#and Dick's struggle with his emotions is what makes his softer side feel more real and meaningful to me <3
Note
When people say that Dick “has a temper” what do they mean? Is he the type to blow up over an inconvenience, be impatient, or rage-quit?
Ahhhh, I had a lot of fun with this. Thanks for the ask, anon. <3
My main feeling about Dick's temper is it's an important part of his characterization, and it's a fun part of his characterization, but I also try not to overemphasize it? A lot of my thoughts are here; also @theflyingwonder has some good panel collections here and here and here if you want to see what Dick generally looks like when he's grumpy about something.
General thoughts / caveats:
Anger is obviously not the only emotion Dick ever feels!! He feels many other emotions too!! The fact that he is capable of getting really angry sometimes does not mean that he is angry all the time!!
He's a person who feels emotions very deeply - anger, love, loyalty, etc. - but also has a very conflicted relationship with his emotions. He aspires to be perfectly controlled, like he imagines Bruce is, and he's ashamed of moments when he loses control. Because he's wound pretty tight and represses a lot, his emotions can be a bit explosive when he loses his grip on them.
I would never describe him as "an angry person." He doesn't walk around fuming at the world and looking for things to be mad about, y'know? He's a person who wants to be optimistic and tries to be optimistic. This very much includes when he's Robin.
He wouldn't blow up over an inconvenience unless he was already really upset about something more serious. But yeah, if he's upset about something important, sometimes he'll lash out at whatever's closest.
He's methodical and focused; he'll sometimes get impatient when he's, say, bored by his friends' TV preferences, and in general he gets restless and likes to be moving, but if he's got a challenging task to complete he's completely capable of hyper-focusing on it.
In his civilian life, he generally has a pretty good grip on the anger - so e.g. I don't remember him ever shouting at Clancy or civilian friends in general. When a reporter tries to get dirt on him by interviewing his neighbors at his apartment complex, they universally gush about how nice he is.
Meanwhile, in his vigilante life, he's got a rigid moral code and a rigid sense of duty. He cares a lot about helping people and protecting civilians, and he's emotionally-fulfilled by it, and he can be very kind. But he's also a super-intense person who takes his responsibilities seriously, and he'll get sharp with people that he feels aren't being serious enough. He only screws around when he's with people who are very serious themselves, like Bruce.
In an argument, Dick's generally direct and confrontational: he'll snap at you to your face, not sulk behind your back. Even when he's being a bit more passive-aggressive, he's not subtle about it. If Dick's annoyed with you, you'll know. If he doesn't like you, he makes it obvious.
Jean-Paul: I've seen you with Robin - you like Robin.
Dick: You got a problem with Robin?
Jean-Paul: No! I like Robin, too. He's an exceptional young man. I just mean... it's obvious when you like someone. And equally obvious that you don't like me. (GK 14)
Dick's just a very dynamic character in general, rather than a static one. When he's relaxed, he can be very easygoing and friendly; if you get off on the wrong foot with him, he's prickly and often harsh. He's got a very serious core, a strong sense of principle, and a passionate sense of loyalty to the people he cares about. Here's a light-hearted moment with Dick and Tim fooling around playing tag:
Dick (grabbing Tim from above): Gotcha!
Tim: Augh! (B: Transference)
This is from the exact same arc as the panel at the top - but before Hugo Strange almost kills Bruce. And just in general I think this panel is a good reminder that Dick does all kinds of things that are not about being angry, that he's also the person who keeps Tim fed and repeatedly saves him from falling, that sometimes he'll pour his heart out to Bruce, that he really really really loves his friends, and so on.
Now, all that said, if you would like an extensive deep dive into Dick yelling at people (and really, who wouldn't? yelling is fun!), I've collected a super-long list of quotes which I've attempted to corral into organization. Below the cut:
Dick vs. criminals
Dick vs. Bruce
Dick + list of reasons he gets upset
Dick + annoyance at friends/teammates
Dick + lashing out at loved ones (rare! but, uh, very memorable)
Dick + first meetings with future siblings (+Steph)
In conclusion
Anger at Criminals
Dick's temper is an important part of how he thinks of himself: he's intensely self-aware about his temper and also conflicted about it. It comes up most often when he's fighting criminals, especially when they're threatening people he loves:
Dick (internally): At first, I couldn't believe what they were saying… but as the truth sank in, I felt a rage growing so great inside me - that it felt like I was just a part of the anger, instead of it being a part of me.
Kid!Dick: Those animals! They murdered my mother and father! I'm going to the police!
Bruce: No... not yet. (Secret Origins 13)
Deathwing: You've been so angry for so long, Dick. Learn to accept it because you have no choice. You will become me, Dick, and I know because I am your worst nightmare! I am you!
Dick: Never! I'm not you and I'll never be you! Yeah, I get angry. Sometimes I get so pissed I want to break everything in sight. But everyone gets mad. Everyone gets frustrated. But I don't fight out of anger! I fight when there's something wrong that needs to be stopped! And that's why I'll never be you! I don't fight to kill - I fight to protect! And what you said about Batman - well, pal, screw you. He's the best mentor anyone ever had! (NT 100)
Dick (internally): I hit him harder than I should. Not sure why. It worries me that it feels so right. (N 2)
Dick: I thought I was more in control than that. But I lost it.
Tim: It was made right, Dick. The Joker is alive and not well in a maximum security cell.
Dick: It’s not right with me. I never thought I could be a killer. I’m wrong. There’s a part of me I never saw before. The rage. I never felt anger like that. I feel like it clawed me up inside. (N 64)
Dick (internally): Nothing Jason says can be taken for truth. He says Tim is dead. I'll need more proof than his word and an empty cowl. Because right now, I need to keep that hope alive. If for nothing else, then to keep me from losing control… and I won't let that happen. Can't let that happen. Can't.
Dick (punching Jason): WHERE IS HE, JASON?
Jason: Depends on what kind of life he led.
Dick (breaking Jason's nose, then internally): There goes his nose. Control your anger. (BftC 3)
Jason (internally): Dick is different from Bruce. In the way he fights. In the way he thinks. And the way he feels. And he gets angry. Really angry. That anger, it'd make him a great Batman, if he'd let it. He's trying too much to be like him. The good son. Man, I hate him. (B&R 25)
So something you'll notice about all of these moments is that Dick isn't proud of his anger. He doesn't experience it as cathartic, and he isn't proud of the things he does when he's angry. His anger is an enemy; it's the person he doesn't want to be, to the extent that after the fact being angry almost feels like an out-of-body experience, because in the burn of anger he'll do things that his conscious mind rejects.
I tend to think of anger for Dick as akin to a temptation. He's strong and talented and smart. He's capable of really hurting people. He also believes - viscerally, fiercely - that it's wrong to do so.
Worth remembering: Dick's big confrontation with Zucco, in most of his origin stories, involves taking the photo that gets him arrested:
Dick (remembering): Twenty-four hours later, we were on the trail of Boss Zucco... and when he murdered his own henchman, I took the photo that sent Zucco to prison! (Secret Origins 13)
And in Batman: Year Three, he's furious when he thinks that Bruce might have arranged for Zucco to get killed - when Dick's calm and thinking clearly, he believes it's wrong to kill even people who are clearly evil. It's only when he's swept up in emotion that he'll get violent.
Anger at Bruce
... Look, I had to give Bruce his own category.
Dick and Bruce have a lot of fights. Like, a lot of fights.
Now, this isn't at all particular to Dick! Dick's just one of many, many, many people in Bruce's life who periodically get fed up with him. So I wouldn't gloss this as Dick being unusually short-tempered - post-Crisis Bruce would provoke a saint (and does! at one point Clark briefly votes him out of the JLA!). And Dick doesn't always get angry when Bruce is being a jerk to him - sometimes he's just discouraged, or depressed.
But at the same time, Dick's not a pushover, and when he's sufficiently provoked, he'll often track Bruce down to confront him / demand an explanation / demand better behavior / etc. Paradoxically, I actually tend to see these confrontations as an expression of Dick's faith in Bruce. He gets angry because he expects better.
Here's a small sampling of Dick-angry-at-Bruce moments (some confrontations, some where Dick's just fuming on his own):
Bruce: Listen to me.
Dick: Listen to you? You hand Gotham over to that nutcase altar boy. You leave this kid out to dry without a snowball's chance. Then you throw everything you’ve lived for aside like it was nothing! Killing this creep doesn’t make you as bad as the scum we hunt. It makes you worse. Because they never stood for anything. (R 8)
Dick: If you say anything about 'finding myself,' I think I'll puke.
Bruce: I thought you'd be glad to see me back.
Dick: That depends on why you came back.
Bruce: To take up the mantle again. To take back my place.
Dick: For how long this time?
Bruce: Not now, Dick. We can talk about this when -
Dick: Right now. We're settling this right now, Bruce. (R 12 - Bruce has abruptly reappeared in the Batcave after leaving Dick and Tim in charge during Prodigal)
Dick: It was you who told us to stay out of Gotham. I’ve got a life here. I can’t just walk away from that. You’ll have to - (Bruce hangs up on him) Damn you! (N 34 - Bruce has been AWOL for months and now abruptly summons Dick to join him in No Man's Land)
Dick (internally): Bruce is playing martyr. Keeping us at a distance. […] Why does it have to be this way with us? WHY? (He punches his car, and his hand comes away bloody.) Uncontrollable rage. The same rage I felt when I killed the Joker. Thought I had it under control. (N 65 - Bruce is accused of murder and freezing out the Bats)
Bruce: What are you doing out of bed?
Dick: You did it again, didn't you? You pushed everyone away! (N 99)
Bruce: I assume this isn't a social call?
Dick: What the hell is the matter with you? I mean, aside from the obvious! Ignoring the many layers of denial, and the fifty feet of psychological body armor that you throw up to avoid feeling anything! Aside from that! And the pathological need to control everything on Earth and beyond! Ignoring all that! What exactly is your compulsion, your burning desire to deceive, lie, and manipulate the only people who give a good god damn about you?!
Bruce: You getting to a point? (O 21 - Dick just found out that Bruce was secretly funding the Outsiders)
Dick's relationship with Bruce is Complicated (TM), because he's also incredibly loyal, and - despite everything - he loves Bruce a lot. A lot of Dick's anger comes out of this frustrated loyalty - Dick feels betrayed and hurt because he loves Bruce so much. Here's a panel from later in Outsiders 21:
Bruce: You shouldn't place that much faith in me.
Dick: I have more faith in you than anyone.
Reasons why Dick gets angry: an incomplete list
So if Dick isn't really the type to, say, rage-quit a game, then what does he get angry about (other than criminals and Bruce in general)?
I've tried to loosely categorize what seem to me to be the main things that can make him lose his temper:
as above, somebody Dick loves has been hurt and he's furious at the person who did it (so e.g. trying to kill the Wildebeests when they threaten the Titans, trying to kill Hugo Strange for trying to kill Bruce, lashing out at Tumult when he hurts Tim),
he's feeling attacked or betrayed and he's lashing out in self-defense (so e.g. a lot of the fights with Bruce, punching Roy after Roy fires him in New Titans, or calling Roy a junkie when Roy tells him he's just like Bruce in Outsiders, or yelling at Tim when Tim's insisting he should be Robin again),
he's angry about a lack of loyalty (so e.g. he's furious and feels betrayed when he learns that Bruce has replaced him with Jason; he's angry at Bruce for picking Azrael as Batman instead of Dick; he's angry at Tim when Tim suggests Bruce might be a murderer)
he's jealous (so e.g. he's hurt and angry when Kory marries someone else; his resentment of Azrael is much more about Bruce than it is about Azrael)
he's angry at another vigilante for behaving too violently/irresponsibly (so e.g. he has multiple fights with Kory insisting that she can't kill anyone; he's similarly furious with Bruce when he thinks Bruce has tried to kill someone; he snaps at the Titans in general after a failed mission; he's harsh about Tim and his team during Graduation Day)
he's unhappy and taking it out on someone else, often to drive them away (so e.g. he snaps at Donna and Alfred when he's depressed about Kory's marriage - arguably there's some supernatural influence here, but IMO he'd do it anyway; he gets snappish with Tim when he's depressed about his own lack of progress with Chulo/in Blüdhaven and also when he's actually mad at Bruce about Jean-Paul; he's very harsh to Babs and Wally when they try to comfort him post-J:LL; arguably most of his behavior in Outsiders after Donna's death falls under this category too),
he's unhappy and he's taking it out on an inanimate object (so e.g. smashing things after hearing about Kory's potential marriage; punching his car until his hand is bloody after Bruce has been a jerk to him, smashing a sign when Babs is jabbing at him by comparing him to Bruce),
his privacy is being violated by paparazzi (Dick hates photographers and will not hesitate to punch them or destroy their equipment)
I think something important about all these reasons is... they're understandable? It's not surprising that Dick is upset about the woman he loves marrying someone else; it would be stranger if he wasn't upset. It's not surprising that he lashes out defensively when he's feeing attacked - this is an extremely common thing to do! Dick's anger isn't a weird cloud of rage that just descends on him for no reason; he gets angry when he has something to get angry about.
That said, he does have particular things he's especially touchy about - loyalty, privacy, control, etc. And his anger can be physical - he does break things.
Dick + annoyance with friends/teammates
Dick calls a team meeting to rebuke the Titans in Titans 13
This is lower-key, so I wouldn't always describe this as anger per se, but it feels relevant: Dick can get snappish if he's in a bad mood, though he'll usually back off if it's pointed out to him:
Dick: Half this world goes to hell in a handcart and you do nothing?
Donna: Hey, don't shout at me because your personal life has gone crazy. We had a crisis…
Dick: You had a crisis? Who hasn't? And my personal life, for what it's worth, is a: just fine, and b: none of your business. Do me a favor and go. I want to be alone. (NTT 18 - Dick's upset because Kory is marrying someone else)
Dick: Roy! What the hell is this? Why is Lian in the way? She should be in a crib or something, not where people can step on her.
Roy: Dick, my daughter is in nobody's way, and I'm watching her every move.
Dick: Oh, yeah? Well, I've had it -
Roy: Dick, your friends are here to help you and you're not making it any easier. C'mon, pal - calm down.
Dick: You're right. I'm sorry. This is all getting to me.
Roy: Really? The immediate world and I never noticed. (NT 100)
Dick (surprising Tim): You should've known you wouldn't hear anything. Not in this wind - but if you'd been downwind on the other side, you might have scented me.
Tim (startled): Nightwing!
Dick: You did want to meet - or do you just like playing computer games? Now let’s make it snappy - I’m in New York on my own business.
Tim: And a big fat hi to you, too.
(Showcase '93 11 - Dick's upset because he's blaming himself for someone Chulo murdered)
Dick: He didn't send you to check up on me?
Tim: Huh?
Dick (scowling): Don't play dumb.
Tim: Batman? I came down on my own, Dick. What's with the attitude?
Dick: Sorry, Tim. I haven't been making a lot of progress since I got here. (N 6 - Dick's self-aware here - he's on edge because he thinks he's doing a bad job)
Babs: Okay, calm down, take a deep breath, and explain again why you’re so angry…
Dick: Why am I angry? I’m not angry, I’m–I’m–I’m dismayed, okay? I’m dismayed that there can be a Robin who believes Batman could be guilty of murder! How could that happen, Babs? How could that happen?! (GK 26)
Kory: You could say goodbye to your teammates.
Dick: They're not my teammates anymore.
Kory: They noticed. (TT/O Secret Files 2005)
You'll notice that several of these include Dick backtracking and apologizing. He doesn't hold grudges or fume forever! And Dick's generally self-aware enough to realize why he's snappish once he takes a step back:
Dick: I…I’m sorry…I know this isn’t your fault. Here I’m attacking you - and you’re probably just as scared as I am. I just feel so frustrated. Batman could always remain calm in a crisis. I guess that’s just another difference between us. Maybe I’d be better off if I just cut myself off from all feeling like he does. (NT 77)
Something Dick generally isn't apologetic about: Dick is intensely self-critical about badly-done vigilante work, and in a team setting, he's not that patient with other people's mistakes.
Here's Dick calling a team meeting so he can scold the team in Titans 13:
Dick: Lock the doors, sit down, and pay attention. And that's an order. ... Our performance against Tartarus and the HIVE was unacceptable. Each and every one of you should thank God you weren't killed.
Here's an argument between Dick and Donna in Graduation Day 2 - the context is that Young Justice just screwed up an earlier fight, and Tim's berating himself and Conner while Dick and Donna eavesdrop (you'll notice that like Dick, Tim tends to be pretty self-critical + impatient with teammates):
Conner: The Titans got their lumps.
Tim: No, the Titans got our lumps. They were looking out for us. There we were, shoulder to shoulder with the inspiration for Young Justice. And we lose half our team and half of theirs.
Conner: Tim, I bet they were a lot like us when they started.
Tim: No, I don't think so.
(Donna and Dick are eavesdropping.)
Donna: He's being awfully hard on himself. Kind of reminds me of someone.
Dick: I don't know what you're talking about.
Donna: You could tell him he's wrong.
Dick: Is he?
Donna: We stepped in it plenty of times, Dick. Plenty. We got beat by Dr. Light. Completely pantsed by Trident. We had the ill-conceived idea that the Mad Mod was a threat. There was that time in South America when we left Garth in the sun for three hours. Lots of stuff… We even got kidnapped by Count Vertigo. How embarrassing was that?
Dick: I didn't get kidnapped. I got nabbed when I was coming to save Roy.
Donna: Nevertheless, they could use a kind word.
Dick: I'm not sure a kind word is what they need.
The upshot is that Donna goes to comfort Cassie while Dick goes off alone.
Again, the point is not that Dick goes around fuming about his teammates 24/7! He cares about the Titans and trusts them to watch his back; he feels the same way about Tim.
But in the heat of the moment, he'll sometimes get snappish or impatient, especially with people he's close to. The friends that Dick has who stick around are the ones who are tough enough to stand up to him, and who understand him enough not to take his occasional moods personally.
Dick + lashing out at loved ones
This one's a bit meaner. Dick's really good at picking out other people's insecurities, which he almost never uses against them ... but when he's retaliating, he's got an instinct for what will hurt the most:
Dick: No, I won't stop it. How dare you tell me what to do when you screwed up so badly Raven could be dead by now? Who knows what Mento did to Gar and Vic? Maybe your failure killed Kole. No, I won't stop. I won't!
Donna (punching him): Shut up, Dick! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I don't want to hear anymore!
Dick: But you're going to, Donna. You made me listen to what you had to say. But you don't like hearing the truth about yourself, do you? The perfect Donna Troy maybe isn't so perfect after all.
(NTT 19 - Dick's under an ambiguous amount of Brother Blood influence during this period, but he's also just really upset about Kory, and I tend to interpret BB as "reducing his self-control" not "he's a totally different person")
Bruce: I didn't expect to see you again.
Dick: I heard about Jason. I'm really sorry, Bruce.
Bruce: You weren't at the funeral. People asked about you.
Dick: C'mon, Bruce - talk. Don't turn your back on me. I'm here… now.
Bruce: You were lucky. When you didn't listen to me, your injuries weren't fatal. Of course, by the time I properly trained you -
Dick: Bruce, c'mon…lay off. I'm not here to fight.
Bruce: Then don't!
Dick: Are you blaming me? I left, so Jason replaced me, and because I left he died? No way, pal. Jason wasn't me. I was a trained acrobat. I could think quickly in perilous situations. But why did you let him become Robin before he was ready?!?
Bruce (punching him): Don't you dare blame me for Jason's death! Don't you dare!
(NT 55 - this fight is ofc 110% Bruce's fault even before the punch, but Dick absolutely is blaming Bruce for Jason's death here)
Dick (trying to punch Roy): GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME, YOU TRAITOR!
Roy: Dick, I'm your friend… Blast it, man - why are you doing this?
Dick: Friends don't turn on friends, Harper. I've been there every time you called me. I sat up with you all night while you were detoxing. That was not a pretty sight. (NT 101 - Dick's upset about getting fired as team leader)
Dick: I disgraced myself and my uniform. Both uniforms. I have to learn to live with that or quit. No more surprise visits, Babs. Don't make me sorry I put an elevator in this building. (BoP 37)
Roy: Look at you! Your greatest fear in life, the thing that eats at you - is that you're terrified of becoming Batman!! A cold, detached, emotionless loner. I've got news for you, that's exactly what you are. You've become the man who raised you.
Dick: Yeah…and you're just like the man who raised you. A shallow, self-loathing, womanizing thrill-seeker. Except he was never a junkie. (O 16)
Gar: I guess it doesn't bother you that your new teammate killed your old one? 'Cause it sure bothers the hell outta me.
Dick: Enough. I'm here to find Kory and Tim. I don't need Terra's best friend lecturing me about loyalty. (TT/O Secret Files 2005)
Dick + 1st meetings with future siblings (+Steph)
I hesitated including this on the list because it's lower-key and not always anger per se, but I think a lot of times when people say Dick "has a temper," they're not necessarily talking about his angriest moments so much as pushing back against the idea that he's happy or welcoming all the time.
If you're reading post-Crisis canon, Dick's a prickly introvert who can be slow to warm up to newcomers in Gotham. He's not exclusively cranky by any means! But he's not all smiles, either. Here are some snappish moments from first meetings with Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian, and Steph:
Dick: They'll probably switch to another lab, now that you've spooked them.
Jason: Then it's no big deal! We'll just locate their new digs and bust them when they take possession.
Dick: Wrong! I'll locate the new lab all by myself! You're going home to tell Batman how you screwed up tonight!
Jason: Come on...
(from Dick's first meeting with Jason in B 416 - Jason attacked a group of criminals too hastily)
Dick: Now, who the hell are you?
Tim: That doesn't matter now. Dick, look at this please.
Dick: Kid, I don't like games.
(from Dick's first-technically-second meeting with Tim in LPoD - Tim's been chasing him all around the circus, and although Dick doesn't yet know this, also broke into his apartment)
Bruce: You can trust her.
