#🦉mod iphiko
Note
how do all the lackadaisy characters react to getting sick/how do the handle the situation. Thanks!! :3c
Lumping these two asks together as they are the same request. Ask and ye shall receive! (A collaborative effort between multiple of our authors as it does involve the whole cast.)
ROCKY
Sick? What do you mean sick. In his over twenty-two years of living thus far he's never been sick once. He has the immune system of a titan, what are you talking about.
Questions he whilst leaning heavily on the bar counter for support lest he is knocked to the ground in a feverish pile by this sudden earthquake that apparently no one else is noticing like seriously you guys shouldn't we evacuate the place?!
In his defense, he's right about one thing: illness seems to avoid him as prevalently and miraculously as death itself. He could get stuck in the rain, take cold mud baths, sleep outside in winter snow, hug someone with Spanish flu, taste the pavement of a rat-infested alley and drink raw sewage and still come out of it all fit as a fiddle.
(Whether he carries anything is a different question, though with the various microorganisms inside him he seems to live in an overwhelmingly peaceful coexistence.)
But every rule has exceptions. And since he frequently does end up in all those situations, when once a millennium he comes down with something it's hard to tell the cause.
How he handles it can be summed up in a short answer of: he doesn't. He refuses to acknowledge it until he's physically incapacitated. If asked about it he keeps insisting that he's fine, a-okay, dandy as can be, never has existed a more invigorated healthy young man on Earth. At best he may invent a perfectly unconvincing excuse, like allergies acting up. (Inside underground caves. In winter. When he's never been allergic to anything in his entire life.)
Aside from perhaps unsuccessfully forbidding him from causing more grievous disturbances than usual, people usually opt to just leave him to it, because once he's set his mind on being "fine" logical reasoning and sound advice are only breath wasted. Ever well-intentioned, Mitzi still tells him to get some rest every now and then, yet keeps stumbling into the boy as he's fumbling through whatever that unresting intent has currently possessed him to be doing.
This wouldn't be such an issue with, say, a cold, because regardless of his masochistic eagerness for activity it inevitably does pass, but if it's something that necessitates any amount of bedrest... well, good luck.
For one he hasn't really a place to rest. I mean... there's the car. No one but Ivy at the Lackadaisy seems to know he technically lives in there, and he's not too enthusiastic to disclose it himself; besides anywhere else actually suitable, like in Mitzi's apartment, he'd just feel like a capital nuisance.
But let's suppose a scenario with the ideal location and someone who cares enough to stick by and ensure he actually does stay put. Shouldering such a responsibility, they must be prepared for a minimum of two things.
For one: he's going to be even more unbearably talkative than usual. Because what else is there left for a restless spirit if the flesh is restrained? Nothing but to complain and lament and versify and prattle on incessantly about whatever comes careening hither along a changeful stream of consciousness. Albeit unwittingly, driving others insane with his aimless rambling is how he keeps himself... well, something.
It's like if his mind had to stop running at maximum speed for just a few minutes it would promptly crash for good. Which, for all we know, may really be the case.
(This is just my two cents, but: I think giving him drawing implements and a coloring book or just plain paper might keep him very nicely occupied, as well as relatively quiet. Be sure to provide plenty of paper though, if you don’t want him to start drawing on other things not meant to be drawn on when the supply runs out like an unsupervised kid... unless you welcome the idea of your walls and furniture being covered in doodles.)
The other, possibly more arduous challenge is keeping him inside the room in the first place. Not understanding nor agreeing with his special treatment largely experienced as imprisonment on his end, he seizes each arising opportunity to attempt to weasel away somehow.
And he's a trained escape artist.
Watch him closely but look away for even a second, and you'll find no trace of him left in the room when you look back. Lock him in there, he'll pick the lock in a pinch - or attempt the window, which depending on the floor number may carry various levels of risk. Tie him down (because you're getting desperate by now) and you're likely to stumble into him minutes later by the front door, having already wriggled his way out. Doesn’t matter which knot was used, he knows most of them by heart. (And even if he didn’t happen to, he’s resourceful enough.)
Like I’ve said before, he perseveres in resisting his confinement for as long as he's capable of moving his limbs around and some vague semblance of coherent thought. Even with his brains cooking with delirium one may have to rescue him as he's crawling along on the floor dragging with him the tangle of blankets he was last left swaddled in, not entirely clear on what direction he's headed but by all means dedicated.
He's not above manipulation either, in order to divert his warden’s attention or make them relinquish his firm supervision rooted in concern for his well-being. Because it's not like he's concerned about it; so why should anyone else be? In addition he's unshakably certain that his role in the Lackadaisy's rumrunning force as well as there in general is absolutely vital and requires that he always be available for employment regardless of if he’s even in a proper state for it. (Just look at the latest comic arc, for crying out loud.)
But psst. Here's a little personal tip, for (Y/N) specifically. If reasonable advice hits deaf ears, and cuffing him to a bedpost yields little results other than another mildly baffling escape attraction, there remains one other thing to try with better chances of success... a more hands-on approach, if you catch my drift.
(Cuddling. I'm talking about cuddling. If you've got a good grip on this string bean of a man he is certainly not going anywhere so long as you're vigilant. Doing so, of course, means risking your own health, which he won't fail to coyly point out either; but he'll otherwise put up minimal resistance and ultimately cave in because God knows he’s touch deprived and doesn't get held enough otherwise. Well, by not enough I mean not at all, ever. But that's exactly why it's a good thing you're here, isn't it?)
Overall, as amusing of a story collection to recount as his commonly absurd ailing escapades might provide later down the line, the fact that they very rarely happen is no doubt for the best. He engages in enough troublesome shenanigans as is.
FRECKLE
Surprisingly pragmatic about it. Yep. He's getting symptoms. Looks like he contracted something.
Best be careful about it... mostly because Nina wouldn't allow him running himself ragged anyhow.
Along with other moral virtues he's had honesty drilled into him from kittenhood. And although it's not always an option in... other matters... he's upfront about how he's feeling physically if not much else, and eventually does come to terms with it. (Once he’s confirmed with certainty that it’s not just the general nauseated feeling he gets whenever he thinks too deeply about his “work” nowadays.)
He doesn't want to infect other people, or incur the stern concern of his mother, so at the very least he stays around the house, doing small, mostly undemanding chores. He's aware it's not expected of him nor recommended, but he has a bit of restlessness to him too.
Mostly because, were it bad enough to confine him to bed in a blanketed bundle of suffering incarnate, all he'd be able to think about is that God's wrath finally caught up with him for being a horrible person and this was part of his rightful punishment. Even worse if he got a nasty fever; it's like he's already burning in Hell.
Distractions may be scarce, but if he's been told off from chores for sneezing on the washing-up or exhausting himself with much too overzealous hammering, he opts to read instead. Over the years he's amassed quite the collection of books, renowned classics and youth literature, and most of them still give off the fluttering remnants of a good kind of nostalgia when flipping through the pages.
And besides, immersing himself in someone else's story is far more pleasant than fretting over his own current predicaments.
Some company, from a safe distance of course, will do him wonders as well. Nina is not the most conversational woman around, and aside from checking on him regularly and ensuring his wellbeing they don't make much meaningful contact.
Rocky likely pops in from time to time however, forever enthused to just run his mouth for as long as allowed, and although he may get a bit too bombastic for Calvin's comparative lack of vitality sometimes he appreciates the distraction more than he's able to express it. And, believe it or not, it's not entirely one-sided either. Rocky has developed a keen sense for his quiet cousin's intent to contribute and will more than gladly listen to what he has to say.
He’ll also forward Ivy’s wishes for Calvin to get well soon as she’s just dying to be able to meet with him at the speakeasy again. (Definitely also attaches a teasing remark or two to the message.) Then he’s eventually ushered out by Nina and as soon as his hasty goodbyes are swallowed by the outdoors Calvin finds himself missing the noise already.
The paralyzed stillness of being sick gets to him a lot more than it shows… seeing as it leaves him a little too alone with his own mind. So he sinks into the comfort of old books until he’s incapacitated by a headache and sore eyes, and diligently rakes those seven leaves that had gathered across the back lawn since he last attended to them two hours before, and lingers outside in the garden until warmer hues overtake a sun-painted sky and the evening chill starts to bite, taking in all things green and alive and in motion to remind himself that he’s not a walking corpse. Not yet, anyway.
Due to his mom’s supervision as well as his own eagerness to follow instructions in order to escape his personal limbo as soon as possible, he does tend to recover fairly fast; and he’s a pretty hardy young lad, thank goodness, so it’s all quite uncommon of an ordeal. In short it’s back to the ol’ grindstone in a jiffy; you know, the kind of grindstone that pulverizes mortal lives and churns out dripping blood.
But hey, best not stop and mull over it too long.
IVY
Oh, it's a nightmare for her.
You mean she can't go out in the evenings anymore? Can't go shopping with friends? Can't procure booze with her criminal coworkers? Can't attend dates with her cute new boyfriend? (Well, those last two are one and the same, really.)
These are all vital activities for a young woman like her to pursue! What else is she supposed to do? Rot in her room and steer clear of all fun whilst everyone else keeps going on with their lives?!
Some flimsy cold is nowhere near enough to keep her away from the beloved Lackadaisy. She can still man the café counter with a little sniffle (taking care to sneeze on no one's food) or look absolutely gorgeous on the dancefloor decked in glimmering pearls and feathers with a slightly paler constitution. But if it's bad enough that she simply must stay put...
