#the hiatus was over a while ago bc was working on them a few days ago but now im done with the ones i have | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snackhobi · 4 years ago

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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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moonlit-imagines · 4 years ago

Text

Headcanons for being Bucky Barnes’ adoptive child

Bucky Barnes x child!reader

warnings: knife

a/n:

prompt: @multifandomlover121: “i adored your natasha romanoff’s child headcanons! could you do one with bucky barnes and him adopting a child? thank you!!”

bucky saw someone in need and wanted to help them

that someone was you

he would have wanted someone to do the same for him

“are you okay, kid?”

“i’m fine...”

“are you sure?”

“...no”

you kinda started crying and ran off

but that wasnt the last time he had seen you

the more he’d run into you, the more he’d check on you, offer you food/water/shelter

“i really don’t mind, it’s the least i could do”

“are you sure?”

“i am”

you began to trust bucky more as time went on, he really was helpinh you out of the kindness of his heart

and buck became more protective of you, of course

soon enough he saw you as his child and you saw him as your father, neither of you had had a bond like that before

“i’m going to the market, do you want anything?”

“uh, peaches?”

“got it, be back in a while, don’t answer the door for anyone”

“got it, pa”

that was the first time you called him “pa” and he shut the door behind him and stood there in SHOCK he was so ???!!!!

you asked him about his life, and at first he didn’t want to tell you much

“pleaseee? it all seems so interesting”

“well, i don’t remember it much. and everything i do remember isn’t very great”

“is that why you’re lying low?”

“yeah...that’s one of them”

“can you tell my how you got your metal arm?”

you tried not to pry but you were disappointed that he wouldn’t open up to you

he knew just about everything about the short past you had, all the highs and lows of your messy childhood before he met you

bucky lived in a one bedroom apartment, so he gave you the bedroom and slept on the couch

honestly you guys led your lives mainly inside the apartment just to stay safe

and filling the day was a bit difficult, but you managed

“can i watch tv?”

“after the news”

“you said that twenty minutes ago”

“well, it’s not over yet. just watch it with me”

“can i pleaaaase watch tv?”

that “pleaaaase” always makes him cave

you two also baked together! it calms his nerves

especially when he can smell cookies/brownies/cake/etc baking in the oven, it’s his favorite

“are you sure we’re making these right, y/n?”

“no, i am not.”

helping him clean his arm sometimes

he couldn’t get in the crevices

one day you were watching tv and it said that bucky was wanted for a bombing, which couldnt be true because that was in vienna and you were far from there

“so that’s what you didn’t want to tell me? you’re a...”

“a terrorist? an assassin? an 100 year old man? i...i wish i wasn’t, but i had no choice. i can’t remember everything that happened to me, but i don’t want to. this new life is good for me and you. and i promise i would never do anything to hurt you”

“i know, pa, i trust you more than anyone else on earth. but...what does this mean for us now? the whole world is looking for you”

“nothing, they wont find us here. i’m going to the market for plums, though. keep the door and windows locked”

“yes sir”

“love you, kid”

“love you, pa”

and the next thing you know the door has been opened and you do not know what to do so you hide because that’s the plan you and bucky came up with just in case and next thing you know there’s sounds of fighting, things breaking, yelling

it’s time to come out

“pa? pa, where are you?”

“y/n, get down!”

“bucky, who is that?” -cap

“my kid”

steve immediately: ????¿???

ur WHAT

anywhooo you ended up running with them and not able to keep up bc they were kinda enhanced 100 year old men and you were baby

so the falcon, the REAL DEAL MAN RIGHT THERE had to give you a helping hand

“you doing alright, kid?”

“to be honest, i’ve never flown before”

✨getting arrested with pa and the crew✨

you sat next to steve rogers

“so, you’re bucky’s...child?”

“he took me in a while ago, we were both in a dark place”

“has he told you about his past?”

“i ask but he cant remember most of it, and what he does remember, he’s too ashamed to say. he just recently told me he used to be an assassin...and he’s and eldery man”

“hey, whatever happens to buck—your dad, i just want to let you know that i’ll be here for you, okay? he was my best friend growing up, i owe it to him”

it’s a feat to be a minor caught by the CIA but look at you go

you had to explain how you and bucky became family, which they were not buying even though every word was true

releasing you to steve bc he had some pull

oh yeah bucky kinda sorta went feral and you insisted you’d be able to calm him down but it doesn’t exactly work that way

“pa! i’m right here, it’s me! please, stop it!”

“y/n, you need to get out of here, it’s not safe!”

“i can’t leave him like this!”

escaping the CIA and waiting for your dad to wake up, this is where he regained his full memory

once he was free of the debris, he gave you a big hug and apologized with tears in his eyes (why the fuck am i rhyming)

“i’m sorry if i scared you, dragă”

“i couldn’t ever be scared of you”

steve was so happy that bucky was happy dhshshshhshs

being pushed in the backseat with pa

sharing your granola bar

since bucky remembered some good thinsg about his past, he thought it may be time to share!

“yeah, so me and steve were best friends, right? steve always picked fights with every bully he met, despite being less than half the weight he is now. i always had to swoop in and save the day”

“i can’t believe you were born in 1917. my father is a world war two veteran”

“how impressive” -sam, also a war vet

honestly they didn’t expect THAT much resistance at the airport but everyone knew you were off limits

excellent spiderman who webbed your hand to a car

luckily, your dad had taught you a thing or two and you got to hacking through these webs with your pocket knife

it took forever

but you finally escaped with your dad and who you’d soon call ‘uncle steve’

black widow nearly stopped you, you were very afraid :)

bucky made u stay in the jet “for your own safety”

“we don’t know what to expect in there, y/n. the last thing i want for you is to get hurt. i should have never dragged you into this”

steve casually talking to bucky about you being unofficially adopted by him

“so, you’re a dad?”

“that i am”

“what’s it like?”

“it’s like...finding a reason to get up every day. and a decent amount of compromise”

“sounds exciting”

“you have no idea”

finally being retrieved from the jet to see your dad with one arm

trippin out

but he told you it was alright

t’challa, new king of wakanda who was trying to end bucky’s life just a few hours ago had apologized and offered you sanctuary in his country

he SPECIFICALLY apologized to you, saying that it was unfair to you by trying to hurt your father because the pain of losing one is unbearable in his eyes

getting some much needed peace (not really bc you wanted to train with wakandan warriors)

and it paid off since you all had to fight off a hoard of aliens

“you think you can handle this, y/n?”

“oh yeah”

you definitely could not handle your dad turning to dust :)

:))))))

“y/n? steve?”

no nope no

steve had to take care of you on bucky’s five year hiatus from life (oh my god im sorry)

not a day went by that you didn’t think of him

it kinda sucked bc you didn’t have any pictures together or anything, only pictures from the 1940’s that steve pulled out every once in a while

“doing okay, y/n?”

“not really”

“do you want to come and watch a movie with me or something? im still not completely caught up on everything i missed”

after five years, there was a breakthrough and it was finally time to get your dad back

but he probably wouldn’t recognize you...you’ll find out soon enough

taglist: @alwaysananglophile // @rorybutnotgilmore // @locke-writes // @sweetheartliz07 // @queen-destenie // @natasha-danvers // @lokihiddles // @frostedgiant // @emygirl // @lotsoffandomrecs // @johnmurphyisbisexual // @teenwaywardasgardian // @pappydaddy // @captainshazamerica // @freya-xo // @ravenmoore14 // @purpleskiesstorm // @ofthedewthesunlight //

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x child!reader #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #winter soldier imagine #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x reader

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ddaenghoney · 3 years ago

Photo

Series: Flora

Part 24

masterlist link in blog description

After spending more than a decade establishing a career as an acclaimed actress, you decide to go on a sudden hiatus while also discreetly moving to a new townhome, renting out the second room to your old friend from high school: Kim Taehyung

Pairing(s):

Kim Taehyung x Y/N

ft. Lim Jaebeom x Y/N

disclaimer: any character depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respective idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Social media/Fake Text AU, Roommates au, somewhat Slow Burn relationship (or is it more oblivious to lovers ?), Actress!Y/N, Flower shop owner and model!Taehyung, fluff, drama(bc it’s me), romance, angst (updated as needed)

Necessary story written piece beneath the cut!

wc: 4017

Chapter warning(s): Heavy themes of loneliness and quite a bit of angst. Emotional breakdown by means of a lot of crying and a small moment of nearly hyperventilating. Optimistic ending.

You look down at the ended conversation displayed on your phone, thumbs hovering over the device but you know you have nothing more to say. Sighing, you let it fall to your phone and glance your head out at the grey outside that the car travels through. The clouds took a break from the constant showers that covered the city, but you do not doubt they will continue again, probably the second you step out of the vehicle.

“You can just take me home instead of stopping by that food place.” You speak up to your manager’s assistant who has recently been driving you around for scheduled activities. When Manager Yang is not able to attend things with you, the assistant is definitely there instead. You wager to make sure you don’t do anything more to grind the nerves of the company, but you never have asked the question directly.

“Are you sure? The weather doesn’t seem as bad as a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I have some leftovers at home I’ll eat instead.” The explanation exists only to pacify his confusion, because after that conversation you really have no interest in eating anytime soon. Without conviction your eyes search between passing buildings for signs of the sun breaking through any of the clouds, but as you expected there is no such light. If there had been any hope of the storm ending, the production team would not have called off shooting for today.

You don’t mind the weather for that fact, but at the same time it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you can only rely on unruly weather to give you a dent of the day back to yourself. If you try to think about how long it’s been this way, your mind would skim back years and years. Early on when you were still in high school and quickly garnering all of the roles in films you could, you didn’t mind the workload at all. Everything was still new, and admittedly going through that part of your life with fame attached to it felt like a grandiose thing.

The glittering of it all wore off a while ago, and letting your head fall back against your seat cushion, you realize just how exhausting it all is. But what else is there?

“Thanks for the ride.” You wave to the assistant as you exit the vehicle in front of the small gate that surrounds the townhome. Your company may know the address somehow, but you certainly are not willing to give out the gate code, much less a key, so you get out on the curbside. You’re relieved when he doesn’t loiter to make sure you get in safely, because the sooner you can stop thinking about everything the sooner you can have a semblance of a clear head.

To your surprise the rain comes again after you’re under the cover of your entryway instead of starting to pour directly on your head. Standing there for a moment, you watch the droplets fall in a humid frenzy that is familiar for this time of the year. This odd hour of the day is much earlier than people head home from jobs, so the neighborhood is quiet with inactivity, only seeming to be populated by you and the millions of droplets that see only a moment of you before they’re gone from your sight into puddles on the ground.

You stretch out your arm to breach into the shower, feeling the water collide with your skin as you continue watching the spectacle of it all. Almost, you’re able to enjoy it completely; take in the beauty of nature, and the serenity of your tiny front yard that’s enclosed in its own bubble. But as your eyes scan the area, your arm tenses when you catch the well-tended to flower beds that line the front gate.