Dick: Six months ago, that would've gotten you further than it will now. Now, I'm not sure it's enough.
Bruce: What more would it take?
Dick: An explanation of who she is for a start.
(from Dick's first meeting with Cass in B: LotDK 120 - Bruce went AWOL for months and has now resurfaced with a protégé)
Jason: It's a new world. It's not all backflips and balance bars. You were good. Were. But Gotham needs a tougher Robin now.
Dick (internally): A sneaky, mean little punk. Maybe you hired him before the Joker could.
(from the retold version of Dick's first meeting with Jason in N 104 - Bruce gave stupid instructions leading Jason to misunderstand and pick a fight with Dick)
Dick (internally, when he notices Damian's makeshift Robin costume): Damian's costume. Note to self: smack a clue into this kid.
Damian: You're embarrassing me!
Dick: You do that just fine on your own.
(from Dick's first meeting with Damian in N 138 - Damian's probably scared, which means he's snarky; he's making rude remarks and resisting Dick and Tim's attempts to protect him)
Dick: What in the hell were - are - you thinking, throwing someone so reckless into the field like that?
Babs: Gosh, Dick - I'm sorry I haven't spent more time trying to train a murderous little twit.
(from right after Dick's first meeting with Steph in BG 5 - Steph accidentally froze Damian)
How much you weight these moments depends a lot on your personal aesthetic preferences! I love conflict, and Dick's initially kinda thorny relationships with his siblings are part of why I enjoy him as a character. I don't feel the need to "fix" this kind of grumpiness and honestly I don't even really see it as a flaw? Dick's not morally obliged to like his future siblings on first meeting them, and if he never got snappish with any siblings ever, no matter how annoying they were being, he'd be a lot less interesting to me personally.
For me, Dick's prickly side adds an important nuance to his characterization, and makes it more compelling. He's a human being, not a conduct book! His strength is that he's willing to reconsider his first impressions, not that he never has negative first impressions.
That said, obviously genre and context matter! I have enjoyed plenty of softer takes on the Batfamily in fanworks, and in a softer, gentler world like e.g. WFA, it would be weird to keep Dick's grumpier moments. Also, Dick obviously isn't 24/7 harsh to his siblings - he can also be really empathetic and protective, and although he never gets especially close to e.g. Steph, he does change his mind about her, and he's ultimately a huge source of emotional support to Tim and Damian (they grow on him! ... eventually).
In Conclusion
One of my favorite Dick stories of all time is Nightwing 139, and I think it nicely encapsulates how I see Dick's anger - it's an important contrast to his softer side. He's a person with an instinctive temper, and compassion and understanding aren't always immediate or easy or effortless for him. But he's also a loving person with a big heart, and it's the love that always matters to him in the end.
Here's Dick discovering that Tim is thinking about using the Lazarus Pit, getting angry, and leaping down to try to physically stop him ("He may not stop you, but I sure as hell will!")
Dick (sarcastically): So, Robin... you think maybe we can hug this out?
It's important to me that Dick's first instinct is to have a physical fight, not to try to talk! He does all the wrong things before he does the right thing! He doesn't magically know the right thing to say to Tim right away!
But doing the right thing matters to him, and Tim matters to him, which is why he gets there eventually. When Tim tears up Dick softens at once:
And in the end Dick backs off and lets Tim make the choice, which isn't easy or instinctive for him either! But it's the right thing to do, and it's what Tim needs to pull himself out of the power struggle and realize he's making a mistake, and then Tim stammers apologies and Dick reassures him and they do hug it out, and it's very tender:
Without Dick's anger, you don't have a lot of his stories. But his anger doesn't define him - he doesn't let it. As Dick puts it,
"Yeah, I get angry. Sometimes I get so pissed I want to break everything in sight. But everyone gets mad. Everyone gets frustrated. But I don't fight out of anger! I fight when there's something wrong that needs to be stopped! And that's why I'll never be you! I don't fight to kill - I fight to protect!
And that's a big part of why I think he's great.
#dick grayson#anyway this is a huge disorganized list but uhhh. enjoy? sdfsf#it's tricky to write about this because it's not like i don't enjoy super-soft takes on dick - i do!#dick's anger isn't gonna have a place in every single story especially in fanworks#and often part of the point of fanworks is to give us the softer moments that canon doesn't!#Dick often gets softened to contrast with other characters in fanworks and that makes sense too#but at the same time Dick's sharper edges are so important to me in the comics and a really big part of why i like him#and a big reason why a lot of nuDick's writing leaves me just bored#(i am a gremlin who likes to have gritty conflict in my comics!! softening things is what fanworks are for!!)#yes post-Crisis Dick can be prickly but he's prickly because he's a serious person who lives in a serious world with consequences#his parents' deaths MATTER to him. doing vigilante work right MATTERS to him. he gets touchy BECAUSE he cares so much!#and Dick's struggle with his emotions is what makes his softer side feel more real and meaningful to me <3#ask tag#prickly dick grayson my beloved
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I just wanna gush bc omg I love the 666 series so much. I think it made me realize I might be... furry-ish? adjacent? I just find it so satisfying how you go into detail about the unique body features of both of them, the way it feels to have deer ears or kiss a TV and just generally how much thought is put into the way their bodies work, and I've realized that my interest in that kind of idea is a pretty good reason to partake in more explicitly furry media lmao. Anyways
I'm also really in love with how you maintain the balance of each of their personality traits. Vox is simultaneously so pathetic and cringefail (also your dialogue for him is perfect, I can hear it crystal clear in my head) but also he has vastly more emotional intelligence than Alastor, no doubt at least in part because he has to deal with Val, and he's able to marginally calm down with his obsession to deal with sticky situations, but even then he still retains his personality and bumbles things sometimes because of the flaws in said personality! It's great. I also really appreciate the balance you've struck with Alastor, I feel like often Alastor is either written to either soften up so immediately that it feels disconnected from his character or is written overly mean and heartless for my liking and the way you've written him is such a delicious balance between softer aspects such as the prey instincts or moments of vulnerability and his untouchable and manipulative self, and also the way this side of him is neither written as wholly a front or wholly his real nature and the complex ways this makes him struggle with his increasing vulnerability. TL;DR arghgr your characterization is so good it makes me go a little feral
Also while I'm here, I'm curious whether you can give an answer to the degree to which Alastor is touch-averse. There's obviously a lot of ways in which he fundamentally dislikes touch but it also seems like there's at least some kinds of touch where he doesn't dislike the touch itself so much as he's afraid of the way it brings about feelings of caring and/or enjoyment being cared for. I'm curious how much, in general, you would say his touch aversion comes from either cause and possibly what kinds of touch do/don't provoke those flavors of aversion
Omg, what a lovely ask to receive. Honestly, everything you said that you enjoy about how I characterize these two is very much what I've been actively gunning for, so it's an absolute delight to see it outlined back to me. Success!!! Thank you so much!
And ahaha - I'm not a furry but I fucking love inhuman characters. Being raised in the pits of Homestuck fantroll RP made me enjoy the whole "they're bug/fish aliens" thing and it definitely rears its head again any time I encounter characters with inhuman qualities. I love writing Vox's TV/computer-ness and Alastor's deer and radio bits, and integrating them into who they now are as people.
As for Alastor's touch-aversion: It's funny that you ask about this, because the next chapter of 666 is going to dive into it a bit. Specifically into the fact that it's not, like, a set of boundaries that is consistently defined, and I write him that way on purpose. The very first time he and Vox sleep together, Alastor bottoms. He becomes significantly less amenable to touch after he goes through an uncomfortable rut cycle that gets sexual. By the time Vox convinces Alastor to fuck him, Alastor would never let Vox do that again and frankly only agrees to topping because Vox gave him an option that didn't involve getting his dick out. Then in the next episode, they're having clothes-off sexual contact. So, what gives?
Things that play into Alastor's willingness to touch and be touched as far as Vox is concerned:
How does he see Vox at that point in time? Disgustingly entitled (ew)? Hilariously beneath him (haha who cares)?
Does he care about what Vox thinks of him? Does Vox touching him draw his attention to positive or negative assumptions he has about Vox's perspective on doing so?
What value has he attached to this particular touch in the power balance of their relationship? Is he humoring Vox? Does he assume Vox thinks he's owed this? Does he perceive it as something Vox is genuinely doing for him?
Has he tried this particular kind of touch before? He's pretty willing to experiment, but that doesn't mean he'll do something twice without a compelling reason if he didn't like it the first time.
Is he getting off on this situation sexually? If so, is it fully willing (read: not a byproduct of uncomfortable hormones) on his part? That only really happens when he's in a submissive role and Vox is hitting a few very specific kinks, a major one of which is basically CNC tilted 30 degrees to the left.
Is he enjoying the touch in platonic ways? How does he feel about that? Is it a vulnerability to want something? Is it feeding his ego to be catered to? Is he worried that what he enjoys platonically is being read into in ways he doesn't like?
Is he fucking drunk? Things that bother you when sober often seem like a non-issue when you're not, both on a physical and emotional level.
How much touching has been happening recently? Has he hit his limit? Did he deliberately put himself into a situation earlier to have his limit be hit and surpassed, and now he's in the aftermath?
He does have a certain fundamental purely physical dislike of touch, but it's something that is really affected by how he perceives each individual situation as well as his relationship with Vox at that time, and his previous experiences!
#ask#personal#Anonymous#t#hazbin hotel#my writing#666 live on air#I'm not a furry but the perils of being agender aromantic and asexual#aka the full complement of “none of the above” box checks LOL#means that a lot of the time I feel vaguely detached from the ways people tend to even subconsciously define humanity#I think that's where a lot of my appreciation for inhuman traits in very human characters comes from#(also my favorite SFF genre is “non-human entity struggles with very human emotions” as well a la murderbot and imperial radsch)#(ANYWAY. tangent.)#long post
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a human touch, part I
Part [1] / 1.5 / 2
(masterlist here)
pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)
summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v.
then he turns up at your door.
warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧
a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!
Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.
One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within.
Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.
Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.
And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.
“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”
You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.
“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”
“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”
“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”
The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.
Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”
“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”
Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.
Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?
“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”
Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”
You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.
“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”
“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”
“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over.
“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”
You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.
No human could ever look this good.
“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”
Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.
“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”
You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”
V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”
Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.
The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”
You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”
You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”
“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight.
V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.
“After you, please,” he says.
You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.
“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”
“Not as pretty as you.”
You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.
“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”
You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”
You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.
“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”
The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”
“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”
You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed. It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on.
(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)
“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.
V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”
You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code.
“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”
V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.
“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”
V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.
“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.
“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”
You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time.
The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.
It's just depressing, really.
You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”
V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.
“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”
His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”
“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”
You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”
“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”
He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.
“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”
His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”
“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”
(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)
You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?
“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”
Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water.
“Purple.”
You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine.
You think it suits him better.
“Purple’s a lovely colour.” The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”
V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”
“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”
You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious.
He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new.
When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”
“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.
“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”
“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”
There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”
“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”
“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed.
Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.
“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”
V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”
It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.
When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”
“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?”
“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”
The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone.
At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.
It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.
Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one.
“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”
“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”
“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”
He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”
You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.
The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.
“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.
By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.
You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.
The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”
You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.
“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”
He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they?
Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.
“Y/n.”
The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.
“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”
Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.
When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.
“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”
There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”
You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.
“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”
When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—
“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”
You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.
And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.
“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”
His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper.
The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.
“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”
You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.
There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go.
V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?
His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.
“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”
“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.
“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”
It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked.
He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—
You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs.
“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.
“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”
“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”
V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.
“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”
V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”
Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least).
“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”
They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.
“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”
“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”
“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”
Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.
“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”
V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.
“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.
At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.
“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.
“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”
You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”
“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”
You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”
And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?
“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”
The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.
Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.
V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)
He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.
“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.
“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”
“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for.
His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good.
You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.
“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”
He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone.
“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.
Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.
Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend.
“Good morning.”
You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.
The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way.
You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.
Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.
V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”
Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.
“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.
“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”
Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.
As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.
“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”
Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.
“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”
V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”
Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God.
“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”
V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”
Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.
This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.
He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.
“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”
Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”
“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”
V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”
He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”
“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”
Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence.
“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”
The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”
“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”
V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”
“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”
V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”
V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.
(Of course, you never do.)
This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things.
The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.
“All done?”
“I think so.”
“Nice.” You feel content.
But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.
“Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.
You promptly roll off the sofa.
Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.
Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”
The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.”
Ah.
“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.”
“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.
You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.
“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”
One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.
V looks utterly enraptured.
“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”
V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”
“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”
V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.
“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.
V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.
“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.
“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”
You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new.
But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.
Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.
V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.
“Go for it,” you say.
Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.
The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.
The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.
Just for an instant.
He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased.
The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—
But then V laughs.
His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.
“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”
“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples.
The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.
His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.
You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)
“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.
“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.
“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.
“For what?”
“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”
The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”
He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.
Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice.
You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.
So here he is.
(And here you are.)
It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”
Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.
V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.
You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.
You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.
“I won’t be long,” you promise.
When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.
“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”
You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off.
He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.
“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.
“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”
“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”
“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”
Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”
“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”
Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”
The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”
(Thank God.)
You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.
He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.
“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.
The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.
And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.
(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)
Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)
“I have to go to work tomorrow.”
V tilts his head down to look at you.
“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”
Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.
“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”
(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.
“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”
So you do.)
(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—
“Morning.”
V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.
“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)
You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.
But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.
It’s… nice.
You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.
“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”
KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs.
“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.
“Oh?”
“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.
“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”
He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight.
Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality.
(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)
You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own.
(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.
Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)
(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)
taglist: @beyoncesdragon
#btswritingcafe#magicshopnet#btswriterscollective#taehyung x reader#bts#taehyung x you#taehyung au#bts au#taehyung#kim taehyung#taehyung scenario#taehyung imagine#android taehyung#robot taehyung#look you know the drill by now: I don't know how to tag effectively#taehyung fanfic#bts fanfic#joy.masterlist#dbh is so good guys. I love connor. like. an alarming amount.
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Love Through the Ages (Damian Wayne)
Summary: Love like baggage needs to be declared.
a/n: This is part one of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots. Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans. I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself.
Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.
Masterlist
Series Masterlist.
You wait by the platform, tapping your feet to the rhythm of the Little Colonel Bojangles Dance. It's been so long since you've seen the movie but your feet can still remember the steps- much to Damian's annoyance. Your feet patter against the pavement, wet from the spring rain, in a soft rhythm that kept your excitement at bay.
You wave to the approaching cab. The passenger of the cab looks away from you, pressing his mouth into the heel of his hand as his eyes stare out into oblivion. Your mouth quirks at the petulant gesture. You haven't seen each other in two decades and he's still mad about... what was it again? You'll find out soon enough.
The cab stops in front of you.
You bow your head, resting your weight on your umbrella. You grin at his seated form postured perfectly with an ease of a man born with the world in his pocket. He's dressed in a black suit and a dark coat that looked far too thick for spring.
"Long time, no see, little prince." You say in a dialect of Spanish too old for the young cab driver to recognize.
Damian raises his brow, articulating his annoyance. It takes you a moment to realize that it was with the accent you'd chosen. It was inelegant and curt and it mangled the curve of the syllables far too easily. In short, it was your favorite dialect. Rolling your eyes, you try again. This time with a softer, smoother dialect much more modern but still old enough that you could talk freely without worrying about eavesdroppers.
Damian cracks a smile at you. It was wry but soft in the way Damian always was. Your own exasperated smile softens as you look at his eyes, their ever-changing lushness. It's been too long.
You open the door. Damian eases out of the cab handing the cabby what you quietly hope was the correct amount.
But considering the wide-eyed glee on the cabbies face, you can guess that twenty years has done nothing for Damian's spending habits. That was if the tailored suit wasn't a dead giveaway.
You look him over whistling," whose funeral are you going to after the museum?"
"Yours if we're on schedule." Damian deadpans looking at his watch.
You snort, sounding like a piglet in mud. Adoration flickers in Damian's eyes but you miss it as you throw your head back.
"Who has a schedule on vacation."
"People who don't like wasting time."
"That's what a vacation is for."
Damian makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat and you shake your head. Damian wraps his arm around your shoulders. You happily press into his side, reveling in the intimacy of the action.
Damian had been telling you a story in rapid Arabic, the only words you understood were 'Jon' and 'moron', when you pause in front of a pair of paintings. The painting on the left was of Damian, his form drawn in harsh, messy angles. He's hunched over his sketchbook, candlelight glowing softly by his side makes his copper skin and forest green eyes breathtaking. The subject is out of view. The other was a portrait of you dozing off on a workshop table, your flaws lovingly rendered in gentle brush strokes. By contrast, your portrait was lit by the summer sun. Only Damian could make your features look this beautiful.
Vaguely, you remember this.
You remember it only for the countless times it had happened.
"They say that the one on the left is the painter sketching the portrait on the right and that the portrait on the right is of his lover." You say airily. Damian, not one to disappoint, gives you an unreadable look.
Your stomach turns. You drop the subject. Wordlessly, you two make your way to the exhibit.
"Love through the Ages?" Damian asks, crossing his arms.
"Shockingly love wasn't invented by Stephenie Meyer." You say. Damian wrinkles his nose at you and you cover your mouth to hide the scraggly smile spreading across your lips.
"I'm shocked your paintings didn't make it in."
He looks down at you huffing, "it's only speculation."
You're heart twinges at that. You press a frown to your hand.
"It'll be fun, Dami. I promise. Pleeeeeease."
Damian's stern look gives way to a weary half-smile as he capitulates to you.
"I promise it will only be half as nauseating as Dick's attempts to do family bonding."
"Tt, it would take a miracle to surpass that."
You grin. "Perish the thought."
"They say this stardust came from star-crossed lovers as they traveled through space. Oh and this one is a statue gifted by Persephone to Hades."
You drag Damian all over the exhibit. Pointing to specific exhibits with enthusiasm. He has to admit. It's infectious. Then again, Damian's never been able to resist anything about you. This amount of enthusiasm for something so frivolous would have been obnoxious on anyone else but because it's you, Damian's found himself utterly enamored by it.
"This one," You say, pointing to a series of paintings. They were all beautiful, painted in bold colors. The torrent of emotions radiating off of the canvas. "This one was made by an artist torn between three loves."
"Three? She must have been an exceptional artist."
"Probably was but her name was lost." You sigh.
"She’s got exceptional brushwork." Damian hums.
You squint at it. You would think after hundreds of years you would be able to discern that.
"And over there! Look at those postcards!" You say, pointing the three postcards pinned to a cloth in a glass case. One card showed the northern lights, another with a picture of a thick rainforest, another with a large cave, and another with the pantheon.
"They're not well preserved are they." Damian comments, scrutinizing the postcards and noting all the imperfections, the little cracks and tears, the water stains, and odd splotches of dirt.
You roll your eyes, curling your fingers around his arm. "That's cus Hermes supposedly brought them everywhere while he searched for his lost love."
"Quite the romantic. Do you know all the artifacts?"
"Yup."
"I see..." Damian drawls. "Then why are we here then?" Damian winces at how harsh and impatient he sounds.
"Cus Jon said I needed an excuse to get you here and viola. It worked. I knew you'd cross the sea for a rare exhibit."
I would cross the sea for you, no matter how many times, Damian thinks.
"What about this?" Damian points to a golden coin, shaking his thoughts away.
You lean back, side-eyeing him. "Care to guess?" His handsome features furrow as he thinks.
"I think it’s a coin used to pay Charon." He says finally.
You frown. "Good guess." A smug grin curls on his lips. You stick your tongue out at him.
"It’s an old Greek coin to pay the travel into the underworld."
"Why would they want to travel to the underworld?" It's Damian's turn to frown.
"Yanno for someone who's so smart. You're asking the dumbest questions."
"It's a reasonable question." He asserts, his tone oddly defensive.
"Most people can't bear to be apart from their beloved."
Damian hums noncommittally. He understands that. he understands that all too well.
"Like you and Jon." You say grinning.
Damian glares at you. No real anger behind it.
"You two bicker like an old married couple." You laugh.
"So do we." Damian says flatly, stepping closer to you and closing the gap between the two of you. He's looking at you so intensely that your skin sets itself on fire.
"I often think about burying you under the kitchen patio too." Damian sneers, with a sharp grin.
You snap out of your daze. Leaning in close and smiling, your hot breath fan against Damian's face. "Will you do it affectionately?"
The moment hangs still in the air. If you could capture it in amber, you would.
"Huh? This is new." You say, looking down at the glass case.
"How many times have you seen this exhibit?"
You preemptively shoot him an accusatory look. "What are you?"
"Concerned."
"Pfff!"
You lean down reading the plate. "Says here it's a letter from the late 1700s and early 1800s. An unsent letter to lost love."
"Sounds cliched." Damian says, leaning down next to you.
"You've said that about everything."
You feel Damian stiffen beside you. You glance at him. He looks mortified. Your eyes follow his and land on the letter. The calligraphy looks familiar but you can't think of where you've seen the scrawl.
Damian tugs at your shoulder.
"(Y/n), let's go."
You shrug him off.
"(Y/n), let’s go." He repeats with increased urgency.
You shove your palm to his face.
Damian wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You flail and kick out childishly.
“Damian Al Ghul Wayne, I will gnaw your arm off.” You hiss but he doesn’t let go. In a last ditch effort to break free of his hold, you wriggle out of your coat. Landing on your ass, you scramble for the glass case.
My beloved (Y/n),
Finding the words to tell you how I feel about you is not an easy feat. I feel as though Ibn Hazm himself would struggle to compose poems to express my feelings for you even then they would be inadequate.
Whilst we are surrounded by such death and misery, here in London, I want you to know that during these dark times, it is you that keeps me a light. It is you that leads me through the void and guides me.
I think I’ve always loved you from the very first moment I laid eyes on your beautiful lopsided smile. Yes. Your real smile. The one only a handful of people will ever see. I have been lucky enough to see it every day.