During classes the still life of an empty dormitory fills with upbeat contemporary tunes from her bedstand radio as she lies upon crumpled bedsheets, clad in her prettiest pajamas, surrounded by an almost ritualistic circle of tissues and magazines whilst flipping through one of the latter with her legs girlishly dangling in the air. This is likely the scene any visitors are greeted by as well.
She looks like she's coping rather well... until verbal contact ensues and she begins her long string of complaints about how she's feeling utterly miserable. Runny nose, sore throat, grating cough, an unshakable sense of fatigue and she can't even go anywhere! Her classmates are off studying or having fun themselves (as well as deliberately avoiding contact with her for obvious reasons), and she's got nothing to look at but patterned wallpaper and pictures of pretty clothes she currently can't even visit the boutiques for.
But once the grievances are shared she promptly guides the spotlight in their direction, upon which they are to share every last bit of information and news about all most recent ongoings in the world of the healthy. It is a requirement (she will not let them go until they oblige), but also an opportunity; they're welcome to spill the beans on how their week has been and any noteworthy things that happened to them and also to just chat with her about whatever else comes up in the process.
Another way she keeps herself involved with the outside world is through the telephone. The local operator can already tell if she's under the weather by the prevalence of hearing her slightly weathered, juvenile voice squeak for connection to mostly one line throughout the day.
Her calls may also be scheduled to a certain hour so that everyone can come up to Mitzi's office and say hi. That "everyone" overwhelmingly ends up being Rocky, who lingers around there a bit more insistently than usual nearing that time frame and never fails to make his presence known by shouting his own greetings and cheerful encouragements of perseverance into the receiver.
She always asks him about Viktor and Calvin since the former disappointingly refuses to engage with her calls, and the latter doesn't visit because boys aren't allowed in the dormitory... and because he's afraid of catching her sickness. (What a chicken.)
You’d better believe they both get a scolding once she’s recovered for not contacting her at all… though you can’t really stay mad at sheepishly apologetic, babyfaced Freckle McMurray, now can you
Supposing the presence of company who’s emotionally close enough, she may also get clingy in the physical sense. Yes, she knows it’s not very courteous to rub your germs all over someone, but oh, her head is just killing her and she’s exhausted and achy and utterly sick of being sick, hence she desperately needs to rest her chin on someone’s shoulder and latch onto their soft warmth. Really, they brought this upon themselves by daring to enter the sniffly lion cub’s den. Now they’re likely not allowed to move for… let’s say the next two hours. Alternatively, until she has to go to the bathroom or ask them to get her something to drink.
Yes, she’s a bit of a princess; and especially when she’s miserable she may occasionally indulge in showering a willing servant with her various requests. Fetch her this, throw away that, bring hot chocolate and snacks, take out the trash, give her attention. But how could you say no to those big, innocent eyes?
If it’s a schoolmate she will absolutely persuade them to skip their classes for the day and spend time with her instead, offering cuddles and gossip. Forgetting, or ignoring rather, that not everyone can afford to be so lax about their education. Though surely, full-time service as a personal maid slash stuffed animal is making a much better use of their time. She promises to do the same when they inevitably catch the illness themselves, if that’s any consolation.
Nightly adventures and consequent loss of sleep aside, she takes decent care of herself overall, so the understimulating agony of quarantined solitude luckily isn’t something she suffers more of than the average person… albeit that little she’s an expert at suffering luxuriously.
VIKTOR
No, he's not sick, you're just lying. The great, the indomitable, the fierce Viktor Vasco never gets sick.
Denial is definitely a big part of it. He will not admit to getting sick until he's too weak to stand, and even then he'll fight anyone who tries to get him to rest.
The boredom is somehow scarier than actual health concerns. Staying at home and being too ill to do anything except think means he'll think. And thinking leads to a whole load of other things that he doesn't want to get into.
Essentially, getting sick is a liability to everything, from his job to his sense of self.
However, good luck on trying to make him better. He will also stubbornly refuse any help that comes his way, will slam his door in the doctor's face and threaten to tear apart anyone who so much as suggests getting him medicine.
His colleagues from Lackadaisy have taken to asking Mrs Bapka, his neighbour, to administer anything they want to give him themselves (he will draw a line at punching an old woman and fellow Slovakian immigrant), or Ivy (no one can successfully dispose of Ivy and her headstrong attitude. No one.)
The last person he had actually listened to when he was sick was a certain Mordecai Heller. Needless to say, that's not the case anymore.
Maybe that's what really makes him so grumpy and reluctant.
ZIB
His immune system is either rock hard or absolute dogshit, there is no in-between. He can go through a crowd of cats with nasty 'bouts of the flu without catching it, but gets bedridden by something as small as a head cold.
Said wonky immune system may be because he tends to drink stuff cut with the most ridiculous ingredients (radiator fluid, coffin varnish, paint, water, mud, you name it he's probably tasted it)
When he gets laid up, he gets laid up hard (innuendo not intended). He has to drag himself out of bed during the worst parts of it and may not even bother, electing to curl up and shiver/cry from the pain/die where he's comfortable. His band members have to literally drag him out of there on those days and force food down his throat so he doesn't wither away
Goddammit you lanky noodle bitch look after your sick ass don't make everyone do it for you
MORDECAI
He hates falling ill with a passion. It's one of many reasons he drinks tea so often: if he does get sick, it won't hit him so hard.
He tends to try and shrug off small stuff (runny nose, mild to moderate headache, aches and pains) to go to work anyway; but he's no fool. If he really feels icky he'll stay at home and look after himself. As much as he hates to do it, he's only got one body and somebody has to look after it.
The Savoys bash/tease him relentlessly whenever he comes in sick. If the mild headache becomes something worth staying at home for, they'll go as far as to try and visit him (or get him to come to them). Is it guilt about ragging him about it, them missing him or just boredom? Hard to tell with those two.
Serafine once teased about playing as his "mama" and looking after him until he's better. Mordecai, in his sickness-muddled mind, flew off the handle at her...Though all the Savoys saw was him almost break a glass in his paws before telling them flatly to get out.
Neither one realized Serafine had hit a nerve until he refused to let them in for a few days after. Whether it was something about his past or Serafine betraying his trust to get him into her group, they let it go and pretended nothing happened once he was back in action (though there was a noticeably thicker wall between him and them)
SERAFINE/NICODEME
Meet the "clingy" duo.
They don't get sick often and have impressive immune systems, what with their past roaming the swamps and other dangerous conditions, but when they do? Oh boy...
They'll either cling to each other in private, or play it up and annoy a hapless colleague.
And by "hapless colleague", I mean Mordecai—because of course it is.
Sickness is less of an actual, preventive ailment, but rather an excuse to show off some dramatic acting skills.
"Oh, cher, I simply cannot move until you bring me some nice warm tea and chocolate!"
"If I die, tell the world I was warm and safe, because of our dear ami, Heller..."
"For crying out loud, you've both got nothing but a cold."
They'll still play it up.
Just because your nose is stuffy doesn't mean the rest of you has to be.
The show must go on, mon cher.
WICK
He gets sick really, really easily. He stays up late at night often, so he doesn't get much rest and his immunity suffers for it.
(Licking rock walls probably doesn't help with that. Muffinhead (affectionate))
He still does work and goes out when he's sick, which results in papers with shitty writing and his friends urging him to go and rest up, "we can go with you another day".
When he's not thinking straight he'll whine to Lacie about how no one wants to see him when he's sick; ignoring the fact that she's either making him food, putting a cold cloth on his head or literally came by just to say hi to him
He's a bit dim sometimes, but he's a loveable dim.
The easiest way to see how sick he is is to mention putting the work on pause or crack a joke at his expense. If he rapidly objects to not working or good-naturedly shrugs off the joke, it's a small thing, nothing to worry about. If all he has to say in response to not working is "I can't" and he tries to defend himself from the joke (or even worse, agrees with it), he's feeling god-awful.
Lacie tends to hide the alcohol away until he's feeling better. During the week or so he's really feeling foggy this actually works, since in his addled state he can't properly look for them.
MITZI (BONUS since she's been getting a fair bit of attention)
Mitzi doesn't get sick. She becomes inconvenienced.
She's also a real bitch when she's sick. It's less of a slipping mask and more of a "I can't be nice when my brain feels too big for my skull"
She'll still grin and bear it for Rocky. He's positively devoted to her, after all; the least she can do is swallow her nasty remarks and come up with something softer for him.
Some cats swear that she never falls ill or has anything happen to her...Usually because once it does happen she locks herself in her office and won't open the door if you're not Horatio or Viktor.
If another cat somehow gets through her door, can put up with her attitude swings and goes out of their way to help her through her illness, she may very well open up a little and talk to them easier. Something as small as a cup of tea during a ravenous headache will convince the then-bitchy queen that you're not all bad-and later that since you put up with her ravenous insults and still helped her, maybe you're worth swallowing her pride for and confiding in.
#{ahah!! hello!! Rory here!! so you may notice the slightly uneven distribution of (Y/N) here}#{even in my own parts I left Calvin out of it. the poor boy}#{and Rocky's easily goes over 1k because I got a bit excited. as you may guess he's my favorite}#{but reminder that (granted that requests are open at the time) we're more than happy to provide further servings of any of our concepts}#{more specialized or in-depth or what-have-you}#{although this IS a brew of headcanons. which are usually brief. I just got a tad eager with my first contribution here I suppose}#{hello to our lovely readers by the way!! :3}#{💌 mod rory 💌}#🦉mod iphiko#🖋 mod ille#Headcanon Home Brew#Rocky Rickaby#Calvin “Freckle” McMurray#Ivy Pepper#Viktor Vasko#Dorian “Zib” Zibowski#Mordecai Heller#Serafine Savoy#Nicodeme Savoy#Sedgewick “Wick” Sable#Mitzi May#headcanon#lackadaisy
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Pardon me, I just stumbled across this classy little joint, and I'm feeling a little adventurous. I'd like to order a Oneshot On The Rocks, Nico Savoy flavor.
