Kitty

Aka aspects of dating Connor, involving his android traits etc

SFW+NSFW

(x human reader)

You never get lost when you're out and about with him because he keeps a digital map open in his UI because he knows you're terrible with directions. He's learned better than to trust you with navigation at this point.

Has little scars all over his body from injuries he sustained in the week before the android uprising. He chose not to get them repaired by a technician after he gained autonomy. They probably have a blue tinge like human scars have a pinkish hue.

He can't necessarily feel it but the muscles in his hand would twitch when you run your finger along the scar on his palm.

Connor seems like a dream for someone like me who has a chronic illness. Since his brain is wired to remember, whether it be schedules or appointments or medications. He'd help you manage them all when you have trouble recalling things yourself. Best believe he's not letting you forget dosages of medication or miss a consultation 😤

I don't think he's irrationally jealous of seeing you with other people but I personally think he does get a little bit possessive. Gets sassy to other people who get very close to you, or those who might try to interject conversations between the two of you.

I think we see this at the (good) end of the game, but Connor never removes his LED like most deviants. It's quite handy for understanding how he feels without even needing to ask. It sometimes frustrates him because it means he can't mask certain visceral emotional reactions, like jealousy, even if he could theoretically by disabling his facial module.

If I had to give him a negative trait I think he'd be invested in what's best for you to a fault. Maybe a remnant of his machine self means he prioritizes what is objectively optimal for you, eg your health and safety. He'd probably try his best to deter you from self deprecating activities like smoking and drinking and encourage you to quit, like he does with Hank in-game. He might have a bad habit of trying to coax you into always making the theoretically healthiest decisions.

I think Connor would understand the nuance of choosing to make different choices but still feels compelled to encourage you to do otherwise.

Very committed to understand all of the new emotions he is capable of registering now he's a deviant. He is delighted to explore romantic feelings with you,

Keeps a mental catalogue of all of his favourite things about you, and precious memories he wishes to preserve in a special folder in his neural banks. He keeps them for all of his closest companions and sifts through them when he's feeling under the weather. In the file he also has every little quirk of your face memorized to a tee. He can tell exactly what way your brows furrow when you're troubled or how you might bite your lip when you're trying to pretend you aren't irate.

I already wrote about this but I like to think he uses Amanda's garden as his own now and his loved ones sometimes 'visit' him there, people like you and Hank often appear amidst the foliage. The flora and environments change depending on his emotions, just like in-game. But even more drastically now. He might even do gardening in it!

To add on to Connor gardening, he can probably identify any shrub or flower he might come across. Since he's an android his knowledge on all things practical is encyclopedic and he uses it to his advantage when adapting to new occupations and hobbies.

Whenever the two of you make little, fleeting bits of physical contact, his synthetic skin fades to reveal the chassis beneath, as an act of trust and connection. He purposefully does it with you to try to bridge a more intimate bond. The texture of the chassis is probably sooo smooth and hums slightly with warmth and activity.

His favoured love language would be acts of service. Brings you your favourite snacks, offers you massages when your muscles are sore, walks with you even if his target location is in the opposite direction.

NSFW:

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Since he can't feel pain I don't think he feels any physical sensations. So I imagine he's absolutely a service top, albeit inclining towards a dominant role.

Always focused on giving you pleasure and is very focused on your boundaries and satisfaction.

Adheres strictly to safewords

Makes heavy eye contact, I don't imagine he ogles your body much because I imagine he cares more about your face and ensuring you feel good by judging your expressions. Because of this, he probably prefers positions where he can see your visage, like missionary.

Willing to experiment with you, and might discover things about himself through this. But on his own I imagine he might lean into being rather vanilla.

Connor is deft with his hands and mouth to a ridiculous level. You've seen him spinning that coin bro... Giving oral is one of his favoured sexual exploits, holding your quivering thighs open, trying to coax you into cumming on his face.

Idc how medically inaccurate this is but it'd be hilarious if he can tell so much about your current physical condition from tasting you afterwards that you'll be panting after he completely undid you with his tongue and he'll start questioning if you had enough water today and when the last time you ate was.

Doesn't mind obliging your curiosity with his body. He'd let you explore it as thoroughly as you wish to in bed, whether it be during sex or not. Your first time together was spent exploring the nuances of the other's unique form.

