#protective reader

[multifandomposts-blog]

No Comment — Chapter One

Michael Jackson x Black!Reader

Warnings: swearing, paparazzi harassment, age gap discourse, media pressure, chaotic behavior, protective reader, fluff/humor

Tags: michael jackson x reader, black reader, protective reader, chaotic reader, funny reader, media trained michael, public relationship, paparazzi, interview gone wrong, crack treated seriously, fluff, series potential, 90s michael jackson

Taglist: @simply-lovley44 @cocomilaa @blcknebula

inspired by this post @callmeoncette

The flashing cameras almost blinded you the second the two of you stepped out of the black SUV.

“Michael! Michael over here!”

“How long have you two been together?”

“Michael, is the relationship getting serious?”

“Y/N! Y/N!”

Michael’s hand tightened around yours immediately, thumb rubbing softly against your skin in that quiet way he always did whenever crowds got overwhelming.

“You okay?” he murmured softly.

You looked over at him in disbelief.

“Am I okay? Baby, are you okay? They yellin’ like zoo animals.”

Michael physically had to bite back a smile.

“Baby”

“No, because why are they barking at us?”

The interview host standing near the carpet entrance laughed awkwardly before quickly straightening up when Michael looked over.

Michael lowered his head slightly, curls falling near his face as he tried to compose himself.

“C’mon,” he whispered, gently guiding you forward.

The relationship had gone public barely three weeks ago, and the media had been losing their minds ever since.

Not because Michael Jackson had a girlfriend.

But because you were absolutely terrible at public relations.

You didn’t smile politely at rude questions.

You didn’t dodge disrespect.

And you definitely didn’t care about Hollywood etiquette.

Which explained why Michael’s publicist currently looked like she was five seconds away from cardiac arrest.

The interviewer smiled brightly as cameras zoomed in.

“It’s wonderful to have you both here tonight.”

“Thank you,” Michael answered sweetly.

You nodded. “Appreciate it.”

The interviewer turned toward Michael first.

“So Michael, your fans have been very curious about this relationship. It’s definitely surprised a lot of people.”

Michael smiled politely. Calm. Practiced.

“Well, I’m very happy,” he said gently. “She’s very special to me.”

Then the interviewer looked at you.

“And what’s it like dating the biggest star in the world?”

You shrugged.

“He steals my food.”

Michael looked scandalized.

“I do not steal your food.”

“Yes you do.”

“I ask for it.”

“You ask after it’s already halfway gone micheal.”

The interviewer laughed softly.

Michael covered part of his face, already embarrassed.

Then the interviewer made the mistake.

“So…” she started carefully, “there’s obviously been conversation online about your age and maturity level compared to Michael’s. Some people think you may not fully understand the pressure that comes with being with someone like him.”

Michael’s smile dropped instantly.

You felt his hand squeeze yours once.

Warning, begging even...

Please don’t.

“Uh,” Michael started softly, “I don’t really think...”

“And some critics,” the interviewer continued, “have questioned whether you’re prepared for this kind of public relationship.”

Michael inhaled slowly.

“Baby,” he whispered under his breath.

Too late.

You blinked at the woman.

“What kinda stupid-ass question is that?”

The entire audience and crew went silent.

Michael froze beside you.

The interviewer stared.

Cameras zoomed in on you so fast it was almost violent.

You frowned.

“No seriously. How are you qualified to have this job if that’s what you ask people?”

“baby” Michael whispered, horrified.

“I’m serious,” you continued. “Y’all get paid to be weird and disrespectful on television and then act shocked when somebody says something back.”

The interviewer looked absolutely stunned.

“Well, I...”

“And another thing,” you cut in. “Every interview this man does, somebody feels comfortable disrespecting him as long as they smile while doing it.”

Michael looked down at the floor, shoulders already shaking slightly.

“You ask rude questions, pry into his personal life, make slick comments, then try to hide behind professionalism when people call it out. It’s weird.”

The interviewer opened and closed her mouth for a second.

“And now suddenly I’m immature because I’m not sitting here pretending that question wasn’t rude?”

“Baby,” Michael mumbled weakly, “you can’t say that on television.”

“Yes I can.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes I can and I will.”

“And honestly,” you continued, “half the interviews he does feel less like interviews and more like y’all trying to see how uncomfortable you can make him before he reacts.”

Michael physically turned away now, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing.

The interviewer awkwardly cleared her throat.

“S-So Michael… about the question I asked earlier...”

“What she said,” Michael answered immediately.

The interviewer stared at him in disbelief.

Michael finally looked back over at you with the brightest grin you’d seen all night.

--------

By the time the two of you finally made it inside the venue, the tension from the interview had completely shifted.

Mostly because Michael could not stop laughing.

“You embarrassed me,” he whispered as the two of you walked through the hallway toward the backstage area.

You looked at him incredulously.

“I embarrassed you?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, still smiling. “You attacked that poor woman.”

“She attacked you first.”

Michael shook his head, curls bouncing slightly.

“You called her stupid on live television.”

“I said the question was stupid.”

“That is not better.”

You crossed your arms dramatically.

“Well maybe she should stop asking dumb questions then.”

Michael tried to stay serious for about three seconds before another laugh escaped him.

“There you go again,” he mumbled.

“Oh, don’t do that,” you said, pointing at him. “Don’t act so pleased with me now after sitting there acting all shocked.”

“I was shocked!”

“You were laughing!”

“I was trying not to!”

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously.

“You liked it.”

Michael immediately looked away.

Which told you everything.

Your mouth dropped open.

“Oh my God, you DID like it.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Michael covered part of his face with one hand, already smiling again.

“You should’ve seen your publicist’s face,” you continued. “That lady looked like she was about to pass out.”

“She probably was.”

“Well maybe next time they’ll stop asking you weird questions.”

Michael slowed down slightly then.

The teasing expression on his face softened into something else, something softer.

Something genuine.

“You really don’t like when people disrespect me, huh?”

You looked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“No. I don’t.”

For a second, Michael just stared at you.

Then he smiled again.

this time

Smaller

“…I like that.”