You remember everything you wish is not reality.

Pulling your arm back, you turn on your heel and type the code to your door, entering in haste. The lights inside are off, and the space is quiet, almost without the sound of the showers outside. Without consideration you simply allow your bag to fall beside you on the floor while you flick your shoes haphazardly in the same general direction. It’s not unusual for no one to be home in the middle of the day, but as you step deeper the space feels uncharacteristically empty.

Miscellaneous items are decorated in their little mess around the area, but they’re all your own things that clutter. In your moment of recollection, you glance back to the front door as you realize you didn’t trip over any of Taehyung’s shoes on the way inside. Your lips part at the knowledge and your hand clutches against your top as you turn to walk into the kitchen.

Your line of sight wanders over the countertops, then to the small table beside the door out to the back, but you find nothing. You turn back and stalk into the living room once more, eyes searching quickly to the coffee table, then end tables-- any surface of space you could.

In that instant of finding nothing your eyelids grow hot, and your throat hitches, but you hold back any noise by biting your lip. You don’t have the right to be this upset if he’s already gone without a word of goodbye. You made your choices-- you’re living the consequences.

Air nonetheless escapes your mouth in a high, choppy gasp. You thought there would be more time than the four days it's been since you told him he should leave, since you typed all of those things you didn’t mean and left tears all over your phone screen. You shake your head, forcing everything back again, because you don’t have the right to feel upset about this. You don’t, and you keep repeating that to yourself, but what difference would it make if you started bawling about it here anyways?

You put your hand to your face, rubbing your eyes to stop tears from beginning, but when the sentence plays in your head you’re unable to stop them when you inevitably mumble to yourself,

“I’m all alone now.”

Only a couple escape your ducts, before you take in a deep inhale and remind yourself that this is for the best. If Taehyung has nothing to do with you, then his reputation will not be bothered further, his flower shop won’t run the risk of being singled out on a gossip form, and his life will continue in its peaceful path just like he wants.

You rub the tears from the corner of your eyes, finding sight of his mug in its usual spot beside the couch. As you take a step towards it, your eyebrows knit wondering if he forgot it but you find a beverage still within it, though mostly gone.

The front door’s entry alert causes your shoulders to jolt in surprise, and your body to turn as it opens wide to let the melody of the rain flood your ears once more. From the cloudy outside that’s a lighter blue than the inside of your house, Taehyung’s figure seems enveloped by a dull brightness.

The hollow feeling in your chest fills with the thrum of your heartbeat. You watch as his lips pout while he looks down at your discarded items, then his head lifts up upon the recognition, startling with a sound of surprise when he sees you.

“I didn’t know you were home,” His words stumble out while his hand searches on the wall and successfully presses on the light switch. “What are you doing?” He asks, frowning in confusion of the certainly odd situation he wandered into.

Taehyung knows that you are not the most organized person on the planet, but your shoes finding their way to the designated closet is the example for him that he never manages to follow. So to see them in a mess on the floor beside your bag, Taehyung thought the placement to be abnormal and maybe somewhere in the back of his mind before he looked up he even felt worry.

“Ah, I just,” You start in a small voice, before dipping your head away from his view. Taehyung takes notice of the aversion, then latches onto the remembrance of your last text conversation. “I got off work because of the weather, so I’m here. Forgot to turn the lights on.”

“I see.” He responds simply, with the slightest nod of his head. Taehyung slips off his shoes finally, and enters deeper into the house, trying his best not to let questions in his head breed into a field that will be left unanswered by you and filled in with guesses by himself.

“What about you?” Your words come making him stop just beyond where you remained as he followed the path to his bedroom. Taehyung can’t help glancing towards you, just a couple feet from him, but appearing so far away as your head faces at a downward angle to the couch beside you.

“I closed the shop early today.” He explains in a low voice, because he does not want to say why he’s come home. He still doesn’t want to think about everything falling apart. And for a moment that fact causes him a burst of frustration because of all of those unanswered questions so his tone shifts coarsely when he gives a curt reply, “Going to sign a new lease.”

Taehyung expects nothing from the sentence, but watching your hand tighten atop the couch makes him hesitate from going to his room. It’s the smallest action, and nonverbal at that. He knows everything you said about distrusting him and about his importance being nothing more than an irrational measurement you never meant, so why does he still cling on to the smallest sign. One that means nothing.

He shakes his head softly, feeling consumed by the tension. He walks down the hall to his room, leaving you there. Turning away just in time for the sparse rain drops in your eyes to drip in silence onto the leather your hand clings to.

Rather than reaching to wipe them away, you simply let the tears fall, thinking it better to ignore them so they altogether stop. For all of the relief that built in your chest at seeing him again, it ripped back away at his statement. You want to tell him he still has two weeks that he could stay, but you know that would only serve unnecessary confusion, and that it’s better if he leaves now while you’re still able to hold yourself back from confessing the insincerity of all the hurtful things you messaged him.

“Do-” Your shoulders tense at the pet name he stopped himself from uttering. Your lips tighten into a line, forcing away a frown as he continues after a moment, “Y/N, are you okay?”

Considering everything, you wonder how Taehyung even asked you that, knowing well that you’ve given him every reason to stop caring about you to even the smallest extent. But he’s sweet and gentle like the flowers he tends to. You muster a smile at this thought, and nod your head even though you’re facing away from him still.

Taehyung’s hand curls in response to your demeanor, wondering if you really have to look away from him. Does it bother you that much to even be around him? Because things were different only a week ago, it is nearly impossible for him to accept the situation at hand, but ultimately he just sighs, and starts a walk back to the front door, wearing a fresh shirt that’s different from the type he typically wears to work in the flower shop.

As he heads to the door, you recall the countless times he’s walked in and out, wandered around the house familiarly, like a necessary puzzle piece to the space. You can think of the many failed recipes created in the kitchen that led to races to the front door to get the food deliveries afterwards. And you can remember the time you held the door open for him when he struggled with his arms full of little flower starts that would bloom soon if they are maintained after he leaves.

He’s leaving.

“Tae,” Your voice barely sounds like anything but a weak squeak because of the emotions clogging up your throat. He stops to turn back towards you like a habit-- his eyes focusing on your person easily, though the irises are admittedly not as cheerful as all the times of the past. “You-” Your nails dig into the leather of the couch, like the logic you’ve taped up in your mind tries desperately to stay together. But the throbbing pain in your heart wins over your mouth, “I’m so sorry.”

“What-” Taehyung’s sentence drops away as he notices the glittering on your cheeks, and he turns completely. With every nerve on his body beginning to prickle in worry, he takes a step in your direction on impulse, pausing only when you shake your head, releasing more tears down your skin.

“I’m sorry. I’m so selfish-- I really can’t do this.” The words dribble out in a frantic mumble as you finally begin to wipe away at the tears. “I know I need to let you leave-- I know you should; I can’t do this though. I don’t want you to go, I really don’t-”

Your breath hitches as you’re all the sudden pulled into a strong embrace. Without hesitation your arms cling to his shirt, while a sob muffles into the fabric. Taehyung’s arms encompass you with the same feeling that living with him gives you: safety.

“Calm down, Y/N.” Taehyung soothes your trembling frame with his fingertips clutching tightly on your shoulder blades, fastening you to this space that was stable. Giving you a place to belong again.

“I didn’t mean any of it, Tae,” You croak between gasps as your lungs fight for air amidst your sobs. “I trust you more than anyone-- you’re the most important person to me, Taehyung. Please don’t go.”

“Then why,” He starts the question, but then your rushed sentences finally register to him properly. The fact that you said you know he needs to leave. Taehyung breathes in as the realization of it sets in. You were trying to get him away so he wouldn’t be involved anymore. For his benefit, not because you ever wanted that.

“I-,” You cough, clutching onto him tighter as the sobbing leaves your throat thick. You want to explain everything, and make sure that he hears your apologies as many times as necessary, so desperately you try to speak up again only for Taehyung to hush them away.

“Stop for a bit, dove.” He tells you, causing you to find a grasp at peace just from him addressing you with endearment once again. “I’m not going to walk away-- you don’t need to rush. Let’s sit down, okay?”

As you sit on the couch with your fingers rubbing onto your temples, Taehyung stands in the kitchen fiddling with objects that you hear clatter around. You think little of it, simply counting seconds with the inhales and exhales of your breaths, elongating them so as to ease away the rampant swarm of tears and emotions. The prickling in your head must be from a mixture of shock and embarrassment, you decide, becoming increasingly aware of how vividly everything came flooding out.

When Jaeboem texted you days earlier, you had to stop replying. You feel bad still for leaving his series of texts pleading with you out of worries for being left on read, but when he verbally acknowledged how alone you must be, you couldn’t look at the words any longer. That aspect of your lifestyle needs to be kept in check or else you would have to look at everything that’s hollow in the world that you made for yourself.

For following a dream that you were passionate about, in the past you anticipated a cover of happiness washed over your life once you reached the level of notoriety that would keep acting jobs flooding in. But for years of your work and efforts to simply amount to you walking into a lifeless house, with the few people around you about to walk out, you couldn’t let yourself see that because it would be the one thing too much to bear. Even if you enjoy acting, the present gives you no sense of fulfillment outside of your job, which in itself is starting to be cracked with holes as well.

“Here.” Your eyes break from their lack of concentration to watch Taehyung settle a mug that matches his on a coaster in front of you. The steam filled with the warm scent of honey and tea leaves. “Does your head hurt?”

Meagerly and barely do you nod, finally removing your hands from putting pressure on your temples to take hold of the mug. Careful to keep your skin from directly touching the hot ceramic, you balance it inches from your lips to blow gently.

“Thank you.” You mumble, taking small sips so as not to burn your taste buds. The drink is light, but soothing to your throat that is ravaged from your outburst. “I,” Your head jolts as you recall, nearly sloshing around the scalding tea, but Taehyung’s hand aids you in steadying the mug as you speak in worry. “I stopped you from meeting the leasing office-- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Taehyung shakes his head, very slightly nudging the mug so that you drink more. As you finally give in despite your frown, he continues in a quiet voice. “It’s not like I really wanted to go anyways.”

As you glance towards him with an uncertain hope glinting in your eyes, Taehyung smiles gently and is unable to stop his thumb to graze over your cheek where tear treks remain. In the void of words, the shower outside rages on with a hum of thunder only relaxing the tension in your shoulders. As his hand leaves your skin, you break eye contact to again sip at the beverage while Taehyung eases more into his seat beside you.

Without speaking, he simply rests his head on the cushion, letting you revitalize yourself with the drink. He arranges his thoughts with his newfound information, and is almost upset that he never contemplated any of it before. His friends too had commented repeatedly how strange and out of character all of the texts you sent him were, especially Jeongguk who was fully convinced the connection between you and Taehyung could only be genuine. Taehyung thought the same, and he could blame the surprise of it all for letting his rationality falter, but ultimately he feels disappointed in himself for not considering that this was the only way you found yourself able to protect him.