His biocomponents, like the blue ring on his chest that signifies his Thirium pump, glow in the dark. The two of you like to fuck in the dark just for the added novelty of the fact Connor's body can be luminous.

This is not complete but I wanted to post ~2.7k words of Tanner being freaky 🙏

(Fem reader, CNC, Somnophillia)

Reader prolly around 21 I HC Luna as 31 tanner is 25-32 I forgot if he's supposed to be older or younger than her. I made the reader a relative of Luna's but it doesn't really impact the plot and reads perfectly fine if you neglect that ♥️

Another day, another triumph for the enigmatic Tanner Grayton. Honestly, sometimes it feels far too facile to sail into another's domain and preside over it like his own. Stalking prey in their own sanctuary was a breeze now, and nothing was more gratifying than playing with his food, picking and choosing exactly what drugs to play with and how to dispose of his victim after. Occasionally he does deem them worthy of a little deviation from his usual course. Like his dearest Luna.

To them, it's the stuff of body horror, but he's lenient enough to bestow upon them a sedative. Midazolam, for this one. It's highly convenient for what he requires it for. Clouds the memories, immediately causes the muscles to buckle and the consciousness to drift into a chemical haze Gazing at them, still wiped out amongst their own sheets, felt electric. Oftentimes, he doesn't stay enough to register the morning light sifting through their curtains, but he's come to the rather amusing conclusion that perhaps the police don't even wish to apprehend him, at this point. They don't even know the first thing about him. All of their evidence is worthless and it will continue to be, perhaps the sole figure with enough dedication and initiative to successfully pursue him would be his dearest, with her crime watch program. But for Luna, turning him in would practically be betrayal, he has ensured it. He's her pipeline to the criminal world. Whether it be files on the Blueblood killer or intel into dark web circles she might not have the eyes to access even with all her advanced, innovative tech. He knows it, she knows it, it's always better to leave him free as a bird, as a trade off for all of the others she will bring to justice.

It's almost ironic for Luna to come to mind, for him, at the moment, peering down at his current directive. She looks peaceful, sprawled out gormlessly, spent on unconscious eccentricities. Nobody would be here to return to her for a good while, he knows it. In fact, he knows her more intrinsically than the majority of his victims, who he might select capriciously and descend upon after some moments of deliberation. This is Luna's sweet little cousin. The similarity in their demeanor, their habits, their inflections makes his heart sing with amusement. She's younger than the detective, perhaps duller, less dedicated to a cause as noble and impactful as Luna is, but that's to be expected considering her age and the fact she has no profound, righteous story like her cousin. She's more of an average, drifting being, contributing very little of substance to society like most airheaded denizens. Allegedly, she possesses some level of intelligence, brooching a prestigious degree. Still, what makes his insides twist with a violent kind of affection towards her, is her resemblance to Luna. A near spitting image, below a decade her junior, and with longer hair and those same, sullen eyes.

Tanner snakes out a probing hand, twirling a lock of soft brunette hair into his manicured fingers, tugging at it with an exploratory tenderness. It's not like she's conscious to recoil from his touch. She stirs enough to make his hand still momentarily. He ensured he'd administered the correct dose, he couldn't doubt the precision he'd used. Rapt, he lurches over her to observe as she tosses and turns, scrunching up her pale face and grunting. Mere adjustment, of course she wouldn't wake. "I thought as much. You're not old enough to metabolise such a potent dose so thoroughly in a matter of three hours." Tanner reclines back against her headboard, smoothing a large hand over her hair, petting her like some kind of Bond supervillain might to a lap cat.

"You're just as cute as a button! Was Luna like you when she was your age? I bet she was, before being weathered by her worthy pursuits." Tanner's hand juts out again to pinch her nose for a moment, backed by a smidge of aggression. He relishes in the rosy tinge the impacted skin adopts. "Not like Luna is undesirable, of course." He schools himself with a wag of his finger, head lolling to the side like it lost its ligaments.

He springs up with an abrupt intensity, shedding the modesty of the bed covers to saunter over to her floor length mirror to appreciate himself, with a languid, body spanning drag of his eyes. He slides his hand over his bare abs, tracing each ridge until he reaches the hem of his trousers, which he'd opted to keep on, for the aesthetic, of course. And the lovely functionality.