As time passed, I fell more and more in love with you. You have seen all of me. You have seen the monster within me and yet you still stand by my side. Never faulting in your stance.
I wish I had the strength to tell you this, face to face. I wish I could look into your eyes and whisper words of love my immortal beloved.
With Love,
Damian
You stare at the letter uncomprehending. Realization slides off of you like rain off a tin roof. You read it over and over again until each syllable is embedded in your mind. “Damian, what the actual fuck?!”
“I-”
“You dork!”
Damian clams up unable to think of a response. Ok, no. He had a number of responses but none of them were appropriate or witty. He searches your features but the only thing he can make out is shock.
“(Y/n), I was-”
You press your hand to the glass. “How come you never sent me this?”
“The French Revolution.”
“Which one?”
He crosses his arms raising a brow.
“Ok, nevermind. But still, it’s been 200 years.”
“A lot has happened in 200 years.”
“A lot has happened in 200 years.” You repeat mockingly.
Damian pinches your cheeks in retaliation.
“I was pinning for more than 200 hundred years!” You protest.
“So was I!” Damian says, releasing your cheek.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?” Damian asks, accusing and curt. You flinch, something vile and caustic rising in your stomach. Damian sees it and grips your hand as you fall away from him. He just got you back. “(Y/n)....”
The fear and hurt melt off of your face. “I thought… I just thought you’d...” You ball your fists in frustration, not quite grasping the right words. But Damian already knows what you’re thinking. He’s seen that look in your face. He’s seen it every time you look at the mirror. It was infuriating to watch you like this. Why couldn’t you see just how perfect you are?
Damian pulls you into a hug, burying your face into his chest and resting his chin on top of your head.
“You are infuriating.” He mumbles into your hair.
“And you’re rude.” You mumble back.
“Yet here you are 400 years later.” He laughs softly.
You two stand in silence for a long moment. With Damian, silence itself was a language. It was one you’d grown fluent in. An unspoken conversation of confirmations and reassurances.
He releases you but holds your hand in his. It feels warm. You shiver and Damian smiles at you, smooshing your coat into your face. Both of you can’t help but laugh.
You step closer to the glass case, pulling him along. Damian follows without resistance, only lacing his fingers into yours. You both stare at the page. His proclamation of love carefully preserved for all to see. You take your phone out to take a picture. Damian shoots you a glare.
“You’re not sending that to Jon.”
“Tim then.”
“No.”
“Fine, for myself then.” You pause seeing the confusion on his face. “In case, you know...” You say waving your hand.
Damian tilts your chin up. “Beloved, I’m not going anywhere.”
Your chest flutters. After centuries of inaction, you can feel your heartbeat.
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Stupid Sometimes {Plus Size Reader x Tony Stark}
Plot: Tony Stark praises your curves, with no ill intent, but it upsets you because of past experiences. Once he realises that he’s upset you, he tries to show you he’s sorry.
Character: Plus Size Gender Neutral Reader x Tony Stark
Part of my Plus Size Reader x Character Series!
Requested by lilacprincessofrecovery
Every day, Tony made some sort of comment. Usually some form of ‘compliment’ that focussed on your body. Being plus size, Tony liked to compliment you on your confidence, the way you rocked outfits and how you looked. It wasn’t made to sleazy and nine times out of ten, it never came across sleazy. It was made to boost your ego and give you a pep in your step however... it never usually made you feel that way.
All your life, you’d had people talk about your weight; obsess over your health and offer insults in the form of advice. All your life, people put you down, mocked you and told you to lose weight when really, your body was none of their concern. It hurt you a lot then and it hurt you a lot now. They would those types of comments where you’d think about it for days afterwards, thinking you weren’t good enough and neither skinny nor pretty enough. It was horrible. You thought that as you grew up and became an adult, people would focus less on your weight.
Tony didn’t mean to offend or upset you. There was absolutely no malice or ill intent behind his words. He genuinely thought he was being a good friend, how was he to know that you’d had terrible experiences with people focussing on your weight all of your life and he never helped the issue? Even positive focus upset you because again, why did people need to comment on your body and your weight all the time? It’s like when you’ve got a big zit on the end of your nose, you know it’s there, other people know it’s there; why focus on it and cause further embarrassment?
Tony had walked past you as you made lunch in the kitchen and smiled, “I love your confidence in that outfit,” he said as he popped a grape into his mouth, “Other people might not think they can pull an outfit like that off, people tend to think that bigger people can’t pull that stuff off but you can. You rock it.” He thought he was helping, he thought he was being a nice friend to you... that was until, you burst into tears.
You hadn’t meant to get so emotional over it but it was becoming increasingly upsetting as the days went on until you couldn’t take it anymore and until you just burst into tears whilst making a sandwich. Tony stood, kind of awkwardly gawking at you, as he tried to understand the situation.
“What happened?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing together in concern, “Was it me?” All you could do was nod and Tony let out a long sigh, “Was it this morning? I thought you found it funny when I try and make Banner ‘Hulk out’!” You shook your head, wiping your tears as you struggled to gain your composure. Tony frowned, oblivious to the real issue.
“It’s-It’s okay,” you sniffed as you grabbed a tissue and swatted your hand, “I’m just being stupid.” You didn’t like confrontation, you didn’t like getting upset in front of people so you tried to brush it off.
Tony, however, wasn’t having any of it, “No,” he said, catching your wrist gently, “Talk to me... I’ve upset you and I want to make it right.” You sighed and nodded. Tony gave you a small smile, “Come, we’ll sit on the balcony and get fresh air. You can take all the time you need.” You let him lead you outside and let him pull up two chairs for you both. Over the years of knowing Tony, you were one of the few people who had the privilege to see his softer and more caring side. It was nice.
Tony didn’t speak and instead allowed you the time to calm down and gather your thoughts. When you eventually did speak, he turned to face you, “It was what you said in the kitchen that upset me,” you said slowly.
“About Banner?” You shook your head.
“About my outfit and weight,” you sniffed, looking anywhere but at him.
He frowned, once again confused, “I was telling you how good you looked - it wasn’t meant to upset you.”
“I know,” you said and you did know that he truly didn’t mean to upset you, “I know you meant it as a compliment but... I don’t like that sort of stuff.”
“You don’t like compliments?”
“I don’t like compliments centred around my body or weight,” you corrected him. He leaned forwards, curiously, “Tony, all my life people focussed on my weight. They told me I was too heavy, that I was a whale, that I should go on a diet. People would say ‘you’d be prettier if you were skinny’ to me thinking that it was a compliment. People constantly thought they had a say in my weight and the way my body looked.”
Realisation began to dawn on Tony as he muttered a small ‘oh’.
“You’re only trying to be nice and boost my confidence, I get that and I appreciate the intent but... my weight isn’t your concern, nor anybody else’s; why should you or anyone else focus on it and only talk about it? I had years of bad experiences like that which have severely impacted on me negatively... So, even though I know you don’t mean it to be upsetting-”
“It comes across like you need my approval to look a certain way; like I have a say in what your weight should be or what your body should look like.” Tony nodded, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve stopped...”
You shrugged, “I thought I could deal with it but... I obviously can’t.”
Tony reached out, grabbing your hands and rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles gently. He looked deep into your eyes as he apologised, “I’m sorry. I truly am. I’m stupid sometimes. I make stupid comments sometimes. I can be a right dick sometimes. What I don’t want to be is the person who hurts you. I am really sorry. I promise you, from now on I won’t comment on your body or weight. I’ll compliment you in other ways.”
It meant a lot to you that he said that, it meant a lot that he understood that he upset you and instead, apologised. You thanked him for his apology, squeezing his hands. In a matter of minutes, the issue had been resolved and dropped and you found yourselves talking about other things but Tony couldn’t get the fact he’d upset you that much out of his head.
The next day, you woke up feeling a lot better about the situation. Tony had been a real gem; he’d apologised and understood straight away. He told you that he’d never had those experiences and he was sorry for not thinking the comments through properly. It was nice to hear, it was nice that someone listened to your feelings about those types of comments instead of brushing you off.
When you opened your eyes, you were surprised to see that you were surrounded by flowers. You sat up, looking around the room, seeing more than a dozen bouquets of flowers - all different breeds and colours - around the room. You were confused, and a little weirded out that someone was in your room as you slept, when you noticed an envelope on your bedside table. You opened it curiously.
Dearest (y/n),
After yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I’d upset you so I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted you to wake up to a beautiful view of your favourite types of flowers.
I am truly sorry about it all and I do hope that you’ll forgive me.
If not, I’ll make you a wonderful breakfast of pancakes, syrup and bacon when you wake up and surely that’ll make you forgive me... If it doesn’t, I’m sure I can conjure up another surprise.
I can compliment you one thousand other ways but I’ll only list a few. I admire your courage and your strength. I appreciate that you listen to me and when I was having bad nightmares and panic attacks, I appreciated that you stayed up with me to talk about them or not talk about them - depending on how I felt. I love that we have a similar type of humour - you’re the best when it comes to a partner for pranks. I admire your kindness and your patience - you have the patience of a saint. I enjoy being your friend and it makes me happy that we’re so close and I daresay that this experience will bring us closer together. You’re beautiful - but you don’t need me to tell you that.
I do hope you forgive me,
T.S
Tears welled in your eyes as you finished the letter. He was someone who made stupid comments sometimes and could be stupid sometimes but he was sweet and kind and when he cared about someone, he truly did care. You manvoured your way around the flowers and rushed out of your bedroom. You found him standing in the kitchen drinking coffee.
“You’re up!” He grinned, “Pancake- oomph!” You crashed into him, hugging him tightly, almost knocking him off of his feet at the force of which you charged. You murmured a small ‘thank you’ into his shoulder as you hugged him, “I take it you liked your flowers then.”
You let go a few seconds later, “I loved it, Tony. I loved your letter too. You didn’t have to, you know. I’d forgiven you yesterday.”
Tony smiled, “I know but I wanted to make sure you knew how sorry I was... Now... Pancakes?”
#tony stark x plus size reader#plus size reader#plus size#chubby!reader#tony stark x reader#tony stark#tony stark one shot#tony stark os#avengers#avengers one shot#avengers reader insert#reader insert#tony stark x you#tony stark x y/n#marvel one shot#marvel#marvel reader insert#one shot#os#plus size series
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How would the doctors be in relationships? (Including TO and Lucius)
I'm presuming with partners who reciprocate their affection, lol. Let's also pretend we're excluding their limitation of being only at the facility.
Yosuke: He'd be very much loving. The "best" parts of his treatment of Ten are good examples. However, he'd still be a little possessive at times and expect his partner to accommodate his wants and needs. Though he can't avoid it in TF, he won't exactly prefer his partner to get too close to other men and will actively prevent it if possible, or at least hover over them continuously to make sure they're "safe".
Yosuke might take his partner on regular dinner dates or to more private place, but would ultimately prefer to keep them at home. He'd give them plenty of affection, kissing and touching them all over. He might even be a little needy and bother his partner when they're lounging around or doing work.
He would not hesitate to talk things out if need be, but he may regularly make assumptions or read his partner and try to get them on his side rather than actually solve a conflict. He's quite tricky with words, and tends to go for people who can't easily "beat" him at the games he plays. No matter what, he will always get his way.
Mom: She'd still talk the way she does with a real partner, and still be lively and coy. But she'd show her affection more by being sweet for them and buying them gifts (she'll more than likely be the breadwinner too). She'd also probably take her partner around and meet new people and be social.
Mom would baby their partner in the bedroom as is her fascination, and she may expect them to refer to her matronly name even outside of it as she does in TF. She'd probably go on a lot of random dates with her partner, even small things like going shopping. But always, she will keep up with her sexual fascinations and expect regular attention in the bedroom. She might not indulge in a partner who can't keep up with her sexual desires.
If a partner shows that they're going to be too much of a stubborn person for her, Mom has no issues cutting them off and finding someone else. Only if it's someone she likes to toy with or have fun with does she get particularly attached. She can be a bit clingy and needy if she really likes/loves someone enough, so her partner would really have to be able to put up with that overbearing personality. But because of who she is and how she gets, her relationships never last incredibly long.
Sven: He'd hardly be romantic, but he'd probably be pretty loose and casual with his partner. His rather misogynistic ways would probably be downplayed around a partner, or else he'd hide a lot of his intentions if he wants them to stick around.
Sven likes to be the one in charge of things and has absolutely no patience, so he doesn't take well to partners who try to talk over him or assert themselves. Basically, he's not the greatest guy to be in a relationship with, and would probably want to get his dick wet and chill out more than deal with relationship issues or talking things out. He's not afraid of ending a relationship if his partner ends up being too difficult for him to handle, or if he perceives that the relationship gains are not worth the effort.
Jude: He might be a little more kind with a partner than Sven, and certainly a little classier. He's a bit old fashioned, so he'd expect his partner to be more petite and gentle while he leads. He'd pay for things and take them out now and then, with the expectation that his partner give him affection/attention.
Jude would not do well with conflict, but at least try to reason with his partner if they're angry. He's not the type to shut people off, but will not get overly emotional himself and tends to be more calm about things. If his partner is far more reactive, he will have to constantly try managing their moods.
Micah: He'd prefer a partner who can keep up with his interests and attitude, but he does have a few soft spots that might show more often with a genuine partner. He'd like to laze around in bed with them or go out at night before returning to the bedroom for playtime.
He might not do well with conflict since he's so hotheaded, but he'll probably feel bad about hurting someone he actually likes. Even if there's fights, he'll apologize later, possibly with his body.
Micah is usually begrudging to let others see his softer side, so when he does act gently for his partner, he will probably do it in private.
Jonathan: Jonathan would be a romantic, and treat his partner gently. He'd lead a gentler partner and woo them with his charm, but be submissive and boyish to a more dominant one, particularly in the bedroom.
He'll probably shower his partner in gifts and affection. Would probably swing if his partner agrees to it, too. And though he's rather calm and casual, Jonathan may sometimes resort to begging playfully if he wants to involve his partner in something. He has a charm about him that will usually lead a partner to agree to what he wants, but he isn't unfair and will usually compensate a partner for those agreements, either with gifts or heavy petting.
Jonathan would be rather fond of romantic outings, and may like to be surprised by his partner, or surprise them himself.
Nathaniel: Nathaniel wouldn't be quite as submissive as Jonathan and might attract more tender and gentle partners for him to romance and fawn over. He'd give them gifts as well, and be extremely affectionate and touch their partner regularly with things like hugs, kisses, and hand-holding.
Nathaniel's a dapper man who lives lavishly, so he'd make sure his partner looked equally as lavish. He's also constantly fluster them with loving, and perhaps even poetic words. Lots of wine-and-dine dates with this man.
Gale: Gale would be a subtle romantic, but always be gentle with their partner and lead them if they need to be led. They aren't the grandiose type and would instead prefer simple company and time together.
They might not be able to help but read their partner regularly and always know if there's something on their mind. They're quite good at working out problems, so it'd be easy to avoid too much arguing in the relationship. Bedroom time would go between hard pegging and gentle play depending on the mood of both partners at the given time.
Milos: Milos would be a bit difficult to deal with, but rewarding for those who put up with his drunker antics. He'd still treat his partner like royalty and give them very enthusiastic affection, but he might be a bit more forward than some people like. He's very unashamed of pressing hard kisses onto his partners in public, and wouldn't much care if anyone were to be disgusted by overt displays of affection.
If his partner is fairly dainty, even if he'll still try to treat them gently most times, he might frighten them by being too loud or unpredictable. But if his partner is as aggressive and headstrong as he is, they might be right alongside him. He'd love every minute of that, especially if his partner's an alcoholic too.
He may brush off a partner if there's a conflict, or find any way to dodge conflict in general since he prefers to have a good time rather than be too serious. He's not the kind of person to want to be tied down, so he wouldn't be interested in long-term relationships.
Lilah: Lilah would be fairly impatient in a relationship unless her partner was able to keep up with her demanding personality and interests. She'd never be with anyone super gentle, and so her partner would have to be as headstrong as her. There might be a lot of fighting and rough makeup sex in a relationship like this.
If Lilah's with a partner who she can be a little bit more "submissive" in the bedroom to and not be a top, she'll probably be pretty demanding and bratty both in and out of the bedroom. When she does get enthusiastic about things, she'll probably want to share things with her partner. She's not the romantic or cuddling type, and would probably rather have raunchy make-out sessions and get sloshed than sit through a boring dinner date.
Monica: Monica might baby her partner a little bit and treat them like royalty. She'd act fairly bubbly around her partner and constantly ask if they'd like to do things with her if she's in the mood to go out and have a good time. She'd be very vocal in the relationship, wanting to talk quite often about how she feels and how things are going. If she has an impatient partner, this might lead to a lot of arguments and conflict of interest. If her partner is as loving and vocal as she is, it'd be much easier to talk about things, but sometimes the both of them will try to talk over one another if they have something to say.
Monica would definitely be openly sexual with her partner and would possibly be a little needy since she still sometimes is stuck in her younger mindset despite being an older woman who's expected to be more "mature". She likes to be perky and girlish, and more importantly likes to have fun. However, if her partner is ever having a bad time or feels sad, she'll drop what she's doing to take care of them.
Lucius: See this ask
The Overseer: This one's a bit tough. He's hardly a romantic, nor especially enthusiastic about being in a traditional relationship. He might be a distant, busy partner who doesn't much know how to tenderly show his affections and isn't always present, but he would give his partner anything they needed or even wanted if they were to ask for it. He may even preemptively buy something for his partner if they even hinted casually at it, regardless of whether it was something they needed/wanted (ex. if his partner were to say "I would kill for a car like that" even if they were joking, he'd misread their tone and buy one for them, thinking they were 100% serious about it).
TO is a very private individual, and won't be particularly affectionate. He'd struggle if his partner were the affectionate type, leading to a lot of disagreements and one-sided fights. However, an affectionate partner may do little things for him he quietly appreciates or rewards with compliments and gifts-- things like tying his ties, cooking for him, and making the bed. He may even give them kisses on the forehead or cheek in private as a means to satisfy them, but wouldn't publicize his affectionate gestures whatsoever and mostly keep these things in the home. In turn, if he has the time, he may even try to return some of these favors and attempt to clean or cook for his partner, but leave notes instead of waiting for their reaction to his gestures.
TO's values tend to be tied to achievements and successes, so he'd be a lot more "open" or "chatty" with a partner who has accomplishments under their belt, like maybe a fellow doctor or someone who's so focused on the work they do in their field like he is. Since he's such a stoic man, he won't be super expressive, but at the very best would deliver a few lines of (well-meaning, but dry-sounding) compliments or praise to his partner.
So, TO would probably accept living with and being close to someone, he just wouldn't seem super enthused even if he's actually quite content. Livelier people might ask his partner why they're with him when he seems so "boring", but there will always be something his partner loves about him even when he is a little dry.
#Asks#CD Facility Story#CD Facility Spoilers#CD Facility Reference#wow this took forever to answer lol./#i hope it's fufilling enough./
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Himmeløyne [9/?]
Pairing: Loki Odinson x Reader
Catch Up Here | Masterlist
Warnings: Odin being a God-King...which is code for ‘dick’.
A/N: Hi, this probably my most IMPORTANT LOKI RELATED NOTE: The very talented and delightfully risque writer @lokilickedme has just released a book. I love her work (especially Sanguine)! Refer to this post for all details about her book.
Now, onto triffles.
Taglist is open! Reblog, comment or leave a like please ☺
~Y/N
“—I do not think I can keep this from her any longer,” you heard Heimdall say mid-conversation. He sounded like a man desperate to shout but too afraid to do so.
You swallowed, feeling guilty for impeding upon something so personal.
Just as you had made up your mind to leave, you heard Odin warn: “You remember what the Oracle said, old friend.”
Oracle? You wondered. And that was all it took to get you to plant your feet before the throne room’s doors and listen like a mouse in the night.
“Her vision already came to pass,” Heimdall said, defeated. “I’ve lost one. I cannot lose another. Not when she is safe within our walls. Safe here.”
“No place is impregnable to violence,” Odin let out a sigh. “I already took a risk in allowing my son to train her. If he knew what she was…”
You shifted, a soft noise coming from your hand that braced the door to steady your stance. Was there more about your powers that you didn’t know? Why did Odin speak with such animosity towards you? Did he fear you?
Heimdall’s works quaked with emotion: “Please, Allfather. I cannot keep this lie any longer. I cannot pretend as though my heart doesn’t ache when I see her. And ache all the more when I must remove myself from her presence. She is my daughter. What would you give to have your daugh—”
And that was the moment. The moment everything snapped into place. Heimdall and Odin kept speaking in secret and your mind struggled to make sense of things that were right in front of you the entire time: the bloodkin spell leading you to Heimdall’s post by the bi-frost; the gold in your eyes reflected in his; the mark that shielded your power from his gaze; Loki’s coy words during their Game of Fates; the disapproving glower Heimdall had flashed Loki when the dark prince had placed a finger on your knee; Your mothers mantra: “The universe rests in your eyes.”
Magic screeched inside you. Angry and betrayed. How many people knew Heimdall was your father? How many lies had you been subjected to?
“Hnnnfff,” the magic grew painful; piercing. You clutched your body. Everywhere ached.
Odin and Heimdall’s voices grew sharper.
“…Odin,” Heimdall’s voice shook. “I beg of you. When you ordered me to never look for Sigrid, I did it to protect her. To keep the prophecy from coming to pass. And she died all the same. Without ever knowing how I truly felt for her.”
“I am sorry,” Odin sounded regretful. “But if it came to it, I would take her from you as Sigrid had been. Such is the weight I bear. The weight of King. To protect my son, I would destroy your daughter. It is for this very reason that I cannot allow you to tell her the truth—to love her as only a father could. It is the smallest mercy I can give. And the only mercy I will allow.”
You wanted to escape, go somewhere far. Away from gods and magic and kings. You didn’t cry, there were no tears left to shed. Niflheim had broken you. Asgard had reset you wrong. Frayed, like the ice wound that scarred your chest.