It’s true that if he continued to believe your words, the hurt would have been enough to start a gap of separation from you, and perhaps even if he reconsidered later down the line he may have pushed the thoughts aside to keep you from having to bother with the whole thing again. Or perhaps it is more accurate, he decides, that he may have not been willing to risk hearing you say everything to him all over again.

“Now you don’t want me to leave?” Taehyung breaks the silence with the small question, the corner of his lips quirking as the empty mug clatters on the coaster from your surprise from the bluntness. With furrowed eyebrows you turn to look at him, so clearly upset with yourself, that Taehyung doesn’t have the heart to tease you any further. His lips part to speak but in a small ramble you beat him to it,

“I never wanted you to. I just didn’t know how else to keep you from getting dragged into anything more than you have been. I know you don’t want anything to do with fame, and,” You shake your head as once again those texts replay through your head.

“Dove.” Taehyung’s hand covers over the top of yours as they fiddle on your lap, bringing you back down. “I understand now.”

Your frown remains, and your chest feels heavy once more because you know you really did hurt him, and yet he’s sitting beside you still and giving you a chance at explanation. You don’t deserve that.

“I should have let you go though.” Your eyes fall to your lap, watching as his hand squeezes over top of yours. You’re sure he doesn’t like your sentence. “Taehyung, I know you say that you don’t mind any of the baggage that comes along with getting linked to me in rumors, but you don’t know what it’s actually like to go through any of that. To have thousands of people you don’t know critique all the choices you make and constantly put their judgement on you just because they don’t like you or are bored-- it’s exhausting. Especially if you’re not even gaining anything from it. You don’t want to get into this lifestyle--and that’s fine, but it’s even more of a reason for you to distance yourself from me. I can’t control any of this as much as I want to, and you’ll just end up dealing with trouble because of it all.”

Without thinking, one of your hands turns upwards, taking a grasp of his gently.

“I do gain something from it all.” Taehyung says, ready for his eyes to meet yours when your head turns in confusion. “I’ll still be in your life.”

Your jaw clenches; heart beating too happily at his affirmation of it all. It’s idyllic and frankly all you would want to hear from him. Such a simple thing, yet the implication causes new, touched tears to collect in the corner of your eyes. Warmly Taehyung smiles at you, tugging you towards him so he can hug you, which you allow without hesitation.

“I know that you’re worried about me, dove, but what you’re telling me I’ve considered too. I may not have been that involved when I was a trainee, but I know the media can be ruthless and cruel, but I’d still choose dealing with that than not being with you anymore.”

“But why,” You pull a bit from him to look up at his face, frowning. “No one’s ever wanted to go through all of this crap just for me-- I don’t understand why you always pick to stay.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I care about you before you believe me?” He asks with a smile, cutting off any of your uncertain remarks by simply hugging you tighter and chuckling as you make a noise of surprise from the action. “Dove, I’m happiest living here with you. You mean so much to me, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. No matter how many times you ask me, you’re going to get this for an answer. You’re my friend, Y/N. You’re dear to me.”

Your hands meddle their way from between your torsos so that you can wrap your arms around him tightly. Taehyung smiles at the reciprocation, settling his forehead atop your head when he feels your body rumble from some muffled cries that somehow have an air of happiness to them.

You’re willing to accept his answer, no longer frightened of all the repercussions as you cling onto Taehyung as if he’ll drift away. Now you realize how content the world becomes with even one person willing to stay. Without the attachment of jobs, or the necessity to save face in front of cameras, Taehyung wants to remain where he is. You’re so thankful for the fact, but can’t properly express the gratitude through words, but he hums in response anyways, keeping you enveloped in his arms as he tells you peacefully,

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Don’t worry.”

If you enjoy, PLEASE let me know!!

Tag(s): @atulipandarosee @jaienn @lemonteacyst@swanboysuga @kennedaddy00 @cribabieee@betysotelo18 @sherizaraiyah (if you would like to be tagged send me an ask to let me know!)

#taehyung #taehyung smau.taehyung fic #taehyung aangst #taehyung fluff #taehyung series #bts #bts imagines #bts fake texts #bts angst #bts smau #bts fluff #bts series #all #series flora

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kotsume · 4 years ago

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my observations as a content creator :) warning: it’s long

if you’re reading this, don’t think too deeply about what i wrote - it’s just my analysis of fan blogs and some fandoms (so it’s all from my perspective). do what you want with this information, and feel free to lmk what you think ;)

*i tried to include as many anime-applicable blogs as i could remember*

multifandom reblog blogs (ones who track a tag):

@/allanimanga: lots of original content every day. does not reblog from tag anymore bc most members who had that job are inactive. i’m an admin and i’ve been told not to worry about reblogging from the tag, and just make content. has member privilege abuse from certain users; normally you make content for the blog and you get to reblog your stuff over in a 1:1 ratio, but they will just use the blog to promote themselves without contributing. it’s really sad but there’s nothing we can do bc most of the time it’s an admin.

@/animacia: was debating whether or not to put this one. reblogs mainstream anime (sailor moon, studio ghibli) and has a tag, but the tag itself does not seem to be actively used as the most recent post can see tagged for this blog dates back to june 2019 (more than a year ago). it’s an active blog regardless of slow tag activity.

@/animationsource: active, but very picky? idk man they either do or don’t reblog your stuff. it’s a hit or miss with them. seems to have member privilege abuse/preference (explained up there). not too sure if they have a queue or just reblog sporadically.

@/anisource: active. seems to run on a large, backlogged queue bc their tag is full of stuff that has yet to be reblogged. edits will probably take a while to be reblogged, but they’ll eventually get there!

@/dailyanime: new blog, but from what i’ve experienced, they will queue it, and your post will be reblogged in 1-3 days (it probably depends on how much is in their queue).

@/fyanimegifs: will reblog your stuff, but they have a very slow queue.

@/graphicsources: not really active; spontaneous at best. don’t count on them to reblog your stuff.

@/fyeahshoujo: not really active, but not completely inactive.

@/fysportsanime & @/sportsanimedaily: active. seems to have a backlogged queue, but just wait and you’ll be reblogged! it will take some time because there are lots of posts.

@/animangascenery & @/otomokatsuhiro (#oldanimeedit - changes url from time to time? that’s why i included the tag they track): inactive unless a member looks at the tag. in that case, they will most likely reblog the tagged post. typically mass reblogs/queues from the tag every once in a while.

@/bbelcher & @/fyeahmovies: will reblog ghibli and makoto shinkai stuff. bonus points if you have added a text description to gifs. 80% dependable.

@/filmgifs, @/filmtv, @/stream, @/movie-gifs, etc. (basically big reblog fansites that aren’t anime-oriented, but do reblog mainstream anime movies): 90% chance they will not reblog anything from you if there is no text description. add text descriptions to studio ghibli/makoto shinkai film gifs and make it pretty! use text gradients!! that will increase your chances of being reblogged by them. they don’t reblog seasonal anime.

a note: many creators use tags as a way of reaching a broader audience. it's really helpful for smaller blogs who would like to share their content to others, but do not have the means/numbers to do so. just bc some people don't utilize tags to their full potential, it doesn't mean it isn't useful, so pls don’t try to act superior to those who want more exposure. everyone deserves a chance at getting the attention they deserve for their hard work!

studio ghibli reblog blogs:

@/ghiblisdaily: great. amazing. i love them!! will reblog from you 99.9% of the time. probably the most reliable ghibli blog as of right now. uploads original content

@/fyghibli: used to be good at reblogging from tag, but has gone kind of inactive. i think they’re becoming more active again, but it’s very sporadic.

@/kikisdeliveryservices: they track a variety of studio ghibli related tags, and they do reblog a lot, but i don’t think they’re as consistent as ghiblisdaily. lots of original content.

@/oh-totoro: not really active, but when they are (and they reblog from you), your activity skyrockets.

@/dailyghibli: not active.

@/daily-ghibli: sometimes active, a little wishy-washy. they seem to be reblogging a little bit more consistently now?

@/princessghibli: not active, but reblogs here and there.

@/ghibligif: a new blog, but decently active. will reblog post from their tracked tag within a day. lots of original content.

main point: there are many studio ghibli blogs (wayyyy more than i’ve listed here), but only around 3-4 active ones. choose your tags with what you think will give you the best exposure bc if you have too much, tumblr will go “fuck you” and not show your post at all :)

random anime fandoms:

i’ll really only be including ones i’m in, or know a bit about.

haikyuu, bnha, kny, yoi: healthy and very active. content for these fandoms do well even if they’re not in season. has multiple active fan blogs (except for yoi tho - they’re all inactive for the most part).

noragami, ohshc, ons, snk, tg, swnku: active fandoms. edits will do moderately well bc most people have seen these.

popular sports anime (knb, free, dna, tsurune? idk i don’t watch much sports anime): they do okay. i rarely see any new sports anime edits beside haikyuu, but people do love their sports anime. has active sports fan blogs.

pokemon & sailor moon: old but gold. lots of people love these anime bc it’s part of their childhood. still very popular amongst tumblr users.

violet evergarden: does moderately well. @/fyeahvioletevergarden will reblog your stuff if you choose to tag them (big boost)! with the new movie coming up soon, there may be a resurgence in activity, but the most recent movie did not have much content made for it, so that hope may be crushed.

tpn: not very active, but with the new season coming up soon, there will be a resurgence in activity.

ditf: kind of dead, but lots of people love zero two. edits do moderately well.

sao: dead. absolutely dead. i thought there would be some activity bc it’s in season right now, but no, it’s a dead fandom. low key sao sucks tho. idek where the plot is going; i’m just hoping for an end.

hxh, one piece, fma, code geass: i’m not in it, but i think they do okay bc they have a large following, just not as well as haikyuu or bnha (but they’re still very popular). it depends on your blog demographic tho.

mp100, opm, bsd, given: kind of medium-tier fandoms. not as prevalent as haikyuu or bnha, but there are still edits being made for these anime. they don’t really have any active fan blogs (besides given i think) bc none of them are airing rn.

makoto shinkai & studio ghibli films: they do great! everybody loves good scenery, and the films are very well known and loved by all!

some seasonal anime (spring/summer 2020)

fruits basket: well this reboot blew up and overshadowed everything in it’s path. tbh only edits posted on the first day of the new episode do well. it’s a very competitive fandom for creators.

kaguya sama love is war: first season was good, edits did well. second season drifted off into the shadow of fruits basket. relatively obscure fandom for how popular it is amongst people (non-creators).

tower of god: popular with creators. now that it’s not airing, no one gifs it. respective fan blog is doing its best with content from the manhwa.

fugou keiji balance unlimited: people were simping even before the first ep came out, and then the anime went on hiatus for a few months. now that it’s started to air again, everyone acts like it never existed in the first place... was a good fandom up until the hiatus and now it will probably take a while to recover.

god of high school: nonexistent even tho it’s a popular pick this season (summer 2020). in the shadow of fruits basket.

deca-dence, bna, great pretender, kakushigoto, the misfit at demon king academy, rent-a-girlfriend: *sigh* didn’t see much of it on my dash. lesser-watched seasonal anime in comparison to fruits basket and tower of god (all relative to tumblr). there are gifs being made, but you have to follow the right blogs.

main point: if there’s any seasonal anime paired up against fruits basket at the same time, fruits basket will win and the former will be left in the dust.