"You don't mind, do you?" Tanner glances over to the heap of her shape beneath the blankets, remaining still for a short period. Growing tired of waiting, his right hand plunges into his pocket to fish out a Zippo lighter, flicking the silver cap off with a deft movement of his wrist. Using his tongue he flicks up a cigarette he'd placed between his lips with his left, priming it to be lit up. But before the forensic scientist could ignite his fire and fill his lungs with tobacco flavoured bliss, he's interrupted by the spluttering of a girl rapidly coming to her senses.

"Fuck..." You groan, facepalming sluggishly. Your limbs all weigh a ton each, your throat is all dry and your chest hurts. Between wheezes, you slide your hand down your face, pulling your facial muscles taut with it. As your awareness surges, your brain begins to short circuit again. Your expression is one of gormless, hollow existence. Like a limpet stuck to a rock. Your form is merely observing the world passing, rather than sensing it's inputs. Tanner's imposition into your space is unbeknownst to you, as you're still dazed, consciousness waning just as swiftly as it had formed.

"Shhh, don't move too quickly! Wouldn't want you to injure yourself, would we?" Tanner hushes you with a supplicating kind of whisper carried by a hurried intonation. He sails across the room, steps half hurried lest you snap into a state of acute awareness in a way that isn't on his terms. Tanner settles himself on top of you, straddling your thighs where you're laying, holding you to the bed beneath his body weight.

"I'm impressed you processed it that quickly. Midazolam's a pretty potent compound." He leers you with a discerning scrutiny. His hand, dwarfing your visage, clasps over your jaw, tilting your head this way and that. He leans in and bites his lip, focusing on the flutter of your eyelashes as the sudden twitches dim and fade. Not awake after all. "Oh? Out again? I thought as much."

Tanner sits up on his hips, hovering over the heap of your body. Your laying on your side, curled up into the blanket as if seeking the warmth he'd rid you of when he emerged from the bed. "Oops. Let's shift you a bit, can't do much with this kind of position, right? You ought to sprawl more. Makes you more... accessible." His fingers, spread wide from thumb to pinky, sprawl over your ribs, dragging down until they reach your hips. He clings imperviously to the skin there, turning you facilely so you're laying on your back, body limply sunk into the mattress beneath him.

"Much better, don't you think? Gives me plenty of room to do things like this." Tanner's hands, familiar with the topography of your pelvis, sink to shimmy your panties off with a concerning amount of deftness. The cotton hangs loose from two of his fingers as he admires the material. "Lace? Naughty girl!" Tanner cooes in a condescending manner, tutting as he peers at the undergarment, lined with a hem of delicate lace. They're clutched in his fingers with a vehemence one can only attribute to a burning kind of lust, thinly veiled beneath a touch desperate not to tear the valuable specimen.

You often err away from the saucy side of things. It makes it all the more fun to exploit those little hints of sexuality you might express in your most intimate details. Getting to drag out and sample every atom on you, meting out and sampling each square inch of skin.

"Speaking of sampling..." With a moment's deliberation, less on the ethics of his perversion, on more on how far he should go, he presses the underwear to his face, inhaling into the fibres with a languid, Tanner's unblinking, fixed gaze on the panties is shunted as he squeezes them shut in an expression of bliss and deep focus. He exhales into them, remaining motionless for several seconds as he endeavours to recall every grain against his pallor. He glances at you, long and hard, before a galvanizing idea presents itself to him, eyes sweeping down to your pussy. Before he lets himself touch, he opts to part your jaw, manually, and stuff the panties into your mouth, optimally muffling any stray noises he might accidentally shake out of you.

"I'm sure you're more than willing to share, right? Especially with *me*, I'm me, after all." Tanner exhales sharply, mirthfully. Pulling back the duvet until it was a useless heap on the side of the bed, unable to obfuscate even a centimetre of your skin.

He props up your hips upon a pillow, as if positioning a holy relic upon an alter. He chortles, amused by the irony. Sacrilegious as it may be, he's drawn to the comparison. You are just like his sacrificial lamb, after all.If you were more aware than a rock right now he might impose upon you that you had to hold up your hips whilst he fucked you with his fingers. There wouldn't be much point trying to order that into you in your current predicament.

"What is it that so-called 'believers' say? Something about giving grace and gratitude, right? Does that apply to fucktoys?" Tanner rambles idly, letting his thoughts drawl from his lips like unholy gossamers as he positions himself over you again. He interlaces his legs imperviously with yours, locking the two of you into a certain, sturdy grip that will perspire until, upon his caprice, he decides to unfetter you.