(Gender neutral, fluff. Nico gets into one of his romantic flings with a fellow coworker he's done a few jobs with, but he realizes he likes them too much to let them go.)
I know you have other patrons here, so take your time. I'll be here all night.
Nicodeme Savoy had always been cold.
It had started right from a young age: in the cold stone halls of the convent orphanage; in the stiff wind during the first night he spent on the road with his sister Serafine; in the mud of the marshes they trudged through, only to just get away and be together.
The cold continued through the years, in the cold shoulders people would give him when he asked question—no one wanted to talk to two run away orphans and get in trouble with the cops. It was cold like all the dinners they had to have. It was cold like the glares people would give when they tried to buy something with the little money they tried to scrape together, because they assumed they'd steal anyway. By refusing to let them be honest, they ended up committing more crimes by the age of eighteen than most. It was cold like the slithering bodies of snakes that crawled over them while they slept, like the alligators' thick skin when they found a carcass or came too close to a sleeping one. Everything was cold: the nights, the days, and eventually Nico himself.
Like a reptile, he had cold blood. Empathy was relatively unknown to him. The few jobs he did were those no one would have accepted in a million years—murders, thefts, even hijackings. He did them all with no problems and no moral qualms either. That coldness stayed throughout his life and leaked into things more personal.
He had never been truly lucky in love, or at least lucky enough to keep the ones he had. His conquest list consisted mainly of one night stands, or three months at the most. When they realized it wouldn't work out, many of them turned to anger. They called him cold hearted, just as his enemies called him cold blooded.
Nico paid attention to none of it. He was fine with what he had always had. He didn't need warmth he had spent all his life in the cold he wasn't about to stop now.
But then one day there was something else. Someone else.
At first it, Y/N was just a simple new hire that the Marigold had bought into its liquor circles. It wouldn't be the first time Nico had gone and done a few jobs with a rookie, however it would be the first time that he would become friends with them. There was something about them that intrigued him. Maybe it was the way they matched his skill, or how they proved they were so much cleverer than him, strategized better, truly showed how much of an asset to the Marigold they were.
It surprised him, so he gave it a shot, and as most of his rare new friendships did, banter turned to flirting. Oftentimes, it was one-sided but this time Y/N responded to his advances. That was indeed a surprise too. He played along and so did they.
It was a strange thing between them, something that tiptoed on the line of friendship. Again, Nico had seen something like it before. He knew where this would end and he was right when one night, drunken from an evening spent at the hotel bar, the two of them went back to his room together.
He thought that would be it. They would both get on with their lives and that night would be forgotten, swept away with all the others.
It was far easier said than done. For the first time in years, Nico felt something in him. He wouldn't call it a fire, it was more a single spark somewhere deep in this chest. He thought it would be some sort of heartburn from a poor diet. He ignored it for the most part, and then while looking for medicine he stumbled across Y/N again.
Before long, the burn became bearable. They were his medicine.
Nico didn't understand it, but he knew what made it better. He asked Y/N out on the proper date. They took him up on it and it went relatively well.
So he asked them on another one, and soon they were asking him.
A week turned into a month, a month into two, two months into three. It was when a six month anniversary passed by in a blink of an eye that Nico truly knew something was off.
He couldn't fathom moving on in any way, and that was strange. He was happy where he was romantically. The job was always the same but somehow it became easier, more fun by his partner's side, and then he couldn't ignore it anymore.
There was the warmth.
The hot, delicious feeling that spread throughout him whenever a kiss landed on his cheek, or when their hands took his, or even when a joke turned into shameless flirting. He felt like he was getting wrapped in a large blanket, something unfamiliar but still addicting and comfortable.
More importantly, it was warm.
Very warm.
So warm, he thought his heart might burst.
He had rarely felt anything like it before, except towards his sister. Still, this was different. This was burning with another passion.
He knew something was off, but somehow, for once, he couldn't bear to try and put it right.
He liked this heat, this residue of mistake as some people might call it. His whole body was searing fire and he was too happy and intrigued to try and put it out.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#lackadaisy reader insert#nicodeme savoy#lackadaisy nico#oneshot on the rocks#nicodeme lackadaisy#lackadaisy x reader#twb mcc event#yep#that's the event that gave me enough motivation to write this
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AHHHHH IM SO EXCITED! Okay I’ve holdin this back for ages BUT, if I could request a romantic relationship absinthe imagine of our dearly fluffy and charming Nicodeme Savoy with a male or gender neutral reader, your choice of the flavoring, who tends to copy things that the people they like do. For example, they like Nico? Suddenly they catch notice of the bandana he wears and starts wearing one too. They find themselves slipping into a little cajun accent or repeating french words they’ve heard him speak. Any gestures they notice he does, or expressions he makes? They start to do it too. Assimilation via infatuation, if you will, for those of us that are neurodivergent and enjoy doing habits of those we love.
I've been digging around the back for a bit and got lost in the crates, my apologies, but I happen to have found a bottle of good ol' inspiration for this. Let me pour you out this imagine, my dear customer...
Nicodeme Savoy has an eye for a lot of things, which is surprising since his are often black and bandaged from many a savage fight. Nevertheless, imagine one evening he's allowed to relax. For once, Mr Sweet has left them all alone for the night with no outstanding duties to attend to. He can kick his feet up and sit back and watch as the Marigold's joint starts to fill up with the warm liquid gold of their regular, well-off patrons.
Suddenly, he stops, glass poised in the air, rim barely grazing his lips. He stops, he stares.
Y/N L/N is wearing his bandana.
Well, not exactly, because Nico is wearing it now, but it's so similar. It's almost an exact copy, as exact as someone could get it without dragging the poor scrap of fabric through what Nico had with his.
Now Nico is pleasantly surprised. He had never expected to influence any fashion trends, least of all one worn by a recent one-night stand. He has to admit, it looks good on Y/N.
However, the longer he stares at him, the more Nico starts to notice more things. Details to be sure, but familiar enough to catch his attention.
A small "cher" casualky dropped in conversation.
The prideful roll of Y/N's shoulders whenever he takes credit for something that may or may not be deserved.
The glint in his eyes Serafine had sworn only Nico had, hence why she would find him in a crowd of millions. He didn't even know it was possible to copy a stare so accurately.
Now Nico definitely knows something's up, but he doesn't react beyond an intense stare.
Y/N turns and catches him looking. He doesn't shy away. Instead, he gets the bartender to pour him a drink—Nico's signature drink—and raises a silent toast with a smirk. He holds the glass the same way. He drinks the same way.
Y/N knows what he's doing, and by god it's working.
Nicodeme is seeing a spitting image of himself—and call him narcissitic or self-absorbed, but he's never been so eager to give that teasing fling more than a single hurried night.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#lackadaisy reader insert#nicodeme savoy#nico savoy#nicodeme lackadaisy#lackadaisy nico#absinthe imagines#reader insert#lackadaisy x reader
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Perhaps some headcanons of a character of your choosing with a reader who is not only good at karate but using surrounding objects as weapons? Thank you!
Something a little shorter. :)
Nicodeme Savoy had faced off against a great many skilled opponents during his lifetime, not only during his time working for Marigold but also as a wrestler and a street orphan.
But this one was definitely something new.
He first met Y/N on a running mission that should have been easy enough. So easy Mr Sweet had sent him out alone: get the goods, get back without drawing too much attention. It sounded easy.
Clearly, his boss hadn't counted on the sneaky little shadow that had gotten to the secret stash before him.
That first time, all Nico had seen was an empty but clearly searched hiding spot, and a silhouette disappearing over a rooftop with a crate under their arm—how they had gotten up there with it in the first place was beyond him.
Nevertheless, an easy excuse and a largely successful mission the following evening soon wiped all memory of the incident from the Marigold's hive mind and records.
Then Nico met Y/N again.
This time, they got to the location at the same time, and Nico had thought the encounter would be solved easily enough with his own two fists. He was proven surprisingly wrong when he was left sprawled out on the ground with a missing tooth and another missing crate of Marigold cargo.
Nico had never ever been vanquished so brutally, least of all by an opponent smaller than him using a martial technique he somehow had no name for.
(Karate, sources would later tell him, but that still meant next to nothing to him.)
Now it was personal.
Much like how Sherlock had Moriarty, Nicodeme Savoy had this elusive Y/N L/N, an identity only revealed to him by local gossip.
When he realized his hands alone wouldn't do, he turned to guns—and just as easily Y/N turned to fashioning anything they could get their hands on into a shield or even a weapon. Such resilience, such ingenuity, such frustratingly good resourcefulness.
Nico would have been angry if he wasn't so in absolute awe. Those stragglers from Lackadaisy and his evenly-matched spars with his sister were one thing, but Y/N was somehow another entirely.
Y/N was fresh, invigorating, a new challenge. It had been a long time since he was set to chase a brilliant shadow. The adrenaline junkie in him was completely and utterly addicted.
Nico didn't want to get to know Y/N, even if he knew where to find them easily. He liked the thrill, he liked the idea of them. Breaking the spectacle of gunfire, karate chops and cover of darkness would take that all away.
He wasn't ready to let go.
Y/N felt the same way.
"Same time tomorrow?" they called to him one night.
Nico, nursing a black eye, smirked back. "I'll get you, cher," he vowed without much bite to his threat.
He would, one day, if he ever got tired of it.