You thought of the ocean, the one back home. And with gut-punching intensity, you were swallowed by a portal of your own making.
Home. You were home. And it was gone. The longhouse that belonged to the chief was nothing more than snow extinguished timber. The fabulous fabrics and furs that decorated his walls left no traces. The polished silver tankards you’d always wanted to drink from were black. The rest of the village suffered a worse fate. Huts leaving nothing behind but black shapes in the snow. There were no bodies to identify. No history to reclaim.
Slowly, you made your way back to your house. The air was colder than you remembered. Wind biting at your skin till you turned pale and stiff. The dress you wore provided little protection from the weather.
Your house barely stood. A state of decrepitude would be too generous a description. Stone walls struck down; no door to walk through; the eight pronged symbol visible on the stone floor beneath the foundations. With a heavy sigh, you tried to rebuild. Placing each stone block back where it had been. Reanimating wooden doors and burned furs from the ash. When you opened your eyes again, you were surprised by how faithful your iteration of home was.
The house stood again, walls shivering with magic. If it was an illusion, you weren't interested in breaking it.
When you walked in, you were disappointed to learn it smelled of fire. No herbs or mead or tanned leather scents to bring comfort. Just fire.
Your mother wasn’t sitting in her chair with her lit pipe. The only trace of her resided in the seer bones cast on the floor; untouched—predicting the future for no-one.
Without a plan, you walked to the small space with a mead stain on the furs. It was where you used to fall asleep to the warmth of the fires as a child. Then, with a wave of your fingers, you conjured a real fire in the fireplace. Sitting back to stare blankly into the flames. You drifted. Too tired to remember to blink from the dry air. Too tired to remember to be present.
Heavy boots broke your stupor. A man, shed of armour and wearing mortal weaves, sat beside you.
“Everyone was worried,” Heimdall’s voice found its way to your ears. He sighed. “I was worried.”
“How did you find me?” You asked, voice raspy.
He opened his palm to reveal a cut, “How you tried to find me, I suspect.”
“Bloodkin spells,” you intoned.
"Of sorts," he chose to sit close enough to seem familiar, but far away enough to let distance be a kindness. “I had to use older magic, more…dangerous magic, to find you.”
“And so you did.”
“Your powers are impressive,” he said. “To conjure a portal on your own and actually end up where you wanted to go is…impressive.”
Your heart beat sluggishly, neck straining from barely being moved for so long. “Is it true?”
Heimdall’s chest sunk, a deep exhale disrupting the flames in the fireplace. “Yes.”
“How?”
“It is...” Heimdall stopped himself. His open palm balling into a tight fist that shook. Something shifted in him. The next time he spoke, he sounded different: “Before you were born, the prince—Loki—fell ill. It wasn’t a sickness of the body, but…something else. Odin was secretive then. More than he is now. Frigga didn’t eat for days. Thor had been sent away so he wouldn’t cause a scene…
“There had been an attack, you see. Jotuns. Somehow, they managed to slip past me and into the castle. A portal I couldn’t sense. There had been a battle. Some died. Not many. But enough. In the fray, Loki had been injured. Odin had shut him in his quarters. I remember hearing Loki scream with fever for days. Spouting heinous accusations at his father.”
You shut your eyes tight. The thought of Loki suffering made you feel uneasy. Heimdall noticed this and quieted his words even more. He probably thought that by making his voice softer the words would hurt less.
He continued: “Odin called for a witch with strange abilities. Her name was Dagna, she was known to her people as—”
“Minnevever…” You turned to look at Heimdall. “She was my great-grandmother.”
Memory Weaver
He smiled humbly, the lines on his face showing the age that his immortal body hid so well. “I had been sent to a village near Lake Mälaren. That is where I first saw your mother. She told me I’d fall in in love with her the first day we met.” Heimdall’s cheeks pulled taut as his teeth peeked through his smile. “I had brought Dagna to Asgard to cure the prince. His treatment took days. For a few hours, during those days, I’d find myself slipping away—going back to the village. Again and again and again.”
Heimdall reached into his pocket and pulled out a lock of hair. You gasped. His smile fell. “On the last day, she gave me this. I didn’t know it was to be our last day. If I had—” He cleared his throat, eyes blinking rapidly.
You felt the urge to ease his pain; or maybe you wanted to mourn with him as the only other person alive who remembered Sigrid. Either way, the strangeness was too thick, your hand never managed to make its way to his side.
“She saw her death too,” you added. There was anger there. Between the octaves. “She saw and yet she didn’t tell me either. Such is the elusive ways of those with godly gifts.”
Heimdall wiped a tear from his cheek, “When I opened the portal to return Dagna to her home, she told me something. A prophecy. She said that I would only know pain if I let my heart know love. I was destined to be the Watcher—and one cannot watch the stars from above if their heart belongs below.”
His fingers played with the ridges of the braided lock of hair. “She warned that if I ever returned to the village, death would follow me. So I never returned.” Heimdall turned to look upon your face in the glow of the fire. Eyes moving over every spot and hair and sculpted angle. It was then that you noticed you shared more than the gold in your eyes. You shared the same chin and more of his lips than your mother’s. Two dark spots mirroring his beneath your left eyebrow.
In a strangled voice, he said: “And I never knew you existed until you were brought through the bi-frost…half dead.”
His choked up, finally giving in to his tears. Heimdall wept then. In the rawness of the moment, your hand finally found the strength to cross over and comfort him. Soon, you were both crying; mourning; celebrating; letting go. As you did, the house proved itself to be an illusion. It fell back into disrepair as you held your father's hand for the first time.
#loki#loki marvel#loki x reader#loki x you#loki x y/n#loki odinson#loki laufeyson#himmeløyne#tom hiddelston imagine#loki imagine#loki imagines#tom#hiddleston
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Habit
Pairing: Hyunjin X Female Reader
Sexual content: protected sex. Swearing. Mentions of cheating. Jealousy.
A/N: I tried to channel as much emotion into this as possible while struggling to still keep any sexiness! I hope you all enjoy this.
-
“Did you get home safe?”
It took him a few minutes to respond.
“Yeah, got a ride with Chan”
It took you a few minutes to figure out how to word your next text.
“I had at least three people send pictures of you and Jisoo”
You took a deep breath and watched as the three dots popped on and off your screen.
“Jesus Christ”
Not what you were expecting.
“We didn’t even fuck”
There it is.
You were giving yourself a moment to think before you typed back but Hyunjin must have spent too much time on “read” for his liking and opted for calling you.
“Are you really that mad?”
“What the fuck do you think Hyunjin?” You usually kept your cool for longer whenever this kind of thing happened, this must’ve been your tipping point.
“Come on! I told you nothing happened-”
“No, you just said you didn’t sleep with her and I know exactly what that means.”
Hyunjin was stunned, simply breathing into the microphone.
“I’m coming over.”
“No, not this time. I’m not letting you inside just so you can get in my pants.”
“…I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“Hyunjin you’re drunk-”
“I’ll walk,” he cut you off, “just keep the door unlocked if you’re gonna be such an asshole.”
He hung up right as the words left his mouth and you were left with the silence of your bedroom.
Your feet hit the ground next to your bed and you searched frantically for a sweatshirt to throw on, hoping to look as unappealing as possible to make Hyunjin second guess any plan he had in place to win your favor.
No matter how desperate or anger either one of you were, you would never force the other to do anything but you were more worried about giving in to your own desires than something like peer pressure.
Hyunjin was probably the most beautiful boy in your city (you would argue for a wider sphere) and everyone knew it. Anyone who didn’t like boys watched, jealous out of their minds, as everyone who did like boys drooled over the perfection that was Hwang Hyunjin.
Both his hair and his body were always styled to perfection along with his proportions to match. One moment his eyes were practically ordering you to get on your knees and the next he flashed you a smile with his half-moon eyes and you were weak for a totally different reason.
This was precisely the reason why Hyunjin practically had girls hanging off his dick no matter where he went, regardless of him or the chick’s relationship status.
You never expected Jisoo to be his next prospect but you couldn’t blame him.
Catching sight of yourself in the mirror, you inspected your appearance. You turned side to side to get the full picture, scrutinizing your butt, your waist, your hair, anything of yours that didn’t look like Jisoo’s.
This happened every time, the comparisons. It usually didn’t last very long, even the few times that Hyunjin wasn’t able to come over and mumble countless comparisons of his own into your flushed skin, comparisons that always put you above the other girl.
While you would love some reassurance right now, you knew the comfort would fade and leave another hole in your heart that would be filled by Hyunjin whenever the next thing that wasn’t you piqued his interest.
Your socks glided across the floor as you sulked over to the front door, answering the call of three signature knocks.
You had to tilt your head up to stare into Hyunjin’s eyes. They looked clear enough, no red in sight, an uncommon sign of sobriety for him after a party.
“I didn’t have sex with her.”
He wasn’t even inside your house and was already starting something.
You stepped aside, signaling for him to come in to avoid your neighbors hearing anything. You didn’t want anyone knowing how much of a fucking loser Hyunjin made you out to be.
“Seriously, my dick’s been soft all night! You know I don’t get horny when I’m high.”
“You are something else, Hyunjin.” Disgust was evident in your face. “Cheating isn’t just sticking your dick in other people! Everything I saw in those damn photos counts and I have a right to be upset about-”
“How can it be cheating if we’re not dating, Y/N? I’m not your boyfriend and I never said you were my girlfriend.”
“Dating or not, if you didn’t feel guilty about all the shit that you did then you wouldn’t come over and apologize.”
He took a step closer. “Or maybe I just know you’ll spread your legs for me regardless.”
You took a step of your own and raised your eyebrows.
“You expect me to believe that you go through all this trouble just to fuck me? Even though you can obviously go to anyone else and get it there?”
“Maybe I like the chase,” he shrugged.
“Or you’re just an immature little boy who’s only capable of thinking with-”
“Stop acting like I’m some airhead! I know what I’m doing, okay?”
You had never heard him say something like that before.
“It sucks not being able to have the one girl that I want because she’s ‘too busy’ for a relationship or whatever the fuck your new excuse is. You treated what we had between us as some type of anomaly back in high school and managed to carry it with us into the real world too. You don’t come to my games, you won’t hold my hand in public, and you refuse to come to any parties with me.”
“We just like different things Hyunjin. You’re a dance major! The homework and projects you get are just an excuse for you to do the thing you love more than anything but I don’t get that luxury. I have essays, annoying partners, and hundreds of pages of readings a night; how am I supposed to make time to get high with you? Especially when I know what’s gonna happen if I leave you alone for more than a second.”
Hyunjin laughed, a quick burst of air from his lungs and a pump of his chest left you confused and a little bit annoyed.
“I thought you were smart, Y/N.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t have sex with girls because they’re there, I do it because you’re not.”
Your brain shut down, your mouth stayed shut.
“Every time we fight, it ends with us spending the night together without fail. This is the only surefire way I can get you to admit to and show how you feel about me.”
Hyunjin started walking around your kitchen, pacing back and forth as his hand slid along the countertop to his left.
“You may think I use those girls to get off but I’m really just using them to get back at you. I want you to feel as pushed aside as I do.”
A tear splashed onto the countertop.
Hyunjin always cried first.
“Jinnie.”
Nothing.
“Jinnie, please look at me.”
You wanted to keep some distance between the two of you but walked towards him anyway.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t know that was how you felt. I was convinced you didn’t care, that you were just doing all of this because you could.”
You knew that kind of accusation was going to make Hyunjin mad so you kept talking.
“But that was incredibly stupid of me! You’re my best friend, I know you better than that and I never should’ve let my jealousy alter how I felt about you.”
You took a deep breath.
“I love you so much, Jinnie, I was just too afraid to show it because I thought you never would. I didn’t want to be clingy and end up pushing you away because I know you could have anyone else in the fucking world if you wanted-”
“But I’ve never wanted someone else. Sure, sex is nice, but I only do it because these people that throw themselves at me want me in a way that you don’t.”
“That’s not true, I promise that’s not true. I want all of you Jinnie but I’m… I’m so scared that I don’t deserve it or that you’ll take it all away from me one day.”
Neither of you could get rid of the other’s insecurities no matter what you said or did. There were things that would never change, habits that could never be broken, but there were steps you both could take to offset any pain, to prevent any future problems.
You and Hyunjin were standing right in front of each other by this point, desperately clinging onto the love that you felt for one another and hoping it would be enough.
You rose up on your tip toes to wipe a tear off of Hyunjin’s cheek and he used this as an opportunity to grab your arm and pull you into him.
Now chest to chest, you could see all the details of Hyunjin’s face. It was no secret why everyone loved him, but you suppose it wasn’t the love that he wanted. It wasn’t the kind of love that you gave him.
“Can we show each other? Can we show each other how we really feel?”
Your answer was stolen by Hyunjin’s lips, chasing yours as hungrily as ever. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair and held him close to you as Hyunjin’s hands did the same as they gripped your hips.
You could feel Hyunjin’s nose pressing into your cheek and still it wasn’t good enough for either of you. He was kind of right unfortunately, thinking about Hyunjin with someone else always doubled the desire you had for him in the sense that you desperately needed to be that someone.
The honesty that had surfaced in your messy kitchen had developed such a strong sense of vulnerability in both of you and the need to be reassured and touched and loved was overwhelming.
Your fingers left Hyunjin’s air with a gentle tug that made him moan into your mouth and you willed your hands to stop shaking so you could unbutton Hyunjin’s shirt as fast as possible. Another pair of hands joined in from the bottom so that you could meet in the middle in record time.
You were allowed one moment to admire the smooth skin of Hyunjin’s toned chest before lips were dancing across your neck. Marks were to be expected and the harder Hyunjin sucked the deeper your nails sunk into the ridges of his stomach.
He came back up to kiss you again, softer than last time but this time he was using his tongue in a way that made your eyes roll back behind your eyelids.
One of your hands slid down his body, fingers resting on the waistband of his jeans before continuing a few inches lower to trace the outline of Hyunjin’s hard-on. You cupped him through the fabric and applied enough pressure to get his hips to jerk into your touch.
You might not have been as confident as Hyunjin was when it came to sex, but you knew what he liked and what to do to make him feel as good as you felt with him.
“Take your sweatshirt off,” Hyunjin forced out. He was so out of breath and still dived down for another kiss before beginning to work on getting his belt off.
“Why are you wearing so many layers?” You were still working on your tank top and bra while Hyunjin’s belt clattered against the floor.
“To try and control myself.”
Hyunjin reached around your back to unclasp your bra, “Am I that irresistible?”
His lips were already attached to your left nipple before you could tell him to shut his pretty mouth and he was sucking on the sensitive skin before you could even steady yourself with a breath of oxygen.
Hyunjin had always loved your boobs and touched them whenever he got the chance. Even when you were friends in high school, they were always the first part of your body he complimented when you asked for outfit advice. He picked the dresses that showed the most cleavage when he came along for prom dress shopping and surprised you with a necklace that sat right between your boobs when he asked you to be his date.
It was hard to ever feel insecure about them when they were covered in hickeys.
While he was working on marking the other side of your chest, you stretched your arms so that you could start unbuttoning his pants. He swatted your hand away and you whined, confused as to why he didn’t want to go farther.
“We’re not having sex on your kitchen floor and I can’t carry you to your room with my pants falling down.”
You couldn’t help but laugh. “Kitchen sex would be kinda hot though.”
Hyunjin pecked your lips. “Next time,” he promised.
You gave his hair a tug and his lips a kiss to seal the deal. You tried not to focus on the way Hyunjin’s fingers danced across your skin, closer and closer to where you needed him most with every eight-count.
He didn’t even bother teasing, his hand slipped right underneath the waistband of your sweats. The underwear you were wearing was barely a barrier because of how wet you were. Hyunjin’s skilled fingers knew exactly where to go first and you swore you could’ve cum with just one of his fingers pumping in and out of you, his palm applying the most delicious pressure against your clit at the same time.
You were practically clinging onto Hyunjin for dear life, your legs started shaking when he added a second finger and picked up speed. He probably could’ve supported you all on his own while still making you feel good but you didn’t wanna waste any more time on his fingers.
“Please,” you pleaded, “please fuck me.”
Hyunjin’s hand stalled before gradually slowing down. The other nudged you towards the closed door at the end of the hallway, forcing you to move while you were still practically getting finger-fucked.
He followed right behind as you stumbled to your bedroom, his knees just as wobbly as yours with anticipation. Hyunjin knew you were practically dripping underneath all those clothes which meant not being inside of you was a major inconvenience for him at the moment.
You and Hyunjin had walked down this hallway so many times together already. Sometimes while tearing clothes off the other, making out, or making the executive decision to just fuck right there against the wall. This time, it felt three times as long as any other night (or day) you two had spent together (with or without the prospect of sleeping together).
By the time you had finally made it to your bed, Hyunjin had already unzipped his jeans and was searching through your top drawer for a condom while you watched from on top of your bed.
Hwang Hyunjin truly was the definition of beautiful. Not pretty, not handsome, he had a universal beauty about him that combined masculinity and femininity into one. A sweet smile, striking eyes, and a jawline that could kill you. Toned muscles, dimples, and legs for days.
You knew his looks were a soft spot for him and this made you appreciate his sympathetic nature, sense of humor, and kind words more than his body. Your best friend was beautiful inside and out, something you made sure to remind him of.
When he finally got what he was looking for, he held it up with a proud smile on his face and dove down to kiss you.
You wasted no time in pulling him on top of you and nudging him in between your legs; the weight of his body on top of yours was the biggest relief to you in that moment.
“Can I take your sweats off, princess?”
You usually would’ve cringed at the pet name but it sounded so good coming from Hyunjin’s pretty lips.
He curled his fingers around your waistband after you nodded and tugged your pants down your legs at an agonizingly slow pace. The offensive fabric was tossed off the side of your bed and Hyunjin bent back down to kiss a trail up your thighs before getting rid of your underwear too.
You sat up to watch him pull his jeans off and actually whined when you saw the bulge in his black underwear. It wasn’t about your body needing his anymore, you were so desperate to have this boy in every sense of the word and he was taking so damn long.
“Why do you choose tonight to take your sweet time?” You tried to mask your neediness with a joke.
“Shouldn’t I be taking my time?” Hyunjin climbed back on top of you. “We have all night, Y/N.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re nice to look at, but I don’t wanna spend all night watching you roll a condom on.”
You were laughing at your own joke until Hyunjin raised his eyebrows and handed said-condom out to you, waiting for you to take it.
“You do it, then.”
You gulped, taking the shiny packet from him and sitting up. You were embarrassed to admit you had never put a condom on anyone before, Hyunjin always did it himself and it was a bit too intimate for you to want to do it for any of the rare one night stands you had encountered.
He helped you yank his briefs down and he groaned once his cock was finally free, resting on his smooth stomach.
You rose up on your knees as you pulled the plastic open. Hyunjin watched your face, smiling a bit at how concentrated you were.
“You’ve seen me do it a million times.”
“I’m usually too distracted to focus on your technique, Jinnie,” you replied as you placed the condom on the tip of his cock, holding it in place as you rolled the rest of it down his shaft.
“Good girl,” Hyunjin’s praise made your thighs clench.
“You like that? You like being called a good girl?”
You buried your head in the crook of his shoulder and whined, pleading for him to stop teasing you.
He giggled, the sweetest sound you had ever heard, and wrapped his strong arms around your waist.
You enjoyed the contact only for a moment before pulling back a bit to look at Hyunjin’s face. He brushed the hair out of your eyes and pecked your lips, making you smile and give him a deeper kiss in return.
You pressed your hips down into his, trying to relieve some of the pressure in your gut by grinding against the hardness between his legs. You tried to ignore how the slick from your pussy made it all the more easier (and messier), but this didn’t escape Hyunjin’s attention.
“You’re dripping down your thighs, baby.”
Hyunjin stared at the most beautiful cunt he had ever seen in his life and was left in awe of how much your body wanted him, he just needed the rest of you to confirm it.
“Are you ready, baby? Can I show you how much I love you?”
You kissed the tip of his nose. “Make me yours, Jinnie.”
Hyunjin held you in place with one of his arms while the other went between your legs, sliding his dick back in forth through your wetness to make the stretch easier. You locked eyes with each other as you sunk down on his length, throwing your head back once all of him was inside of you.
The hands on your hips helped guide you as you rocked back and forth on Hyunjin’s cock, crying out whenever his lower stomach rubbed against your clit in just the right way. Hyunjin’s eyes were glued to where you two were joined, amazed at how tightly your cunt was always wrapped around him. He seemed to disappear inside of you, your body trying to pull him back in every time you rocked forward enough for just his tip to be left inside of you.
The pace was slow, but just what you two needed for the time being. The ability to enjoy each other’s bodies was appreciated, but nothing compared to what being nose-to-nose did for the two of you. Every gasp of yours was stolen by Hyunjin’s lungs, every vibration from his throat swallowed by your chest.
You fought the urge to close your eyes and lose yourself in the moment, choosing instead to keep eye contact with the boy you loved. The pressure building in your lower stomach and blooming in your chest was overwhelming, only heightened by the intimacy the two of you were sharing in the moment.
Hyunjin pulled your body closer to his, leaning forward and repositioning the two of you so that he could hover above you while you laid on your back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling Hyunjin closer as he rocked into you.
You new it was just your mind playing tricks on you, but you swore Hyunjin had never felt this deep inside of you. You’ve had your fair share of sex but nothing else compared to what you were feeling right now and you let Hyunjin know with every whimper and whine that left your lips.
Hyunjin was smirking into your shoulder, relishing in the sound of his skin slapping into yours with every thrust of his hips. Any moment spent outside of your warm cunt was a sin, he was thinking of slamming back into you the moment he pulled out.
Hyunjin’s pace quickened, now going impossibly fast. His cock was hitting that spot inside you with every thrust and you were being stretched in the most delicious way possible because of how thick he was. You couldn’t even breathe properly, electricity was being shot through your veins every time Hyunjin moved his hips and you thanked the gods for making your boy a dancer.