Rather than beating needlessly around the bush, Tanner plunges a thick finger between your folds. There's a preconceived slick present, wetting his intrusive finger, inviting it in with a squelch so visceral a pit forms in his stomach. A familiar, heavenly knot, one of pent up lecherousness finally being indulged. Penetrating you, he relishes in the way his digit effortlessly works you open, swallowing in a second finger with little resistance. He pulls them out to trace the edges of your vulva agonisingly slowly before sinking them back in. Another wet noise so explicit it's nauseating escapes your pussy, prompting him to work his fingers into you with even more vigor.

"Fuck..." The curse is drawn out, whispered in a long syllable like a craven, secretive prayer. "I've been craving this." He grunts, lurching over you in a spontaneous jerk, nose nestling into your hair. The cadence of his fingers reaches a consistent, brisk pace, trying to stimulate an orgasm in a body that was barely there. Even as he detects your muscles beginning to pull in ways he does not bade them, he continues, finger fucking you through your awakening.

Laughter erupts in the blithe scientist's chest, reverberating against you as it usually does, as your brain begins to catch up. Your eyes roll in that ubiquitous manner, trying to get an eyeful of whatever deceptacon Tanner might've imposed upon you.

"Good morning, sleepyhead! I was beginning to think you'd never wake, with all the jostling I was doing, you ought to have come to your senses sooner." He curls his fingers deep inside you, sudden and unforgiving. It elicits a sharp gasp from you, stifled by the presence of your panties, in your mouth as opposed to in their rightful place, covering you up. That position is now occupied by Tanner's right hand, unabashed and unashamed. Your hips buck at the sudden, unprecedented influx of stimulation.

A mewl, incoherent, escapes you as your muscles grow taut in your core, a climax being dragged out of it without so much as a warning, pent up whilst you were still below the depths of the drugs. The black sky has parted upon you and immediately rained down and doused you in sensation.

"I couldn't help myself, you know? Your body was a receptive partner in this, just so you know." A near manic grin encroaches on Tanner's face as he gets an eyeful of your sluggish coming to and delayed, disoriented reactions to the onslaught of stimuli brought on by his fingers. He breathes a cloud of hot, humid air onto your face, sliding his nose down diligently across the side of your face until it's buried into the junction of your neck and shoulder. He grins against the soft, vulnerable skin there, opening his maw and sinking his teeth in. He clamps his jaw shut around your shoulder, his angle of attack is efficient, allowing him to bite down and not let go as you shudder beneath him. He listens, beguiled, for the erotic, pained noise you inevitably make. A soundless whine escapes you, curling into him, clutching tightly at his arm as you cum, painting his fingers in even more slick than they already had been. Not that he minds.

"There you are. I dare say that was quite an excellent good morning, no?" Tanner chuckles at the way you cling to him, releasing his mouth's resolute grip on your skin to coo at you about it. "I'm holding onto these." Tanner plucks the panties from your mouth with a level of audacity that you expect, his tone dulcet and uncharacteristic of the act he was undertaking. He pockets them with a satisfied smile, looking practically over the moon.

"Of course you are, pervert." You spit, arms coiling around the scientist's middle as he scoops you up and sits you down atop him, holding you against him so snugly you doubt there's any room for squirming away even if you desire to.

"The lace make them a standout in my collection, I had to." Tanner sighs, explaining away his covetous archiving of your panties like it were a mere, harmless habit.

"Fuck you. There's a reason you're banned from laundry. I buy more underwear than anything else." You jab a weary, unenthused hand at his shoulder, only one of your arms is mobile since Tanner is holding onto you harder than an elderly lady might clutch her purse at the sight of a loud teenager.

"What was that, mittens? You should be glad you don't have to defend yourself if that's all you have." Tanner scoffs at you, grinning against your hair as you tilt your head away, staring pointedly at the far wall. "Whatever did you do without me, hm?" He tilts his head, grasping your chin to turn your head back towards him so he could lend you a heavy dose of eyeteeth.

"I survived perfectly fine. Syringe wielding psychos aren't the most prevalent denomination, you know?" You bite back at him, glaring into the hollow of his dead brown eyes, they don't even glimmer with amusement, even if the expression is blaring in the rest of his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners, in an affectionate sneer.