Until then, he could only watch as Y/N playfully waved and hopped over a wall, another Marigold-bound crate in their possession.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy reader insert#lackadaisy & reader#nicodeme savoy#lackadaisy nico#nico savoy#nicodeme lackadaisy
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Like Viktor treats Ivy as his daughter what if his partner treated Rocky as a son? Headcanons please
So I know Tracy confirmed that Viktor "couldn't be straighter", but I wrote this as GN just in case as the asker did not specify.
•"Rickaby? Nothing but trouble."
•That's one of Viktor's favourite replies when their partner speaks of Rocky. He obviously doesn't use the same tone or contempt when Ivy is mentioned, but there's a reason behind that.
•(Y/N hopes that she'll meet Alena one day, or at least find out more about her than just her name.)
•Until then, there's another youngster who needs their help: his name is Rocky Rickaby, he's twenty-three, he's been fiercely independent since he knew how to walk and he's—to put it bluntly—a professional maniac.
•To be fair, there are a few of them running around Lackadaisy nowadays. He fits right in.
•So why does Y/N feel so attached to Rocky in particular?
•Maybe it's because she sees everyone else the violinist looks up to cast him aside or brush him off, even if they don't do so out of nastiness. Maybe it's how she's the one who claps the hardest when he finishes a poem while everyone else continues with their conversations and barely glances his way.
•Maybe it was how she almost broke down when she saw him return to the speakeasy with a deep gnash straight down the middle of his forehead.
•Whatever the case, Y/N has made it their mission to be the one who cares.
•They make him daily batches of pancakes and waffles—his favourites—with the same domesticity as they would concoct a packed lunch for school.
•They purposely seek him out on breaks and encourages him to tell them more about their artistic ambitions, from stage showmanship to Shakespearian poetry.
•They routinely insist on tending to his wound themselves, because everyone else seems too scared to do so.
•Whether Rocky has noticed the parental protection he's been put under or not is debatable. Others, however, have very much indeed.
•"Vy do you like that kid so much?"
"I don't know, I just feel… something. Like he's a part of me. It's difficult to explain, but Rocky needs someone."
"Rocky has himself. It's enough."
"Not everyone's like you, honey."
Silence.
"Y/N—" Their name comes out with an edge to it.
"Viktor, please. People don't help each other out as often as they should, and Rocky needs mine."
•Of course, it's more than just help.
•There's no denying the swells of pride that rise within Y/N whenever Rocky finishes a poem, gets even the smallest amount of acclaim for a violin solo he wasn't sure would get a good reception, or comes back from a successful rum-run and gets a smile from Mitzi May.
•The nail on the coffin seems to be the small voice that once confidently yelled: "That's my son!" deep inside them.
•And you know what? Y/N couldn't have put it any better themselves.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon#lackadaisy & reader#lackadaisy reader insert#rocky rickaby#viktor#viktor vasko#lackadaisy viktor#headcanon home brew
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I adore reading the Headcanons y’all have made so far- if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could I request Nico x Male!University Student Reader?
OK, so I didn't read the ask right the first time and accidentally brewed up a few drops of a oneshot before I realized the order was for a crate of headcanons, so please enjoy this strange new hybrid of drink.
Y/N only came to St Louis for the university… and because his brother had told their mother that it was the safest place to be.
Safe, my ass.
There seem to be criminal activities everywhere he looked, from stolen apples to stolen cars, schoolyard fights to drive by shootings.
No wonder Y/N preferred to stay inside most of the time.
It wasn't too hard to pick out the culprit's either despite adamant police assurance that they had no leads in any of their cases. They were the ones, usually scarred, who willingly chose to linger suspiciously on dangerous street corners, aloof in stance but vigilant in piercing stares.
One of them in particular crossed his eyes often; a white and dove grey tom with a rolling musculature who lingered around the streets. Sometimes he'd be accompanied by someone French whispers between them identified as his sister. Student gossip claimed he was an infamous hijacker from one of the local speakeasies.
It only made the glances and grins he give Y/N that much more sickening to see. As long as he stayed away from the criminal societies of Saint Louis, he'd be fine.
…right…?
"Tutor me."
Y/N had made the grave mistake of sitting too close to the university gates. The smirk of a white faced feline pressed between the bars lining the walls.
"I… what?"
"I can pay. A lot."
"For what?"
"I told you, tutoring. You seem smart enough for the job, and brave. Ain't too many geniuses here who'd even talk to me for this long."
It was only then Y/N realized all his friends had left his side. Cowards. He couldn't blame them, though: he was close to running off himself. The revolver-shaped bulge in the tomcat's pocket made him swallow hard.
"Never was a book kid, never finished school properly either. Serafine said maybe I should take advantage of my stakeouts 'ere to pick up a little. Could be useful. I said I can pay. Deal?"
Y/N was honestly too frightened to say no.
The first week had Y/N panicking and trying to get into a routine.
Nico—or Mr Savoy, as Y/N's terror insisted on calling him—came along every other day, at the same time in the same place. With the barred wall between them, one taught and the other learned.
They went through everything from basic math to spelling, and even a touch of history and literature here and there. It was all a far cry from the master courses Y/N was at the university for in the first place.
Mr Savoy held his end of the bargain; a steady flow of money kept rolling into Y/N's account—god knows how Nico found it in the first place. It was a well paying gig, and for a couple of hours or so a week, it was a good one.
Y/N was never allowed to question his student about anything. He didn't ask where the staggering amount of cash came from, nor what happened when Nico would turn up battere, bruised, and still even bleeding from untended cuts. Y/N had learned the hard way when a worried hand tried to touch one on the back of his hand, and that same hand suddenly flew towards him with a growl. Thank god the metal bars were there.
Nico was smart, although not necessarily in the way Y/N expected. As he had said, Nico wasn't one to bury his head in books. His logic and intelligence was rather rooted in streetsmart instincts and on unbridled confidence, an assurance so sure of himself with every wrong answer that even Y/N had to double check his own lessons and notes. His panic must have showed far more than he had intended it to.
Nico would watch him scramble for his papers with a smirk. "Am I wrong, though?"
"That's not the kind of division I was talking about, Mr Savoy—"
"What will it take you to call me Nico, eh? Anyway, am I still wrong?"
"Technically, it could but—"
"There we go."
"—not in this case. This is mathematical division not literal…body…division, if you know what I mean."
He wondered if Nico was actually listening at all, with his sleazy face propped up on his sleazy paw and the cocky lash of his sharp tongue whipping behind his eyes and with every flick of his tail.
"You're very cute when you're like that, cher," he remarked idly.
Y/N choked on his words.
Nico laughed.
Nico left the lesson full of cheer.
Y/N left it still strangled and red in the face
That was not the first nor the last time Nico pulled similar tricks. Once he seemed to realize Y/N was vastly inexperienced with romance and blushed easily, he flustered him every time he could.
Compliments, fleeting touches, even a teasing kiss on the cheek as a goodbye from time to time.
And Y/N could still not let anything out but stammered nonsense.
He was a disruptive pupil, but not in an endearing and innocent, childish way.
Much more in a… seductive fashion.
Y/N had promised himself (and his whole family) that he wouldn't fall in with the wrong crowd, but Nico…
Oooh, that darn criminal...
He was something else entirely, and Y/N had a feeling he wasn't going to break the chains for a long time yet.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy reader insert#nicodeme savoy#lackadaisy nico#nicodeme lackadaisy#lackadaisy x reader
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Friendship headcanons for the Savoy twins?
•Friends? Let's just call it being an overcompensated acquaintance and/or colleague.
•Maybe the camaraderie began during a particularly rowdy evening the Marigold's hard-liquor establishment, following a fight or even a forced partnership courtesy of Asa Sweet.
•At first, it must have seemed relatively daunting: after all, these are some of he most notorious criminals in St. Louis. One wrong move could get you on their bad side—or worse. The last of of their so-called "friends" Asa mentioned in passing was found at the bottom of the Mississippi.
•But y'know what? So far, it hasn't been all too bad.
•There aren't too many eggshells to tread on once Y/N got used to their impulsivity and boisterousness. Maybe they even end up infecting them with it. When inevitably happens, Y/N may as well have got themselves a golden ticket into their little unhinged duo.
•As with romantic partners, the Savoys need someone to match their seemingly inexhaustible energy, and someone they're 80% confident won't sell them out. Someone who'll happily blast a wall apart with an automatic rifle and not feel guilty about it afterwards.
•Once that unofficial test has been passed, they aren't afraid to open up a little. Serafine's fondness for spices becomes Y/N's with little dishes the two of them cook up together when time is kind—or, just as often, seeing who can hold the most heat—and they've become almost as proficient at fly-fishing and navigating the swamps as Nico.
•Again, even with those little, gun-less, blood-less moments of peace, Y/N isn't certain they can exactly call themselves friends as such.
•Neither Nico nor Serafine have ever so much as uttered the word, in French or English.
•However, that all changed one night when a bar brawl had Y/N shoved up against the wall with a vicious eye glaring at them and a fist scrunched up and ready to knock them straight into hell.
•Y/N had never seen the Savoys step in as quick as they did.
•Serafine damaged a claw or two and Nico came out with a broken nose, but to them it was worth it.
•"You alright, mon ami?"
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy & reader#lackadaisy reader insert#nicodeme savoy#nico savoy#nicodeme lackadaisy#serafine savoy#lackadaisy serafine
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I have a craving for a oneshot on the rocks, with a hint harsh, a drip of tagic, a taste of spice, and an after taste as sweet a sugar.
For flavoring, I was thinking about of a Nicodeme "Nico" Savory or a Mordecai Heller, which ever the Bardtender think's will taste better.
