This is my first story in forever, so please forgive me for the length and the quality. I'd been pressuring myself into writing again for a while, but this is the first thing I've finished in months so yay? Hope you enjoy, this is based off of this fairly older picture ( silenticha. tumblr post/ 114662886294/ headcanon- that- neo- combines- practicing- gymnastic) that I found for the first time in forever. I added spaces after every symbol, so if you go to that remember to remove those. Enjoy!
If you asked, Roman would undoubtedly, and pointedly, say that he hates his job.
Seriously though, who would enjoy getting beat up by teenage girls every other month? Roman Torchwick may be many things, but he is definitely not one of those. Not that he's in a fit place to judge people on their preferences; he always did like explosions.
Regardless, his job was fairly awful. Having to work with incompetent henchmen, only for him to have to suffer the Fall-out (heh) for them from his bipolar and insane pyromaniac of a boss.
So when he woke up one morning (his day off, mind you) to the sounds of someone flicking through the channels on his TV, he was not amused. The old thing was falling apart anyway, and at that speed he'd have to worry more about the thing spontaneously combusting rather than breaking down. So, he reluctantly rolled out of bed, dragged himself to the kitchen, and made some effing coffee. "Thank the gods for caffeine," he grumbled as the volume got a little louder. And louder. And louder.
Roman snatched his coffee out from under the drip so he could finally yell at whoever was blasting Tiny House Nation (that show? of all things?) at 7 AM on a Sunday. "If it's Mercury again," he swore, shaking his head in frustration, remembering the last time he had been on the receiving end of his pranks. But when he reached the living room he just...stopped.
And stared.
Because it wasn't Mercury in the living room. No, that wasn't even close. The person who was...laying? Posing? In front of the TV was Neo.
Laying on her arms.
As her feet turned the dials.
She looked like some sort of Weekend Warrior Dolphin mix that should have never been seen by an uncaffeinated, barely awake, and somewhat pissy Roman Torchwick, because he just dropped his coffee (freaking Mercury can clean the mess for all he cares) and noped it back to his room. The other residents of the house would remember waking up to a loud and somewhat hysterical voice shouting "There isn't enough coffee in the world!"