Pls be nice 💔

I always associate Connor with water and I'm not sure why. I like thinking about him with wildlife!

Have been thinking non stop about the beach lately so why not write about one of my favs there to try combat writers block!

AAAA his hand dexterity would probably make him amazing at skipping stones. It's probably something he does habitually when he's near a body of water. Always gets ridiculously high numbers of skips.

Probably fidgets with the flat stones like he does with his coins before he tosses them.

Would build the most structurally integral sand castles with you

Using the intelligence and lateral thinking cyberlife programmed him with for important things now he's a deviant 😤

Him and reader would go on late night strolls along the coastline after a hard day, having pointless, long conversations that don't really lead anywhere. They just let your thoughts drift from the subject of your stresses. It's enough to know he's beside you, holding your hand as the two of you trudge along the sand.

If you two are walking on the beach and it's night time, given the stars are even visible considering the pollution, he'd point out each constellation to you and different facts about it. His database has a map of the stars on it so he can always tell which one he's looking at. Always knows where your star sign constellation is, even if neither of you believe in zodiacs, because he feels like it's a little part of you in the sky for him to see

If reader were to find a particular shell and offer it to Connor as a gift, he'd hold onto it in the inner pocket of his jacket wherever he goes. He'd probably cherish it like a token of your spirit with him wherever he goes.

I think Connor himself might be good at spotting unique shells hidden in the sand because of his pattern recognition skills and would collect them for you also.

The two of you might end up with pockets full of eachother's trinkets and it's physically painful to choose just a few to take back with you

There's probably a shell and sea glass jar back at your house for all the things you collect

Would probably taste the water to analyse it 💔

Paddling devolving into a water fight with him amidst the waves, trying to drench each other and getting his clothes sodden

He doesn't take off that fuck ass CyberLife suit even in the water :( what if you want to see him shirtless 😭

I don't know why I'm drawn to the idea of Connor being one for play fighting. The precision that comes with being an advanced android means he knows how much force to use to best you but he's still so careful not to injure you!

I think he'd reign triumphant in most water fight scuffles, especially against a human reader, though perhaps the tides might turn against a more adept constitution.

I don't think he'd try to dunk you, but if he does he'd be checking you're okay before and after and making sure he didn't startle you with the sudden cold water shock.

The two of you end up tumbling into the shallow water, falling with him on top of you. You two exchange an intense, heavy eye contact, your chest heaving to catch your breath after the exertion of the play fight. Laying there, he'd brush away the damp strands of hair that are sticking to your face before catching your jaw to kiss you. His lips taste all salty, hope you don't mind!

I imagine Connor being very close to marine wildlife and maybe being a bit of a nerd about it. Since his systems can identify and give him information about different animals he'd be glad to yap nonstop about different sea creatures the two of you encounter.

He'd probably be into rockpooling, and deft at it, too. His reaction time leaves no escape for the critters he intends to scoop up unfortunately.

The fish fear him 💔

Knows exactly how to hold different animals without harming them. Would teach you how to hold crabs appropriately. Throws everything back, only keeps a couple shells.

If the two of you are in a place where you can spot whale or dolphin pods in the horizon, he'd insist the two of you spend an afternoon watching for them, providing you with facts about them as the two of you watch them glide through the waves from miles away. His lenses probably allow him to enhance and zoom at will, but you'd probably need to pack binoculars to see what he's pointing out I fear 😔

Occurs following the android revolution, the two of you are dating and have a cute apartment in Detroit together <3

"So!" You amble over to Connor, back fresh from the grocery store, slapping your hand onto the androids shoulder to capture his attention.

He tilts his head curiously, his LED whirring a discerning yellow. "Good afternoon to you too?" After a moment of hesitant observation, he reflects the smile you were beaming warmly, lip curving up on one end in a wry smirk. "You brought snacks?"

"I wanted to try something with you. I know you can't eat and all that, but I promise it's fun...!" Your hands clasp together in a plea matching the strain in your voice, head tilting in an urging manner. The conspicuous, white and blue box of chocolate pocky caught between your palms.

"If you want to, we can try it." He nods in affirmation, hand straying to stroke the skin of your arm in a lingering, fond contact.