Two characters, two authors! Enjoy your flavourful drinks. (Just make sure you have a designated driver to take you home, since this is gonna be a Hell of an experience. Maybe you should sit down. No passing out in my bar!) -mod Ille
At last, my bilingual ass has been summoned for something! -mod Iphie
(CW for semi-descriptive headshot, a nasty gash to the arm and implied character death)
Mordecai’s head pounded from the blow against the brick wall. The cat who had roughly shoved him there was now practically headless, their skull shattered from a point-blank side-of-the-head shot.
Y/N was panting slightly as they both eyed the corpse. Mordecai taking off his glasses to clean the blood splatters off the lenses snapped their attention towards him and relief flooded their eyes. “Thank god, you’re okay…”
“‘Okay’ is subjective,” Mordecai grumbled, not at all surprised when a curious hand came down with blood when he checked the back of his head. “I may require medical assistance.”
“Shit. Let me see?”
On a normal day, he would have objected. He would’ve shied away from his partner’s touch and insisted that they merely get going in case the bloodthirsty felines they had the unfortunate luck of working with killed the cat they were tasked with questioning. This time, however, he reluctantly yet obediently turned around.
Y/N carefully moved his pinned ears up, mumbling an apology as they knew he didn’t like them getting touched. “It doesn’t look like much,” they said after a moment. “I think your fur’s picked up the worst of it. Once you get cleaned up you can probably get a better idea of what to do with it. Does your brain hurt?”
Mordecai shook his head slowly. It didn’t feel like anything got knocked loose, nor did his brain loudly object by spinning or pounding. “No.”
“No headache, no…?”
“Nothing, I appear to be fine.”
Y/N didn’t respond to that, instead moving around Mordecai to check his eyes. They visibly relaxed when they made eye contact. “You’re fine. Your eyes are clear. You’ve got a thick head, Morde.”
Mordecai rolled his eyes in response. Y/N snickered and held a blood-soaked hand out to him as gunshots started up again somewhere a little ways away from their alleyway.
“C’mon,” they whispered. “I think the twins are having too much fun without us.”
Mordecai pointedly stared at their hand. Y/N got the hint after a moment and wiped it off onto their pant leg as much as they could. When it was more or less clean, he finally slipped his hand into theirs and led them towards the sounds of violence.
Needless to say, the Savoys were having far more of a ball than Mordecai and Y/N did. Neither of them knew what it was about the situation that had made them so feral—what it was about their job in general—but it was to be expected that when a bit of firepower needed to be fired, there would be no survivors.
The particularly unlucky spot they had got themselves in involving not only an interrogation gone wrong, but a rival gang and couple of passing cops too.
No, the Savoys were not professional or clean in their line of work, but Mordecai had to admit they were definitely quick and effective.
By the time they turned the alleyway corner, the last shots had been fired and there were no more disturbances to be seen—or to deal with. Before long, raucous laughter replaced the blazing gunfire.
Serafine heaved Boudreaux onto her shoulder and wiped the sweat from her brow. "Seems like that's the last of 'em," she sighed, kicking one of the surrounding corpse with the steel toe of her boot. "They really thought pistols and glass could come up against us!"
"The source?"
"Dead."
"And the other intruders?"
"All dead, of course."
"And the cops?"
Serafine gave him a look. "What do you think? We're not that stupid, cher."
"What about the cargo?" Mordecai pressed, wiping the back of his bleeding hand on his trenchcoat.
"'S all here," Nico chuckled, patting the crate hidden behind a couple of bins. "Secure and ready to go, chief."
Mordecai glanced at it. His frown only soured. To think that all of this—the red stained cobbles, the spent and expensive ammunition, even the new scar he sustained to the back of his hand—was for one small box. Mr Sweet must have been incredibly eager to get his hands on whatever was inside, at the detriment of his staff.
Mordecai only hoped it was worth it.
He had been wondering that a lot ever since he joined the Marigold bandits. Lackadaisy runs had been just as messy, but at least they weren't for as senseless a cause as this one.
A sudden gasp from Y/N brought him back to the rest of his team.
"Nico, your arm!"
Mordecai's paled when he finally clocked on to what they meant. A long, deep gnash tore down the Savoy brother's left arm, the jagged wound so deep it was almost black in the low light of the alley. Blood smeared every inch of his fur and then some, staining his front and even his cheek. The glass shard used to perform the deed was still wedged inside, worryingly close to his wrist.
Even Serafine took a step back, the bloodlust in her eyes cast aside immediately.
Only Nico was calm.
He looked down and yanked out the glass, then rolled his shoulder back to inspect the damage. He shrugged.
"I've had worse," he laughed.
Mordecai knew a lie when he heard one, and when he saw that Nico's brave face was slipping by the second. Dark chuckles of dismissal lost assurance and volume until they were barely heard at all. Bright amber eyes lost focus and eyelids sagged.
He collapsed.
Serafine rushed to catch her twin, carefully laying him down on the ground. She squeezed his uninjured hand as Y/N--who was evidently playing medic today--dropped to their knees on his other side and took their claws to the coat they were wearing.
"He's bleeding a lot," they muttered fearfully, talking more to themself than anything. "We might need to take him to a hospital."
"No."
Their ears flicked as Mordecai brought them back to the present. They looked back at him. "Mordecai, this is more than I can handle. If we don't get him to the—"
"How will you explain the injury?"
"It's none of their business." There was a hard edge to Serafine's voice. "Eider he goes, or I kill you both when 'e dies."
Mordecai made his way over to Y/N and knelt down beside them. Blood was still flowing from the wound in a steady stream, it easily soaking through the coat fabric Y/N painstakingly wrapped around Nico's arm as a bandage.
"He will either bleed out before we get to the hospital," he started, straightening up again. "Or he will seizure and pass on anyway. There is no—"
Serafine lunged. Y/N grabbed her shoulders before claws met fur. "Serafine, don't! Don't. I will do what I can to keep him stable. You stay with him."
The queen was out for blood again, her ears pinned back almost flat against her skull and her tail fluffed out. Still, she relented; ever so slowly returning to crouching by Nico's side and taking his hand again. Y/N was probably one of the few felines that could talk her down from bloodthirsty to benevolent.
Mordecai stood back again as Y/N went to work, putting pressure on the wound and mumbling to themself. Serafine appeared to have gone inside herself as she held Nico's free hand in one and stroked his head with the other.
"T'es un salaud si tu penses que j'vais te laisser crever comme ça," she muttered.
Nico's chuckle was far too light for the situation. "Et toi, t'es toujours aussi têtue qu'au couvent," he teased weakly. "Y a des choses qui ne changent jamais, hein?"
"J'suis ta sœur. Je reste ici."
"En tant que ton frère, je dis que non. Les flics peuvent arriver d'un moment à l'autre."
"T'as pas le choix, mon cher."
She gripped his hand tighter, for the last time.
When his breathing started to become shallow and Y/N's canines appeared over their bottom lip, Mordecai predicted the end result.
They looked at Serafine mumbling what Mordecai presume to be a prayer before turning to him, their E/C eyes worried. An unspoken question hung between them. "What do I say to her?"
Serafine and Nicodeme were inseparable. Where one was, the other was hardly ever far behind. From what Mordecai could tell they had been that way since they were children.
There would be no easy way to pull Serafine away from her twin brother.
Y/N reached across Nico to put their hand on top of the twins' own. Serafine's head snapped up to meet their eyes. They swallowed hard before speaking. "Serafine..."
"I know."
"You don't have to stay here. If you don't want to see him—"
She shook her head, cutting them off. "I'm staying here. You leave, bring him—" She shot Mordecai a dirty glare. "—too. I don't want to see his face again. Not after his idiotic interrogation went wrong and caused this. I'll deal with him later."
"But—"
"Go."
Y/N nodded and carefully stood up, reluctantly taking their hands off Nico's arm. Serafine stroked his head again as they made their way over to Mordecai.
Their voice cracked when they spoke. "She wants us to leave."
"So I overheard."
"She's not happy."
"I heard that too."
"Mordecai, I swear to god, if you start being snarky when her brother is fucking—"
He cut them off by abruptly turning and walking away. They rushed to catch up to him, their fur bristling.
The walk between the two back to the car was silent. Y/N was oddly quiet, their eyes hard and footsteps quick. It wasn't until Mordecai reached for the driver's side door that they broke the spell. "Uh-uh, you're not driving."
Mordecai turned to them. "Excuse me?"
"You took a nasty hit to the head." Y/N wouldn't meet his eyes as they pulled his hand away from the door handle. "Even if you don't have a concussion, I don't want you driving. The motion might aggravate things and—"
"Y/N."
"—then it'll be you in the hospital and I'll have to explain that anyway and—"
"Y/N L/N."
"—then Mister Sweet is going to want answers and—"
Y/N squeaked when Mordecai grabbed their shoulders and shoved them against the car. E/C eyes finally met green ones as they stumbled over their words to silence.
"Enough." Mordecai dusted off their shoulders, and then his own paws, before standing up straight again. "We will be fine without him. She will likely be more of a savage than usual, but we will deal with that. Asa Sweet will be my responsibility to deal with, not yours."
He definitely did not want to think of the funeral, if at all. He didn't know what was sadder: the thought of it happening in the first place, or the fact that he'd likely not get one at all.
At his core, Nico was just another disposable part of the Marigold workforce. Mordecai had to get it into his head himself and stop wallowing over it all. He would need to try and get Y/N to do so as well. He could see tears well up in their eyes.
Crying never helped anyone or anything. It certainly wouldn't now, not unless they were made of magical medicine that could cure all ailments.
But as luck would have it, they were not.