Turn this into a series

yes

no

Only one more chapter

Other option/comment

Voting ended onMay 14

[blondechariot]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Chan x reader where he finally meats someone as stubborn as him and finally gets him to stop working a bit and relax and rest? With the other stray kids there just for the fun. Hope that’s okie! ✨

pairing: Bang Chan x reader

warnings: Chan being a workaholic, Reader taking care of him, some fluff, slight suggestive at the end (just a pinch)

I have been sick the whole week so I had aaaaallll the time in the world hehehe

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶

You stayed at the dorm every now and then, never long enough to disrupt schedules but long enough to feel the rhythm of the place settle into your bones. Shoes lined by the door, half-empty water bottles on every surface, music leaking from someone’s room at odd hours. It always felt lived-in, chaotic, warm.

Chan looked the most at home there, even when he looked the most exhausted.

You noticed it on the first night you stayed that week. He sat at the studio desk long after everyone else drifted away, shoulders hunched forward, eyes glued to the screen. The glow painted his face pale blue, shadows clinging under his eyes like they refused to let go. He smiled when he noticed you watching, wide and reassuring, like he always did.

“I was just finishing something,” he said.

He always said that.

You nodded then, because you knew better than to push on the first night. You sat on the couch instead, feet tucked under you, listening to the soft tapping of keys and the distant sound of someone laughing in another room. When Chan finally joined you, hours later, his movements felt heavy, like gravity clung to him harder than it did to anyone else.

You wrapped an arm around his waist, and he leaned into you immediately, head tipping to rest against your shoulder.

“You ate?” you asked.

He hesitated for half a second too long.

“Yeah,” he said. “Earlier.”

You pressed your lips together but said nothing. Not yet.

The next few days unfolded the same way. Chan woke early, earlier than everyone else. He trained, practiced, produced, checked on everyone, answered messages, adjusted schedules that were not even his responsibility. He smiled constantly, laughed easily, reassured everyone who came near him.

He forgot himself in the process.

You watched him like a quiet guardian, eyes following him as you moved through the dorm. You noticed how he rubbed the back of his neck when he was tired, how his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was looking. You noticed how often he drank coffee instead of water, how he skipped meals and called it efficiency.

The others noticed you noticing.

Hyunjin caught your eye one afternoon while Chan sat on the floor with headphones on, scribbling notes in a notebook. Hyunjin raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward Chan, lips twitching with something amused and fond.

“Good luck,” he mouthed.

You smiled thinly.

That evening, you decided to intervene gently. You cooked dinner with the others, insisting Chan sit down and stay put. You placed a plate in front of him and sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched.

“Eat,” you said.

He laughed softly. “You sound like the members.”

“They learned from the best,” you said, glancing around.

Chan ate then, obedient for once, though you caught him trying to stand afterward, hand drifting toward the studio door.

You caught his wrist.

“Rest,” you said.

He paused, then sighed, the sound deep and resigned. He sat back down and leaned into you again, eyes closing for just a moment. You felt his body relax despite himself.

For that night, you won.

The next day, he tried something new.

You woke late, the dorm unusually quiet. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, warm and lazy. Chan was not beside you. The bed was cold.

You found him in the kitchen first, sipping coffee, hair still damp from a shower. He smiled brightly when he saw you.

“Morning,” he said.

“You’re up early,” you said.

“Habit.”

You watched him carefully. He looked relaxed, calm, too calm.

Later, when you sat together on the couch watching something mindless, he stayed still longer than usual. He did not check his phone. He laughed at the right moments. He leaned against you like nothing weighed on him.

It felt wrong.

You excused yourself and wandered the dorm. You checked the studio. The lights were off, the equipment silent. You checked his room. The bed was made neatly, suspiciously so.

You turned back toward the living room, then paused.

A faint hum came from the laundry room.

You opened the door quietly.

Chan sat on the floor with his laptop balanced on an overturned basket, headphones on, fingers flying. His brow furrowed in concentration. Several notebooks lay open around him, pages filled with lyrics and notes.

You crossed your arms.

He looked up and froze.

“Oh...Hi,” he said slowly.

“I thought you were relaxing,” you said.

“I was,” he said. “This was just… an idea.”

You stepped forward and closed the laptop gently but firmly.

He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped when he saw your expression.

“So you're hiding now,” you said. “That’s new.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just didn’t want you to worry.”

“I do now,” you said.

He sighed and leaned back against the machine behind him, eyes closing. “5 Minutes okay? just 5 Minutes.”

“It's always 5 Minutes,” you said softly.

You took the laptop and stood. He did not stop you.

The others appeared one by one, drawn by the tension like moths to light. Changbin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Felix peeked from behind him, eyes wide and sparkling. Han sat on a washer and swung his legs idly.

"Busted,” Han said, grinning.

Chan groaned. “You all knew?”

Changbin shrugged. “We bet on how long it would take.”

You raised an eyebrow at them.

Felix smiled sweetly. “We were on your side tho.”

You left the room with the laptop tucked under your arm. Chan followed quietly, like a scolded cat. You placed the laptop on the highest shelf in the living room, far out of reach.

“You’re resting,” you said. “No arguments.”

He stared at the shelf, then at you. “You’re bossy.”

“So are you,” you said.

The rest of the day passed in enforced calm. You dragged Chan onto the couch, laid his head in your lap, and ran your fingers through his hair until his breathing slowed. He pretended to resist, but his body betrayed him every time.

He slept then, deeply, mouth slightly open, lashes resting against his cheeks. You watched him like this, heart full and aching at the same time.

When he woke, the sun had dipped low. He blinked at you, disoriented, then smiled softly.

“I feel better,” he admitted.

“Who would have thought,” you said.

He behaved for exactly one evening.

The following day, you found evidence everywhere. A notebook tucked behind a cushion. A phone hidden under a pillow, screen glowing with notes. A pen in his pocket during movie night.

You confiscated everything without mercy.

Each time, the others watched with open amusement. Seungmin clapped slowly when you emerged victorious from Chan’s room with a stack of papers.

“You’re terrifying,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said.

Chan sulked dramatically, though his eyes never held real resentment. He hovered near you instead, hands brushing yours, head resting against your shoulder. You knew he appreciated it, even if he hated admitting it.

That night, you sat with him on the balcony, the city stretched out below like a field of stars. The air felt cool, clean. Chan leaned against the railing, gaze distant.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he said quietly.

You looked at him then, really looked. The leader, the producer, the constant. The weight he carried pressed into every line of his posture.

“You don’t have to stop,” you said. “You just have to pause.”

He nodded slowly.

You took his hand and squeezed. “Let me take care of you sometimes.”

He smiled at that, small and real.