#i've been itching to write this for a while #just my thoughts as a #content creator who uses tags #feel free to correct me on anything #or give me a new perspective #text #mine #mytext

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boylebingo · 3 years ago

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fic writers tag

@montygreen tagged me in this ages ago but I have been having the nuttiest couple of weeks so it took me a hot sec to get to this, but I do appreciate it and if you somehow don’t already follow leila on here, you should go do that rn

now down to business :)

1) How many works do you have on AO3? only 3 at the moment!

2) What’s your total AO3 word count? 45238 as of today

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? just never have i ever! although i’m sure there are a few unfinished, never-published, years-old stories from assorted fandoms from when I was younger floating around in the void somewhere

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

haha well I’ve only got 3 published, but the number one spot goes to vanilla ice cream, which makes sense since it’s the only one i’ve actually finished so far 🙈

5) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

none of them? i feel like the reason i often read fic is because there is some unresolved canon-angst that i want someone else to resolve so while i definitely have points of tension, all of my stories tend to end (or are planned to end) happy

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

i think vanilla ice cream will still probably be the fluffiest bc of that epilogue i decided to write last minute, even once i finish all the others. but they’re all pretty happy 🥰

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

not so far, though i try to make it a habit to never say never. I think its one of those things that’s really difficult to write well and I’m just not sure it’s in my skillset to do so. but who knows? maybe one day!

8) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

see above haha. it’s pretty much the exact same answer :)

9) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I really try to answer all of them, although I know I missed a bunch while I was on a sorta unplanned writing hiatus. It’s only been a year of me posting anything I’ve written and it still genuinely baffles me that people not only read but also enjoy the things I put out there into the world, so every “thank you for reading” is from the heart for me and it’s so worth taking the two seconds to make my appreciation known.

10. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

no, thankfully! i think part of that is just i haven’t been around that long haha

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

i don’t... think so?

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

no but how cool is that? i wasn’t even really aware that was a thing that could happen!

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no! but if anyone wants to feel free to hmu 👀 i am super busy rn but i would love to eventually cuz so many of the folks who write for this show are so talented

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

oh gosh. all time is really, really hard. obvi for NHIE i’ve fully boarded the ben/devi train, but some other all time TV faves of mine are ben/leslie from parks&rec, david/patrick from schitts creek, and josh/donna from the west wing. you might be able to tell i love a rivals to lovers moment from some of these lol 💀 but there are so many that i love for different reasons it’s like picking a favorite child lmao

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I do have plans to finish the 2 remaining fics up on ao3, but I will admit, the rosy dot over the i of loving was... ambitious, and not exactly well thought out when I started it. so it may be a while. i haven’t started much else new since those 3 went up, since i’ve been trying to finish what i’ve started. but i have had this ben/devi idea rattling around in my brain ever since i read the book “the unhoneymooners” that I am just not sure i’ll ever quite get around to.

16) What are your writing strengths?

i like to think i’m pretty good at writing dialogue! in college, i took a creative writing class for playwriting, where it was drilled into our head that you want to get as much of the story as humanly possible out through words, rather than actions. basically my professors argument was that any stage direction could be ignored by a director if the action/object/setting/etc. wasn’t directly referred to in lines said by a character. so if it was important to you, we should make someone talk about it! i think because of that my narration tends to be a little sparser (but hopefully that’s to the benefit of the dialogue!!)

oh, and i also took a class in humor writing and got an A, so.... 👀

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

i think i could be a lot better at coming up with themes/symbols/metaphors/etc. Having not really planned out the WIPs on AO3 now, this was hard to do, so I guess that also goes hand in hand with my time management haha. But yeah I find it a little difficult to have those sorts of literary devices in longer works (i used to write a lot more poetry and it was a little easier for me in that format so i have faith that i can get better).

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

i only fluently speak english and you do not want to see me butcher french or german, let alone a language I’ve never taken courses in. so it’s a hard no for me personally haha. that said if you know more than another language, first of all i’m jealous, and second of all, go for it!

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

i don’t really know! like i said i used to write things without publishing them anywhere, so it’s hard to remember. maybe harry potter, when I was like 10? i feel like i probably wrote the same self-insert hogwarts moment that literally every 10 year old in the late-aughts was writing haha

i know for sure there was a b99 fic that was almost published on ao3 back in like season 2 or 3? that’s why my username is what it is 😊

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

i’m really proud of finishing vanilla ice cream. buuuut i am also really proud of the poems in the rosy dot over the i of loving and i think if i ever finish that one, it will be my favorite for pushing me out of my writing comfort zone.

Tagging: fellow benvi advocate and @gross-vishwakumar and anyone else who would like to answer that hasn’t already been tagged by someone else cuz i know i got to this a bit late lol 🙈

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yibuo · 5 years ago

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UMMM I would love to know what exactly happened with xnine too if you know??

i didn’t know how to answer this without hating on long danni but... that’s not possible when you’re talking about xnine

CORRECT ME IF I’M WRONG IN ANY WAY @ DIMPLES AND CFANS

tldr ceo addicted to producing survival shows realizes boy group is incapable of feeding her fat rabbit because of her OWN mismanagement and throws them away (literally? probably not, maybe, idk)

HOLY SHIT THIS BECAME RLY LONG IM BEGGING KEEP READING TO WORK LO LOL LOL

long danni= wjjw company ceo

wjjw=company that xnine, xz, r1se, etc are under

huo mala: fat company rabbit that WILL give u nightmares goodness gracious thinking about him sends chills down my spine

alright so long danni (ldn i will refer to her) & ee media along w/ tencent and sm made the survival show x-fire... the premise of xfire was that 16 contestants split into two different teams (white and red) and then at the end it would boil down to each team having 4 members and the winning team would debut as a group called xfire...but wait...the group’s name is xnine? so out of red team (peng chuyue, baishu, xiao zhan, xia zhiguang) and white team(wu jiacheng, gu jiacheng, zhao lei, and guo zifan) white team won...and they unofficially debuted as xfire..went abroad to train yadda yadda yadda and then a few months later, TELL ME WHY LONG DANNI DECIDES TO RELEASE POLLS TO LET FANS VOTE IN 5 MEMBERS INTO XFIRE TO CREATE XNINE! ldn PLEASE if u wanted to rig the show you should’ve decided in the beginning what was the point of making the teams and the fans fight against each other...

so yeah xz and crew weren’t actually supposed to debut according to show rules...i mean i’m glad they debuted obviously bc x9 is x9 but ee media and frickin ldn couldve handled this better...like every member except chen molerat is amazing and great but....WHY DIDNT MaNAGEMENT NOT BLATANTLY RIG THEM INTO THE GROUP

but also thank u ldn for also letting us get to know the 4 guys who were added n not chen molerat <3 but like DO UR JOB PROPERLY

anyway the polls were RIGGED obviously thanks ldn what did u expect out of making POLLS, and xiao zhan, peng chuyue, xia zhiguang, yan xujia, and chen z*** were added to the group to create xnine...talk about rigged when chen z*** the molerat lookin turdface misogynist was added... anyway at the time he wasnt known to be problematic but ya the whole rigging thing caused a whole rift esp when x9 debuted bc there were fanwars and death threats initially but xfire did well because it was one of the (if not only) survival shows at that time and x9 debuted w/ a good response etc

then they got moved to wjjw (still owned by ldn thanks ldn) and wjjw is known for hoarding artists and not promoting them (THEY HAVE LIKE 45 ARTISTS BUT WERE FORMED 3 YEARS AGO MAKE IT MAKE SENSE) and not being promoted properly was EXACTLY what happened to xnine. as idols what they needed was music promotions, variety shows, etc stuff to get them as people out there but this genius ldn decided to promote them through stupid zodiac dramas like super star academy (to promote xfire finalists) and oh my emperor (which was an xnine drama). now i haven’t watched OME, but SSA gave me enough brain rot and gunk for me to not watch OME. (the only person who could act was baishu), and the story was SO BAD. nevermind the acting, because the boys weren’t initially slated to be actors, but the story was horrible, girl without superpowers suddenly becomes white cult goddess at the end??? WHAT???????? why didn’t ldn just promote them normally !!!!!! are they an actor group or an idol group???? I LOVE XNINE, THEY ARE TALENTED ARTISTS !!!! and eventually some went into acting (xz, guo zifan, gu jiacheng) BUT WAS THAT THE TIME DLFNJNF and then they just kept getting sent into random dramas and movies as random side characters instead of being able to make music and promote????? i’m sorry i’ve been stuck on using dramas to promote x9 for a while because that’s such a SILLY IDEA *vigorously shakes head*

ldn knows how to do survival shows but she doesn’t know how to promote her artists thanks ldn. xnine has so much talented, we know xiao zhan is a great singer, but other main vocalists like wu jiacheng, zhao lei, and peng chuyue are amazing as welll, here’s me plugging this video of zl and pcy performing their self-written song on produce camp because it’s the most beautiful thing ever

-oh yeah somewhere in here insert chen molerat getting outed as a pedo misogynist cheater by his gf who still has the audacity to have xnine in his weibo name because xnine starting to get popular gtfo rat lookin ass i WILL barf, when we say ot8 xnine we mean xnine w/o chen toadratass but sometimes ppl think it’s xnine minus xz which is untrue-

they also have talented rappers (gu jiacheng yan xujia) and dancers (xia zhiguang guo zifan) like xia zhiguang can end me with his spinning flying kick thing and i WILL let him

so YEAH !! TALENT that went to waste because wjjw gave them weird random hiatuses and kept pushing them as actors??? seriously what is with this actor stuff...so that’s why they debuted in 2016 and have very little discography to their name because wjjw just gave up...trying to promote them GOD thank u so much ldn for ur incomptency <3333 xnine had members in diff stages of life (ranging from xz who was born in 91, to yan xujia born in 2001, they were all close tho soo cute) and wjjw really was like nope we’re not gonna try to promote yall’s dreams of becoming singers on the stage because they couldn’t add 34783473 pounds to fat huo mala’s weight

so ya a lot of people are like omg wjjw hates xiao zhan!!! ya no they hate all of xnine but now xz is bringing enough money to make huo mala even fatter so good for huo mala i guess /s

also rumors and any bad media? lol wjjw doesn’t care they do a shit job at handling bad things too WHAT A WELLROUNDED COMPANY