"You won't regret it!" You grin triumphantly, stretching to peck a kiss to the android's cheek and taking his hand to lead him to the couch. Connor obliges you, following and listening keenly, head inclined to you. Exploring all these facets of human romance was a priority in his social evolution, he wants to know all about it, and navigate it with you. Even if it's just snack based affection. "It's called the pocky challenge. You put a stick between your lips and I put mine around the other end and then we chew it until our lips meet. It's like a kiss!"

"The logistics are... troublesome." Connor's eyebrows rise in fervent interest, standing over you, hands lingering near your waist for a moment before settling there. "I might possess deviancy, but my humanity doesn't extend to digesting food. I'm an advanced prototype, but still an android." His expression shifts to a dejected, distracted stare.

"I kinda forgot about that when I bought this..." You scratch the back of your head awkwardly, looking a little apologetic. It's easy to forget he's a robot, incapable of consumption, amongst other things, when deviancy made any android congruous with the likes of a human. The only indication of any difference between the two of you is the steady, blue cycling of his LED, pulsing in the low, intimate light of your shared space. "I'm sure there's a workaround!" You grasp his chin, trying to direct his gaze back onto you, in stalwart reassurance. The two of you are both lost in contemplation. How does one go about doing the pocky challenge with an android partner?

"How about this?" Connor begins, reclining back onto the couch. You lean in, making a gesture as if to spur him to elaborate. "I hold it between my teeth. And then you eat it from there."

"You're a genius! As usual..." You nod keenly in approval, handing him the box with an eagerly intense shove of your hand. He takes it, eyeing you as you clamber atop him, straddling his hips. You're practically vibrating as he turns the box in his hands, fingertips running along the surface of the cardboard, fastidious as he typically is when handling things. You, weapons, pocky sticks.

"I try, it's in my design philosophy. Optimising romantic confectionery eating isn't outside the breadth of my capabilities." He eases the packaging open, taking a single, thin stick between two fingers, slotting it between his lips. His eyes rove over your mouth with a meticulous, cerebral eye. One built for discerning the difference between deviant and android, for picking apart the most diminutive of details. He much prefers this purpose, dissecting every ridge and angle of your face, memorising it and elapsing hours worth of time and data just to devote his extensive neural links to your image.

Connor gazes up at you expectantly, using his tongue to flick the pocky stick up between his jaws like one might do to a cigarette. He eases off his tie with one hand, the black, textured fabric sent tumbling away. You lurch forwards, hands sinking onto his shoulders to anchor yourself against him as you bite the other end. The exchange of your eyes is wordless, drinking in eachother's irises. You descend onto him, whittling down the confection until you're centimetres from his parted lips. From your vantage point you can drink in the android's deep brown eyes that reflect your own image in their eternal depths. Silently, you utter a prayer of thanksgiving to whichever CyberLife engineer decided to adorn him with those eyes. Up close, you can see the intricate flecks of colour in his iris, like clusters of stars.

You pause, entranced, jaw working to chew down the pocky you'd already taken in. Connor eyes you fervidly, giving you a few moments of air despite his growing appetite. You can feel his bated, watchful, warm breaths fanning onto your face, mingling with your own hankering exhales. He leans in the moment your throat bobs, jamming your lips together. The inch or so of pocky is sent tumbling from his lips to favour a hungry, forthright movement against your mouth.

With an equally covetous, intelligible grunt, you jut your chocolate coated tongue between his lips, pressing it into his. His fingers card through the roots of your hair in a languid, laudatory move, curling in to grasp the tresses firmly, but not with the intensity to pull.

Shifting your position to bear down more avidly onto him, you grind in a slow, harsh action to gain friction against his crotch. He discards the pocky box, forgetting its existence just to hold you with both hands. The freed fist comes to grapple at the side of your neck, tilting your head to get the leverage needed for his tongue to sink just that little bit deeper into your mouth. He's grasping at you with the intention to close any kind of gulf between the two of you, to create a union so permanent the two of you could no longer scrutinize where your matter ends and his begins, trailing passionately after your very atoms, much like the way your tongues are chasing eachother now.

The only noises that escape the two of you for numerous, voracious minutes, are acquisitive, rapacious groans and expletives, whispered against eachother when you come up for air.

"You have some... On your lip." You perk up, straightening up to stare Connor in the face, his eyes zeroing in on a smear of chocolate in the corner of your mouth.

"Where?" Reaching up to your face, you prod blindly at your chin, trying to read from the location of his eyes where the stain is.