“Okay,” he said.

The next morning, he slept in.

The dorm buzzed softly around him, but he did not stir. You lay beside him, tracing lazy patterns on his arm, listening to his steady breathing. When he woke, he did not reach for his phone immediately.

Progress.

Later, he tried to sneak away again, but he barely made it two steps before you cleared your throat.

He turned slowly.

You held up his headphones.

The room erupted in laughter.

Chan laughed too, finally, shoulders shaking as he walked back to you. He wrapped his arms around you and rested his forehead against yours.

“I lose,” he said.

You smiled. “Good.”

The dorm settled into its evening rhythm, lights dimmed, voices lower, the chaos softening into something almost peaceful. You lay on Chan’s bed with your back against the pillows, legs stretched out, phone glowing softly in your hands. You scrolled without really reading, thumb moving out of habit while your ears stayed tuned to the sounds beyond the door.

Laughter drifted down the hallway. Someone argued about snacks. Someone else sang off-key for exactly three seconds before getting shushed.

Chan was not there.

You glanced at the time and frowned. He said he would come to bed soon. Soon had a very flexible definition when it came to him, and you had learned to be suspicious of it.

You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling.

Minutes passed.

You called out, voice raised just enough. “Channie?”

No answer.

You waited, counted to ten in your head, then groaned loudly and flopped back against the mattress.

“If you are working,” you shouted, “I swear I will beat your ass.”

Silence answered you, which somehow felt worse.

You kicked the blanket aside and stood, muttering to yourself as you padded toward the door. You grabbed the handle, already prepared to lecture him into exhaustion.

Just as you stepped into the doorway, you nearly collided with him.

Chan stood there, eyes bright, hair slightly messy, holding a glass in his hand. Ice clinked softly inside it. Something citrusy and sharp drifted into the air. He wore the most smug grin you had ever seen on his face.

You blinked.

He lifted the glass slightly in greeting. “Evening M'Lady.”

You stared at him, then at the drink, then back at his face. “What are you doing?”

“Going to bed,” he said easily.

You narrowed your eyes. “With a cocktail?”

“Yes.”

“You hate cocktails.”

“I do,” he agreed.

Suspicion crept in slowly, then curiosity followed right behind it. “Then why?”

He stepped closer, careful, deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Because,” he said, voice low and warm, “it’s my turn to take care of you now.”

Your lips twitched. “Is that so?”

He nodded. “Very much so.”

You hesitated only for show before taking the glass from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and his smile softened just a little. You brought the drink to your lips and took a sip.

It was good. Surprisingly good. Cool and balanced, sweet without being overwhelming.

You hummed approvingly. “Okay,” you said. “That’s actually really good.”

His smile widened, pride shining in his eyes. “I practiced.”

“You practiced making a cocktail.”

“For you.”

Your heart did something inconvenient.

You handed the glass back to him and reached for his wrist instead. “Alright,” you said. “Explain yourself before I start assuming things.”

He chuckled softly and let you guide him backward into the room. Once inside, he set the glass safely on the nightstand before turning to you fully. He slipped his hands around your waist, thumbs resting lightly at your sides.

“I saw you watching me all week,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You noticed?”

“I always notice you,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You made sure I ate. You made sure I slept. You took my stuff away like a menace.”

“Someone had to,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “And I love you for it.”

Your teasing smile faltered, just slightly.

He stepped closer, foreheads nearly touching. “I wanted to do something nice for you. No work. No sneaking. Just us.”

You searched his face for any hint of deception. You found none.

“You’re really not working,” you said.

He shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

You nodded slowly, then grinned. “Okay. I accept your care.”

He laughed, relief pouring into the sound, and reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours as he led you back toward the bed. He guided you down gently, like you were something precious, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

You sat facing him, knees touching, the room quiet except for your breathing. The city lights filtered in through the window, painting his features in soft gold and shadow.

He leaned in first.

The kiss started slow, unhurried. His lips brushed yours like a question, and you answered by leaning closer, hand sliding up to rest at the back of his neck. He sighed softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against you.

He kissed you like he meant it, like he always did. No rush. No distraction. Just warmth and intention.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

You smiled into the kiss. “I know.”

He laughed quietly and kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand slid to your waist, steady and grounding. You tilted your head, letting him take the lead, letting yourself sink into the familiar comfort of him.

“I don’t say it enough,” he murmured between kisses. “How much I need you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “You don’t have to need me,” you said gently.

“I know,” he said. “But I do.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed. “I would be so lost without you.”

Your chest tightened. You cupped his face and brushed your thumbs under his eyes, right where the shadows always lingered.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” you said. “Not when I’m here.”

He nodded, swallowing, then kissed you again like he was sealing a promise.

The kiss grew warmer, more insistent. You shifted closer, legs tangling with his as you pulled him toward you. He followed easily, hands roaming, respectful but hungry, like he had been holding back all day.

He smiled against your mouth. “You look happy.”

“I am,” you said honestly.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then just beneath your ear. His voice dropped, playful and intimate. “Good. Because the only work I’m doing tonight is on you.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Chan.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough,” you said, pulling him closer.

His laugh turned into a soft groan as he kissed you again, the sound warm and unguarded. The make out grew heated, kisses deepening, hands more confident. The world outside the room faded into nothing.

Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, “Lock the door,” followed by laughter.

Chan froze for half a second, then groaned dramatically and buried his face in your shoulder. “I hate them.”

You laughed and kissed his temple. “You love them.”

“I do,” he said. “But right now, I love you more.”

He leaned back down, kissing you again, slower this time, savoring it. No rushing. No schedules. Just the quiet promise of the night stretching ahead.

You wrapped your arms around him and smiled into the kiss, content, warm, exactly where you wanted to be.

[tytarax]

Can I request Yandere Bonten with an S/O with a pet dog?

They kidnap them and the first thing that comes to reader's mind is their dog would get hungry with no one to feed it! Which of the bonten would take reader's dog to make them happy? Which would not?

That would be me, fr

When Bonten kidnaps you, your first panic isn’t yourself, it’s your dog.

You’re frantic, asking over and over if someone fed them, if they’re alone, if they’re scared.

That reaction alone tells Bonten everything: This dog matters. A lot.

🐾 Who WOULD take your dog (and why)

Ran Haitani

100% takes your dog.

Pretends it’s “no big deal,” but the second you calm down because of it? Worth it.