That was where unprofessionalism like the Savoys got people in this business. They'd take it as a warning.
A warning that stung, but a warning to be sure. The thought of such a strong, seemingly unbeatable fighter dying in an alley, in dirt, in disgrace, made his fur bristle.
Mordecai still couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't a little his own fault, somewhere down the line.
He probably wouldn't admit it even if it was.
Y/N's ears moved back and forth, either registering his words or listening for something. They looked over both of his shoulders and back over their own. Mordecai strained his own ears to listen to, so their next words made him (embarrassingly) flinch.
"Can I hug you?"
"What? Yes. Wait, no-"
Too late. Y/N practically threw themself at him, crushing him into a hug so tight it felt like he was about to be suplexed. His hiss of displeasure went unnoticed by them, up until he awkwardly patted their head; then they abruptly let go and backed up so quickly they slammed against the car and bumped their head.
The irony wasn't lost on Mordecai as Y/N growled and rubbed the back of their head. They shot him a look when they noticed the small smile on his muzzle.
"Don't say it."
"Do you require medical assistance?"
[French Translations:
"If you think I'm gonna leave you here alone to die, you're a bastard."
"And you're still as stubborn as you were back at the convent. Some things never change, eh?"
"I'm your sister. I'm staying here."
"And as your brother, I say no. The cops could arrive at any moment."
"You don't have much of a choice in the matter, my dear."]
#🖋 mod ille#🦉mod iphiko#Oneshot on the Rocks#Lackadaisy#Mordecai Heller#Nicodeme Savoy#Serafine Savoy#oneshot#tw character death
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Hiii!!! Could you maybe do like, a reader with a familial relationship to Rocky (can be parental or sibling like whichever) who like invites Rocky to stay with them since I’m 90% sure that the car did NOT survive the pilot so he kiiinnndaa needs a place to live for the time being?
love ur writing btw!!!
Whoops, didn't necessarily tie it in perfectly to the pilot, but here we go anyway:
Maybe the car broke down (again). Maybe he was chased out of the closed speakeasy with a broom (again). Maybe he's on the run from the cops (again).
Whatever the case, congrats Y/N L/N: Rocky is moving in! Please baby proof absolutely everything.
There are no first day jitters with Rocky Rickaby. Once he's through the door, so is his crazed tornado. I really hope you locked up your crockery.
Not only that, he sees you as a parental figure: you can't exactly kick him out. You'd be a fool to pretend he isn't like your own little toddler—except that this one is well into his twenties and knows how to man a gun.
It's a baby with a gun, if you catch my drift (and reference). A baby with multiple guns. Yep, he's brought them all to yours for "safekeeping". There's a high likelihood half of them aren't even his, but who are you to judge?
If the cops did ever raid your house, however, you vow you'll throw Rocky under the bus for a cornchip.
You won't, but you'll definitely think about it.
You'll also think about it when he leaves hair and claw-marks all over your sofa, or when he doesn't wash the dishes like he promised to, or when he clogs the drains, or when he makes you a bulbous, slimy form of charcoal and sauce he calls "dinner"...
They're small little things, but still important enough to address for the long run.
It's an accomplishment to have managed to sit Rocky down long enough to put down some boundaries and ground rules, and even more of an achievement that you did so in a way he actually seemed to have listened.
He tries his best, bless him, he really does.
Part of you wonders if there isn't some sort of long overdue trauma talk behind that. You know he's lived a relatively unstable life, but you haven't realized how ephemeral until you have him under your wing.
He would probably avoid the question if you brought it up, but still. Maybe one day down the line…
Until then, you promise him on the regular that no matter what, he'll always have a place to stay with you.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy reader insert#lackadaisy & reader#rocky rickaby#lackadaisy rocky#rocky lackadaisy
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Hi👋♡.
May I request one-shots Serafine Savoy and Nico Savoy with teen fem!Reader (Platonic) the Reader is a delivery girl she helps them all the time and of course they have to get her something for her hard work she do for them.
[ money maybe?]
{Love your blog by the way♡}.
Don't know how this turned into a spin-off, cat episode of something that feels straight out of Peaky Blinders, but here you go!
Get a job, Mother said. The world is changing and girls need to pull their weight, just how I did during the Great War.
However, when Y/N finally got one of course she wasn't too happy.
"An unpaid delivery girl? You could have aimed slightly higher, especially with that mind of yours."
Well, perhaps she wouldn't have been so picky if she realized her daughter didn't have much of a choice in the matter. No one accidentally ran into a criminals hunting ground and got out completely unscathed, in reputation or otherwise. Her own price to pay was becoming an uncompensated errand girl for a couple of no good kitties with sharp gazes, smiles and knives. A lot of knives, and guns too.
The option to refuse wasn't really on the table. That was a couple of months ago now.
Maybe Y/N should have realized sooner something about her job was shadier than she first thought. At first there seem to be nothing amiss. Y/N was asked to post letters, carry tattered and lightly but suspiciously stained clothes to and from the tailors. Small things she had no problem doing for free. They weren't too out of the way either; most of the shops and post boxes were on her way to school.
Her suspicions only really started when she was sent to pick up a suspicious-looking package from a derelict riverside cafe. It was just the one, and she delivered it without a hitch. Looking back she probably should have failed to do so; it would have certainly avoided the fear and stress that came when she was sent on a similar errand the week after.
Then it became every three days and sometimes even twice in one.
Mother was right: Y/N had a good head on her shoulders. She didn't need to peek into the boxes to know what she was carrying was less than legal. She was also well aware that if anything happened to the cargo inside she'd be dead, but she was also smart enough to know she could hand it over to the cops at any time. Who knows, she could end up taking down a major crime ring in St. Louis. She could become a hero!
Or…
She could beat her generously-loaded employers at their own game.
Y/N burst into the hotel suite, waving the letter high in her hand. "Delivery!"
The cloud of smoke hanging around the divans parted, and a carefully manicured, clawed hand beckoned her closer. "Merci, now give it here, cher."
For once, Y/N stayed put. "No."
"No?" The hand cleared the rest of the fog, and Miss Savoy's amber eye watched her, widening.
Those stares didn't scare Y/N anymore, not after working for them for months. She even took a step back. "No."
"Elle se prend pour qui?" Miss Savoy's brother growled, raising himself up from his seat. His cigarette hung limply from the corner of his mouth.
"Nico, laisse-la," Miss Savoy tutted. "Elle a du culot, c'est presque impressionnant."
"I'd like it if you didn't talk behind my back," Y/N bit out.
"And we'd like it if you hand over the letter like the good girl we know you can be."
Again, Y/N held it out of reach. "And I'd like to be compensated."
"Your compensation is us not killin' you for messin' up our gig," Nico pointed out.
"You gangstas might want to think of marking your territory better so a teenager doesn't fuck you up."
"She swears too."
They seemed almost surprised. Y/N decided to skip the rest of the pleasantries.
"Money."
"What?"
"I want money."
Nico and Serafine looked at each other. Then, he smirked. She grinned. They both fell about laughing, leaving a confused Y/N to ping-pong between them and scowl.
"What's so funny?"
They only replied to each other in quick snippets of French she couldn't understand.
"What is it?" she repeated.
"T'as perdu, c'est toi qui paye," Serafine smirked to her brother, again ignoring Y/N's questions.
Nico rolled his eyes and rummaged around in a nearby tin. "Bien joué…"
He held out a wad of cash—and by god it was more than she had ever seen in her life! He was essentially offering her her own small fortune, most of it likely made of blood money.
She didn't take it right away. "What's all this about?"
Nico shook the money in front of her eyes. "Bettin' to see how long it'd take you to man up and ask."
Y/N was dumbfounded. "Ask?"
"For payment."
So, they were saying everything she had done for free, every risk and every broken law…
"All I had to do was ask?!"
Nico cracked a sickening grin. "Yes, cher."
Yes. That was all he said, the only confirmation. She wanted to scream, she wanted to shout, she wanted to take that rifle off the wall and—
She snatched up the money with a frown, shooting daggers from her eyes. She handed over the letter. "I hate you both."
Nico's grin softened. "Hate you too," he said with no real conviction or the previous bit she knew he could give.
Almost as if he was trying to be her friend.
They could try all they liked, but they wouldn't get far.
Not now.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#lackadaisy reader insert#lackadaisy & reader#nicodeme savoy#lackadaisy nico#nicodeme lackadaisy#serafine savoy#lackadaisy serafine#oneshot on the rocks#oneshot#aaaaah I'm burning myself out#let's gooo... :')
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hihihihi!! Would it be alright to ask for romantic mitzi hcs with a fem reader?
Hm… I'll be honest, I get a lot of femme fatale vibes with Mitzi. Not as obviously and scarily dangerous as with Serafine, but close enough. I'm sure Atlas could confirm.
Y/N and Mitzi (or Mary Ellen, as she was known at the time) met in dubious circumstances on the road. The friendship began over a common love for gin and the works of Edgar Allan Poe, and went on to become a brief fling for both.
Young Mary was a sparkling diamond, a bundle of joy and wistful daydreaming that enamoured both friends and partners. She had a flair for the exotic in both her taste in fashion and affairs, and seemed to find the rule breaking nature of having a female partner exhilarating. She dreamed of big things, although there was enough reasonable hesitation to reel her back into reality.
However, a brief infatuation remained just that, and they parted ways.
Y/N thought that would be it… until she bumped into Mary (or "Mitzi", as she preferred to be called now) in the streets of St. Louis, arm in arm with a new fellow—a certain Atlas May, whose wedding ring she now wore.