OH ALSO TALK ABOUT HOW THYE HAD 3 DAYS TO PREPARE FOR A CONCERT???????????? WHAT????????? wjjw u mfs

anyway to summarize my rants above wjjw did a SHIT job of promoting xnine as idols when the boys worked so hard and wjjw kept tryna push them to acting bye (some of them can’t act and literally don’t WANT TO ACT HHHSFLNF), wjjw is also horrible at letting all of the xnine members shine when as i mentioned before, they’re ALL TALENTED!!!! and then they just gave up on xnine somewhere in 2017-2018... ok anyway so is xnine disbanded? no although some may say their last concert in dec 2018 was their last concert ever they’re not disbanded

xiao zhan , gu jiacheng, and guo zifan went into acting

wu jiachang is focusing on his music etc (he was actually the first member of xnine i came across when i watched the collaboration/cyzj in 2018...yes carats this is That wu jiacheng!!!) MAN CAN SING

peng chuyue, zhao lei, xia zhiguang, yan xujia all went on produce camp 2019 (aNOTHER SURVIVAL SHOW BC THEY WANTED TO BE ON THE MF STAGE BC THATS WHY THEYRE HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE WJJW) along w/ fellow labelmates zhou zhennan and zhai xiao wen ... and everyone but peng chuyue made it to the final 11 spots and got to debut in the group r1se...UNFORTUNATELY ALSO UNDER WJJW HELP SEND HELP

if they’re in r1se does that mean they quit xnine? no! they’re in both that’s just how survival shows work it’s kind of weird

peng chuyue recently released a song and it’s really good and you can’t not tell me that it’s gay here it is

anyway xnine hasn’t disbanded!! the X玖少年团 (xnine) in the non-r1se members’ weibo names say that loud n clear!!! and when the r1se members from xnine won produce camp 2019, they all made xnine signs SO XNINE IS ALIVE and they do keep in contact!!

why haven’t we seen blatant public interactions btwen xiao zhan and the xnine members? because some frickin annoying xz solo stans/xfx claim that the other members use xz for popularity (HELLO??????? IN WHAT WORLD DOES THAT MAKE SENSE HALF OF THEM R LITERALLY HIS KIDS BUT OK)

anyway in conclusion wjjw doesn’t know how to promote any of their artists, thus screwing over xnine members and making them go on a group hiatus where they focus on acting/singing/r1se for r1se members but they are very much xnine as of now !!!

here’s some REALLY GOOD RESOURCES to follow xnine bc as an ifan it’s mf hard

-xnine slideshow

-xnine faq

-xnine eng sub channel by yuer

-all of that content i listed above was made/subbed by one person and she is the queen of uhh...xnine international fandom outreach (????) how do i word it but she’s been subbing and spreading xnine long before xiao zhan’s popularity skyrocketed so go follow her for updates and memes here

-xnine intl fanbase twt and tumblr

-and here’s this twt account with dumb pics of xnine because why not

also i’m pretty sure there’s a wip video explaining x9′s history being created (by yuer because queen) so when that’s posted i’ll rb this and post it here

also here’s this video dragging wjjw

#reply #if i could write my essays with this much passion i'd be a lit major #longlivetonystark

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svtskneecaps · 4 years ago

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my wonderful and incredible pal @memesolvernonchwe made a post w her writing process and then like the legend she is went, hey. let’s make it a trend. so!!!! here is!!!!!

my insane writing process

ideas come when they want. sometimes they spring from movies, sometimes they spring from seeing the antics of people around me, sometimes they come out of spite from seeing a fic with missed potential. regardless, either they come as a fully formed fic, or i get half a fic, or i get the intro sequence to a fic, or i get a useless vibe. they come as spur of the moment or they DON’T COME AT ALL. no writing ideas down either i write it immediately after i get it or i DON’T WRITE IT AT ALL

REGARDLESS, I GET IT.

once i HAVE THE IDEA, we yeet directly into planning. usually it’s an absolute nutshow and i don’t plan outside of a few scattered bullet points so i don’t forget things that happen later. most of the stuff i post on tumblr i don’t plan for on paper; it’s a general list of scenes i plan on hitting and thematic through lines and how i want the characters to benefit and change from it, general stuff like that. but i don’t plan that on paper, that’s just something i keep in mind while writing it

planning stays in my brain and i throw the words on the paper like splatter paint

i write the fics when i have words to get down, so it’s pretty inconsistent. as you can imagine. this bit takes forever and half the time i drop fics in the middle cause i just. don’t know what to do.

sm aus consist of “scripting” everything out; i think i know some people who write it on the fly and i admire that but i have to put everything into a google doc in a script format before i do it and i try to have a majority of the work done before i start posting (because if i don’t then it inevitably goes on hiatus halfway through; see: walls could talk taking a year long break in the middle)

one shots i just try to pound out in one sitting if i can and if i’m being honest, if i go into writing a thing then i just blank out and write words until it’s done half the time. i honestly don’t remember what my brain does while i’m writing. perhaps i’m channeling the spirits of the characters i have no clue, but regardless the words end up on the page and now i have coherent trash!!

most of the time i don’t edit. i make minor edits to oneshots when i read through it to put the italics back in, because google docs and tumblr text posts are barely compatible. sm aus i edit more deeply when i make the screenshots, just by virtue of basically writing the whole thing again, in image form

and I’M GONNA GO ON A TANGENT ABOUT SM AUS BECAUSE HOLY SHIT I’M PUTTING A LOT OF EFFORT INTO THE DAMN THINGS

so sm aus, i script the full thing out in a google doc. once i have the script, i make the profiles. i never plan the profiles, i just wing it once i’m done scripting. they take me at least a business week 90% of the time unless i outsource the profile pictures because that shit takes me actual days

once i have the profiles, i start making the rest of the shit. so to make texts, i text myself and delete the extras. and i used to not have contact headers on my phone so i just. made a contact template in photoshop and reused that a hundred times. but now i have contact headers, so in my most recent au i’ve made a contact library!! also because it’s a time loop au, i made a bank of time stamps, for extra coherency, because i wanted the reader to know when in the day the screenshots were taken, because the reader AND the reader insert know the basic bones of what’s happening throughout the day, so i just wanted the continuity and the like

here’s the contacts library for “play it again” ALONE, right now

i don’t slack off when it comes to that shit lmao

anyway, i use social maker for tweets and instagram and social dummy for things like the youtube screenshots, like i had in “i just see you”, yknow just anything that isn’t twitter and instagram. and then i go into photoshop and get rid of the tiny blue bubble for new tweets, bc it blocks the text and i think it looks Ugly. and i fix the contacts. and if there are typos, i fix those, and if the tweets aren’t all from 1m ago, i photoshop it so they are

photoshopping a part can take between 30 and 60 minutes depending on how much i have to do and if the image count goes over the 10 image photo post limit

there’s a lot of shit that goes into a simple sm au lmao i don’t just make the screenshots and slap them up anymore

sometimes i get somebody to read my writing. sometimes i just say fuck it and toss it onto my blog. especially incredibly long fics, those i don’t get people to read bc like. that takes forever and i don’t want to impose on somebody who’s taking time to read it out of the goodness of their heart. so usually i just start posting it and to hell with coherency. i’m here for a good time not a long time and by god i’ll act like it, at least on this hellsite

and then i post it. slam a gif into the header, use the same series of tags with the member’s name being the only thing i change, and slam that baby onto peoples’ dash. seems to work pretty well.

i work best winging it and it’s worked out so far. i’m vibing. i’m having a great time.

HEY, USE THIS AS YOUR EXCUSE TO TALK ABOUT YOUR PROCESS TOO, I LOVE YOU: @gallivantingheart @carat

#not kpop #shut up vic

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ruhkie-a · 4 years ago

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so. i’ve been holding off on making this post for awhile bc i haven’t known how to word it 100% without hurting feelings (or making people feel like i’m trying to aim this at them, when i promise, i’m not trying to point fingers lol.) but i am still in the process of returning to this blog while considering the idea of entirely rebooting/changing many things about my portrayal of leon. i know i’ve been saying this for months now and trust me, i’ve never forgotten it lmao.

i think the blatant truth at this point is: i’m tired of writing young leon. i’m tired of writing re2 leon and this blog wasn’t ever really meant to be focused on re2 leon; i originally made this blog as a way of exploring post-vendetta leon and the high stress of reaching the end of his career/finally getting the chance to reflect on his life, but i think it kinda turned into young leon’s story over time due to the high demand from writing partners? which i have no issue with but there comes a point where i get bored, you know?

i also had to deal with force shipping on this blog, which got to a point of becoming excessive. it still is. i had blogs who i’d reached out to plot and immediately, they wanted a ship. sometimes people would be discreet, other times they would be so open about it, i would block on the spot. i kinda wanna make it clear right now: i don’t ship on this blog. i got rid of shipping on this blog a very long time ago ~ nearly right when i first made this blog. i’ve got one ship that translates to most universes and that’s it; that’s all i want + all leon wants.

in addition to that, i have had to deal with copious amounts of copying. to every single person who’s stolen something from me; i’ve noticed. i’ve noticed pieces of my old writing being scattered in some of my mutuals writing ~ i’ve noticed aspects of my portrayal being used in others (sometimes it would be certain metaphors/similes i would use with leon, other times it would be headcanons.) i always noticed. i stopped posting headcanons/aspects of my portrayal because sometimes, i would post things and i would see things being rewritten on certain blogs word by word. some of them were leon blogs, some of them were other character blogs who legit had just switched “leon” out for their character’s name! originally, i reached out to people! i would ask for people to take certain things down and then it got to a point of frankly not caring anymore. i got tired of trying to stop something i can’t stop from happening. so i got rid of writing headcanons + other things on my own blog bc i felt like i couldn’t! (this was still occurring while i was on my hiatus, just as an fyi. i wasn’t on this blog and people were still taking things lmao. blows my mind, ye know?)

i also have had a hard time returning after all the recent stuff happening in america (and all over the entire world, honestly) with police officers and police brutality, given so many of my alternative verses take place with leon being a cop. i come from a mixed household and it’s hard writing a cop lol, especially given some of my own personal experiences with cops. basically, it’s really fucking hard writing a cop lmao. i also do believe some of it stems from the tumblr politics which have grown so massively over the past few years. i do get nervous writing certain characters because while i know i’m not doing anything wrong, someone else might deem otherwise. so i avoided this blog like crazy for the longest time ~ i didn’t want to write a cop because fuck the police and i also didn’t want to write this kid who i had kinda grown to hate over the past few months. i hated my portrayal because it wasn’t what i wanted to write.

so ~ i had four things i needed to figure out prior to coming back to this blog. i needed to figure out my portrayal, i need to figure out how to stop people trying to forceship/stealing from me, and i needed to figure out how i felt about writing a cop. i’ve spent the last 5/6 months trying to figure these things out and i think i’ve finally come to somewhat of a conclusion for all of these! (thank god lmao) so, i think within the next few days i’ll be archiving and moving to an entirely new blog. over there, you’ll be able to find a brand new portrayal of my leon on what i want to write. it’ll be my “happy medium” of everything and i’m excited to finally share with y’all what i have been working on for months hehe. ♡

