ponders for the words, eventually settling on, “blue.”

Blue? Connor couldn’t tell what his commander meant, at least not with his processing unit so slow to react. Did he mean sad — as in the human emotional equivalent of blue? Taking a guess, Connor puts on his best smile in spite of his state and shakes his head.

“I assure you I’m normal, Captain. Fully functioning and eager to follow your directives!”

He hopes his summery tone is enough to dissuade his captain’s lingering stare — which it ultimately does — however, instead of looking appeased, his commander only looks more confused before resuming his strut in the other direction. Connor shuffles uncomfortably where he remains, glimpsing side to side self-consciously in case other people have witnessed his untimely encounter with the chief. Thankfully nobody seems to notice, but in the midst of his search, Connor manages to catch a glimpse at his own reflection against Hank’s black computer screen. He leans a bit closer to get a better look at himself, and what he finds puts his erroneous state into further perspective.

His hair is disheveled, the corners of his eyes tainted with faint webs of static, and his cheeks and nose are dusted a blue color eerily similar to that of his Thirium — his blue blood. That’s probably what Fowler was talking about; and if that wasn’t already damning enough, Connor could only imagine what Hank would say (or think) when he fetched him.

Connor smooths back his hair and pats at his cheeks. He’d have to be extra cautious with Hank if he wanted to dodge his attention. It’d be a difficult task given the detective had already picked up on his mild dysfunction the night prior, but Connor was always committed to giving his best effort. Sure, it may slow down his rate of update, but likely by a negligible amount.

Confident in his ability to disguise his condition, Connor tucks the Chief’s folder under his arm and heads down the nearest hallway towards the station’s south exit. This would work, and it would be worth it.

Anything was worth it if it meant sparing Hank’s judgment.

…

By the time Connor reaches Hank’s house, he’s damp with rainwater. He’d made longer treks in the rain in the past, but this time, he’d failed to take into account how the weather would affect his weakened system. Currently his internal temperature sat at an unusual low of 57 degrees Fahrenheit, and his whole body was shaking to make up for the cold. In the short amount of time that had passed, optimization had dropped to 66%.

The only positive was he’d somehow managed to relieve the blue tint in his face, and the repeated fits of sneezing had died down significantly now that he was surrounded by fresh air. If he was fortunate, that’s how it’d remain for the next several hours.

The Android climbs the front porch, then knocks at Hank’s door (always in threes). As usual, he’s first greeted by Sumo’s barking followed by the muffled sounds of Hank cursing out his unexpected (but still somehow predictable) return visitor.

“Goddammit, not today you walking nuisance!”

At least he knows it’s him.

“Apologies Lieutenant, but I’ve been given direct orders by Chief Fowler to come get you. He wants us to investigate another Deviant case immediately.”

There’s no response. Connor didn’t usually grovel, but he had work to do, and it was starting to get pretty cold out there in the rain.

“P-Please,” Connor pleads, unintentionally stuttering thanks to the shivers wracking his system. “You know I can’t do this without you, Lieutenant.”

There’s another pause of silence, only this time it’s followed by a characteristic groan and the sound of footsteps approaching the porch. Right on cue, Connor takes a step back just as Hank flings open the door and motions him inside.

“Get your ass in here and give me fifteen minutes, huh? I need to change and sober up a bit.”

Connor nods as he follows Hank inside, getting no more than a few feet into the living room before he’s bombarded by Sumo, who licks at his shins and threatens to knock him over given his massive size.

“Sumo down!” Hank orders as he heads towards his bedroom, though the friendly Saint Bernard pays his master no mind.

Connor giggles as he kneels to Sumo’s height and proceeds to pet behind his ears. “Good boy, Sumo,” he consoles. Freeing one hand, Connor fishes in his pockets until he comes across a particular texture, revealing a hidden stash of spare treats he carries solely for occasions like this. He palms the biscuits over for Sumo’s pleasure, and smiles fondly as the hound licks them from his grasp.

“You better not be feeding him again, Connor!” Hank calls from the other room.

“Of course not, sir!” Connor answers, cooing as Sumo’s tongue tickles his fingers. The more he visited Hank’s home, the more he looked forward to seeing Sumo’s goofy smile. He was starting to see why humans adored animals — especially good boys like Sumo.

“Riiiight,” Hank drawls in return. He’s been a detective for over 20 years, so why an Android attempted lying to him about his own dog, he seriously didn’t know. “Hey, Connor!”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Remind me later to tell Fowler to kiss my ass next time he sends me out into the rain. Swear that fucker doesn’t ever need me until the weather is shit,” he adds beneath a grumble.

“Will do,” Connor answers, still mildly distracted by the fluffy lump of love curled by his feet.

After a few more minutes, Hank emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a darkened leather coat, distressed blue jeans, and boots well past their wear. It complimented his grizzled aesthetic, which Connor was starting to find charming the more time they spent together. Hank must catch the way he’s staring, because he furrows his brows and gnaws at his bottom lip; a habit indicating some level of self-consciousness.

“What? I got something on my face?” Hank asks. It wouldn’t be the first time he left the house with pizza stains and booze clinging to his beard.

“No,” Connor replies, frankly. “I like your outfit. You look handsome, Lieutenant.”

Hank looks more perturbed than complimented, but regardless he says nothing but “Christ” under his breath as he brushes past Connor and swipes his house keys off his computer desk. As he does, the faint blush of his cheeks are exposed by the soft glow of his laptop’s LED. Connor smiles, rising to his feet and reaching for the door handle. Swinging it open, he beckons for Hank to lead the way.

Hank obliges the kind offer, but halts midstep just as he’s about to pass the pseudo-doorman.

“What’s on your face?” he asks after glimpsing Connor up and down.

The Android shuffles in place. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he answers somewhat meekly.

Hank doesn’t believe him for a second, that much was obvious with the way he stiffens his jaw and narrows his eyes. Still, he chooses not to elaborate, and simply relents to looking back at Sumo, who has sidled up against his leg as a goodbye gesture. Hank gives the pup one last parting pat on the head before stepping out into the morose outdoors.

“Hold down the fort, Sumo. This won’t take long,” Hank sighs. “I’m not wasting more than four hours out in this goddamn shit.”

He starts down the front steps while Connor turns to close the door behind them. As the Android does so however, a dreadfully familiar tickle takes him by surprise, gracing him with barely enough time to tuck his nose into his collar — a sloppy and hurried attempt to suppress a mini fit.

“iihH’MFFSH’ui! ih’zZSHH! dtsSH’yiew!”

He sniffles carefully as he rises from his jacket and shakes his head free of the bothersome itch.

“Connor! The Hell are you doing?” Hank calls from the sidewalk.

“Nothing; sorry! I'm coming, Lieutenant!”

Sumo whimpers at the Android and paws at his leg, as though he senses something is wrong with his second best friend. To relieve the dog’s distress, Connor cups Sumo’s chin and scratches it one last time.

“I’m alright, Sumo. Be a good boy, okay? I promise I’ll bring Hank back home soon.”

With that said, Connor closes the door, tugs the handle to make sure it’s locked, then races after his Lieutenant. As he closes in on his side, another alert crowds his interface, reading: Functionality: Moderately Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-39BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Low. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 55 Hours, 50 Minutes, And 50 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

He sniffs discreetly and steals a final pinch at his nose. For one of the few times since they’d met, Connor agreed with Hank completely.

Hopefully this is all over soon.

#snz #snzfic #snzblr #snz kink #d/etroit: b/ecome h/uman #co/nnor R/K800 #h/ank a/nderson #whump-ish #full-time lurker spotted

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