"Here." Connor's hand reaches up between the two of you, thumb swiping the mark off of your skin. A tender, doting smile spreads across his face, a fresh lustre in his features that was familiar, but illuminated.

"I am so glad we figured that out." You admit, mirroring Connor's own expression with a wry smile. "Thanks for saving my ass, I didn't think when I bought it."

"I should be thanking you for introducing it." Connor murmurs frankly, leaning in to press his face against the side of your neck, arms coiling around your middle to pull you into his mechanised warmth again. "It was... Stimulating."

You melt against him, breath steadied and even. Your head lolls down to rest your chin on his shoulder, dormant and satisfied. "You could say that again."

"Should we try another one?" Connor whispers into your hair, eyes also half shut, glazed with the heady afterglow of your contact. His palm drags soothingly against the back of your head, fingertips still half tangled into your hair there. There wasn't much of a doubt within his voice, he knows you too well to be ambiguous on your feelings towards this kind of thing. You're just as thirsty as him.

With Tanner, I have a lot of different ideas but primarily I'd say he reminds me of a Great Horned Owl!

They're ambush predators, like he is in his game mechanics.

They're both proficient hunters and utilise their stealth effectively. Owls are near silent fliers.

They match his hair colour.

They're native to Montana and most of North America.

They both operate at night.

They're comparatively quite large compared to most of the bird family. I'm not sure if I just completely missed it but he doesn't have a canon height thus far, but I personally interpret him as being quite tall/lanky. His legs look pretty long to me 🙏

Birds naturally preen their feathers and I think Tanner is quite a vain guy when it comes to things like his hair, based on absolutely no canon data aside from the fact he pushes his hair back in the menu screen sometimes 💔

Also, Tanner is literally heralded by an owl in the game, so I think that counts for something lol

It's also probably where I got this association from...

This is a reupload from a fic I posted here back in December. I can't remember why I deleted it but I wanted it out there again 😵‍💫

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You grunt, trying to stretch to reach back at your unruly mounds of feather. Having found some scrap in a box discarded in the hallway by your cell, you'd managed to fashion a comb with teeth hopefully adapted well enough to preen your wings. Though they were serving a monumental challenge. You hadn't the flexibility to tame them. It was nigh on impossible to lurch back to reach the base at your scapulas. Being cursed with wings by some anonymous force whilst being rocketed across a space rift was bad enough, not knowing how to keep them healthy was even worse. You're basing this preening thing off of assumptions. You've seen birds dig around in their feathers with their beaks. Perhaps it's a necessary step you must take, too?

"Struggling with that?" Comes a voice which was becoming regrettably familiar. You straighten up relinquishing the stray feathers you'd been gripping to try to pull your wing towards you.

"...no." what were you supposed to say? 'Oh yes, please help me! I implore you to touch my wings and put me in your debt!' Absolutely no chance.

"That's odd. It seems from where I stand that you require some assistance in maintaining your wings." Dottore folds his arms, sailing through the threshold of the doorway.

"Really?" You gape at him, laying the sarcasm on thick.

"Yes. It's apparent you do." He halts between your sagging, messy wings. They instinctively fold, much as you do, hunching uncomfortably.

"I know personal space isn't your thing but..." You sigh. Was there really any point? It was just rather poignant to have some guy who's in charge of the institute which has imprisoned you to assume you'd spread your wings and thus make yourself vulnerable to him. Whilst you're wearing pajamas if that wasn't already bad enough. You donned a pair of pale pink bottoms and a lace trimmed camisole. It's what you wore when you descended, they let you hold onto it, graciously.

"Hm?" He tilts his head, presumably not in earnest. You lament that he either wasn't listening, or he's trying to dismiss you on purpose.

"Give me that pick, or whatever you fumbled together." Dottore hoped you'd have little avenue to protest if he was pointed. He notes how you skirt around topics rather than being direct. Though he isn't entirely aghast when you continue to clutch the makeshift comb to yourself.

It didn't seem logical for him to be so eager to help. As far as you could gather, the doctor was solely interested in ventures which expanded his horizon of knowledge or exhilarated him. He was a feared figure all over this world and felt above most human fancies.

"Why are you interested in this? Just get your crony to do it." You had a hypothesis that he could be insisting himself into you in a bid to learn more about you. You assume it'd be fascinating to be around the only figure from another world, who wouldn't want to form a connection to you in order to learn more? It seemed the only logical explanation.