One of his arms left the space beside your head to go between your bodies, sliding against your clit effortlessly with every movement because of how wet you were.
“I love you… I love you so much,” you dug your nails in Hyunjin’s back to get the words out. “You make me feel so good,” you continued, “you always take care of me, you-”
A sob was torn from your throat as the knot in your stomach finally came undone, your body being reduced to a burst of light and what felt like endless waves of pleasure.
Your pussy tightened around Hyunjin’s dick, making him groan into your shoulder as his pace faltered.
“I’ve got you, baby, you did so well,” Hyunjin promised.
With a final snap of his hips, Hyunjin forced himself as deep as he could go inside of you, releasing into the condom. You ran your fingers through his hair as he leaned his head on your collarbone for support, his orgasm taking too much out of him for him to hold it up himself.
His pretty lips left open-mouth kisses on your chest, tracing the marks from earlier as he was too spent to leave any new ones.
Hyunjin was so fucking sweaty it was almost funny but in reality, the way his hair stuck to his forehead was kinda hot.
“You’re so sticky, Jinnie.”
He groaned in embarrassment, sliding his body against yours with the movement and further reinforcing your point.
“You love it,” he offered.
You giggled and nodded, smiling harder when Hyunjin nuzzled deeper into your chest.
“I love you too, by the way.”
You hummed in acknowledgment.
“Rest up, okay? Now that I’m your boyfriend, I’m taking you out for breakfast in the morning.”
“We’re gonna fall asleep like this?”
“I don’t plan on pulling out so…”
They say it takes two months to form a habit and one to break it. However, you and Hyunjin were years in the making and neither of you planned on spending any more time pushing the other away. Your deepest insecurities were out in the open and you both had silently pledged to help the other ween away from such thoughts.
Hyunjin had spent a lot of time and many nights between your legs in hopes of achieving what had finally transpired tonight.
While dreaming of sharing hot chocolate with the one he loved most, Hyunjin slept like a baby.
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Best Part of Me -Chapter 38
Warnings: none
Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @ocfairygodmother
“How much do you think Kyle knows?” Esme asks, several hours later as she stands at the end of their bed with Addie in her arms. Her body sways from side to side; the movement solely to calm her shaky nerves baby, the baby already fast asleep. Her voice is low; eager to keep any eavesdroppers -especially little ones- from hearing their conversation.
“Might not know anything,” Tyler replies, as he slips into a pair of cargo pants, tending to the zipper and button.
“What’s the chances of that? Considering all the time he’s been spending over there, getting to know her. In the biblical sense.”
“How long were you able to hide what you did for a living from your family?”
“That’s a valid point. But I didn’t live under the same roof as them. And Kyle’s been over there every day for a week and a half; we barely see him. Can you be with someone THAT much and still be totally oblivious?”
“Maybe she’s really good at her job and knows how to keep things on the down low. She fooled us, didn’t she?”
“I’d just like to take this opportunity to swallow my pride and admit that you were right all along. You didn’t trust her from day one. “
“You called me paranoid and overprotective,” he reminds her.
“Usually that’s all it is,” she reasons. “You can be VERY paranoid and overprotective. I thought you didn’t want some strange all up in your personal space. You don’t like people disturbing your happy place.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t think there was something...off...about her.”
Esme shrugs. “I thought maybe she was just eccentric and outgoing. Friendly.”
“Overly friendly. Like she was trying too hard.”
“Well you ARE a tough nut to crack. I guess it is sort of strange that she seemed so hell bent on being friends with you; you’re not exactly the warmest and most welcoming person. And the whole thing wanting to touch you all the time,” she frowns. “I mean, I can’t exactly blame her for wanting to. I’d want to feel you up too. But she was so...I don’t know...insistent.”
“And you encouraged it. That night she had dinner here.”
“I was joking around and you were a really good sport about it. I just thought she was being goofy and totally harmless. And I was right there. It’s not like she was being sneaky about it.”
“Like when she came over here and I was alone and she started making comments about my dick?”
“It’s a very nice dick,” she playfully comments. “Guess she just knows a good thing when she sees it.”
“It was weird. Normally I don’t mind being checked out, but that was fucked up.”
“Maybe she wanted to bang you and see if you lived up to your man whore reputation,” Esme teases, and he gives a small laugh and snags a belt from the closet; slipping it through the loops on his pants. “I don’t blame her for being thirsty. I’ve been thirsty for seven years and I feel no shame for that.”
“Yeah, but I like when it comes from you. Other people? Not as much. And she’s a little…”
“Overbearing?”
“That works.”
“I don’t understand how he didn’t hear or say anything,” she muses, watching her husband as he finishes dressing. Shrugging into a short sleeved button down; olive green and fitting ‘just right’ across that broad chest and shoulders and snug around the biceps.
He’s changed a lot in seven years; physically speaking. Heavier and wider, stronger and more powerful, a touch more gray scattered throughout his hair and in his beard. More tattoos and scars that are still healing; injuries he’d sustained at Michael McMann’s home in Ireland. But the most drastic difference -despite the horrors and struggles with PTSD and everything that comes with it- are with his personality. The edge is still there. The grittiness and the toughness that comes with years of serving in the military and then as a ‘gun for hire’; the often haunted look in his eyes, caused by the things he’s seen and heard and had been forced to do to stay alive. It had taken years for all those walls to come tumbling down; a full time job even after they’d gotten married and having Millie AND the twins.
It had been a struggle for him; opening up to someone, trusting them, allowing himself to have those softer and vulnerable moments. He’d grown up with an abusive father and went straight into the SASR after graduating high school; had a wife that cheated on him regularly, had a child diagnosed with a terminal illness, then made the unfortunate -and entirely selfish- decision to abandon him while he was dying. But little by little the cracks in that hardened exterior began to spread and grow wider. He began laughing and smiling more easily; genuine smiles that would light up his face and crinkle the corners of his eyes. Letting go of the constant need to be the strong and stoic one; afraid that too much emotion and showing -and receiving- too much affection made him ‘soft’. Weak.
Slowly he’d come around; his children managing to strip away at the last of the layers that he found it so hard to get rid of. They’d always been there. The empathy. The compassion. A heart ten times bigger than his body. Just needing to be reminding that it was okay to expose those sides of himself; to allow himself to feel.
To be human.
“It would be hard don’t you think?” she continues, as she places Addie in her bassinet. “Keeping that kind of secret when you’re under the same roof?”
We’ve kept a lot of secret things from each other,” Tyler points out.
“That’s different. We have a past and a lot of bad things happened in it. Anything we’ve held back from one another, has been done with good intentions. She’s just over there doing her thing and spying on us and having her colleagues over. She’s probably just been using him to get close to us. Or to find things out about us. Kyle isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer and he wouldn’t twice about it if she started asking him things. If she’s that sneaky…”
“Maybe what’s going on between them is legit. Maybe the dick’s that good.”
Esme grimaces. “Ewww. That is my brother. Let’s not talk about that. He probably could have given you a run for your money during your days as a whore.”
“I was not THAT bad.”
“Bullshit you weren’t! I bet half those scars on your back aren’t even from the job. I bet they’re left behind from some stripper with those tacky long nails that are like daggers.”
He grins, then leans it to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “She was a Sunday school teacher, actually.”
“Yeah, and I bet now she can’t even walk into a church without bursting into flames because of how badly you corrupted her with your filthy ways. I was an innocent, good girl until I met you. And now look.”
“You may have only been with two other guys before me, but there was nothing innocent about you. What went on those days? Even just that first day? Good girl, my ass.”
“I can’t help it that the voice and the accent brought out the nympho in me,” she says, and directs a swat to his ass before he heads around to his side of the bed. Watching as he removes the Glock remover and its holster from the lock box in the nightstand; slipping the latter onto his right hip before covering it with the bottom of his shirt.
“Better to be safe than sorry,” Tyler reasons, when he catches her observing with wide eyes.
“And if all else fails, she probably has a garden rake you can borrow and kill someone with.”
He smirks. “It’s not too far-fetched to think maybe things between your brother and Salena are the real deal. What would she have to gain by banging him just to get to us?”
“Orgasms? Hopefully.”
“It makes no sense that she’d do that. Hook up with him to get to us. That’s way too much work.”
“None of this makes any sense,” she grumbles, and then sheds her housecoat in favour of pulling on a simple white and yellow striped Maxi dress over her bra and panties.
Tyler doesn’t argue with that.
“Okay, so we’ve established that it is possible Kyle knows nothing. But explain this to me: why would Mahajan give us Ovi if his intention all along was to come after you? Wouldn’t that just put Ovi in harm's way all over again? And why would he wait this long for revenge? The kid’s been with us for six years now.”
“I dunno, babe. He’s got his reasons I guess.”
“It’s been seven years since Dhaka. If he held a grudge against anyone, it would have been Saju. For not taking you out.”
“But he’s dead and I’m still here. So…”
“That line of thinking makes no sense,” she argues. “Why would he wait all this time to exact revenge?”
“Probably to catch me off guard.”
“Hmm...I guess…”
“Or maybe he was waiting until I had a lot to lose. So it would make a bigger impact.”
“That’s just fucked,” Esme declares. “And if that’s the way he thinks, he’s an even bigger monster than I thought. Waiting until a man has a family?”
“More lives destroyed that way,” Tyler reasons.
“That’s messed up.”
“You what kind of people these are. You’ve worked closer with them than I have. You were the one that would go in and make nice with them and get them to trust so you could get the info guys like me needed. You can’t tell me you didn’t hear and some fucked up shit.”
“Of course I did. But this is different. This is personal. We aren’t talking about random strangers we’ve been hired to help. We’re talking about OUR family. You’re not just some guy off the street that I barely know. You’re my husband. And those are my kids downstairs and…”
“Nothing’s going to happen to the kids. Or you.”
She scowls. “I noticed you didn’t put yourself in there.”
“I gotta do what I gotta do, yeah? Keep you and the kids safe. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Well it matters to me if you’re still breathing at the end of it. And can we not think all doom and gloom? If Salena is telling the truth...if she is who she says she is and she’s working for Neysa and her ‘people’ are keeping an eye on things...maybe things won’t escalate. Maybe it will just be all idle threats and nothing will come of them.”
“You really want to just sit back and hope nothing happens?”
“What else can do?”
He takes a seat at the end of the bed, grimacing at the pain in his knee and the small of his back. “I can eliminate the threat.”
“You said yourself that you can’t just walk into the prison and shoot him in the head. And it’s the people he has doing his bidding that we have to worry about.”
“So I stop them before they can cause issues.”
Esme frowns. “You’re talking about tracking them down first? Before they can even get this far?”
“Take them right out of the game before it even starts.”
“That’s a little risky don’t you think? How would you even know who these people are? I doubt Mahajan is going to willingly give you their names.”
“There’s ways of finding out.”
“How?” she asks, and leans back against the dresser across from her.
Tyler stares at her pointedly.
“Oh hell no!” Esme objects. “I am not getting involved in this.”
“You already ARE involved in this.”
“I am NOT going to Mumbai to talk to Mahajan. There is no way I’d be able to get information out of him. Why the hell would he tell me anything? If he really IS after you, he’s going to tell your wife who’s working for him.”
“I wouldn’t let you go there anyway. But you know people. You still have contacts in the game. Probably some that are in India right now.”
“People that I haven’t talked to in years,” she reminds him. “I can’t just call them up and ask them for help. It isn’t the same kind of relationship you have with your contacts. They’re glad to hear from you’; they’re happy you’re even still alive. Mine are hoping I’m dead. That’s a lot of burnt bridges, Tyler. And some of them? Going to them for help would only make things worse.”
“So you give me their names and numbers. I’ll talk to them.”
“And that would be better, how? I lied to them years ago and now I turn around and give their info to a mercenary? You can see why that would be problematic, right?”
“Then just give me their names and I’ll find their numbers another way. I don’t even need to bring you into it. They don’t need to know how I found them.”
“They’d figure it out.”
“Well we need to figure out who these people are. The ones working for Mahajan. Before shit does hit the fan.”
“WE don’t need to do anything,” she informs him. “Let Salena and her people take care of it. It’s what they’ve been doing, right? Keeping an eye on things?”
“I’m not going to trust complete strangers with your life. Or our kids’ lives. I’m just not.”
“So you’re just going to find out who these people are and hunt them down one by one?”
“If I have to.”
“Tyler...no...just no. How is that even an option?”
“It’s the ONLY option.”
“The hell it is! Salena and her people are already on this!”
“And I already said I don’t trust them. Not with you, not with my kids. I trust myself. And a couple other people. That’s it. And I’m not going to just sit back and and wait for things to go to shit. I need to stop it before it happens.”
“You don’t know that anything is going to happen.”
“I’d rather not take the chance that it will.”
Sighing heavily, she crosses her arms over her chest.
“You trust me?” Tyler asks.
“Of course I trust you. You're the only person I do trust. But I also love you and I don’t want to just send you out there to get killed. These are bad people. Extremely bad people.”
“I’m not some rookie going in blind,” he reminds her. “This is what I do. It’s who I am.”
“No. It’s part of who you are. There’s a difference.”
“And right now, I need to be that ‘part’. I need to be the old Tyler. And I need you to be okay with that. I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because I have to. You’re my wife. Those are my kids. And without any of you, I’m nothing. Which is why I need you to let me do this.”
Another sigh. Heavier this time. Resigned. “Can we at least give it two weeks? For the kids? Because we’re going away next week and then it’s Millie’s birthday shortly after. And we can not take that away from her. She’s a little girl. And she’s so happy and so excited and it’s going to break her heart enough when you leave and I’d rather her not find out until AFTER her party. Can you do that at least?”
He nods. “But if anything happens…”
“If anything happens then you go and take care of it. But for now can we just act like nothing’s going on? For them? Because they're kids and they don’t need to worry and stress over adult things. Can we just pretend around them that everything’s fine? Because it’s going to be hard enough when you leave without the anticipation of it hanging over their heads. Please? Can we do that?”
“Of course baby.”
He reaches out and takes hold of one of her hands, gently tugging her into him, placing her between his legs. And he presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist and then wraps both arms around her waist; pulling her tight against him, forehead resting against her chest. Eyes closing as he feels her hands on him. First in his hair. Fingers combing through it before her nails lightly scratch against the nape of his neck, then the tips running softly over the outer edges of his ears. And when her palms come to rest against his cheeks, he looks up at her, attempting a reassuring smile when he finds those huge dark eyes filled with tears.
She’s silent as he watches her. Fingertips travelling over the older scars that mar his face; the one across the bridge of his nose, then the left side of his forehead, followed by the one alongside his left. Then she moves to the one that he’d sustained during the incident at Michael McMann’s house. Starting at the top of his right eyebrow; spreading up onto his forehead and disappearing -for several inches- into his scalp.
She kisses him. So soft and sweet sweet...the tenderness and the love so evident...that it takes his breath away and nearly brings tears to his eyes.
“I can’t lose you,” her voice is just above a whisper. “I just can’t.”
“You won’t,” he says. “I promise.”
She manages a small smile and places a kiss on his brow. And he tightens his hold on her; falling backwards onto the bed and tucking her securely into his chest; one hand on the back of her head, the other on the small of her back. Feeling her body trembling against him and the tears that dampen the front of his shirt.
****
She plays the part of a perfect hostess; bringing out carafes of coffee and tea and a jug of ice water, along with plates of various small desserts and finger foods. Tyler had noticed the drastic change in her the moment she’d answered the door. Her usual flowing and brightly colored sundresses or tropical themed shorts and band t-shirts replaced with well tailored dress slacks and a crisp white blouse; her usual bare footed approach abandoned in favour of a pair of black heels. But her personality change is the most baffling. No longer loud and boisterous and bordering on obnoxious, instead both soft AND well spoken. Now that the truth is out -or at least part of it - she no longer has put on the front of the affable, annoying, and overly friendly new neighbour. Now she’s professional and courteous. Polite. And almost too apologetic. A continuous string of “I’m sorry” and “I wish things hadn’t come out this way” as she led them out onto the back deck. Telling them help themselves to food and drink before disappearing back into the house.
“Is it just me or did things just go from weird to really fucking weird?” Esme whispers to him as they sit side by side; their knees touching and his hand on the small of her back.
It’s comforting. The simple brush of his body against hers and his familiar scent; filling her with a sense of security and effectively calming her nerves. He won’t leave her side now, making sure she’s always close enough to touch, never out ear shot and certainly not out of eyesight. His protective nature kicked in high gear. And for good reason.
“It’s not just you.”
“It’s like we’re living in the Twilight Zone,” she mutters, and then issues a long, shaky sigh.
“It’s okay,” he assures her, as he rubs the small of her back. “Everything’s going to be fine. The worst could have happened already. If she was working for the other side, she would have had guys here to ambush us the second we walked in.”
“How do you know they’re not hiding inside for the perfect moment?”
“Not a rookie, remember? You have to trust me,” he presses a kiss to the side of her head. . “Just trust me.”
She manages a small smile and leans into him. A hand resting on his thigh and his lips lingering against her temple; hand slipping off her hip and up onto her side, rubbing comfortingly. Selfishly he enjoys having this role in her life: the fierce and loyal protector. It’s an ego boost knowing that she has that much faith and trust in him. And he knows he’s more than capable of living up to her expectations; confident in his strength, skills, and abilities.
“I promise none of it has been tampered with,” Salena comments upon her return, noticing that their cups remain empty and the food hasn’t been disturbed. “As I said earlier, I’m not here to hurt either of you. Or your children.”
“So why are you here?” Esme asks, her hand slipping from Tyler’s thigh as he moves beside her; pouring himself a coffee and her a tea. “And why the big production? Why show up out of the blue and act as if you wanted to be friends? You could have just been honest right off the hop. You think it would have bothered either of us? This isn’t the first time someone has threatened us in the past seven years.”
“I know it isn’t. I know everything there is to know about the two of you. About everything that went down in Dhaka; start to finish. And I know about your little return there. About Mumbai and Ireland and New Zealand. Information is easy to get when you know the right people.”
“And when you’re willing to pay big for it,” Tyler adds. “Something tells me Nik Khan helped you out quite a bit.”
“Nik and I have a very good working relationship, “ Salena admits, and Esme gives a derisive snort. “I don’t approve of her transgressions. Or attempts at them. But as far as business goes, she’s one the best there is. And we trust her completely.”
“Who is we?” Tyler inquires. “And who are you? Why don’t we just cut the shit and get down to it. You wanted us here to talk, so talk.”
“My name...my REAL name...is Allison Rav.”
“Rav?” Esme arches an eyebrow. “You’re related to Saju? How?”
“Related by marriage only. My husband...ex husband, I should say...is Saju’s youngest brother. Former special services as well. We parted on good terms and have remained friends. And business partners. After Saju died...correction, after he was murdered...Anil left the military and started things up; in Saju’s memory. A way of both honoring him and avenging him. This…” she lifts up one of the plates of food and removes a file folder -one of many- from underneath. “...is everything there is to know about it. About us. About who we are and what we do.”
She offers the file to Tyler and he accepts it; dropping it into the empty chair beside him.
“Are you a mercenary?” Esme asks, her body and nerves starting to relax; comforted by the mention of Saju’s name and the woman’s connection to him.
“Far from it,” Allison gives a dry laugh. “None of our people are. We strictly provide security. We’re trained to assess potential threats and stop them before they happen. But we do seek out mercenaries; when things because too volatile and need...permanent...results.”
“When you want guys like me to go in and put our asses on the line and get blood on our hands.” Tyler smirks.
“Our area of expertise and concern is providing support to those being harassed and threatened by the Mahajans and the Amir Asifs of the world. And there’s a lot of them. So when Neysa contacted us and said that she was receiving threats of bodily harm and death against her and her son, we didn’t hesitate to help. We have her and Aarav in hiding. A safe house just outside of Mumbai.”
“You really think that’s smart?” he asks. “Being that close to Mahajan and his people? Doesn’t leave much room for error. Why not move them somewhere further away? Other side of the world if you had to. Doesn’t make sense for them to be that close.”
“It’s what she requested; to be close to home. We move them when...and if...we have to. We ended up here..I ended up here...when Neysa ‘disappeared’ and Mahajan’s people lost track of her. That’s when he changed his game plan, so to speak. His first thought was that she came here. What better place to hide them with someone who could protect her and Aarav if need be? The person who worked with Saju to get Ovi out of Dhaka alive. What a turn of events THAT was. He was supposed to eliminate you and in the end you worked together. Not what Mahajan expected.”
Tyler gives a tense smile. “How about we NOT talk about Dhaka.”
“Fair enough,” Allison agrees, and pours herself a cup of coffee. “When he thought she’d come here, we were ready. We already had eyes and ears on the situation. He hadn’t sent anyone here or sent out any official threats, but we knew it was going to happen. So we acted first and got here as soon as we could. But things ARE picking up. He is escalating things. This is a man hell bent on revenge and will stop at nothing to get it. You both know what these kinds of people are like. They don’t care if there’s a woman and children involved. They’ll be their first targets to get to who they really want.”
Esme issues a heavy, shaky sigh and Tyler gives her a small, reassuring smile; arm wrapping around her, palm softly and comfortingly rubbing her shoulder. “It’s been seven years,” she says. “Why now? Why wait all this time? And why Tyler? Mahajan gave us his son. So Ovi could be safe and have a normal life. A real family. Why would he let us have him if this was his plan all along?”
“There’s two reasons,” Allison replies. “The first is that Saju failed his mission. Yes, he helped get Ovi out of Dhaka. But he didn’t eliminate everyone standing in his way. He wasn’t supposed to leave anyone alive. You two survived. And I understand why he didn’t kill you; he would never harm a woman in that way. I’m sure he looked at you and thought of Neysa and realized he couldn’t go through with it. But you…” she looks at Tyler. “...you put up one hell of a fight. He didn’t expect that.”