He shows up with the dog like: “Relax, babe. I grabbed your mutt. You were gonna cry yourself sick.”

Lets the dog sit on the bed with you, even though he complains.

Lowkey gets jealous when the dog receives cuddles instead of him.

Threatens the dog verbally but would never hurt it.

If the dog likes him? Ran acts smug about it for days.

Rindou Haitani

Comes with Ran, but he’s the one actually holding the dog properly.

Googled:

what dogs eat

how often they need to go out

what it means when they whine

Soft-spoken with the dog, completely different tone than with you.

If the dog sleeps next to you, he pulls a chair closer and keeps watch.

Thinks: “If this keeps them calm, then it stays.”

Kakucho

Immediately concerned when you mention your dog.

Would never leave an innocent animal to suffer.

Goes himself to retrieve the dog.

Brings its food, leash, toys, everything.

Tells you plainly: “Your dog is safe. I won’t allow harm to things you love.”

Respects the dog like it’s your family.

The dog trusts him almost instantly.

Mochi

Complains, but still does it.

Acts like the dog is a hassle, yet:

feeds it on time

makes sure it gets water

takes it outside

If the dog follows him around, he grumbles: “Tch. Don’t get attached.”

Lies. He’s attached.

Sanzu

Initial reaction: absolutely no.

Sanzu sees the dog as:

competition for your attention

an unpredictable variable

something that can bite him (unacceptable)

He laughs when you bring it up: “You’re kidnapped and you’re worried about a dog? You’re insane.”

But then

You panic.

You cry.

You beg.

And instead of annoying him… it hooks him.

He realizes the dog has leverage over you.

And Sanzu loves leverage.

So yes, he brings the dog.

🚫 Who would NOT (at first)

Takeomi

Doesn’t see the point initially.

Thinks: “They’ll get over it.”

Changes his tune the moment you:

stop eating

start crying

grow distant

Eventually orders someone else to get the dog, not because of sympathy, but because: “You’re no use to us like this.”

Still keeps distance from the dog himself.

Mikey

This one’s complicated.

At first? No.

He doesn’t understand attachment in a normal way.

Thinks he should be enough.

But when you curl up, whispering your dog’s name in your sleep?

Something twists.

He quietly sends Ran or Kakucho to get the dog.

When it arrives, he watches closely.

If the dog growls at him?

Mikey smiles.

Not offended, interested.

If the dog likes him?

Dangerous.

Mikey decides you were always meant to stay.

Kokonoi Hajime

At first, he absolutely would not take your dog.

His mindset is purely transactional: “We already have them. The dog is irrelevant.”

Sees retrieving the dog as:

unnecessary risk

wasted manpower

added expenses (food, vet care, space)

If you bring it up, he brushes it off coldly.

He assumes you’ll eventually prioritize survival, and him, over an animal.

Masterpost

TR Masterlist

@luckyangelballoon

[aventurineswife]

Heyy it’s been a while! I hope you doing my well 🩵

I was wondering if you could do a memokeeper reader with Dan heng when sleeping and reader is protecting him from bad dreams like bad memories from past and reader uses their powers to make sure he has good dreams 🩵🩵🩵

- Starry Anon✨( can I be called that btw 😅)

“In the Garden of Your Dreams”

Summary: As a Memokeeper of the Garden of Recollection, you have the power to sense, shape, and protect memories. Dan Heng, burdened by the weight of his past and the nightmares that follow him, rarely allows anyone close—yet he lets you rest at his side. When one of his old memories turns into a nightmare, you slip into his dream and gently rewrite the fear into peace. Wrapped in a starlit dreamscape made from fragments of his forgotten childhood, you guard him from the shadows of his past, ensuring he sleeps safely for once. Through the quiet intimacy of shared memories, Dan Heng begins to realize how deeply he trusts you… and how much he wants you to stay.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Romance, Dream Protection, Gentle Intimacy, Emotional Vulnerability, Angst with a Happy Ending, Protective Reader, Dan Heng being soft.

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma, Nightmares/Anxiety, Implied Past Violence (Non-graphic), Emotional Angst, Soft Physical Affection (hand-holding, leaning, etc.).

A/N: Sure, you can be called that! :DD

For someone who no longer had a physical heart, you learned long ago that the universe still found ways to make you feel something inside your chest.

Tonight, that feeling steadied itself to another rhythm.

Dan Heng lay beside you in the dim cabin of the Astral Express. The faint glow of passing stars slipped through the window and brushed over his peaceful, though tense, features. His spear leaned against the wall, his coat folded neatly on the chair. Everything was arranged with the careful precision he applied to all things. Yet despite the quiet room, his body remained rigid, his breath shallow, and his brow slightly furrowed.

A dream was pulling at him. A memory was clawing its way up from the depths he buried them in.

You sensed it before he even stirred.

You always did.

Being a Memokeeper meant feeling the shape of memory like others felt temperature or touch. Dan Heng's memories were sharp-edged things, shaped by guilt and loneliness, softened only in the rare moments he allowed others close. He never asked you to intervene. He never even asked for comfort. He merely tolerated it—quiet, grateful, but hesitant.

But he allowed you to be beside him.

And to a being like you, who had no flesh yet shaped one only to be near him, that meant more than any spoken confession.

A faint tremor moved through his breathing. His fingers curled against the sheets.

You reached out and placed your hand lightly over his.

Immediately, the dream shifted. You saw a flicker—not as an illusion or imagination, but as the raw imprint of memory trying to become something more permanent. A shadowy figure chased him across a fractured sky. The echo of hatred rang in a voice he knew all too well. The sting of failure and guilt hollowed him from the inside out. Old blood. Old pain.

Dan Heng's breath hitched.

You whispered softly, your voice a breeze between worlds.

“Easy, Dan Heng. I'm here.”

His fingers tightened around yours unconsciously.

That alone was enough permission.

Closing your eyes, you let your consciousness slip—not away from your form, but through it. Memokeepers were not tied to flesh, and though you wore this mortal shape for his sake, your true nature shimmered beneath it like water under moonlight. With a thought, with a breath, you followed the thread of his memory inward.

And the world around you changed.

The cabin dissolved into a storm of broken recollection: a desert sky in one direction, a collapsing palace in another, the roar of an unknown beast, the taste of regret hanging in the air. Memories never presented themselves cleanly; they were mosaics, fragments drifting like dust in the cosmic wind.