"Why would I delegate to a subordinate when an opportunity of this nature presents itself to me?" Dottore seems chagrined at your proposal. "It's a unique chance to view the complexities of a celestial intervention up close. Who am I to dismiss such an uncommon chance to do so? Would you expect much less from me?"

It'd be opportune for him to voice his intentions and thoughts out loud, he supposes. Predictability wasn't an attribute he'd willingly brand himself with but it would, even if just a fleeting guise, earn him faith, which he could exercise as leeway into probing you further. As far as young mortal women went you could be the most extraordinary he's seen, despite your reluctance to share the spectacular abnormalities which made you so interesting.

Running a thumb along the ramshackle comb you still enveloped with your nimble fingers, you brew quietly on his questions. "You tell me. It's not like I know you." Unless it was his intention to establish familiarity and coax you into recognising patterns, thus perieving him as less of a threat.

The doctor catches your gaze as you look back, knees still to your chest. "I'm sure we'll get to know eachother. It is my intention to know you and your machinations learned from being raised and exposed to a world foreign to this one." Even if he's donning a mask, you note his peculiarly piercing stare, your own eyes are reluctant to tear away their contact.

"So I'm just an interesting slab of knowledge for you to cut into?" You raise the pick to your eyes, closer, jabbing a fingertip into one of the teeth.

"You make it sound crude." Dottore titillates. "The pursuit of knowledge is anything but. It's an art, in its own way." You stiffen when a cold glove plants itself firmly onto your traps, goosebumps swell beneath the surface of your skin. It scoots you a little more towards the edge of the mattress you're perched on.

The doctor still stood tall beside you, looming in a less than hospitable way. You gauge that he is quite noticeably loftier than you, the difference was more apparent in this position.

You swivel to confront him, fidgeting endlessly with your dismal construction of a comb which could ameliorate your pitiful wings. Dottore lurches down to pluck it from your hands with a firm finger and thumb. His lip twitches as he turns it every which way in his hands. "What a poor attempt at assembling something." As someone well suited to masterful mechanical projects forged from veteran minds in the field, it was a steep contrast to hold this in his palm. To actually behold something of this nature was almost satisfyingly different to the mundane craftsmanship he recognised to a tedious point. The Harbingers shakes his head, now was not the time for stray thoughts to dance.

"I digress, it may be adequate, just this once. I suppose."

"I didn't even...-" you cut yourself off with a groan. There wasn't much of a point, you discern. His resolutions seem steelier than ships.

Instead, you comply. Maneuvering to kneel with your back to him. Your head dips as your eyes zero in on the pallid wall.

The first, clinical contact feels like an electric shock, a soft jolt to the system. Your wings, originally scrunched, begin to relent their defensive gesture. They instead ease their white mass, standing high enough for Dottore to reach without bending down at all.

"Birds and feathered creatures perform preening in order to pick out build ups of oil. If one didn't, the consequences could be dire. It may affect waterproofing, thermal regulation and cause general itching."

His hands glide over the feathers, nimbly tending to them. The feeling is oddly satisfying, scratching an itch you haven't been able to quite get to.

Your wings jitter faintly at the gossamer touch and your eyes threaten to flutter shut. Though you cannot let yourself become too malleable in his palms. There was no way you could trust him enough to do so. Despite the serenity his droning seems to bring like a gentle haze on a spring morning, the white lights in the cell are a troubling reminder of your circumstances.

"I'm not a bird. I just have wings." You fold over your knees, bringing them to your chest having shuffled to find a more agreeable position than kneeling.

"Of course." Dottore continues to sift through your feathers almost fervently. The teeth of the makeshift comb card through, taking some of the less savoury patches of feather.

"The craftsmanship of this is... An undesirable. It's a security risk that you even got into a container of metal scrap."

"Thanks..." You retort dryly. Someone was probably getting an earful, judging by his tone.

"This will happen every few weeks or so. I'll update my schedule. Perhaps I'll find time to do it myself." Regular intervals of connection were imperative to formulating the bond needed. He would have to enable various channels of communication.

You spread sluggishly your wings. They felt remarkably lighter. Dottore notes the cautiousness at which you exercise them. It was no surprise to him, there's little avenue for you to practise operating them in this area.

He slips out of the room with little fanfare. The quiet click of the door heralds your solitude.