Both Y/N and Mitzi averted their gazes from each other, but Y/N could feel her eyes burn through her as she strode out of sight.
Mitzi must have had connections, because she found Y/N's place of residence surprisingly quickly—and in a whirlwind, whatever romance they had was back.
Older Mitzi was slightly different from her younger self. There was still the fondness for gin, although mint juleps seemed to be her newfound drink of choice. Poe's literature evolved into a macabre love for the obituary column in the paper.
A sense of class and wealth replaced the innocent youth and carelessness she had in her younger years. She seemed older than she actually was.
Talks of dreams were still wild, but always dashed by bouts of nostalgia and the lingering presence of one new actor on their stage.
Y/N had no idea whether Mitzi loved or resented Atlas. She never talked much about him, but always went running back. It soured things a little.
Something seemed a little off, but it was hard to pinpoint what exactly it was...
However, with Mitzi back in her life, Y/N was truly happy.
Mitzi braided her hair like old times, sang and danced with her in her apartment's crummy bedroom, shared mindless gossip with an enthusiasm that both astounded and amused.
In those moments, Y/N could almost pretend that the world revolved just around the two of them.
She was sure she had Mitzi's heart forever when one night, she whispered: "I would kill for you, darling."
Coincidentally, Atlas May was found murdered three days later.
Coincidentally…
...right?
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy reader insert#lackadaisy x reader#lackadaisy mitzi#mitzi may
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this blog is perfect hyperfixation fuel, haha
any headcanons about morecai and the savoys being the world's most dysfunctional colleagues?
•Alright, let's get a few basics down: Serafine is the definition of a spiritually-loopy wine aunt, Nico's the uncle who will yeet children across rooms and let them ride the alligators because "it's fun and they seem to enjoy it", and Mordecai is the only reasonable thing close to a dad-like figure within a three mile radius of the Marigold.
•What I'm basically trying to say here is that "colleagues" is far too soft a word for what they are: they're a dysfunctional, reluctant mob family.
•Asa Sweet has played into the joke, as have the Savoys. Mr Heller, on the other hand, decidedly hasn't.
•He has had to drag those two loose cannons out of many scrapes, not by love but by fear of the extravagant funeral expenses—because the Savoys have said many times that they will be high and lavish.
•Being threatened by the prospect of an expensive burial is definitely not a threat Mordecai has heard before, but holy shit it works. He's not about to give these maniacs' egos any satisfaction whatsoever.
•When he's not yanking one down to forcefully make them literally dodge bullets, he's making snide remarks about what he considers their sloppy criminal ways.
•On the other hand, the Savoys have dubbed him "Monsieur Tête-Dans-Le-Cul", a relatively rude name Mordecai has had the decency and self-preservation not to attempt to translate. He knows it's not flattering in the slightest.
•He himself has labeled them as a couple of things as well: the Snake and the Alligator.
•Not particularly insulting by any means, at least to the outside world. Mordecai's thought process behind the scheme is long and complex enough to persuade himself that they are clever and demeaning.
•It immediately backfired on him when the Snake and the Alligator thanked him and started bearing them with pride.
•Mordecai has even seen a couple of rushed condolence notes left on victims that were signed off with his masterful choice of nicknames.
•Savoys: 1, Heller: 0
•In short, the dysfunctional colleague relationship between the three of them boils down to this: when attempting to discipline the Savoys—who are essentially the grown up and armed equivalents of kids who should be leashed—either via his own attempted spurts of brilliance or by trying to beat them at their own game, Mordecai often ends up forfeiting in one way or another.
•He's had Mr Sweet's racaucous roars of laughter ringing in his ears from their antics too often to know that although Mordecai often wins, the Savoys simply don't know how to lose.
#🦉mod iphiko#I had fun can't you tell?#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#mordecai#mordecai heller#mordecai lackadaisy#nico savoy#nicodeme lackadaisy#nicodeme savoy#lackadaisy serafine#serafine savoy
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Sitting in your requests box
Could I possibly ask for a Viktor & Reader (either familial or platonic, please) headcanons or a oneshot where Viktor (reluctantly) comforts the reader after a bad dream? (I know this is probably OOC for Viktor but. but. Cat dad)
We do love Dadktor in this household.
Cracked Glass
Viktor wouldn't call himself a father, or at least not a very good one.
Although his daughter's letters were all signed off with love, he could feel the bitterness beneath the lines, the cold regret of his silence in every "merry Christmas" or "please write soon". He could see the deep indents in the paper as the years dragged on, where shy curiosity about his absence turned to frustration. As Alena's curly handwriting became neater and clearer to read, so did her feelings towards him.
She loved him to bits, but she just wanted some sort of proof that he loved her back.
Viktor would have given it if holding a pen was more familiar to him than holding a gun was. If ink and blood were switched. If he wasn't embarrassed that his daughter's English and overall prose was better than his own. If he believed that anything he could say could make any of it better.
It wouldn't. A single letter from him would warrant a landslide of questions, open up cans of worms and shaken booze he'd rather keep closed and in his own flask.
A father would have done so regardless of the consequences. Viktor would not have considered himself as such, no matter how much the pain of it trickled down his tight throat and heaving chest.
In times like this, he chugged whatever illicit beverage was closest to him.
The last bottle of Sunset Rose Cocktail.
Slightly better than radiator fluid, the drink that felt like downing shattered glass, disgusting enough to take his mind off things.
Mrs May would probably scold him for drinking one of the last bottles they had. However, Viktor knew her well enough. Her hardened gaze would soften, as would she. She'd leave him be with a saddened smile and a sigh, then go and sit in a leather booth off to the side or return to the upstairs office. Anywhere that would remind her, and all of them, of Mr May.
And Viktor would continue to drink.
His guts—even after being hardened by years of questionable nutrition choices in the trenches, prison and even the speakeasy itself—protested loudly. Cracked glass indeed. No one would miss it.
He was doing the joint a favour.
It was mainly empty, anyway. The employees they could spare—and there were a few—had been sent on last minute liquor searches. Usual customers such as Mr Sable had supposedly been held back by meetings in the real world. Horatio had fallen asleep by the door, or so the loud snoring from outside implied. Zib and his group were lounging on stage in a depressing silence and drunken stupor.
The rest of the gun-savvy staff—very few, maybe two or three—left behind were those recovering from avoidable injuries. At their head was Viktor himself, reluctantly manning the bar. Feared gunslinger to an old tabby locked behind the counter with weak knees, the permanent head of the stragglers.
None of the other runners were happy with their predicament either. They were visibly restless, pacing the floor and muttering to themselves as if it would heal their injuries any faster. No one wanted to end up like Viktor: that was common knowledge, and offended him just a little.
The only one who was actually resting did so off to the side, a twisted wrist bandaged up in strips of linen. Their head was buried between their arms, sleeping soundly.
Viktor had been watching them for a while out of the corner of his eye. Y/N, he vaguely heard someone call them.
They were one of the speakeasy's new rumrunners, small and fluffy—although to be fair, that was what most of Lackadaisy's youngsters looked like to him.
The only difference between them was the amount of tolerance he had in regards to each one. Ivy was at the top of the list, Rocky was at the bottom, and that ginger Calvin kid was lost somewhere in the middle because he never really built up the courage to stay in Viktor's presence for longer than a minute at a time.
Y/N stirred, then shivered, and finally woke up with a start. Glistening beads of sweat and wide, terrified eyes sparkled in the light of the cavern's lamps, dimmed to save on the bills.
They looked around, and finally locked eyes with Viktor. He looked down and away, put away the empty bottle and continued to polish a shot glass. Both the glass and the rag were comically small between his paws, and it took him all of his concentration to avoid crushing either.
He didn't hear the rumrunner slowly pad up to the counter, pull up a chair and only paid attention when they cleared their throat.
"Vat?" he asked, gruffly. The growl was unintentional.
"Can I talk to you?" asked Y/N. "I had a bad dream…"
A bartender needs to look like someone the patronage can tell their troubles to, Mrs May had told him many times.
It of course insinuated that he looked nothing of the sort. Other members of staff often joked that smiling properly would kill him one of these days. Vinegar, they called him, sour old Vinegar. They thought he wasn't listening, of course. He never gave any indication that he ever did, but Viktor heard it all. The cave's echoey atmosphere was the bane of secret rumours and the friend of those defamed by them. Neither brought any sense of victory when accomplished, but oftentimes were the only things worth latching onto in times of trouble. Viktor never confronted any of the stories about him. Many would think that he simply didn't care enough to. The claw marks on the underside of the bar begged to differ.
No smile, and few public clues or knowledge about his past. Sensible patrons and staff members would see that as reason enough to distance themselves from him. There were always exceptions.
The groggy-eyed feline slumped into the stool before him was one of them.
Viktor gave Y/N reluctant permission with a dismissive wave. He turned to the lines of bottles and glasses behind the counter. He had cleaned them religiously and multiple times that evening alone. One more time wouldn't hurt.
"I had a nightmare."
He hummed, rearranging the whiskey.
"I was on a run, alone. I don't know why. There was no one at all, not even in the speakeasy. I… I think everyone was dead…"
Dead.
That was a word he didn't hear too often—ironic considering his line of work—and least of all from the mouth of a kid. Oh sure, Rocky weaved it into poetry and aggressive patrons spat it out when they cursed out God over their drinks, but the thought of applying it to the rest of the staff, so bluntly, undisguised?
He stopped to properly listen, ears cocked.
"I was driving the car alone down a road by the river—I don't remember exactly where—and it was dark. There was nothing in front of me, nothing behind me, only under. The ground was made of glass everywhere I looked and the further I drove, the more it cracked. I couldn't stop and I couldn't get out. I just had to keep driving."