And in the middle of it all—Dan Heng, alone.

He stood there unaware of your presence, shoulders stiff as if bracing against a blow. The figure before him—blurry and faceless—lunged.

You stepped between them.

Your presence, shaped from Remembrance itself, shimmered like luminous thread.

The figure split apart, dissolving into dust.

Dan Heng froze, confused. His dream state didn’t register you as you truly were; he only saw you as he always saw you—grounding, gentle, quietly luminous in a way you never explained.

“…[Name]?” he breathed, his voice echoing as if he stood in a cave.

“It’s only a dream,” you murmured, letting the false ground soften beneath your feet until it became something gentler—an endless meadow, quiet and pale with starlight. “Not a memory. Not tonight.”

He looked around, tension slowly leaving his posture as the chaos dissipated. “You… changed it.”

“Only a little.” You smiled faintly. “You were hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be.”

He paused—not rejecting, not accepting, only trying to understand. That was Dan Heng, always thoughtful to a fault. Always trying to bear his storms alone.

You stepped closer, the dream adjusting automatically to make space for you as if even the realm of memory knew your place beside him.

“This place…” he murmured, looking around. “It feels peaceful.”

“I made it from one of your childhood memories,” you said softly. “One you don’t look at anymore.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You saw that?”

“I only borrowed it.” You brushed your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’m not here to take. Only to protect.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you. His expression softened—just barely, but enough to reveal the vulnerable earnestness beneath his cool exterior.

“…Thank you.”

The words were quiet but real and heavy with sincerity.

“I’ll make sure you stay here,” you said, lifting your hand to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “At least until morning.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch—a rare surrender, one he would never allow while awake.

“You don’t need to use your power for my sake,” he murmured.

“But I want to.” You smiled. “Memories define existence, Dan Heng. It’s the one truth my people believe above all else. I just… want yours to hold more than fear.”

He opened his eyes again. They were clearer now, starlight reflecting in them as if your presence calmed the storm inside him.

“You already do,” he said quietly.

Your nonhuman heart swelled.

“Then rest,” you whispered. “Let me guard you tonight.”

The dreamscape shimmered gently around the two of you. You guided him to sit in the grass. The soft wind, created from a half-forgotten moment of peace, combed through his hair. When you settled beside him, he leaned against your shoulder without hesitation.

“[Name],” he said after a moment, his voice low. “Do Memokeepers ever get tired?”

“Tired of what?”

“Carrying the memories of others.”

You considered it. “We don’t experience them the same way you do,” you said. “They don’t become burdens. They become stories.”

“Even painful ones?”

“Especially the painful ones.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“…I don’t want you to see mine.”

You smiled gently. “And yet I already have.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.” You took his hand. “Because they mean you existed. And that you survived.”

His fingers curled around yours once more—but deliberately this time, not from fear.

“You speak like someone who’s seen lifetimes,” he said.

“I have,” you admitted. “But even after all of them, you’re still…” You hesitated. Still what?

Still someone I choose. Still someone I want to protect. Still someone whose memories I want to keep safe.

“…someone worth remembering,” you finished softly.

His breath hitched—a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but you caught it easily.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

You laughed quietly. “Good.”

The dream around you grew even calmer, the meadow extending endlessly beneath a gentle star-filled sky. The shadows that once lurked at the edges were gone, dissolved by your presence. He rested his forehead lightly against your shoulder, his breath evening out.

“Stay,” he whispered, the word barely audible.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

You wrapped your arm around him, guiding the dream into a serene blur—soft light, warm breeze, the faint scent of flowers he once liked as a child. You shaped the dream into safety and warmth, into something he deserved but never allowed himself.

His posture finally relaxed completely.

His heartbeat steadied.

And for the rest of the night, you kept watch over his memories—not altering the truths of his past, not erasing the weight he carried, but simply guarding him from the nightmares that tried to take root.

You were a Memokeeper.

And for him, you would be a keeper of peace.

When morning arrived, Dan Heng woke slowly, his hand still loosely tangled with yours. He blinked once, twice—the softness in his eyes matched the calm you had woven for him.

“…I slept well,” he murmured, almost surprised.

“I’m glad.”

He hesitated before adding softly:

“Stay with me again tonight?”

And you smiled, feeling that phantom heartbeat pulse warmly once more.

“Always.”

[buttermellow-niffler]

Under the Armour

Summary: It starts with a dagger left in the sand. It ends with Clarisse La Rue looking at you like she doesn’t know whether to threaten you…or trust you.

Pairing: Clarisse La Rue x Reader

Warnings: Brief intimidation, Mentions of bruises and fighting (non-graphic), Emotional vulnerability, Themes of loneliness, Fear of humiliation/exposure

This is a work of fanfiction based on Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.

Part 2

{----------------------------------------------------------------------------}

The first time you see Clarisse La Rue lose something, you’re not even sure it counts as “losing.”

It’s just… there. Sitting in the sand near the edge of the arena like it got tired of being sharp and decided to take a break.

A dagger.

Not any dagger, either. Bronze blade, leather-wrapped grip, nicked once near the hilt like it’s been kissed by too many swords. It looks used the way Clarisse looks used—like both of them have been through fights and came out hungrier.

You crouch and pick it up carefully.

The moment your fingers wrap around the handle, you know who it belongs to. There’s a certain vibe to it. Like it’s judging you for holding it wrong. Like it wants to be thrown, not carried.

Like it’s hers.

You glance around the training arena. A couple campers are still sparring in the distance, laughing as they slam shields together. No one’s looking your way. No one’s shouting, “Hey! That’s Clarisse’s!”

Which is… telling.

Most people don’t touch Clarisse’s things. Most people don’t even look at Clarisse’s things for too long.

You turn the dagger over in your hand and consider your options.

Option one: leave it where it is and pretend you never saw it.

Option two: return it and risk Clarisse deciding you stole it and wanting to practice disembowelment on your ribs.

Your brain says option one.

Something in your chest—something stupidly loyal and annoyingly brave—says option two.

So you do the safest version of option two you can think of.

You walk up to the Ares cabin, the one that always looks like it was built to intimidate anyone with functioning fear instincts, and you drop the dagger on the front step like you’re leaving an offering for an angry god.

You don’t knock.

You definitely don’t go inside.

You just set it down, back away, and tell yourself, There. Done. Good deed complete. Survive the day.