#out.#long post /#idk i kinda wrote this last night and have been sitting on it #because i don't want to sound whiney per say #i don't really talk about my personal feelings on my blogs for that reason?#so idk this is weird to post but i feel almost necessary? esp bc it /is/ leon?#idk ~ tl;dr: i'm archiving leon in the next week and basically rebooting everything #see y'all on the flip side xo

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maknaesdancersrappers · 4 years ago

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july 21

hello. july 21 is a special day for me and you dont have to read this because its just me venting out my thoughts and emotions as long as i can without word/character limits on any platform.

july 21 is my maternal grandmother’s birthday. when i was born, my mom went abroad often and my dad had the regular 9 to 5 job plus extra hours for commute. so growing up with my sisters who are 5 and 7 years older, our grandparents and aunts took care of us.

im also more fond of my maternal grandmother since my paternal grandmother lived far away and we rarely ever get to see her (usually only during summers and once she stayed with us for awhile) until she passed away from Alzheimer's.

during the long hiatus i took early this year (late december to mid-march?), a lot has happened in my life. my health was put at risk because of the ash fall brought by the volcano eruption (january 12); i had allergies for weeks - i couldnt breathe properly, let alone sleep because of it. it was about to be the second year after graduating college and i have yet to get a job; the pressure from my family - and myself - was so unbearable that i caught myself slipping back to my very, very, very dark thoughts. and the worst thing that happened in those three months: my grandmother passed away. in filipino, grandmother is lola (loh-lah) and i’d like to use that for the rest of this post.

if you ask anyone in their neighborhood, any of our family friends, and relatives, everyone will tell you that her death was sudden. because everyone knows her as the sometimes-funny-sometimes-cranky old lady that owns the convenience store at the corner of the street. she was 96. she was 96 but she refused to get a wheelchair or use a walking stick even though her knees started to hurt after a few steps. she was 96 but didn’t need glasses to read most of the time. she was 96 but didn’t have any maintenance medication. ever since she reached her 90′s, she had gone to the town clinic at least twice because she fell over (from loss of balance) and busted her head. yet she would walk the next day like she doesnt have stitches on her scalp. she hated going to the doctor, she’d always claim that nothing hurts and the only thing she wanted the doctor to fix was her hearing (its as weak as how her eyesight is clear)

i wasnt the only one in the family that got severely affected by the ash fall. my lola also had trouble breathing because of it. she also went to the doctor for it and they only prescribed her antibiotics. please remember this info. this should be around early february

she got a little better but her voice was very hoarse from the phlegm. even before this, lola had little to no appetite and would only eat when someone else is eating (usually if it’s us, her granddaughters). and by little to no appetite, i mean her whole meal would be three spoonfuls of rice and one piece/chunk of whatever the main dish/ulam is. whenever we ask if she had eaten (even though we know she hadnt) she’d always claim that she already has (this eventually became a little joke in our family.) we took this sign as her dementia getting worse (although she was never really diagnosed with it, we had naturally assumed it because she would always repeatedly tell us stories that she insists happened even though some have been debunked and there were times she forgets our names if we havent visited in a while.)

after she gets better from the cough (idk the real diagnosis of it), her legs started to swell and because her routine had been reduced to being bedridden for most of the day, my aunts thought it was just poor circulation. it took two weeks before they brought her back to the town clinic and again, they just prescribed her with some medicine. everything after this is blurry to me until feb 21

my mom, being the eldest, made the decision to bring lola to the hospital. she’s, rightfully, unsatisfied with the town doctor’s diagnosis and prescriptions because lola is in so much pain and her legs were still swollen and its been weeks. i was with her in the emergency room while my mom and aunt did the paper work and the staff ran tests on lola. i’m contacting my sister who was in singapore and we’d video call to entertain lola since she was very adamant - and vocal - that she did not want to be admitted to the hospital bc she was “fine.” goSh she made so many hospital staff laugh because she would always announce whenever she had to fart. after like 2 hours, we move her into a ward and my mom tells me that i’ll have to stay overnight to watch over her. i was very apprehensive of this idea. i honestly did not want to. seeing her in pain was bad enough, but the fact we were in a room with other people and she was crying out loud made me really anxious but it was final. my mom, aunt, and uncle all went back home just to have dinner and they’ll come back since lola’s doctor would be coming by to give the results and for that hour they were gone? i lost it.

lola started talking/praying out loud, asking god why she was in so much pain, asking what she had done to deserve this; and i didn’t know what to do but hold her hand and kiss her head. i couldn’t even show her i was crying. when my mom got back, i told her i cant do it and she eventually convinced my other sister to join me, who cancelled her plans for the next day. that night, i did not and could not fall asleep. after a few hours, her doctor finally came by and dropped a bomb on us. he was kind enough to talk to my mom and aunt behind the curtains in the softest voice ever while i helped the nurse with lola, but i could hear him crystal clear.

cancer of the liver.

they even momentarily walked back to lola to touch her stomach and stepped back out. i almost thought i misheard, but my mom and aunt’s expressions were too grim that it basically confirmed it. later on, my mom finally told me and explained that the antibiotics she had been taking weeks ago were too strong for her because of her lifestyle and diet. there were tumors in her liver and surgery wouldn’t do anything. i dont remember what i did aside from sketching on the journal i brought, but until i got home at 10am the next day, i did not sleep a wink.

feb 22. when i woke up at 2PM, i was told that they had lola discharged from the hospital. there was nothing we could do but try to ease the pain to the best of our abilities and wait. starting that day, i went over to lola’s house to help out with feeding her, giving her medicine, and just trying to keep her happy by randomly smiling at her when i see her looking around or dancing to no music.

feb 24. these were the early weeks of covid - ph hadn’t had a case yet, i believe, but travel restrictions were being implemented. my sister in singapore was doing everything to make sure she could come home because we don’t know when, but we know lola was leaving soon. of all the things our mom told her not to do, she cried at the entrance of the embassy and by the grace of god, someone took pity and listened to her (bc she was denied entry since she had a small cough) and she was able book a flight at midnight and be home in 4 hours. that afternoon, when i arrived at lola’s house, that was the very first time i stood at the doorway to greet her like i usually did and she didn’t smile. not even the corners of her lips moved. she was in that much pain that she couldn’t even greet me back like she always did, which was to smile and nod her head. that night, we all decided to sleepover there (with the exception of my dad since he had to feed our dogs at home). i take my usual seat in the living room and i notice a white dress that i remember (from photos) being lola’s 50th anniversary wedding gown and without being told, i know it was what she was going to wear for the very last time.

feb 25. being notoriously a late sleeper, i was about to go to sleep at 2AM when i hear lola groaning and whining out loud. when i checked her, her stubborn lil ass was trying to get out of bed alone!!! so i obviously panic and try to wake up anyone by exclaiming that lola had to go to the bathroom - she’s been wearing adult diapers for weeks now but refuses to go in them and is adamant about bringing her to the bathroom so she could relieve herself - so me, and the same aunt and uncle from the hospital, assisted her into this modified chair so she could pee and the only thing i could do was hold her hand, like always. after that, my uncle said he’d watch over her and lie down beside her on the bed so in case she needs to go again, he can take care of it himself. after falling asleep, i heard a few hours later that my sister from SG arrived. when i woke up later on, my sisters and i presented ourselves to lola bc its been so long since she last saw us complete, and this time she was able to give us a small nod of acknowledgement. i realized that none of my uncles and aunts went to work that day, thinking it was just so we could be complete since my sister was home. but then i overhear them making plans to have a priest come over for the sacrament of anointing of the sick - which based on my last and only experience (my grandfather/lolo), this must be the day. during the session, a few of my aunts and an uncle cried. my sisters cried, too, but i forced myself not to. when the priest left, i don’t know how long, but suddenly, she was gone. i didn’t know how to react. this was the second time i’ve seen someone pass away before my very eyes. everyone was crying out for forgiveness, kissing lola’s head, but i couldn’t move one bit. i was finally crying, but i couldn’t move at all.

3 days. from learning about the real problem with lola, it only took 3 days for it to take her away from us. not even a week, or a month. the only bright side to this was that she’s finally relieved of all the pain that’s been causing her suffering. 3 days of knowing her time was very, very short, but it was still a shock when she finally left.

for the longest time, lola’s goal was to reach the age of 100 because apparently our government will reward her with 100,000 pesos (like 2k usd) for doing so. she wanted to reach 100 because she wanted to leave us with some inheritance haha. and everyone believed she could do it. no one doubted her. until this happened. maybe its just me, but i feel foolish... completely stupid and ignorant for knowing deep down in my heart that she would reach 100 that losing her 3 years prior her goal hurt me more than ever.

it’s been 5 months but remembering her death still makes me cry. i have dreams (and you all know im a lucid dreamer) where she’s still alive and we’re talking about how she beat cancer at 96 in just a few months, but then i’ll remember that she didn’t and the dream in front of me just shatters and i’ll wake up empty and crying. i have never felt so much regret after she passed bc all she wanted was to see me graduate and it was up to me to show her that i got my first job and give her a portion of my first salary, but i couldn’t even do that. i waited too long and now its too late. her ideal type for me was a rich atenean boy who could drive 😂 and i still couldn’t give her that bc im so anti-men. there was a time i was so scared to go back to lola’s house bc she called me out during dinner - “baket ka malungkot/why are you sad?” - when all i was doing was browsing through my phone, scarily enough going through another “episode”, and the last person i’d ever want to know about my possible depression was her. of all my suicidal episodes, i’ve always resolved them by thinking of her - that i will continue living because i wanted to see her smile. because i wanted to see her happy.

i miss her so much. i wish i had been a better granddaughter to her. the small things i’ve done for her were never enough. in the past 5 months, i’ve only dreamt about her twice (actually being with her) and both times made the day so hard to function. i havent moved on and i dont know if im the only one. i dont know if i’ll ever move on. she would have been 97 today. whenever she forgets my name, i’ll tell her i have the same birthday as her and she’ll remember me. she’ll say “ahhh rosean! july 10!”

if someone read through this, im sorry you had to go through that mess. but thank you for hearing me out. no, i’ll thank you the way my lola would thank people, verbatim:

thank you very much from the bottom of my heart.

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enchanted-prose · 4 years ago

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#8 Just a Day in the Life

100th post = returning from teeny tiny hiatus! Special thank you to my darling editor, and @ piratekingimogen for screaming about the lack of Jarogen fluff in the fandom with me!

Word count: 5,295

Characters: Jaron, Princess Amarinda, Feall (Original Character), King Oberson (Original Character), Harlowe, Imogen

Notes: Expect a few fluffy fics hurtling towards you, please consult your dentist if you develop cavities bc it’s too sweet and it happened to me. Edited

Enjoy!

Jaron drummed his fingers against his right leg.

The leg he'd broken.

Sometimes he touched it to make sure that it was still healed. Even though it had been years since he'd gotten the injury, he still had trouble realizing that he was alright.

He wasn't broken.

Lord Feall and King Oberson were seated in front of him, separated by Jaron's large desk. Both men were silent. Both were unable to look at Jaron for very long.