Their voice shuddered and broke, cracking like the road that haunted them. Viktor had since abandoned the shelves, electing instead to lean against the counter. He listened even more carefully. Politely, granted, but listening nonetheless.
"And then it split. I fell and I crashed down into freezing black water and I could get out. I couldn't swim, I just sank. Like a rock. I can't remember how I woke up. I think… I think I died too…"
The rumrunner's eyes glanced up towards Viktor. They were glazed with a glassy sheen, and…
Raspberries!—to borrow an expression from Ivy.
Were those tears running down their cheeks?
Raspberries indeed.
"My pop died during a run from the cops," they said, sniffling. "We don't even know why. Ma said he was trying to provide for us, he probably stole something. The feds chased him down to the riverbank and he lost control. They found the car the next morning and I… I can't end up like him, I can't die! My ma and sisters need me, we need the money! I can't leave them, I can't…"
They furiously wiped away the streams of tears that had only gotten bigger and wetter as they spoke.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you all this, you probably don't care, I'm…"
They hung their head, almost in shame.
Viktor said nothing.
He poured them a glass of whiskey—you never knew—and then he did something he never did before. He laid his paw on their shoulder.
The cat looked up again. Their expression twisted with somehow even more fear than the prospect of drowning did. Viktor didn't expect anything less, nor anything more.
He didn't pull away. Despite their grimace of fear, he could see the softness in their eyes.
Viktor wasn't one to use his imagination that often; what use was dreaming when a bullet could hit you any second? The only fantasy he had conjured up was his daughter stepping off a boat and running down the gangplank into his arms.
She had that same, soft look.
In Y/N, he could see Alena.
It was a semblance close enough to melt his heart. A little.
"It gets better," he told them gruffly. "It's not real."
He was never good with words, and used them sparingly. Tonight, however, they seemed to be enough to slow the flow of tears.
Y/N blinked up at him. "Really?"
A childish response to be sure, but one that Alena would have probably replied with as well.
Viktor's throat tightened. "Yes." He coughed. "Now; bar is a mess, and broom only need one good hand. To work."
The young feline smiled and hopped over the counter. "To work," they echoed.
They downed the whiskey with an enthusiasm only rivaled by Ivy's own and snatched up the broom. They darted between Viktor's legs and fluffy tail, sweeping shards of broken glass up and away. With a beaming grin and a theatrical bow, they demanded him for another task, claiming they could take anything on even with a broken wrist.
And for the first time in what felt like—and probably was—forever, Viktor smiled back.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#lackadaisy & reader#lackadaisy reader insert#viktor#viktor vasko#lackadaisy viktor#oneshot#oneshot on the rocks
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Could we get some domestic Freckle headcanons? Like stuff he would do as hobbies or little mannerisms, thank you!
Basing this on if Freckle and a partner of his finally move in together.
•Freckle has always lived by his mother Nina's stickler rules for keeping a good and happy household.
•Cleanliness is one of the top ones: when he's not sleeping, eating or working, he's probably got a broom in hand or a dust cloth. He's always polishing the porcelain, meticulously wiping down the corners of the commodes and mantlepiece, and even constantly rearranging anything he can lay his paws on. Y/N can't tell if he's doing it out of nervousness or whether he is that much of a germaphobe, but it's a real struggle to try and get him to relax.
•Maybe Nina's ways have had a long-lasting effect on him…
•When he does eventually (and forcefully made to) relax, however, he has a few hobbies he likes to do.
•Anything baseball-related is top of his list, from listening to games over the radio to avidly reading up the sports articles in the papers, and even lovingly polishing the signed balls and trophies he's accumulated throughout his childhood—although it likely also doubles up as an excuse to get some extra dusting in.
•His mother also taught him how to knit once, and he's been going at it ever since. His goal is to try to perfect his craft so he can offer presents other than store-bought cards and money to his loved ones.
•Y/N, when she finds him chest deep in a sea of wool and drowning behind a messy scarf with some loose threads and loops, has noticed the way he sticks out his tongue and bites down, humming soft tunes that get louder, faster and a lot more intense the more frustrated or panicked he seems to get.
•They find it sweet, even when he ends up pouting at dinner afterwards and blames it on stubbing his toe on the doorframe or similarly-related injuries.
•He's also the first to leap up and offer to do the dishes. In fact, he's the first to leap up and offer to do anything, from carrying groceries to waxing the floors.
•According to him, living with someone equals no rest, only work. It's taking a long time for him to understand that's not necessarily the case and that he can definitely take some time to breathe—and that Y/N has paws and legs too.
•It takes a lot for him to truly relax, and is virtually impossible for him to do so until night falls.
•When darkness fills the house and the speakeasy doesn't need his services, he likes to curl up beside Y/N, his head in their lap and his tail contently swishing from side to side. His ginger pelt seems to glow in the firelight.
•Y/N likes to read something aloud in moments like these; poetry, a play where they like to immitate silly voices, the continuation of a novel from the chapter or page their left off at. They marvel in the way Freckle's ears twitch to listen. They card a hand through his fur and love to hear him purr.
•So this is what bliss feels like, then.
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#headcanon home brew#headcanon#lackadaisy & reader#lackadaisy reader insert#lackadaisy freckle#calvin mcmurray
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If you’re willing to do continuations could you do Rocky calling Viktor’s partner Mom/Dad on accident and they just roll with it calling him son? Would Rocky then tease Viktor by calling him Dad and Ivy his sister?
Calling Viktor dad, huh? Let's sit down with a shot of Absinthe Imagines and explore that a little…
The parental title for Y/N has definitely slipped out once or twice, but Rocky is cocky enough to own up to it and Y/N loving enough to cherish it.
Viktor, however, is another matter entirely.
It's a dangerous game to be sure, calling Viktor anything other than his own name. People just got away with the nickname Vinegar because Mrs May would have thrown a fit if Viktor had murdered the rest of Lackadaisy's already critically low amount of staff.
So when Rocky started to call Viktor "dad", "pa", "father dearest" or any other familial variation…
Oh boy.
Let's just say he likes living life on the edge.
We can imagine that Rocky does it at the most inconvenient times, of course—and by inconvenient, I mean public. In front of Mitzi and Ivy, and especially in front of Y/N.
In front of Y/N because it makes them laugh, Mitzi because he wants to impress her with a semblance of a stable family life, and Ivy because he just wants to rub in that he might be the favourite child.
Viktor would beg to differ.
"So, you do admit that I'm like a happy little offspring to you, right dearest paternal guide?" Rocky teased once, ending his quip with a jolly little flick of his violin bow.
Even Y/N pressed Viktor to know what he really thought of it.
He never gave an answer but as Ivy quite rightly pointed out, it wasn't an outright refusal...
#🦉mod iphiko#lackadaisy#lackadaisy & reader#lackadaisy reader insert#rocky rickaby#lackadaisy rocky#viktor vasko#absinthe imagines#imagine
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Hi hi hi! It’s awesome to see Lackadaisy fan content writers coming on Tumblr! Could you write some general romance headcanons for Nico Savoy?
Can’t wait to see what you guys do in the future! 💕💕
The finest of choices, my friend 💖
•As established by canon, Nico doesn't do well with the concept of romantic commitment.
•That means his only real relationships are flings that last a couple of weeks, sometimes four. His record was three months.
•He's left a decent trail of broken hearts, and no one knows whether his own is so much as dented from it all.
•Of course, as a hired hijacker and member of the Marigold, you can't exactly say he's fallen in with a "good" crowd. Most of his romantic liaisons have been meet-cutes in those circles and in back alleys, from deadly gunslingers to the lovely ladies populating the houses of ill-repute.
•He'll definitely make it feel like more than a short infatuation, however dubious it is at its core. He probably doesn't even realize he does so.
•He's aware that he's a smooth charmer, that's for sure. A real Dom Juan who spares no drop of golden charisma or expense, especially in the beginning. He goes all in, knowing what he wants and unafraid to show it. It's that confidence that dazzles his conquests and sweeps them off their feet before they know it.
•Evening dates—when he's not on duty—include fishing in secluded spots down by the river or a good old bar brawl and subsequent wrestling match in the Marigold. He favours the raw rush of life to fancy dinners and tight-necked upper-class parties.
•Unfortunately that means his private life and his work life often weave and intersect, and that any of his current romantic affiliations end up involved with the Marigold's business in one way or another.
•If they can handle a gun decently well, it makes for even more fun. There have definitely been some interesting couple's nights out, that's for sure.
•If it wasn't obvious, Nico's romance rarely flourishes outside the cover of darkness. Managing to find him during the day is already a feat unto itself.
•It's hard to know what he really thinks of love in general. The normally brash and abrasively honest Nicodeme Savoy always plays the same seduction game, wins it and lets his victory wane with his affections. It's hard to see what really goes on behind that mind of his.
•Maybe Serafine knows. Maybe one day, a partner of his will find out, too.
•All his romantic flings are certain of is that it's worth making the most of their partnership while it lasts. Despite the eventually heartbreak, sweet memories of a rumbling laugh and Cajun drawl, the brooding amber gaze and the dreamy fireflies and passing boat lights glittering over the surface of the Mississippi stay deeply engraved, forever.
•Sharing even a few days with him feels like a sharp shot of spiced-up booze, difficult to get out of one's system and lingering like a curse.
•And just like alcohol, the addiction is often hard to do away with for good.
#🦉mod iphiko#I love Nico with all my heart he's just so#these kinds of requests make me feral in a very good way#so thank you#lackadaisy#nicodeme savoy#nicodeme lackadaisy#nico savoy#headcanon home brew#headcanon
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