{-------------}

The next day, you pass the Ares cabin again.

And the dagger is still there.

At first you think maybe it’s a different dagger. Because surely Clarisse wouldn’t just—leave it.

But no. Same nick near the hilt. Same leather wrap. Same “touch me and I’ll bite you” energy.

It’s sitting exactly where you left it, like the cabin rejected it.

Or like no one dared pick it up.

You stop walking.

Your feet hesitate like they’re trying to remember how fear works. You can almost hear campers in your head:

Don’t. Are you insane? That’s Clarisse’s cabin. She’ll kill you.

And yet… the dagger is still there. Which means Clarisse either didn’t see it, didn’t care, or—more likely—something’s going on.

You sigh, grab the dagger, and go up the steps.

The door is heavy. It groans when you push it open, like it’s warning you this is a mistake. The inside smells like sweat and metal and anger—like the air itself learned how to throw punches.

You step in cautiously.

A couple Ares kids glance at you from across the room and immediately look away like eye contact might start a war. No one stops you. No one says hi.

You keep your head down and head toward the rows of bunks.

Clarisse’s bed is easy to spot. Not because it’s neat—because it isn’t. Not because it’s messy, either. It’s… claimed. Like the space around it knows who it belongs to.

There’s a dent in the pillow, a few scraps of torn fabric near the foot of the bed, and a faint scratch mark on the bedframe like a weapon has been dragged across it more than once.

You approach with the dagger held carefully in both hands.

Your goal is simple: place dagger on bed. Leave. Breathe again.

You step closer— and your foot catches on something.

It’s not enough to fully fall. Just enough to make you stumble and jerk forward.

“Sh—”

You catch yourself on the bedframe, heart slamming into your ribs like it’s trying to escape. You glance down, annoyed and embarrassed.

That’s when you see it.

A flash of red.

Something soft and worn—half-hidden under the bed, like it tried to crawl away.

A sleeve.

A hoodie sleeve.

It’s sticking out from under Clarisse’s bed like a secret that got sloppy.

You freeze.

Because it’s not just any hoodie.

It’s red, faded from a hundred washes. The cuffs are stretched. There’s a tiny tear near the wrist seam. It looks ancient in a way that doesn’t match Clarisse’s usual style of “military-grade intimidation.”

This hoodie doesn’t look like a weapon.

It looks like comfort.

And for some reason, the thought of Clarisse having comfort makes your chest do something weird.

You should leave it alone. You should pretend you didn’t see it. You should complete your mission: dagger on bed, escape.

But your foot is still pressed against the sleeve, and now it’s halfway out on the floor, exposed like you dragged it into the light.

If someone else walks in, sees it, laughs—

Your stomach tightens.

You crouch slowly and hook your fingers under the fabric.

It’s softer than you expect. Worn down to that perfect lived-in softness. Like it’s been held onto in storms.

You pull it out carefully, trying not to make it obvious you touched it, and you fold it once. Neatly. Like you’re handling something fragile.

You stand, hoodie in one hand, dagger in the other, and turn toward Clarisse’s bed.

You’re halfway through setting them down when the cabin door bangs open.

Hard.

Footsteps slam against the floorboards like someone’s making a point.

And you don’t have to look up to know exactly who it is.

Clarisse’s voice slices through the air. “Which one of you idiots—”

She stops.

You look up.

Clarisse La Rue stands in the doorway, broad-shouldered and sunburnt and furious in the way she always is. Her hair is tied back like she’s preparing for battle. There’s dirt on her knuckles. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw like someone tried to argue with her fists and lost.

Her gaze lands on you.

Then the dagger.

Then the hoodie in your hands.

Her expression changes so fast you almost miss it. Anger, suspicion, and then—

Something sharp. Something panicked.

She moves in three quick strides, closing the distance like a threat.

“What,” she says, low and dangerous, “are you doing.”

The Ares kids across the room go dead quiet.

Your mouth goes dry.

You lift the dagger slightly, like it’s evidence. “I—uh. I found this at training yesterday. It was outside your cabin, so I dropped it off. It was still there today, so I figured…” You swallow. “I figured I should bring it in.”

Clarisse’s eyes flick to the dagger.

Then back to the hoodie.

Her jaw clenches.

“And that?” she snaps.

You glance down at the red hoodie like it might suddenly become a snake. “I tripped,” you say quickly. “It was on the floor. Under your bed. The sleeve was sticking out. I was just—” You lift it a little, showing the neat fold. “I was just folding it so it wouldn’t get stepped on.”

Clarisse stares at you like she’s deciding whether you’re lying.

The air is thick. Heavy. The entire cabin feels like it’s holding its breath.

Finally, her voice drops. “People don’t touch my stuff.”

“I know,” you say, immediately. Then, because you’re apparently determined to die today, you add, “That’s kind of why I’m doing it.”

Her eyes narrow. “Explain.”

You take a breath. You can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

“I’m not here to mess with you,” you say. “Or laugh at you. Or whatever everyone else assumes happens when someone finds out you’re… you know. Human.”

Clarisse’s nostrils flare. “I’m not—”

“Everyone’s human,” you say gently. “Even you.”

Silence.

The kind that feels like standing near a cliff edge.

Clarisse’s gaze drags over your face like she’s trying to find the punchline. Like she expects you to smirk. Like she expects you to be scared.

You don’t smirk.

You don’t back up.

You just stand there, holding her dagger and her hoodie like you’re in charge of guarding them with your life.

Something in Clarisse’s expression tightens.

Not anger.

Not exactly.

More like… she doesn’t know what to do with you.

You carefully set the dagger down on her bed. Then you set the hoodie beside it, folded.

You keep your hands visible when you step back. Non-threatening. Respectful.

“There,” you say. “That’s all. I’ll go.”

Clarisse doesn’t move.

Her eyes are locked on the hoodie like it’s a live wire.

Then she looks at you again, and her voice is rougher when she says, “Why aren’t you scared of me?”

The question hits you harder than any insult could’ve.

You blink. “Should I be?”

Clarisse’s mouth twists like she’s offended by the idea you wouldn’t be. “People are.”

“I noticed,” you say.

She scoffs, but it comes out weak. “Smart people are.”

You shrug a little. “Then I guess I’m not smart.”

That earns you the tiniest flicker—almost a smile, gone as fast as it appears.

Clarisse steps closer. Not in the way she does when she’s about to hit someone.