“What’s the second thing?” Tyler asks.
“Did Ovi tell either of you that his father has been in contact with him? On a regular basis?”
Tyler frowns. “What?”
“Even behind bars, Mahajan still holds a lot of influence and power in the drug world. He has a lot of money stashed away in several offshore accounts. Enormous amounts of money. He needs someone to run the business now that it’s booming again. And what better person to be his successor than his only son? But that kid is tough. Resilient. He isn’t giving in. He wants nothing to do with that kind of life and isn’t afraid to tell his father that. Which naturally has enraged Mahajan. He’s taken it as a sign of disrespect. Dishonour. And he’s not going to let that slide. He feels the only thing standing in Ovi’s way...preventing him from doing it...is the two of you. But especially you.” she nods in Tyler’s direction. “He thinks Ovi is completely under your influence and is only saying no because of you.”
“I’m starting to finally see why he wants into the game so badly.” Tyler says to Esme. “It isn’t about the actual job or the money. It’s about being able to protect himself. And us if he has to.”
“That’s why he didn’t want to tell us,” she laments. “Or why he gave us such bullshit excuses. Because he knew he’d have to tell us that he’s been speaking to his father.”
Tyler nods.
“Mahajan wants the obstacle removed,” Allison continues. “He really just wants Tyler out of the picture; he’s the biggest hurdle and true threat. And it would be a way of righting Saju’s wrongs. That’s why we’re here. To prevent any of that from happening. We’re here to protect you. Not hurt you.”
“I’m more than capable of protecting my own family,” Tyler informs her. “I don’t trust just anyone with this. And I’m especially not going to trust you. You could have just told us all of this right from the beginning. Not put on some big, ridiculous show.”
“Neysa asked us to keep this quiet. She didn’t want to scare either of you. Or your kids. And now that you’re getting back into the mercenary business, there’s an even bigger target on your back. Mahajan sees that as a direct threat.”
“He can take it whatever fucking way he wants. I don’t care if you and your people stay on the sidelines or keep in the background. But I’ll protect my own family. I’m more than capable of doing it and I know my wife and my kids trust me. They know I’ll keep them safe. Better than any of your people can.”
“He’s right,” Esme speaks up. “There’s no else I trust with my life. With my kids’ lives. And we’ve got people working for us that can always lend a hand if they need to. We don’t need perfect strangers fucking things up.”
“We’re highly trained,” Allison argues. “We’re more than capable of...”
“Tyler can do it. And that’s who I WANT doing it. I don’t care how highly trained you or your people are. No one can protect us the way he can. No one. And if that pisses you off and you pull your people out of here…”
“We’re not going anywhere. Neysa wants us here and this is where we’re saying.”
“I want to talk to your ex husband,” Tyler says. “There’s information I need. About who is working for Mahajan. Who these people are he has after us.”
“Anil expected you’d want to speak to him. That you would have a lot of questions for him. All his contact information is in the first folder I gave you. There…” she pulls the other files from under the plate of food. “...are your files. Everything we have on the two of you. There’s also a file about Dhaka and everything that went down there. And one with copies of all the threats that have been made so far. To Neysa and to you. I trust this information will be in good hands?”
Tyler nods and accepts the folders, placing them with the initial one she’d given him.
“We kept this secret because that’s what Neysa wanted,” Allison explains. “She didn’t want to alarm anyone. So I HAD to put on a good show. I had to get myself into your life. I had to get close to all of you and get you to open up to me and tell me things. And I know that you know what that’s like, Esme. Having to lie to people; fool them. Having to trick them into giving you what you want.”
“And my brother?” she asks. “What about him? You used him to get to us? He broke up his engagement for you. And all along you were just using him? Why did you have to stoop THAT low?”
“We do what we have to to get what we want. Kyle has no clue about any of this. I’d like to keep it that way. Because he’s a good guy and there’s feelings...legitimate feelings...involved now. On both sides. It started out as part of the job, but it’s become more. So much more.”
“Yeah…” Esme smirks. “...sure it has. Can we go now?” she addresses Tyler. “I really want to go. I’ve heard enough and I just want to get the hell out of here. I just want to go home.”
“We can go,” he confirms, and then gathers the folders off the chair and stands up. “I don’t want any of your people near my house,” he informs Allison. “I don’t want them watching me or my wife or my kids. Especially my kids. You tell them to back off. That I’m more than capable of protecting my own. Because if they get in the way and totally fuck things up? If that happens? You’ll end up a few employees short because I won’t hesitate taking them out too.”
Allison nods in confirmation, then stands as well. “We’ll continue to keep an eye on things. Just as Neysa asked. And if you need our help…”
A smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he lays a protective hand on the small of his wife’s back. “I won’t.”
#tyler rake#tyler rake fan fiction#tyler rake fan fic#extraction#best part of me#chris hemsworth character
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Hi so i know there’s a lot of different opinions on Jonathan but i very much am interested in Jonathan and I headcanon Billy getting adopted by Hop and Hop getting married to Joyce so that means Jonathan and Will join the family. And when they do, I also headcanon Billy and Jonathan as smoking weed like… usually twice a week out in the forest. And at first they don’t really talk very much, they just kinda smoke in silence bc one of them wants weed and the other one has it and their energy actually blends pretty well when they’re together (Jonathan gets a little anxious but Jonathan’s calm nature kind of chills Billy out) but as they get to know each other more, they talk a bit more. They’re a little petty w/ each other, picking on the other’s music taste or whatever, but it’s always good naturedly.
Anyway, i often think about Jonathan being a little curious as to why Billy started living w/ Hop in the first place. Joyce isn’t really in on all of the gossip and the gossip she is in on, she doesn’t tell to anyone, esp her sons. Nancy has told Jonathan some shit but he doesn’t like to believe anything unless it’s from the mouth of the person the gossip is about. He’s been the victim of some harsh, untrue gossip. He wants to hear Billy’s side.
But when Jonathan tries to ask, Billy gets defensive and upset and honestly, Jonathan understands, so he does what he believes is the best thing to do in this situation: be vulnerable. Jonathan tells Billy about how he used to physically fight with his dad to keep him away from his mom and his brother, and he used to get hurt from it. Lonnie used to call him gay and then started calling Will gay and Billy asks about it. Jon alludes to liking both sexes (bc my Jonathan is bi bc i say he is) he openly wonders if that’s so wrong? Billy alludes to liking dick. Jon smiles a bit. Nods.
Billy asks if his dad left them, bc that’s the only thing he can think of. That’s what he figures makes the most sense. Dad’s out of the picture? Must have left this poor family behind.
Jonathan says no, his mom kicked him out.
Billy is confused, asks: “She kicked him out?”
Jonathan says yeah, she kicked him out. She was done with it and done with them being afraid and she kicked him out. It was really fucking hard for her, but she did it for them. She couldn’t watch her sons be scared of being hoeme anymore and so she stood up for them and kicked Lonnie out. And he gushes a bit about his mom, softly and quietly and mostly internally but he gushes. Says she was so damn strong about it. Smiles kind of sadly at the memory but he’s so proud of her and billy sees it and storms into the house in a fit of confused anger.
And he sees that El is staying here and Hop asks if Billy wants to stay here too and he says no. Immediately no. Says he doesn’t wanna fucking stay here, he’s NOT staying here, he’s going back to the cabin whether Hop does or not.
So Hop follows the whirlwind of a boy out, stopping him by the wrist when he reaches the door where Joyce is holding it open.
“Thank her.” Hop demands.
And the boy is seething, writhing a bit, trying to get away, but Hop is stubborn.
Billy glares him down, mad as a bull, seeing red everywhere. Hop starts getting a bit concerned, loosens his grip a bit, right before Billy turns and faces Joyce and says: “Thank you.” before leaving as quickly as possible.
And he rushes to the truck, slams the door, thinks about just walking himself back but he hates the fucking cold and it still gets so fucking cold here at night.
And so they drive back, Billy fuming and boiling and bubbling and when they get to the cabin Billy stalks in and gets to his room and pulls at his hair and starts breaking shit. Knocking shit over and throwing pillows and punching his bedding and his desk and his wall and Hop walks into his room and yells after him. Not at him, just after him. Bc the boy is going crazy, making a mess, gonna break a record or a tape or something and then get real pissed about it in the morning.
So he calls after him and Billy turns on him seeing red and he goes after Hopper and screams: “No one saved me!”
And Hop is confused but he’s holding his hands up, palms open and facing Billy and the boy is punching them like they’re up there for him to practice and he’s shrieking and yelling and crying bc “No one saved me from him! No one helped! No one kicked him out! No one stopped him! No one saved me! She fucking left and she never came back to get me! She didn’t fucking take me with her she didn’t fucking save me from him she fucking left! No one saved me!”
And Hopper is letting him hit and punch and as they get softer he just takes light hold of the hands and pulls billy in and lets him struggle against his chest and then, eventually, lets him stay there. Lets him cry. Rubs his back. Feels the boy tense up with every movement that Hopper makes and lord does it break his heart. Lord does it make this man want to actually go and murder this boy’s father because this is no way for a kid to live. This is no way for a kid to feel or to exist. He thinks about Eland how scared she used to get and he really could just cry along with this boy. Because no one deserves this.
So he does. He holds the boy and he squeezes him tight and he feels the boy tense up even more and shake more severely at the pressure and Hopper lets himself cry. Shakes with the force of the emotion of it. Lets out a few loud sobs because he can’t help it and he doesn’t want to. Wants the boy to know that crying makes sense right now. Crying might be the only thing that makes sense right now.
#billy hargrove#jonathan byers#chief jim hopper#stranger things#hopper is a dad#billy is sad#i'm sobbing over here in the corner it's FINE#this goes hand in hand w/ an ask i got that i'm gonna write an answer to nw#even though it's 2:30 and i should go sleep#aufwiafupqw;aoijfaw;wa#i'll at least start and see where i end up#headcanon#i like billy and jonathan being friends#i just want everyone to be friends#that's all
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Hi can you do a imagine where a Ravenclaw and Slytherin Calum are in the same potions class and they are learning about Amortentia and Calum’s secret crush on the Ravenclaw gets outed because he had to smell the anortentia that smells exactly like her. Also I freakin love your writing so much :)
Hii! For blurb night, can you write a thing on Slytherin!Cal being a dick to Muggle-born reader (the house is up to you) for most of their lives but recently he’s pulled back on being an asshole to her and she doesn’t get why until they’re in Potions class and they’re working on a truth or love potion and somehow it comes out that he likes her? Thank you!
so these two requests were sort of similar so i combined them! this is longer than i expected but heRE YA GO
“Miss Y/L/N and Mr. Hood.”
You wondered if Professor Slughorn had some kind of vendetta against you. Had you done something to sourly piss him off? Because you couldn’t think of any other reason as to why he would pair you up with Slytherin’s resident serpent. You suppressed the groan threatening to rip through your throat. Spending the semester sitting with Hood? You’d rather face off one of Azkaban’s Dementors. Your friends shot you sympathetic looks as you begrudgingly gathered your books, standing up from your desk and turning to face the class.
He sat in the second to last desk on the left side of the room, and you were slightly surprised that while the other few Slytherins were throwing you the disgusted looks you were so used to, the same expression couldn’t be found on Hood’s face. If anything, his features remained perfectly stoic and unaffected, and you hid the unease that brought as you made your way to the back of the room before sitting on the available stool to his right, your back rigid. He’d been like this last semester as well, before everyone had left for the holidays, and now you were back and Hood was still acting strangely.
Since the school year started, not one degrading comment or sneer was thrown your way, and it was almost unsettling. Especially when you sometimes noticed him staring at you in the Great Hall or during classes, and every time you caught him, he quickly looked away before you could even form a glare. You had no idea what that was about, why things seemed to have changed.
History would tell anyone that things between Hood and you were anything but pleasant. You were a Ravenclaw, which wasn’t the problem. The real issue was that fact that you were a Muggle-born, basically a personification of everything Hood was against. The past six years consisted of you two constantly being at each other’s throats, with words like “Narcissistic, egotistical douchebag” emitting from your mouth (your Gryffindor friends were convinced you had some of their traits in your Ravenclaw being) and the simple but effective term of “Mudblood” spat from Hood’s. Everyone at Hogwarts knew of your mutual hostility, and you wondered if Slughorn had drank too much Firewhisky to make the two of them partners for the semester.
Surprisingly, the rest of the class went by uneventfully. Hood barely even looked your way, and you were perfectly fine with that, and it mostly went that way for the next week. Sometimes you’d feel him glance at you, but every time your eyes flickered over her was staring ahead, and you frowned at him before focusing on the lesson. One day when you sat down at your new seat and class started, Professor Slughorn announced, “Your assignment today is to work on Amortentia. Work with your partners. It should have a mother-of-pearl sheen once you’ve finished. And remember—don’t inhale too much or it’ll catch you.” He chuckled. “Off you go.”
The classroom came to life as you all started gathering the needed ingredients, and soon enough you returned to your seat next to Hood once you got your cauldron and ingredients. You and Hood worked well together meticulously, which surprised you. He followed the directions carefully and within moments he proved himself to be the most capable Potions partner she’s had. “You’re not half bad at this,” you mumbled as he put in the peppermint, the words slipping before you could stop them.
He glanced at you and you caught the half smile curling at his lips, softer than the usual condescending smirks that he always threw your way. It was different. It was… Nice. And the fact that you weren’t as unsettled by that thought was that, in itself, a bit unsettling.
“That’s good to hear—especially if I wanna be a Potioneer,” he hummed back in response, leaning forward to look into the cauldron.
You shot him a mildly surprised look. “You want to be a Potioneer?” you questioned. You’d be lying if you said that path of profession was one you could picture Hood in. He nodded as you put in the appropriate amount of powdered moonstone. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
He glanced at you. “What’d you think?”
You shrugged. “Professional Asshole.” The words spilled from your mouth, once again, before you could comprehend it. And unlike the dozens of times before, this time the insult you directed at Hood had you pressing your lips together and cheeks heating up in slight mortification. You wondered since when you felt a pang of guilt for the usual kind of response you’d give to Hood, and for the first time, you cursed your Ravenclaw wit for acting without your complete consent.
Hood let out a chuckle, amusement lighting up his dark eyes, and for the first time you noticed the lack of animosity in them. Sure, you’d been sitting together for a while now, but it’s not like you made eye contact that often. You were used to seeing the hostility, used to hearing him spew derogatory comments, but he had yet to do so since the start of the school year. And you were just now realizing how much of a big deal and big change that was. “Nice one, Y/N.”
Y/N. He’d never called you that. It was always your last name or Mudblood, and as your name rolled off his tongue you realized just how nice it sounded. You wanted him to say it again, and you had no idea what to think of that.
Before you could say anything, you saw him lean forward to peer into the potion after the last of the ingredients had been added in, the liquid taking the pearly sheen Professor Slughorn had mentioned with some steam rising off of it. You were about to look in as well when you suddenly jerked back, remembering just what this potion did if you smelt too much of it, and your eyes widened as you grabbed your partner’s arm. “Hood, wait—”
“This smells… Amazing,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he relished in whatever scent he was inhaling. Amortentia had whoever smelt it smell the scents they found most attractive and yearned for, and your eyes widened slightly as you realized that the effects were probably already taking over the Slytherin.
You glanced around, noticing that everyone was busy with their own potions, Professor Slughorn talking to students on the other side of the room, before looking back at the dark haired boy next to you. “What do you…” You trailed off hesitantly, “What do you smell?”
He hummed, tilting his head back slightly as some of his curls brushed across his forehead. You felt your fingers itch to push them back. “Rosemary,” Hood began, eyes still closed and a small smile tilting at his lips as you raised your eyebrows. “And… Grapefruit. And some peppermint, as well.”
You wouldn’t have thought anything of it if there wasn’t anything to think of it. But you knew those scents well—intimately well. They were all scents that made up your body wash, a special combination created just for you by one of your genius friends back in fourth year, and it’s a toiletry you’ve been using ever since. So you gaped at the Slytherin’s profile, wondering if he was mistaking the scent of you next to him for whatever the Amortentia was making him smell. Surely that had to be it, right? He couldn’t possibly be smelling you in a love potion that had the receiver smelling what they desired most?
Right?
Your heart was threatening to jump out of your chest as you stared at him in disbelief and shock, unsure what to do with this information. You were surprised that you weren’t at all angry or disgusted at the fact that the boy next to you, who had been nothing but a blood prejudiced jerk for as long as you’ve known each other, was potentially smelling you in a love potion.
You were… Flattered.
You were, Merlin help you, happy.
Fortunately, there wasn’t much class time left and Professor Slughorn had made his way over to your table soon enough. He appraised you for a successful potion before dismissing you, and you couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough.
You were only halfway down the hall when you felt a hand on your arm, pulling you into a secluded corner in the hallway. Back pressed against the wall, you looked up at the familiar pair of dark eyes, your breath hitching in your throat as your own eyes widened. “You don’t have to follow me because of the potion,” you began rambling, suddenly feeling like a houseless first year rather than a sixth year Ravenclaw. “The Amortentia will wear off soon enough and we’ll forget what you said and—”
“Slughorn gave me an antidote,” Hood breezily cut in, his large frame and robes shielding you from the busy hall a few feet away from you. “He’s got an eye for these sort of things.” His dark eyes flickered down your figure, sending your heart into an unexpected frenzy before your gazes locked once more. “‘M feelin’ kind of pathetic to need a potion to help me sort out my… Feelings.”
He struggled to get that last bit out, clearly unused to attempting to talk freely about his emotions that didn’t revolve matters of the heart. But you stared at him, stunned, because was he saying what you thought he was saying? Had he actually smelled your scent in that love potion? Finding your tongue, you said, “I thought I was a Mud—”
“You’re not,” he cut you off, jaw twitching at the term. You saw the anger flash across his eyes, and you were stunned that you could tell his anger wasn’t towards you but towards that term. Who was this boy and what had he done to blood prejudiced Calum Hood of Slytherin? “And I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped with his head, curls once again brushing across his forehead. “I’m a right tosser for everything I’ve ever said to you. I’m not—I don’t think like that anymore.” His gaze met yours once more and your heart stopped at the genuine and obvious regret in his dark eyes. “I know this is a few years too late but—I’m sorry, Y/N. Truly.” With an almost sad, very un-Slytherin smile, he asked, “Can you find it in that accepting Ravenclaw heart of yours to forgive me?”
Your breath was gone. Your heart was thundering. Your mind was spinning. Merlin couldn’t save you now, and you weren’t sure you even wanted him to as a small, accepting smile crept across your lips. “Buy me a Butterbeer and we’ll see.”
His grin was instantaneous, infectious. That was good enough for him.
hogwarts!5sos blurb weekend with @irwinkitten
#anonymous#hogwarts 5sos blurb night#calum hood#slytherin!calum#calum hood blurb#calum hood blurbs#5sos#5 seconds of summer#5sos blurb#5sos blurbs
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MERRITT PATTERSON —— Well, if it isn’t VICTORIA BROUX, the GRYFFINDOR superstar. For those of you who don’t know HER, you can spot them sitting with the other SEVENTH years. Most people think that they’re AUTONOMOUS and UNFLINCHING, but they can also seem pretty IMPULSIVE and ACRIMONIOUS. Sometimes people call them the BLACK HOLE. Sure, they’re a MUGGLEBORN (PROBABLY), but that doesn’t define them.
it’s me, back at it again with another mess. victoria’s a lot, okay, and a dick. her pinterest board is here and her tag on my writing blog is here, and her spotify playlist is here, and her stats page is here, and ... that’s it !! that’s finally the end of the links !!
victoria was a born a notably beautiful baby girl without a family. on the day she was born, a man dressed strangely in fantastic, extravagant silk stood by the window of the nursery, seen only by a nurse working the maternity ward at the time who saw him looking at the odd placidity of the baby in the second bassinet --- the nurse who made a point to comment on how she seemed already to have his eyes. that was the last anyone saw of the man, and of the girl who’d given birth to victoria, and anyone else who seemed to have anything to do with her.
at that point in time, carrie broux was a known beauty too. she had married perhaps a bit too young, but no one doubted such a shining, promising pair; her youth had seen her winning everyone over at cotillions and galas and balls, and she’d married a boy two years older than her and just as achingly young and charmed. their romance was a whirlwind their families fully supported, and everyone turned a blind eye to the champagne toasts made by a bride and groom who weren’t legally of a drinking age. their friends hadn’t heard them even thinking of children. and yet when william died, icy massachusetts roads sliding him towards tragedy, no one thought anything of carrie adopting a child.
it truly wasn’t done out of anything but impulse. carrie and william had been close to another young couple ( still a handful of years older than them ) from their social circle, and a month after william’s passing, these friends dropped a tragic anecdote about a baby left by her parents at the maternity ward. this was just a a passing comment, woven into a tale of their new nephew, but carrie couldn’t hear one tragedy and separate it from her own; so she did what she’d always done, which was really whatever entered her mind.
maybe three weeks after this discussion and two months after her husband’s death, the lovely former debutante ( and recent widow ) took the girl in and saved her from a life in the foster system. and it took maybe two weeks after that for carrie to hightail the both of them out of the states before anyone knew what was happening. she’d always been impulsive; she was barely twenty-one, and didn’t know what to do now that her life was suddenly so different from what she’d planned. she’d been in love with william since he’d escorted her at her debutante ball, and hadn’t seen what was left for her in their world without him and with a new daughter.
she dropped his last name and decided she’d return to the france her father grew up in, the rolling hillsides as good a place as any to raise a child. her victoria spent her first three years learning french alongside english before carrie whisked them back to america for ages four through seven, and then they were off to ireland for a handful of years, with another few summers split between the states and france. all of a sudden, it seemed, that impulse-buy of a daughter was eleven, and a witch, and wasn’t that a surprise?