In a way, Jaron enjoyed watching them squirm, they'd crossed a line by not telling him about Queen Danika's missing investigators sooner.

Was this how Mott felt each time Jaron did something he wasn't supposed to and got himself caught?

"Your Majesty, we-," Oberson began, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"We'll discuss the situation when the ambassador arrives," said Jaron.

However, Feall didn't agree with Jaron's declaration, it seemed. "If I must be honest, we don't even know the situation anymore."

"Lady Amarinda does, and we'll wait for her to come before we make any assumptions, Lord Feall. I'm a little disappointed, I thought we were friendly enough to discuss political matters."

Feall frowned, and didn't respond.

Boredom was turning Jaron's feet to stone. He hated being bored. There was too much to do and too much to see.

And it was raining still.

He promised Fink they'd go out and hunt for frogs to terrorize Roden with.

The door to Jaron's study creaked open, and in walked Amarinda in a wide-necked blue gown. Her hair was strung up in a golden net. There wasn't any sign of a frown on her face. She dipped her head in greeting when Jaron, Feall, and Oberson stood up.

"My lords," she smiled. "I've brought several papers with me if you'd much rather read my words rather than listen to what I have to say."

"Please, start from the beginning. Reading wastes time," Jaron waved his hand in a dismissing motion. He was joking, of course.

Oberson shrunk in his seat with his head in his hands, but aside from his posture, didn't voice any complaint about listening to Amarinda's debrief.

There were some people who could dominate their foes on the battlefield. Others could crush their enemies without shedding a drop of blood. They could outwit their opponents with words.

Amarinda was a battle master when it came to using words for weapons. She never degraded her opponents with crude words. Never compared people to dehumanizing objects. She recognized that while people didn't agree with her, they were still human beings.

This was how she guided her foes into a corner, their only option being to take her hand and join her cause.

Her goal was not to destroy. Her goal was to create, that's what Tobias claimed.

And he was right.

Amarinda created gateways for better ideals.

Jaron caught himself grinning as he prepared for what Amarinda had to say.

She clasped her hands behind her back. "Gentlemen, we share a home country. One we take pride in. We've given many privileges to those who prove themselves to be just servants of society, but unfortunately, there was an abuse of power several years ago. I know you are aware of what happened on Idunn Craich to Noble House Thay. Rumors were sparked and an entire family was executed without a proper trial.

"Though Their Majesties Queen Danika and King Norman don't condone chasing every rumor they hear, they've made an exception. They were informed that Mireldis Thay, who would've been a child during her house's execution, managed to escape into Carthya. Many of the most skilled researchers and investigators were sent to Carthya to confirm these rumors. Their goal was to find evidence supporting Thay's innocence, and bring her home.They were stopped on their way here for several days, and during that time, I was informed that you King Oberson, went out of your way to visit them without informing the Carthyan Crown that they'd arrived," Amarinda held her head high, almost challenging Oberson to deny her claims.

He didn't, not couldn't he.

Many people had seen him ride out to meet with Danika's representatives.

A heavy pause hung over the air. Both Jaron and Amarinda were waiting for either men to try to deny her claims.

When they didn't speak, Jaron nodded. It was his turn to continue the conversation.

"Lord Feall, I was told by my captain of the guard that the investigators who were sent here were, in actuality, trying to find evidence against Thay, and that you were promoting the search in defiance of Queen Danika's orders, is this true?" Jaron kept his gaze steady, looking for any flaws in Feall's face that would betray him.

Another heavy pause.

Feall didn't squirm, and he looked at Jaron with a fierce, burning loyalty in his eyes. "King Jaron, I did request that the investigators search for evidence against Thay as well."

He fell silent.

Probably waiting for Jaron to condemn him.

However, Jaron was intrigued. He appreciated Feall's honesty. It was something that didn't come often within circles of power. Jaron motioned for Feall to continue.

"I felt a duty to ensure justice," Feall remained stoic. "While I do believe that Thay is innocent, I don't agree with only playing one side. Without considering if House Thay was really guilty, it is possible that Queen Danika's quest for reparations will bring disaster upon Bymar. Thay would likely take revenge, and as a servant to my country and to yours, I will not allow that to happen."

Amarinda's face darkened, but only for a moment. If Jaron hadn't known her so well, he would've missed her momentary weakness.

Though he wanted to support his friend, Jaron couldn't deny that Feall had a perfectly good point.

People weren't black and white.

Too much mystery shrouded what happened with House Thay.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Thay would cause harm?" asked Jaron as he tapped his chin.

Perhaps he should grow a small beard. People might take him more seriously if he stroked his beard each time he was about to say something. Many regents tried to do that, usually it was right before they did their best to be an advisor to Jaron.

If you were going to act the part, you needed to look the part.

To Jaron's surprise, it was Oberson who answered the question, and not Feall. The portly king withdrew a letter from within his coat. "The seal belongs to Thay, and you- and you can read what she wrote yourself. It was sent to me, but it- but it is clearly directed at Lord Feall."

Jaron beckoned for the letter.

The words had been written in jet black ink, and the paper was much cleaner than Jaron would've expected. The curling letters obviously belonged to a woman.

Several words had been misspelled:

King Obrson, I understand you've travelled with lord Feall. you know how much he owes me, and I reqest that you give him to me. if you comply, I promise I wont bother you again. please understand my perspective on this, you know me, sir, you know my family

So, Feall did indeed have a good reason to think that Thay was guilty.

"What would you do with Thay if you found her?" Amarinda kept a calm demeanor.

"I would return her to Queen Danika," Feall explained "Unless, however, she attacks me outright. In which case I would have jurisdiction to decide her fate. An eye for an eye."

"Those laws may work in Bymar, but that's not how we do things here."

"Then, by all means, my lady, I would try to go through with Carthya's judicial process."

Unlike other countries, Jaron didn't enjoy upholding the notion that for every crime committed, you could commit the same in return. Instead, he'd tried to emulate Mendenwal's way of enforcing justice: a vote by a body of people. Typically, two options were given, usually suggested by those who'd been the victim of the crime and the other given by the king.

Death penalties for crimes had to be completely unanimous.

"Do you think that Thay is trying to attack you still?" Amarinda asked, her hands clasped behind her back once again.

Both Feall and Oberson nodded.

"Which explains why he's looking for the Faola," nodded Jaron.

"Captain Harlowe informed me that the Faola only began traipsing through Carthya a few days before King Oberson and I arrived."

"This doesn't excuse the fact that you didn't tell us that you lied to me and Lady Amarinda about Queen Danika's representatives."

"And I humbly apologize for that," Feall held his hand over his heart. "If there is a way for me to prove my regret, tell me, and I will do so."

If he and Feall had been better friends, Jaron would've made a joke about the only way to prove his loyalty was by cleaning Jaron's feet, but he doubted the offer would go over well.

Jaron looked to Amarinda, wondering if she had anything in mind.

She only frowned ever so slightly.

There were many ways that Jaron could force Feall to prove his loyalty. Cruel and humiliating ways. Feall had to have known that. He had to have known the depth of his words.

He'd quite literally given Jaron power over him.

But Jaron didn't enjoy watching people endure humiliation of any sorts. He didn't think that proving loyalty should come at the expense of anyone's dignity.

A clever idea crossed Jaron's mind.

"I'd like you to continue helping Captain Harlowe in patrolling the streets of Drylliad," began Jaron, carefully masking his cleverness. "But you must leave capturing the Faola to him, as well as my friend, Mott. You must trust us to take care of the situation, and that's how I'll know that I can continue to trust you."

Feall inhaled deeply, his brows furrowing together. "Sir, I can't, what you-. No, I mean yes. I will do as you ask, your Majesty."

"Take good care to tread lightly, Lord Feall, this test also represents King Oberson."

"What?" King Oberson burst, his chubby cheeks jiggling with his ferocious outcry. "You can't do this! I need Feall to protect me!"

"You have all of Carthya's guards to keep you safe, as well as your own," Amarinda pointed out.

Several more spluttering protests escaped through Oberson's plump mouth, but eventually, he realized that no amount of begging would get Jaron to change his mind.

A victory, in a way.

Jaron was getting another capable military leader to ensure safety in his city, he'd done his best to uphold justice, and he managed to gain a better understanding about the Thay dilemma.

Unfortunately, however, he also recognized that he probably wouldn't ever understand what happened on Idunn Craich.

But perhaps Avenia's king, Kippenger, might know a little bit.

He hadn't been to Avenia in ages, and was overdue for a visit to check in on the reforming nation. Jaron made a mental note to suggest a diplomatic mission to Sparling.

Everybody could use a little change of scenery.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do, your majesty?" Feall asked, sitting as tall as he could in his chair.

"Yes, I'd quite like it if you gave me your desserts as well. Especially the fancier ones with the tiny decorations." Jaron frowned when Amarinda snorted, as he was being completely serious.

A tiny smile flickered across Feall's face. "If that is what you wish, your Majesty."

"It is what I wish, actually."

"Then I solemnly swear to do all that I can to ensure that your wish is fulfilled. When would you like me to begin patrolling the streets? Would you prefer me to ask Captain Harlowe my questions, or would you like me to ask you?"

Ah, Jaron hadn't thought of any questions that might need answering.

"Go to Captain Harlowe," he said. "And if Captain Harlowe can't answer them, bring your questions to me. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”

Several days ago, Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting, Renlyn Karise, pointed out just how bland the great hall was. Of course, Jaron had taken down and sold many decorations on purpose, but Lady Renlyn’s various attempts to sell him exquisite imported decor were slowly growing on him.

No, he needed to use the royal purse to better the lives of his subjects first.

Beautification could come later.

When he settled into his throne and allowed for his first subject to come forward, Jaron fooled himself into thinking that court would be smooth and quick.

However, as he heard his forty-ninth claim about chickens, he realized that court was going to drag on into the next decade.

It was then that Jaron began wondering if he should heed Renlyn’s advice and have her decorate the great hall.

Maybe he’d have something more interesting to look at than whitewashed stone walls.

Jaron tapped his chin as he listened to complaint after complaint after complaint. He did his best to listen. Did his best to be a good king, but his patience was running out.

“We have never had a dispute between property before,” said a man from outside the city walls. He was holding a chicken, and pointing at the other villager beside him ever so often. “Always got along, me an’ him, we never did fight. Respected his property, I did, an’ he respected mine. But one day a chicken wandered through both of our yards-”

The chicken holding villager’s friend cut in. “A chicken wandered through both a’ our yards an’ then laid an egg on the line between our two properties!”

“We didn’t really worry about it because we’ve both got our chickens. It wasn’t really worth our time.”

“And then the egg hatched, it did! An’ now we don’t know what to do wif it! It’s a good layer, we’ve been tradin’ off every couple a days, but that just doesn’t cut it! We need you to decide for us!” Finished the second villager, vehemently pointing at the chicken tucked under the first villager’s arm.