In the way she does when she’s trying to see something up close.

Up close, her eyes are darker than you expect. Not just angry-dark. Thoughtful-dark. Like there’s a whole storm in there that she keeps on a leash.

Her voice drops. “You’re gonna tell anyone you saw it?”

“No,” you say instantly.

Clarisse watches you.

You add, quieter, “It’s not my secret to share.”

Something in her face shifts again. It’s small, but you catch it: the briefest exhale, like she didn’t realize she was holding her breath.

“Good,” she mutters, like it’s a warning. Like she’s still Clarisse La Rue and she still bites.

Then she reaches out and snatches the hoodie off the bed.

She holds it for a second, fingers digging into the fabric, and you see it—just a flash—how much it matters to her.

And that’s when it clicks.

This hoodie isn’t just “soft.”

It’s history.

It’s little-kid Clarisse, too stubborn to cry.

It’s Clarisse with scraped knees and a bruised ego, clinging to something warm because the world wasn’t.

It’s Clarisse, alone, pretending she isn’t.

She tugs it closer to her chest, then immediately realizes you’re looking and stiffens like she caught herself being weak.

Her chin lifts. “It’s old.”

“I can see that,” you say, keeping your tone neutral.

“It’s not—” She stops. Her throat bobs like she swallowed something sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

Clarisse’s eyes flick up again. “You’re not going to say something stupid.”

“Nope.”

“Like ‘that’s cute.’”

You bite your tongue.

Clarisse’s stare sharpens. “Were you going to?”

You hold up a hand in surrender. “I was going to say… it looks like it’s been through a lot.”

Her eyes narrow, suspicious, but she doesn’t snap at you.

You push a little, carefully. “Like you.”

Clarisse’s grip tightens on the hoodie.

“You don’t know me,” she says.

“I know you’re fierce,” you reply. “And everyone acts like that’s all you are.”

Her gaze flickers. “It is all I am.”

You tilt your head. “Is it?”

Clarisse looks like she wants to argue. Like she wants to pick a fight because fights are easy and feelings are… not.

Her shoulders tense. “People don’t respect you unless you make them.”

“I respect you,” you say.

Clarisse’s eyes flash. “Because you’re scared.”

“No,” you say, voice steady. “Because you’re cool.”

That lands.

It lands so hard you watch her stumble internally, like you shoved her with words instead of fists.

Clarisse blinks. “Cool,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word and deciding it’s ridiculous.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “You lead like you mean it. You fight like you mean it. You don’t pretend.”

Clarisse’s gaze drags over you again, slower this time. Less like a threat assessment. More like… she’s actually seeing you.

Then she scoffs. “You’re weird.”

You grin. “I’ve been told.”

A pause.

The cabin is still too quiet. The other Ares kids are pretending they’re not listening, but you can feel their attention like heat on your skin.

Clarisse shifts, and her voice drops lower. “You should leave.”

You nod. “Okay.”

But you don’t move right away.

Clarisse’s brow furrows. “What.”

You glance at the hoodie in her arms. “Just… don’t leave your dagger outside again. Someone could take it.”

Clarisse snorts. “No one’s stupid enough.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I was stupid enough to pick it up.”

That earns another flicker—this time, the smile almost stays.

Almost.

Clarisse clears her throat, like the sound annoys her. “If you find my stuff again… just—” Her jaw tightens. “Just bring it in.”

You blink. “Really?”

She glares. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

You raise both hands again, surrendering. “Not making a thing.”

Clarisse shifts the hoodie, and for a second, it slips—just enough that you see the inside tag.

It has a name on it, faded and messy, like it was written by a kid:

Clarisse.

Something in your chest squeezes.

Clarisse notices where you’re looking and yanks the hoodie closer again, defensive.

You keep your voice light. “Red suits you.”

Clarisse pauses.

Then she mutters, “Yeah. Whatever.”

But her ears go slightly pink.

It’s so subtle you almost miss it.

Almost.

You take a careful step back. “I’ll go.”

Clarisse watches you as you turn away.

You’re halfway to the door when she calls out, rough, “Hey.”

You stop.

You look back.

Clarisse stands there, hoodie clenched in one hand like a lifeline and her other hand flexing like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Her eyes lock on yours.

“Thanks,” she says, like it’s an insult.

Your chest warms anyway.

You grin, softer this time. “Anytime.”

Clarisse looks like she hates that answer.

And also like she doesn’t.

As you step out into the sunlight, you can still feel her stare on your back—heavy and confusing and intense.

Like she’s not sure what to do with someone who doesn’t flinch.

Like she’s not sure what to do with someone who saw something soft beneath the armor…

…and chose to protect it.

And for the first time since you arrived at camp, you think:

Yeah. This is going to be a problem.

Because you’re pretty sure Clarisse La Rue is already becoming one of your favorite problems.

And judging by the way she didn’t tell you to get lost…

You might be becoming hers, too.

[heldbybarnes]

Literally love your fics. Your fics are my fix. I check everyday to see if you posted bro. Hugs and kisses and money on the sidewalk to you.

Anyway, I was wondering if you’d write a sort of role reversal type oneshot? I see Bucky losing his shit when reader is kidnapped, but what about the other way around?

I’d love to see a very strong and level headed reader completely crash out at Bucky being held hostage by some evil organization, and completely disregarding all safeguards and just mowing down anyone who gets in her way. Maybe Bucky swooning a little.

I need him to be my damsel.

They take him on a Tuesday.

It’s supposed to be routine—recon, extraction, home by dinner. Bucky kisses your temple in the quinjet doorway, metal fingers warm at your jaw, and says, “Don’t wait up, doll.”

You don’t.

Because by hour six, something is wrong.

By hour ten, the comms are dead.

By hour twelve, Fury is in your ear using words like containment and protocol and wait for clearance, and something inside your chest goes dangerously, violently quiet.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t argue.

You smile.

And that’s when everyone should’ve started running.

---

The facility is off the books, concrete and steel buried like a tumor beneath a dead industrial park. You don’t request backup. You don’t submit a plan. You land hard, roll once, and come up firing before the dust even settles.

Guards drop like punctuation marks—brief, final.

By the time anyone realizes who you are, you’re already inside.

Doors? You blow through them. Safeguards? You override them. Orders? You ignore them.