that sort of haphazard narrative was how victoria had lived her whole life under her mother’s thumb. she was her darling girl, her beautiful surprise, blah blah blah. it grated on victoria in a way that she kept tightly under wraps. after all, she was a child of the world, every bit as gorgeous as her mother and wasn’t that a surprise. secretly, victoria always wondered if her mother would have allowed her to follow her mother’s various global escapades if she hadn’t turned out to have won a genetic lottery that left carrie grateful her split-second decision paid off. lord knew her temperament was all wrong for her mother’s lifestyle.
victoria had passed her first day as a living thing with barely any crying, silent as a lamb with big, watching eyes. she knew things, was ever curious, and had a look of intellect even as a baby that followed her well throughout her years. she often felt too smart for her mother; the frivolous woman who always seemed so young, so eager to tote victoria around and show her off, like a trophy or a show pony or an exceptionally expensive handbag. victoria allowed her cheeks to be pinched, her hair curled and toyed with, her outfits meticulously decided for her --- on the condition that her mother allow her the hobbies victoria chose.
running, tennis, ballet; physical exertion suited the quiet child quite well. she adored winning, but more than that, she adored the way her mind fell silent when her body was being forced past its limits. because the thing was, the thing that not a soul in her life knew, was that she’d been born with her hands formed into fists. she was always ready to swing first. at her insistence, a punching bag followed the mother and daughter on their travels, in a trunk as neatly matched as all their other piled luggage.
that was victoria; something a little unsavory hidden in a neatly perfect package. for all her outward grooming, all the things she did for her mother’s benefit when in her mother’s line of sight, victoria was never happier than when she had bruises on her fists and legs and blood singing in her ears. she was angry. at what, she didn’t know. she was listless. for what reason, she didn’t know.
really, finding out she was a witch was nothing new to victoria. she’d found hints of her extra abilities years before letters started pouring in; but it wasn’t like her mother needed to know she had an affinity for starting fires and forcing her skin to knit back together when she’d scraped it open. but then beauxbatons sent a letter, then ilvermorny, then hogwarts, and it was time for victoria to grit her teeth and show carrie a practical demonstration. just a little fire, reallly, a fresh bouquet arranged unnecessarily in the foyer too singed to be decorative. oops.
for most of victoria’s life they’d split their time between the three countries in a scattered fashion; she didn’t really have much of a preference, because time spent in each place was at carrie’s whim. american, france, ireland --- they all suited victoria fine, really. but she chose hogwarts because carrie really wanted her to pick either of the other two. this became a point of contention in the little two-unit house of broux, because up until that point in her life, carrie had never seen her daughter openly tell her no. more often than not, when victoria wanted to get her way, she’d play the long game to make carrie believe victoria’s desired outcome was her own choice all along. victoria so rarely cared enough to even expend that energy, but the truth was that she knew it was within her power, that carrie’s will was overbearing but no match for victoria’s. the problem was she cared about this too much to wait; she was eleven, and ready to leave her mother’s whim’s behind.
a thing that carrie had never known about her child until that moment was that the one thing she’d inherited from her mother was the uncontrollable tendency towards impulsiveness.
victoria was a hatstall. for some reason, the gross looking thing they’d placed on the head of curls her mother had carefully set before victoria’s departure couldn’t seem to get her. what else was new, right? gryffindor or slytherin, green or red. she was a little overly self concerned but lacking any real ambition, bored with bullies, angry and prone to acting on that anger, quick to stick with the sides she chose, eleven and already tired of existence. she picked gryffindor just to speed up the whole affair, on the reasoning that gold would look better with her complexion than silver. that was that.
feeling things is a struggle for victoria --- anything that’s not anger, or frustration. softer emotions confuse her when they come, and she’d rather will them away than deal with them. she hates feeling soft. her distant relationship with her mother ( physically close and emotionally distant, technically loving, but in a way that never rang true for victoria ) could be partly to blame. they have three homes, where they spend scattered time in each between other travels, and as a result victoria never really had friends, growing up. but sometimes victoria thinks this coldness, this uselessness, is just innate. and then she gets angry at her introspection and goes to find something to hit, or somewhere to run, or something to do, anything to do.
gryffindor was a bit of a shock for her. just how close - knit the houses were ( she saw throughout the years that all the houses seemed to be that tightly bonded ) was as big a culture shock as wands and robes, if not bigger. after her initial wariness at it, she tried to make herself ease into the ebb and flow of the gryffindor house dynamic; honestly, she’s still trying.
giving into any of the houses would have been hard for her, and she caught onto that right away --- she tried her best not to blame gryffindor or its students for her discomfort. well, tried not to blame them in any long term way. at times she feels like a stray cat that a family full of dog people took in on a whim, but there are just as many times she finds herself purring amidst all the chaos anyway.
this is getting really, really massive, but the a major point of victoria is that she has a lot of anger issues, but it doesn’t have much of a direction, and most days she feels like she was born that way. on a day to day, she can be a bit prickly but not that bad. mostly.
when she’s away from her mother, she drops all pretenses of playing nice and sweet. has the mouth of a sailor, eats with her elbows on the table, slouches everywhere; the slouching is just as performative as anything she does for carrie’s benefit, though, this girl is a total athlete and perfectionist and has naturally good posture. she eats as if she’s always preparing to go into battle the next day and despises sharing food. genuinely enjoys luxury items, but would never admit that to her mom.
if hogwarts students got, like, trading cards giving their stats in terms of their house’s typical traits, victoria would have -100 for chivarly and +100 for daring. if anyone even hypothetically poses a dare, she’ll do it, but she digs her feet in at the thought of assigning any of her actions innate morals, and needs more convincing if someone tries to get her to do something just because it’s ‘ the right choice. ‘
she feels ( and definitely resents it ) very grateful for having picked gryffindor during her sorting. victoria has an awful gut feeling that she would have fared very poorly in slytherin, just because of her instinct to punch first and apologize never; being a muggleborn surrounded by some of the worst members of that house wouldn’t have been good for her prolonged survival.
she despises most nicknames associated with the name victoria. vicky, tori, vika ... all make her skin crawl. she’d consider being called one of these a mortal offense, because she’s a little garbage-y and entirely lacking in chill. keyed someone’s car over this the summer after fifth year, and would 10/10 do it again.
OTHER STUFF:
victoria is an old, old muse that i have re-purposed for the marauders just now so bear with me on how messy she might be at first but??? i love her a lot and i’m really pumped to bring her back and to bring her here.
when i played her back in the day, finding a fight club and dedicating most of her energy into it was a huge plot point in her background. probably not very good for her but also better than her stewing in her rage? so there’s that. anyway she’d probably be very into starting a fight club here at hogwarts, hmu if u want ur character fucking decked
for all intents and purposes in-universe, she’s a muggleborn, but she could be secretly related to anyone given the nature of her past.
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My Teeth Are Like Swords
Summary: Because I like the irony of Tim Drake being a fire-breathing Drake too much...
Tim waits under the huge clock at City Hall for midnight. He doesn’t know why all city halls like to sport a giant clock like it’s all the rage, but whatever. It seems like the best place for a bit of melodrama. (Besides, he’s taken tips from the best drama queen cough starts with a ‘B’ and rhymes with juice cough). The hand strikes the top and the clock booms, each gong vibrating his body underneath the clock face and finally—finally—Tim turns eighteen.
And Tim Drake Wayne gets what he’s been waiting for.
Sparks crackle under his tongue as his pupils narrow for a moment to take in the stars through the miles of smog. His skin ripples impatiently as his mother’s magic bubbles up and wakes in his bones at last. Finally, he thinks rubbing his chest at the fire that freaking hurts thank you very much right under his sternum. That’s gonna take awhile to get used to. Finally, he smiles when he looks down his shirt to see the muted glow flickering in time with his heartbeat. Ready to burn when necessary.
It's beyond totally rad.
Awaking his inner core is like being Robin for the first time again. Where everything is brand new: the sights, the smells, even the air tastes fresh with chemicals Tim can only begin to decipher coating his roof of his mouth. His heart beats hard at how exciting and dangerous it all is, just enough to make normal people run away screaming.
But then again when has he ever been normal?
Not since Mother set him on her knee to tell him what he is, what she is. Tim absentmindedly pulls off a gauntlet to claw the side of the building, trying to soothe his itching and aching nails as flashes of her pass through his mind.
Like the night when Mother thawed enough to remember her duties to her clutch egg. The eight-year-old boy fitting tight in her lap as she tends to his hands.
“We’re lucky your claws are soft enough for obsidian,” she muses as she efficiently moves from digit to digit, the volcanic glass snipping quickly. “When you’re older you'll have to grind them down with something more...durable, metal for instance, over and over to sharpen them to your liking.”
(Like he’s doing now. Augh. He’ll have to find a parking garage or something. Somewhere loud enough to cover the screeching nails on chalkboard sound, somewhere where the grooves he’s making will go unnoticed.)
The boy bounces once or twice and then bites his lip. “Mother?”
“Yes, my pet?”
“Did you marry Dad because his name was Drake?” Tim asks, looking up. There’s a scale somewhere at the base of her jaw, he just knows it.
“No.” But her tone mildly suggests otherwise. At Tim’s sceptical face she adds, “It might have made me more susceptible to his advances, however.”
“Oh my gosh, you so did.” His mom kept his dad over a pun.
Janet hums, bemused at her clutch child. What a silly thing. When his nails are done, she grooms his hair, double-checking for signs to hide. A charm or two can go a long way. Besides, she and Jack leave in the morning and it will not do for one of hers to be unkempt. Sometimes she wonders if the only reason she convinces Jack to return is for this, to sate the itch, the biting lips, the shaking of her fingers that will only stop if she checks and accounts for the hoard. Not that her human mate knows that everything in the quiet mansion is a part of her treasure.
“Are you ever going to tell Dad?”
“Tell him what?” She goes still. Her child is growing clever too fast. Not as easily placated as before.
Tim carefully moves, tracing the lone black piece that glimmers in the hollow under her ear.
She cocked her head at him, the crack her neck makes is unnatural. Her eyes flare a tiny bit bringing the purple out of them, the same purple that hides in Tim’s eyes. “No. Humans always panic.”
Tim cringes. “Always?”
“Always. And their weapons, their toys, my pet? Have gotten much, much better.” At his crestfallen face, she swoops down to press a kiss to his forehead. It burns. He knows there will be a light mark tomorrow, but he’ll still treasure it and outline where it used to be when it’s long gone. “Besides I’ve already decided to spend the rest of my days in this form with your father. Why tell him about something he’ll never see?”
The notion is irritating and Janet refuses to waste time considering it. Humans are so hard to convince. Hard to convince that the idea of your being is real and then hard to convince that you mean them no harm. Janet huffs. A dragon’s patience is not limitless.
“Well, don’t you need to tell him about me?” He peers at her through his bangs.
Janet purses her lips. “Perhaps. We do not know how your father’s blood will mix with mine. We’ll see if it’s necessary when you come of age...but I doubt when your lessons are done that you’d be so foolish to slip and reveal yourself.” A hint to fang escapes her at the thought.
Tim gulped loudly.
“Oh, stop that. Your emotions are too clear, Timothy. Remember: cold face, cold voice. Let no one know your belly’s hot.”
Tim schools his face and tries his last question. “Do you really have to go?”
“Oh, my son, one day you will understand the call to find, to take, and hoard for yourself. But never collect people, Timothy.” Her sharp nails rake carefully over his scalp. The next words are softer, almost gentle for the ruthless woman. “Humans are too hard to keep, they don’t stay where you leave them...your heart weeps when they never stay.”
(Tim should have listened. There’s an old ache beyond the fire in his veins. Steph, Kon, Bart, Bruce...Dick. Yeah. He was an idiot. Then again...he shouldn’t have thought they were his in the first place.)
She turns him and settles the young child into bed. Pats the covers and turns off the lights. “If nothing else comforts you, remember this...you and your father are the only people in my hoard.” The glow of her eyes lulls him to sleep.
And the phrase did comfort him. No matter how rare it was for her to be warm, no matter how long their ‘trips’ were, no matter how utterly alone he felt among the priceless antiques and artifacts that multiplied over the years. He had a place to belong.
He was hers.
She just wasn't...his.
In the present, he stands and shakes himself loose from the wall. The others will be coming for him soon. Or at least Dick will. Something about birthday wishes and all that. You never know what is really going to hit the vigilante as super important, though it’s funny to see him shake up the bunch of bats. Tim even thinks he saw Damian kicking wrapping paper under the bed. Dick really did a number on him.
“Drake!”
Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Tim smirks, and slips from the roof to meet the boy on another. (Gotta leave the evidence behind somehow, right?). He hears boots clip the side of the building with an angry huff.
Too bad Mother’s adages have their limits. The traditional favorite of ‘Eat him’ is just not going to cut it. No matter how tempting the solution is whenever Damian decides to be annoying, or vicious.
It’s regrettable sometimes.
Luckily, the boy has mellowed out from ‘let me stab you’ to ‘let me stab your insecurities’. It’s progress. Dick is so proud.
“Where have you been?” Damian snarls, getting up into Tim’s space. “Father and others have been wasting precious time looking for you everywhere. Even Grayson has cut back patrol for this ridiculous farce of a celebration.”
“Oh, did he? I didn’t get the memo.”
“Yes, you did,” the preteen hisses. “Grayson has sent text messages all day. If you say your phone has not been vibrating itself into oblivion, then you shall be the filthiest liar in my association.”
Aw, Tim feels so honored. “My phone is dead?”
Damian puffs up and Tim with his new sight can even see his face flush red in the dark. “Must you be absolutely impossible? How could you–” He freezes and sniffs the air primly. Then he turns to the man enraged. “Drake...have you been smoking?”
“Why would I be–yes.” Tim switches tracks so fast his own head spins a little. “Yes. I’ve been smoking.” Fuck, he didn’t think that effect would take place so soon. He swallows down the version of nitroglycerin lingering in his mouth awkwardly and breathes through his nose to drown his sparks. But hey, the excuse would work, huh? Even mother carried a box of cigarettes just in case.
“Alfred shall be most displeased.” Damian narrows his eyes in disapproval.
“Well, Alfred should know that I’ve turned eighteen. I’m now an official adult. Free to destroy my body in any way I choose like the Waynes before me. Be grateful that I’ve picked my vice in coffee and smoke instead of the horrible wiles of flesh...like Dick.”
The line earns him a wrinkled nose and glare. “You are completely despicable, Drake.”
“I am,” Tim continues. “But don’t you fear, you won’t catch me smoking. Ever. No secondhand smoke ruining your lungs for you.”
“How beyond gracious of you,” Damian snorts. Tim smiles. Damian pushes on his back towards the edge of the building. “Now come. Everyone is waiting for you and you will not waste my time a second more.
For that, Tim deliberately takes the long way home, just to hear Damian angrily spew curses behind him. It’s his birthday, let him have this.
He takes into account other changes in the meantime. His steps are a little quicker, his jumps higher, longer until he uses his grappling hook only as a means to not to arouse suspicion to the boy struggling to keep up behind him until Tim actually slows down to keep the distance between them short. He bets he’s stronger too, but any other tests will have to wait. He’s probably not as strong as a meta, like Kon or Clark...not like this of course, but it won’t be something to laugh at.
Like how well his skin can take a hit..or a bullet now.
Poor B. The Bats really pride themselves on being completely powerless. Using tools and toys to compete with the whole superhero community (and generally come out kicking all their asses). Tim was gonna have to work twice as hard to cover up his tracks to avoid any...realizations. It’ll take a detective to fool a detective or take a few more ‘Titan’ missions out of Gotham to keep things under wraps. Missions that are more working on the tight pinch growing between his shoulder blades that’s starting to get real annoying. After a few hours he’ll definitely have to find a place to shift soon. Shed skin and fly until light cracks over the dirty city.
Will he have the same coloring as Mother? Dark ebony scales that merge into the night? Is he the size of a horse? A house?
Tim can’t wait to find out.
“H-Hurry up, Drake!” Damian wheezes when he gets the lead for a second or two. You know, when Tim pauses enough to let him catch up.
“Coming.”
He can’t wait to see what kind of Drake he is. In his ear, he can almost hear an echo of his Mother’s voice.
‘Happy Birthday...my pet.’
Happy Birthday indeed.
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What's your first thoughts when you hear every bob character name? What are your feelings towards them?
okay, let’s give this a try.
Richard Winters
actual team dad
lowkey i love richard winters so much?? mostly because he was just this KID. he was a guy, still in college. he wasn’t particularly special or talented, he wasn’t wealthy but wasn’t poor, he wasn’t all that driven… he wasn’t even a leader in school. he was just this generic guy who happened to be a good dude with some good principles, and then the war happened.
that’s when dick really grew up. he came into his own, became the man he was meant to be. he grew into himself as a leader and figured out who he was.
and it turns out, he’s a really great guy.
he’s the sort of person not built for war or violence. he just does his duty. that’s what he’s good at, and he still goes above and beyond for the people he’s leading. that’s what makes dick winters stand out more than anything else.
he’s such a noble guy, and so humble. he deserves all the credit he gets.
Lewis Nixon
the thing about nix is that he has a lot of issues?? and i really feel like the fandom both pays too much and too little attention to them. or pays attention to them in the wrong ways. i dont know.
nix is an alcoholic. this is a disease, and he struggles as it worsens throughout the series. he also probably suffers from PTSD, or at least some pretty heavily guilt, and i think he lays a lot of that blame on himself.
overall, nix is a very interesting, very HUMAN character. he was portrayed in the show masterfully – i think the real lewis nixon would have been proud to see himself on screen.
i love nix at his best – witty, charming, and happy. at his worst (see: why we fight) he’s a lot harder to love, but through it all he’s very human and very vulnerable. i think he’s an exceptional and interesting character.
Carwood Lipton
okay, first, why is his name what it is (is that?? a thing??? what the hell is a carwood??? like, what does it mean??)
besides that, carwood lipton is a fantastic dude
lip bears the responsibility for a lot of other guys. that’s just the sort of guy he is. he’s willing to lead, but mostly he protects others, and is willing to put his own wellbeing on the line to do it.
lip is a team player, but he’s also very shrewd. he knows how to talk to people. he’s able to tell them what they want to hear, and make himself seem nonoffensive while trying to get his men what they need. the way he handles himself in the ardennes with dike is so careful, but he advocates for them masterfully.
lip is also not afraid to speak up if he feels he can make a difference. he’s not afraid of a lot of things, but he’s far from a reckless man.
he’s also??? such a great guy?? so levelheaded and good.
i really appreciate carwood lipton, okay
Ronald Speirs
my first thought about speris was, “hmm, his name sounds stabby.” lo and behold, he was.
i’m so interested in speirs. i think he’s an incredibly complex character and it’s hard not to be fascinated by him. he just kind of draws you in.
he’s... unnerving. a little scary. weird, intelligent, startling, clever, and so, so fascinating. no matter what, he’s an enigma, and i feel like no one can ever truly figure out ron speirs.
that said, he’s a hell of a fun puzzle to try to solve.
Harry Welsh
i fell in love with harry the moment he did his little “thunder” thing, and flashed that smirk which send me head-over-heels.
there’s just… something about him, okay?? he’s a shamelss romantic, he’s a tease, he’s so dedicated and sharp and funny, and i… i love him.
he’s a crazy bastard, has got the luck of the irish, and is almost as short as me. harry is my guy and i’d kill someone for him.
Eugene Roe
i just knew roe as the medic at first, and i read a lot about him before i actually started to know him. i knew he was cajun, was sort of serious, and that bastogne was his episode
i actually find gene really interesting because of everything he keeps locked away. he’s the definition of “still waters run deep” and i find his internal struggle between saving lives and having blood on his hands fascinating.
he’s also so humble, and clever, and will put himself on the line for the men it’s his job to save. he takes his job seriously, and is the best medic easy could ask for.
he’s so... compassionate?? so great?? he’s fantastic.
Babe Heffron
i’ll admit when i first heard babe’s name i laughed out loud, because??? “babe?? his name’s BABE?? tell me that’s not his actual name”
it wasn’t. i was a little relieved.
aside from that
he’s so great!! so great!
he’s such a good guy, and so genuine. there’s nothing artificial about him. he’s true to himself and to others, and maybe that’s what i love most about him.
he’s very upfront, very loyal to his own feelings and motivations – esp to his people. babe is fiercely devoted to his people.
he’s also such a nice guy. he actively goes around trying to encourage other people, to make them feel better, and he’s not afraid to show his own emotions. he’s tough, he’s firey, but he’s also very genuine and that’s why i think he’s such a cool guy. (also he’s a dork, so that helps.)
Bill Guarnere
i actually couldn’t recognize him by face for a while. all i pinned him with was “squeaky voice guy” because he does have… a very distinctive… voice. (babe is just as bad, though. those south philly boys, i swear…)
aside from my first impression, i really didn’t like bill for most of the first episode. the whole “he’s a jew” incident left a horrible taste in my mouth, and i thought, “well, this guy’s gonna be a jerk.”
bill surprised me, however. he could be a jerk, but he was also a great guy when it counted. he’s a good man in a storm, and it was around episode four that he really started to grow on me.
bill is loyal to a fault, he’s fearless, he cares so much. he’s a tough guy, but when something matters to him, he doesn’t give up on it.
if it wasn’t for bill, easy company’s camaraderie would not have lasted over the years. bill did so much, he was such an amazing guy, and i really appreciate him a lot.
bill guarnere rocks, okay
Frank Perconte
he’s so small, petty, and bitchy. he’s literally me.
i have such a soft spot for frank, okay? i don’t talk about him much but i’d go ride-or-die for him, because i RELATE, okay? i’m that friend who’s always worried about how i look, who complains a little too much, but who’s always there when his friends need him. sometimes i overreact, sometimes i’m stubborn, but i’ll do my best for my friends
(i’m like a really weird hybrid of web and perco. i don’t know.)