Your arm band flashes warnings you don’t read. Someone yells your name in your comms—Steve, maybe—but the only thing you hear is the memory of Bucky’s laugh when you steal his fries, the weight of his arm slung over your shoulders at night, the way he goes soft only with you.

---

They put him in a chair.

Restrained. Bruised. Blood at his hairline, lip split, eyes sharp but tired.

Still alive.

Still yours.

The first man between you and him reaches for a weapon.

He never finishes the motion.

You move like a force of nature. The kind of precision that comes from loving something so deeply it rewires your spine. The room fills with the sound of bodies hitting the floor, and through it all, Bucky watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You tear the restraints apart with your bare hands.

“Hey,” you say softly, cradling his face like he’s made of glass instead of vibranium and rage. “I’ve got you.”

His breath stutters.

“You weren’t supposed to—” he starts, voice rough, guilt already trying to surface.

You press your forehead to his. “Shh. I don’t care.”

You scoop him up—bridal style, no hesitation. His metal arm curls instinctively around your neck, his face tucking into your shoulder like it’s muscle memory.

Someone down the hall screams for reinforcements.

You smile again.

The extraction is less an exit and more a massacre. You don’t slow down for alarms. You don’t flinch at explosions. You walk through fire with Bucky held tight against your chest, shielding him with your body like the world itself has made a terrible mistake by touching what’s yours.

On the quinjet, the moment the doors seal, the adrenaline drains.

Bucky cups your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes. “You’re shaking.”

You shrug. “Crash came a little late.”

He laughs—soft, stunned, a little breathless. Then he leans in and kisses you like he’s still making sure you’re real. Like he needs to ground himself in you.

“I always thought,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours, “if anyone ever took me… it’d be Steve losing his mind.”

You arch a brow. “Please. He’d file paperwork.”

Bucky snorts, then grows serious. “You didn’t hesitate.”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t wait.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You broke every rule.”

You grin. “Happily.”

Something warm and dizzy spreads across his face—pride, awe, something dangerously close to swooning. “Remind me never to be on your bad side.”

You kiss his knuckles. “You’re not.”

He exhales, melting into you, head dropping to your shoulder again. “Guess I was the damsel this time.”

You tighten your hold, smirking. “And you looked real pretty doing it.”

His laugh is quiet, wrecked, and completely in love.

And anyone who ever tries to take him again?

Won’t live long enough to regret it.

[littleoceanfairy]

Protocol: Protecting Connor

Connor x Reader Fandom: Detroit: Become Human Words: 627

*Trigger Warnings* mild violence (Hank’s yelling, not actual harm), workplace tension, android discrimination, light flirting

You didn’t ask for an android partner — but you didn’t mind one either.

Working under Lieutenant Hank Anderson meant you were already used to unpredictable moods, overflowing files, and a partner who claimed to hate androids almost as much as early mornings. So when Captain Fowler informed you that *you* would also be assisting the new RK800 prototype, you didn’t argue.

Hank did enough arguing for the both of you.

“I don’t need a damn machine watching over me,” Hank muttered as Connor followed the two of you across the bullpen, walking with that immaculate posture that somehow made people even angrier.

You glanced back at Connor.

He offered a polite, hopeful smile.

Poor guy.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor began, “I simply wish to—”

“Nope. Don’t wanna hear it.”

You stepped in before Hank could escalate.

“Hey, c’mon, Hank. He’s not doing anything wrong.”

Connor’s LED flickered in mild confusion.

Hank scowled at you like you’d chosen violence.

You were halfway through processing a crime scene when Connor crouched beside you, his eyes glowing faintly as he scanned evidence. Hank hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, broadcasting disapproval like a nuclear signal.

Connor leaned slightly closer, tone gentle.

“Detective, I believe I’ve identified—”

“Connor,” Hank barked, “if you say the word ‘analysis’ one more time—”

“Hank!” you cut in, exasperated. “He’s trying to help.”

Connor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.

You could swear you heard a soft chime — relief?

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t know androids could sound almost… shy.

It quickly became a daily routine.

Connor offers help.

Hank threatens to break something.

You swoop in like Connor’s unofficial bodyguard.

When Connor tried handing Hank his coffee?

“I don’t need caffeine delivered by a glorified Roomba.”

You snatched the cup before Connor’s LED could flash to yellow.

“Hank! Drink your coffee and be nice.”

Connor looked at you with something suspiciously close to *gratitude-coded admiration*.

When Connor reported an observation mid-case?

“I swear to God, plastic boy—”

“Hank!” you snapped again.

“Stop verbally assaulting Connor.”

“I’m not assaulting him,” Hank said.

“I’m verbally educating him.”

“You’re traumatizing him!”

Connor blinked slowly.

“I am… not traumatized.”

“Don’t lie for him, Connor.”

Connor had no idea whose side he was supposed to be on.

Androids weren’t meant to stare — but Connor did.

Not in a creepy way.

In a processing something unfamiliar, intriguing, possibly mission-critical way.

Whenever you defended him, he straightened.

Whenever you smiled at him, his thirium pump kicked up a fraction.

Whenever you touched his arm while pulling Hank away from throwing hands… well, he almost blue-screened.

One afternoon, Hank stormed off after yelling something about androids ruining society.

Connor looked at you, LED spinning.

“Detective… Why do you defend me?”

You shrugged.

“Because you’re trying. And because you don’t deserve to be yelled at every thirty seconds.”

He tilted his head.

“I find your empathy… statistically rare.”

A beat.

Then:

“I like it.”

Your heart skipped.

He noticed.

His LED flickered for half a second before returning to blue.

You pretended not to see.

He pretended not to malfunction.

The next time Hank tried to “educate” Connor, you stepped between them again.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said from behind you, “I believe Detective Y/L/N is preventing further physical altercations.”

“Damn right I am,” you muttered.

Hank threw his hands up.

“You know what? Fine. You two can babysit each other. I’m going to get lunch.”

He stomped off, leaving you and Connor standing close — too close — in the empty hallway.

Connor looked at you with something warmer than anything you’d ever expect from an android.

“Thank you… for protecting me.”

You smiled.

“Anytime.”

His LED glowed a soft, steady blue.

But his eyes — they were doing something entirely human.

[severussnapemylove]

(Looking at a list of Order members names)

Y/N; “Wait, for real? (looks at Sirius) Sirius Orion Black? Your initials are S.O.B? So you’re a son of a bitch by name and by nature.”

Severus; (chokes on his drink)