George Luz
i actually barely noticed him until i started scrolling through tumblr after watching the first episode. the first BoB blog i found was devoted to george, so i got a crash course in how great he was. i developed a healthy appreciation for my boy.
now, what would i do without george luz?
george is the heart of easy co, and keeps up their spirit in the darkest times. he’s supportive, he’s witty, and he boosted the morale of the entire company. without them, things would have been a whole lot darker.
he’s also not afraid to get sassy, which i appreciate. he tells it like it is.
he would shoot a chicken for biting him. while i do not condone this, i respect him for it. i, too, might try to kill someone if they bit me.
how much do i love george luz??? a hell of a lot.
Skip Muck
long before i knew his name i recognized him as the guy from supernatural, so i was like, “holy shit, it’s THAT guy!” then i read his name was skip, thought about the character, and was like, “yeah, sounds about right.”
i love skip, okay? he’s just the best guy. he’s the best friend, the most caring parson -- he’s heroic, he’s charming, he’s optimistic and funny.
skip never lost his faith in a brighter future. he loved his friends and family more than anything else. he died trying to bring his friend to safety, and if there’s an honorable sort of death, that would be it.
i would do anything for skip muck. he deserves so much better.
Donald Malarkey
my first thought when the show introduced us to malarkey was, “well, someone got the short end of the naming stick.”
i don’t feel as strongly about malarkey as i do about the other characters. i like him, to be sure, i just... he never stood out to me as much.
he’s a really great guy, and the emotional journey he goes on is shocking. he starts the war as one man, and ends it as another. seeing all that malarkey loses is terrible.
Joe Toye
it actually took me a long time to recognize joe in the show! i remembered him as “puppy dog eyes” for a little while tbh
i thought of joe as a tough, gruff, sort of stoic guy from the beginning, and that’s not too far off. he is tough as nails, that’s for sure.
but i find joe most interesting because of the softer side that he isn’t as willing to show. joe is a guy who’s deeply affected by things. his loyalty to his comrades is his strongest trait, but he also has an intense emotional side.
joe struggled with self-esteem issues. he cared for others with all his might. he took the events of the war hard enough that it took him years to recover.
joe’s emotional side is the most fascinating thing about him, in my opinion, and i love him for it.
Joseph Liebgott
the first ever clip i watched from BoB was the concentration camp scene, ft. winters shouting liebgott’s name very loudly, multiple times. “well,” i thought, “that sounds like a german name. this guy must speak german.” then i saw liebgott’s face, and it all spiralled from there.
joe liebgott is a complicated guy, okay
he’s so angry, and has every right to be. liebgott’s rage manifests itself in the most gut-wrenching, heartbreaking ways. the scene in the concentration camp is the most powerful of the series, and ross plays it so well. liebgott’s range of emotions in that scene is awful to watch.
aside from that, liebgott is an angry guy in general. he’s a little cruel, and he takes his emotions out on others. he’s by no means perfect, but he’s also sarcastic and charming and kind of a brat.
i think you learn the most about liebgott by seeing his interactions with others -- with winters, with webster, even when he offers to blow up sobel. he’s a conflicted, complex character who stands out because of the shades of grey in his own morality.
(he’s also gorgeous. superficial, but true.)
David Webster
the show (and ambrose’s book) were really kind to webster, okay? he wasn’t actually as important as he’s portrayed in the show -- he didn’t play a role in the patrol, he wasn’t on the drive with liebgott -- but i am very fond of the character we were given.
webster is a bit too relatable, okay??
he’s a writer, a little socially awkward, with obsessive interests. he likes thinking he’s smarter than he really is. he’s lazy, but he tells himself he’s following his own morals. he’s also a gifted writer with a strong set of principles and beliefs, who isn’t afraid to speak his mind.
i empathize with webster a bit too much, to be honest.
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Pardon, im not very well at deciphering a person's personality and I have been craving to write Ravus, it's just so hard to really figure out how he is though?? I happen to really enjoy how you interpret him and was wondering if there's any tips you have for writing him? Mercí beaucoup. Also, have a lovely day/night~ ♡
lsersljk It’s super flattering that you’re asking me for tips on how to write for him. qUq~ He’s such a fun character, and definitely one that should be shared with the world. Because who doesn’t like a grumpy butthead with a tragic end? *throws sparkles*
But HM… Let me see how I can break him down for you. :D Alot of rambling and notes, but I’mma break it down into four categories: Body Language, Though Process, Outer Persona, and Speech Pattern. Read Below, for I rambled on quite a bit!
Body Language
I like talking about body language first off because of how much personality there is in just So Ravus, as we know, is kind of an asshole in game. He appears, basically tells the empire that he’ll take care of Lunafreya, bullies Noctis, and then splats and dies before turning into a goo boy.
On the outer surface, he comes off as a very stoic man for the most part. Never smiles, tries to show-off this harden facade that makes him seem hard to read and almost bland compared to some of the other characters. But think of it this way – it’s almost physically impossible to be that emotionally desolate. There’s gotta be something underneath the surface with him, right?
So with Ravus, alot of my writing comes from being able to describe the inner personality through subtle facial expressions or descriptions of his thought process. He might just be staring into space, but he’s got something going on in his mind regardless. Usually with his face, he’s usually got a frown on him or one of those resting bitch-faces, so he’ll almost always look pissed off about something. I also don’t imagine him to really using many arm gestures when he speaks or conveys his feelings. He’s kind of a stoic stick, to be honest. But I imagine that it’s mostly because that MT arm of his is harder to use, but also, if you think about it, a person’s body language conveys the most emotion. Thus, I picture Ravus really regulating how his mannerisms are. So when you do plan on applying some sort of emotion in his body language, pick it carefully! Because the smallest gesture of him holding someone’s hand or reaching out to them is more powerful than words when it comes to Ravus’s mannerisms.
Thought Processes
So like I mentioned before, alot of his personality shines through not particularly what he says or how he says it, but more rather what he thinks in amidst the situations he finds himself faced in. As we learn with the game, Ravus often finds himself torn between his ally, Niflheim, and those of Lucis, whom he still harbors alot of hostility for. He’s a man with firm beliefs, or so he thought, so alot of his struggle comes from trying to hide his true intentions from Niflheim, but also in trying to find a reason to aid Lunafreya in her endeavors in helping Noctis. His mind is full of alot of things, but often it’s clouded with a sense of hatred and spite towards Lucis as well as the Empire that destroyed his family and home.
His thought process is one that is often intricate and more detailed, I imagine, with alot of his conflict showing in a self vs self method. Despite him trying to be resolute in his actions and beliefs, there’s something that usually lingers in the back of his mind that ultimately grants him the chance to be sympathetic to some characters as we see in the game. With Lunafreya, he’s very adamant in her continuing her duty to Noctis as he tries to protect her, but he is there to help comfort her as she weeps. With Noctis even, he appears hostile in his approach to Noctis, but he truly did have the intention of wanting to help the prince and return his father’s glaive to him at some point.
With Ravus, it’s important to think about how he goes about his approach in thinking because, despite him wanting to believe in one thing, he’s got a realist personality as he thinks. In an ideal world, he could have forgiven Niflheim and Lucis for what they did and move on, but in a realistic one, he couldn’t. Niflheim had their power over Tenebrae and the Fleuret’s lifestyle, and so he chose the realistic option in siding with Niflheim. His logic always has reason and always is well though-out, but it often isn’t the choice he wants to make. So I suggest playing with this idea of duty versus desire when it comes to Ravus, because Ravus is more inclined to pick his duty over his indulgences.
Outer Persona
It might not seem like there’s not much of a difference between an outer persona and a person’s body language, but the way I differentiate it is that your Outer Persona is what you choose to show people in terms of your being rather than what your body shows in terms of portrayal. Kind of like personality over physique, and Ravus’s personality is alot more vibrant than it initially appears versus his physical portrayal.
With Ravus, the way I go about his outer persona is that I like to portray him as an almost cocky figure – the kind of guy that you’d look at at a first glance and go ‘Wow… He looks like a prick.’ Because let’s be real, he give off an aura alone that makes you know that he’s not someone you should be messing with. A sharp gaze that’s almost always a scowl, punctuated words that kind of almost sound demeaning, and a kind of stature that just makes you feel genuinely uncomfortable around him because of how imposing he appears to be. The way Ravus handles himself is kind of like Mr. Darcy, if you’re familiar with Pride & Prejudice. He’s a dick, but with a softer side. Eventually, at least.
Speaking of Ravus being a dick, he gives off that personality even more so when he confronts Noctis and the others. Despite his words being eloquent and poetic, he essentially tells Noctis that he’s a punk-ass kid who doesn’t know what he’s getting to. He calls Gladiolus useless and basically says ‘Fight me, bro’ to prove how weak Gladiolus is. Hell, he even told Noctis outright that if Ravus were to kill him or if Noctis were to die, then PSSH. Shit happens. Ravus legitimately is a butthead towards others in terms of his outer persona, mostly to portray this feeling of pride and authority over others. After all, he is the commander. He does not serve; he commands!
But nevertheless, he’s also got a softer side that he shows to a rare few, as we see with his conversation with Lunafreya. He’s got that super prideful aura around him still, and is kind of cold in his words as well. But as I mentioned before, his actions speak louder than words, and his outer aura can change to a more sympathetic one. He still gives off that air of command to him, outwardly telling Lunafreya (not consoling her, necessarily) that she needs to work past her fears and trust herself enough to help Noctis like she wants to do. He still remains stern and kind of hard on her, but he still shows enough compassion in his body language to show a difference in his outer persona.
And then he goes back to being a poetic martyr against Iedolas. He really doesn’t let his emotional guard down for anything, and it really shows in his portrayal. That is, until he meets ‘Noctis’ before his death. But you can see why he always has such a barrier up around him.
Speech Pattern
People have mentioned before how Ravus’s speech pattern is really hard to write, and it is for me too even! I’ll admit, I have a bit of a rough time, especially when I write for both Ravus and Ignis since I use similar speech patterns for both. But the major difference between the two, I feel, is how EXTREMELY formal Ravus’s dialogue is.
Think of him as if he’s some sort of Shakespearan thespian when he speaks. He’s the kind of guy who would go ‘Nay, I prithee thee’ if he really wanted to, but since he’s in modern times (kinda), he probably tones it down a bit more. But he’s still extremely eloquent with a high vocabulary that, honestly, I doubt he really knows at the same time. To me, I find Ravus to be one of those guys who uses big words mostly to confuse people rather than to retain an air of eloquence to him. I mean, instead of telling Verstael that his idea to kill Lunafreya for the ring was a bad idea, he said ‘A moot point.’ Who the hell uses that word? He basically just said ‘That’s a questionable choice.’ More people would understand that phrasing more than they would the word ‘moot.’
But if you’re looking to simplify without having to literally delve into an entire language dynamic of Shakespeare, there’s one character that I use alot as a reference when writing for Ravus’s dialogue.
Have you heard of the character Solas from Dragon Age? What I found cool about Solas’s dialogue is that the writers for Solas had deliberately wrote in iambic pentameter for most of his dialogue. This means that it’s very rhymic, almost in sync to a person’s heartbeat. (Da DUM, Da DUM, as Wikipedia described). It’s very paced, drawn out with extra phrases to match this kind of beat in his wording, and I think it’s super neat. And with the added vocabulary, it really reminds me of Ravus’s method of speaking, though not as soft as Solas’s tone.
Think of it kind of like this way too. A regular person would probably say ‘I need to go to my room.’ Ravus would probably fill his sentence out a bit more, and with a more refined vocabulary. ‘I shall retire to my room, for sleep awaits us all.’ Like writing a poem, since, of course, Ravus has quite some poetic dialogue. Kind of like a song or, again, the iambic pentameter. (’I SHALL retire TO my room, FOR sleep AWAITS us all.’ Not as fluctuated, but it gives a bit of an idea of sentence structure.)
Also, I don’t imagine Ravus really using contractions that often. He seems to speak with more of a ‘CANNOT’ than a ‘CAN’T,’ so unfortunately, none of that Y’ALL’D’VE for him.
I hope that covered alot of things that might be useful in writing Ravus! I rambled quite a bit, but nevertheless, I hope at least a little bit of it helps. c:
#asks#dear anon#stephic writings#theories#character analysis#final fantasy xv#ffxv#ravus nox fleuret#ravus#tutorial#i guess...?#it's more of me rambling and all#but i still hope it helps!#because we could always use more delightful ravus writings in the world!#C:
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Can you write a riverdale sickfic where Archie wakes up with a really upset stomach and doesn't want to go to school but his dad doesn't believe him and makes him go anyway and Archie is having to throw up between blocks & eventually goes to the nurse to get to go home? Thanks!
(Hey anon! Thanks for the prompt! I love me some Fred interaction!! And I love me some shoehorning in Reggie!! Can you guys tell I love Reggie //whoops. Sorry this ones a little more on the ficlet side!! I’ve been writing lengthier, heavier fics so this one was a good refresher!!)
Fred had been pretty suspicious of Archie this morning for a multitude of reasons.
For one, Archie had been coming home extra late recently and had been sneaking out. When Fred came in to get Archie’s trash while he was at school he found unfinished homework, meaning he didn’t have his homework at school. Finally, he had bumped into Alice last night and said Betty was stressing over some Science test which Archie was definitely not studying for because he was playing his guitar.
So when Archie walked in the kitchen today telling him he didn’t want to go to school because he was sick, he didn’t believe him.
“Archie, I’m not having this anymore,” Fred said firmly.
“What, dad?! I don’t understand how you can’t see that I’m sick?” Archie asked, completely bewildered.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you slacking off with your school work, leaving your homework—unfinished, mind you, coming home late and sneaking out, despite having to study for this huge test Alice told me you have..”
Archie looked furious and upset, “Fine! I’ll go dad. It’s good to see how much you know me.“
The red head grabbed his bag in anger and stormed out of the house, leaving Fred shocked.
"Archie!” Fred called, making his way to the door to see his son stomping away. He watched him leave, trying to ignore the doubt beginning to build in his stomach.
Archie couldn’t even make it three minutes without his stomach flipping out on him and beginning to heave. He rushed to the nearest bush and hurled, retching the contents of his stomach into the plant.
He felt awful. He felt awful because of how sick he felt, but also awful because his own father wouldn’t believe him. He felt awful because he was angry at himself, wishing he had just been more responsible this week so his father wouldn’t have doubted him.
Archie had been out with the Bulldogs last night for one of the member’s birthday, which was weird because they never spoke, and had been eating at a diner at the south side that he had never seen before.
Of course, Archie had no qualms against the south side, his best friend hailed from there. The south side got a bad rap, and while they did inexcusable things, so did the people at the north and the south always got the blame. He had been opening his eyes quite recently after uncovering the truth about Jason Blossom’s death.
However, his stomach did have qualms against the south side because apparently it did not like the food it digested the previous night. He had felt a little odd as he snuck back home, and went to bed, figuring that he was just stuffed.
Boy, was he wrong though. This morning he woke up, his stomach churning and whirling around. He felt like he was on a boat during a storm, rocking and hurling him around. He had managed to make it into the bathroom before heaving and retching last night’s dinner.
With a pounding headache, Archie went downstairs to his dad, feeling sick as a dog. When Archie was sick, he loved affection and attention, and to be doted on. Usually, it was given to him, so when Fred refused him it was a shock to his miserable system and he was furious.
As Archie finished, still feeling quite queasy and light-headed, he began to drag his zombie like body over to school. However, he barely made it to the next block before he felt liquid begin to rise up his throat and he was running over to another bush and retching yet again. He coughed and spluttered. He gagged at the disgusting, bitter taste left in his mouth and made a mental note of getting some gum and water from one of the vending machines.
This process of retching at each end of blocks kept repeating itself. He’d find himself about to enter a new one when his stomach churned and he’d be heaving, gagging and he’d hurl into a bush again. He quickly run out of things to throw up, and ended up vomiting bile. The process burned his throat.
Eventually, he made it to school and he forced his weak body into the school’s doors and into the hall.
As he made his sickly, ghost-like presence known to Riverdale High, he could see people’s reactions. He was met with looks of shock, surprise, concern, and he was just glad none of the looks belonged to any of his friends. Honestly, if they found him at this state and ask him what was wrong he’d start crying. Archie wasn’t one to conceal his emotions, and often confided in Jughead, who was always there for him no matter what, but he had a gut feeling he knew he wasn’t very rational and he’d just worry the kid unnecessarily.
Archie dragged himself to his locker, and struggled to get his combo due to a splitting headache and clammy hands. His stomach was flipping and he felt so queasy, trying to conceal his gags and tiny dry heaves. He fanned himself lightly, and wiped his clammy hands on his pants. Speaking of clammy, he was sweating immensely, like he had just gone to Football practice.
Speaking of Football practice, a loud voice filled with life and energy that Archie would kill for in his weak body rung out across the hall. The voice was crisp and clear amongst the hustle bustle and blurred chatter of the various students.
“Yo Andrews!” Reggie called, a wide, sparkling grin on his face.
Archie groaned softly to himself, not wanting to deal with this Star Boy’s snarky comments and attitude. In a way, Jughead was the same, but Archie never found Jughead something he didn’t want to deal with, and Archie began to wonder what the real difference was, and in his fevered mind he couldn’t find it.
As soon as Reggie was at the side of his locker, leaning against the locker next to him, seriously rattling it in the process, Archie gagged, dry heaving and clamping his hands around his mouth just in case anything came out of it.
Reggie’s egotistical and overly confident grin faded instantaneously, his features being taken over by worry and concern. Some sort of mental block in Reggie prevented him from being too soft, and honestly that would make Archie even more uncomfortable he would genuinely throw up.
“Woah, Andrews. I’m sure you don’t find me that gross?” Reggie commented, no actual trace of spite or meanness in his tone, his whole voice laced with worry.
Archie then took off, sprinting to the closest bathroom, unable to keep it in any longer. Each step he took caused his head to pound and throb, making him dizzy and even more queasy, threatening the sick to just burst out then and there.
Reggie had ran after him the second he took off, momentarily forgetting about this Cool Boy facade he had been putting on for the rest of the school. He had caught up no problem, seeing as Archie’s agility had been greatly compromised from this illness.
Archie burst into the thankfully empty bathroom and kicked open a stall, before retching into the toilet. Reggie stood a few feet behind him, trying not to be a dick and understand that Archie couldn’t help it, but it didn’t mean Reggie didn’t find it disgusting!
“Uh..you..okay, man?” He asked awkwardly. This was an awkward situation indeed; for one Archie was throwing up everywhere, he seriously was scared of vomit, and it was weird for both of them for Reggie to be showing his softer side.
Archie looked at him then jerked back to the toilet and continued to wretch. It was seriously hurting his throat, burning it raw and hurting his stomach. His muscles tensed and cramped uncomfortably and he put his hands to his stomach with the pain as he continued to heave and retch. He was absolutely miserable.
Reggie put his metal barriers aside, caring way more about Archie than any facade or fear he may have and approached the ginger and crouched down next to him, rubbing his back as he continued to throw up into the toilet. Once Archie was done, the bells rang.
“We’re going to be late,” Archie croaked weakly.
“Nope, I am. You’re not–you are going to the nurses and going home,” Reggie instructed firmly.
“C'mon,” Reggie coaxed gently, wrapping one strong arm around the redhead’s waist and helped him stand up. He supported him as they wobbled over to the Nurse’s office. Archie was too weak to argue and Reggie’s tone left no room for argument.
“You’re going to be late.”
“When am I not? Besides, this time, I’ll have a heroic excuse!”
“No! Reggie–..god..never mind, it’s fine, just..”
“..It’s because Jones is in my class and you don’t want me worrying him, huh?”
Archie was silent.
“It’s cool bro, don’t worry about it. But you know, he’s going to find out about it anyway, and he won’t be happy.”
Reggie didn’t press any further because by the look on Archie’s face he was content with that.
“Thanks for bringing him in, Mr Mantle,” the Nurse said politely, her face completely shifting as she met Archie’s eyes.
“And you shouldn’t have come in in the first place! Silly child!” She scolded lightly.“
"Get back to class, Mr Mantle,” The nurse commanded, before dialing for Fred and leaving to the side.
Archie managed a smile, “Reggie, thanks for this. I..it means a lot.”
Reggie managed a smile, different to his overly confident one, softer, genuine, “You ain’t heavy, Andrews.”
“Right back at ya, dude.”
He left, a smile on his face. The nurse returned shortly after, “Your dad will be here soon, Mr Andrews.”
Archie couldn’t help but roll his eyes a little, still very much annoyed with the events that played out earlier this morning.
Fred Andrews walked in about 10 minutes later, looking very flustered and concerned.
He nodded at something the nurse was saying and made his way over to the bed Archie was sitting at.
He looked genuinely so guilty and upset, “..Archie..”
Archie looked up at him and acknowledged his presence, arms still crossed and lowkey sulking. He got up and started walking with Fred out the door, an arm protectively clutching his stomach.
Fred looked so guilty he didn’t even know what to say, and stayed in an agonising silence as the two made their way over to the truck.
Archie climbed onto the truck and leaned his head against the window, his headache worsening.
“I should have believed you,” Fred said quietly.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” Archie spat out bitterly, not sure if he was genuinely that angry or if he was under the influence of his headache.
“I know. I’m not here to defend myself, I’m accepting I’m totally in the wrong and as your father..I should’ve noticed. You’re my son, Archie. I’m so sorry,” Fred apologised.
Archie didn’t reply.
Fred sighed, “I’m..really not good at this, huh? Maybe..”
Fred didn’t have to finish his sentence; Archie knew what he meant. He knew deep down his dad felt like Mary was a lot better at parenting, and that deep down he thought Archie was better off with her.
“Dad..” Archie finally replied, softer, he lifted himself off the window and shifted towards Fred’s shoulder, leaning against him. His father’s warmth was comforting and much better than any window.
Fred smiled softly, sparing a sneaky glance at his son, his gaze filled with love. He put his free hand on his shoulder, comfortingly rubbing it. They’d be home soon and he could make it up to him.
#archie andrews#fred andrews#reggie mantle#riverdale#sickfic#prompts#emeto tw#im awful at writing emeto whoops
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