“Well, I suppose that answers an age old question. What came first, the chicken, or the egg?” Jaron mused, buying himself time through a joke.

Both villagers frowned.

By the Saints, he didn’t like explaining jokes, humor always lost when it needed to be explained.

"There's a riddle people tend to ask when they want to annoy somebody," Jaron explained, sitting forwards in his throne. "They ask what came first, the chicken? Or the egg? And in this case, it was the chicken who came first. Actually, I suppose even that chicken came from an egg. What a conundrum."

"But who gets the chicken?" Asked the second villager with a frown.

"Who cares for it more?"

Both men raised their hands, trying to jostle each other out of the way. The second villager raised his hand to smack the first villager across the back of his bald head.

The first villager only tucked the chicken into his chest and ducked.

No blows were given, the second villager wasn't stupid enough to start a fight in the throne room.

"I have a proposition," said Jaron. He knew it didn't really matter, as he was the king, but he tried to involve his subjects in decision making as much as he possibly could.

"We're listening, your Majesty." The second villager bowed until his nose brushed his boots.

On the other hand, the first villager only bowed as far as he could without risking dropping the chicken.

A slight smirk crossed Jaron's face. "How many eggs does the chicken lay each day?"

"One, like the other chickens," the second villager nodded. "I checked every morning while I housed the chicken."

"Actually she lays one egg on the first day of the week, one on the second day, but she lays two on the third day if she is fed scraps from the table instead a grain," the first villager said proudly, holding the fat hen up for everyone to see.

The hen gave a tiny cluck.

"It's worse than I thought," Jaron muttered, wishing he had Mott beside him to joke with.

"You- you haven't decided who gets the chicken?" The first villager stuttered. "But-"

"He's the king, you fool, he can take as much time as he wants."

Jaron tilted his head at the first villager, who was nervously petting the chicken he cradled.

He wanted to smile with somebody. Wanted to smile about the fact that somebody loved their chicken so much that they knew how many eggs she laid every day.

If he were a cruel king, Jaron would've called for the hen to go to the kitchens, only to declare that he wasn't being serious and give the hen back to her rightful owner.

But over time, he'd learned that some tricks and pranks weren't truly funny.

"I know what's best in this situation," Jaron declared, waving the two villagers away and motioning for the next petitioner to come forward. "The man holding the chicken the same way he'd hold his newborn son gets to give her a permanent home."

He ignored the complaints from the second villager as they were escorted out of the great hall.

The next petitioner was a young man, requesting that his father be taken out of debtor's prison. Jaron, who was prepared to fight with nobles over situations with people in debt, agreed on the premise that the young man return to inform them if there was another threat from debt-collectors.

Ah, Jaron did get quite the rise out of showing kindness when the nobles had none.

Court went much quicker after that. As he thought of the first villager happily carrying his hen home, Jaron grinned.

How somebody could love a chicken so much, he didn't know.

Late into the afternoon, Harlowe made his way into the great hall, much to Jaron's relief.

He stood and clasped Harlowe's weathered hand, unashamed of how big his smile had grown. "I'm hoping you came to relieve me of my duties."

"I have, actually," Harlowe said with a grin. "Today was much busier than anybody expected, and I didn't think it quite fair to keep you cooped up inside."

"On the contrary, I didn't mind being held up here for once. It's raining with enough fury to challenge the Devils."

"Ah, but you won't let that stop you from what you wish to do with your afternoon, I hope," chuckled Harlowe, his blue eyes sparkling with a glimmer of content.

"Absolutely not." Jaron couldn't hide his smile. "My bones are aching from sitting."

"I wish I could tell you that aching goes away, but it only gets worse. No, no, I tease."

Jaron couldn't resist. He threw his arms around Harlowe's neck in a sloppy embrace. "Thank you, thank you for coming to fill in."

Harlowe patted Jaron's shoulder. "As prime regent, it's my obligation to ensure that the king can handle his duties. And as someone who cares about you, it's my obligation to make sure you don't run yourself into the ground."

It was still odd. . .

Having multiple people care about his well being.

"I really appreciate it, Harlowe, and I mean it."

"Then go, my king." That sparkling contentment in Harlowe's eyes rivaled the lazy Roving River. "Your friends await you."

Was it wrong to take pride in what he’d managed to set up?

It had taken almost all afternoon, and required the help from not only Roden and Tobias, but from Jolly, Lady Renlyn, and Mott too.

In the end, it was perfect.

For several weeks, Jaron had been meaning to take Imogen away from the hustle and bustle of castle life. Although they weren’t in a position to leave for more than a day or two, they could manage to spare a night away from their duties.

And he’d finally done it.

“Don’t tell Imogen anything,” Jaron said firmly, trying his best to stare down Lady Renlyn Karise as they stood in one of the castle hallways.

It wasn’t easy.

Lady Renlyn was taller than him by a good inch.

“I promise I won’t tell,” Renlyn crossed her arms. “But be thankful, the queen isn’t always the type to enjoy a surprise.”

“See, people say that, but then get excited when they’re surprised.”

Renlyn only stared in response.

“Mad that I got you cornered?” No, no answer from that either. Jaron waved his hands in defeat. “You’re dismissed, I don’t need you and your disapproval.”

“Disapproval?” Renlyn arched an eyebrow.

“Yes! Disapproval, you’re not exactly subtle about it, Lady Karise.”

“Good, it means I’ve finally got my point across.”

“Aren’t you in a feisty mood today?” Jaron snickered, putting his hands on his hips.

He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he wanted from Renlyn. She was remaining completely placid. “This is how I always behave, my king.”

“Is not, you’re nicer to me.”

“On the contrary, I think I’m being nicer to you now.”

He’d known the Karises before.

From his days when his family was still alive.

Jaron hadn’t been the closest to Renlyn when they were children, it’s true. She’d rather mix various ingredients together to eliminate her least favorite dolls while Jaron would rather track dirt all over the place.

In a way, it also reflected the way they handled situations at court.

Renlyn wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done. Already the notorious gossipers of court were spreading their opinions on Renlyn’s ambition. She had but one fear: Recognition. Most of her opponents slipped away in the night, never to disturb her again.

Jaron would much rather stay away from gossipers and the like.

Made things less messy.

Unfortunately, Jaron didn’t get his retort spoken in time, as Renlyn walked away, taking the final say with her as she went to Imogen’s study.

Their exchange couldn’t bring Jaron down from the excitement searing through his veins.

Each step he took made him feel light, yet heavy. Time couldn’t pass fast enough. He was beginning to pace. To the wall. Back to where he’d stood. To the wall again. Back to where he stood. The pattern continued for what seemed like ages, but Jaron knew better than that.

The clock stationed by the door, a huge monster of wood and metal, chimed.

It was better that a few minutes passed rather than no minutes at all, Jaron reasoned.

And then Imogen quietly stepped into the room.

Dressed in a pale blue blouse with matching split skirts, Imogen couldn’t hide her smile. For a moment, Jaron suspected that Renlyn spilled the secret surprise waiting just outside the castle walls.

He offered an arm out to Imogen, escorting her through the great hall and out into the courtyard.

“I really hope there’s no crocodiles involved,” Imogen muttered as Jaron helped her into Mystic’s saddle.

Jaron cringed as comically as he could, and then swung into place right behind Imogen. “Well, ah, guess you’re not going to like what I have in store.”

Imogen’s laugh was worth all of the hassle Jaron had put into his special surprise.

The sun was barely dipping down below the horizon, throwing golden rays of light into the crisp air. A slight shimmer appeared on Imogen’s cheeks. Jaron pressed a kiss to her temple, her hair, her chin, anywhere he could reach.

She was giggling when she pushed his face away.

“Let me kiss you, silly girl,” Jaron hummed, only to once again be pushed away.

“Absolutely not, it’s embarrassing!”

“I want the entire kingdom to know how much I love my wife! It’s not embarrassing at all!”

“Yes it is!”

“No it’s not!”

“Get your filthy lips off my hair,” Imogen laughed. “I’m serious, Jaron! You’re going to run us into a-,” suppressed giggles prevented her from finishing her sentence.

“Last one, I promise.” True to his word, Jaron pressed one last kiss to Imogen’s temple, and pulled away.

Imogen leaned back against his chest. “Renlyn and I were discussing what to do with the trio of children Roden brought to us.”

“Please tell me you gave them new names.”

“We suggested it, but they didn’t seem to catch onto the idea.”

“What did you and Lady Renlyn decide? Are you going to ship them off?”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Imogen was smiling, Jaron could hear it in her voice. “Renlyn took the subject to a business ally she has in court, and the children are to become wards here in court. We’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”

“I do love more company, maybe those three will take the spotlight off of my antics.”

“Very unlikely, but you can always hope that’ll happen.”

“Oh Imogen of such little faith.”

“Oh Jaron of such high energy.”

With a snicker, Jaron buried his face in her hair for a moment. “Copying my words now are you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Imogen countered. “Do you prefer that I copy everything you say? Is that what makes you happy?”

“Is that what makes me happy? No, it doesn’t.”

“Then what does?”

“Being with you.”

A blush spread across Jaron’s face despite the fact that he was the one saying silly flowering comments, not the one they were directed at.

He loved Imogen.

She was safe.

Without the company of guards, it was much easier to have a personal conversation.

Much easier for both Jaron and Imogen to just. . . be together.

“I, ah, I confronted Feall and King Oberson,” Jaron said over the sound of Mystic’s hooves on Drylliad’s cobblestone streets.

Imogen reached back, her hand trailing down the side of his face. “And what happened?”

The simple, shy gesture left warmth careening through his toes. Jaron tightened his arms around her waist. His heart pounded through his ribcage, but not with fear.

His heart pounded with pure, sunshine comfort.

Sunshine comfort that didn’t fade away with each new morning.

“I questioned them both, and made an offer to Feall. He trusts us to take care of the Faola, and I won’t expel him back to Bymar,” said Jaron. “I, ah, I’m playing this game for the long run.”

“As you should,” Imogen gestured to a group of ducklings swimming in the Roving River, then motioned for Jaron to continue.

He shrugged, “I plan on speaking with Kippenger.”

“Regarding House Thay?”

“Yes, but also no. Kippenger is my ally despite the history between us. I want to ensure his, and Avenia’s, success. I want to know if Carthya needs to send aid in any form, and if we need to, I fully intend to send the best.”

Kippenger was a new king.

There was no doubt that there were some Avenians who disagreed on Kippenger’s right to reign.

Revolution had to be brewing on their minds.

Imogen paused, connecting what Jaron said and what he was implying. “You need a backup in case you have to send Roden and military reinforcements to Avenia.”

“I don’t want to put Mott in any more danger than he puts himself in,” Jaron muttered. “Feall’s reputation is spotless. He wouldn’t be there for very long either, maybe a few weeks. And it’s-”

“Jaron, you don’t have to explain your choices. I trust your judgement.” Imogen said, but then she tilted her head, preparing to amend her statement. “I trust your judgement when it comes to people.”

“You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Though she didn’t say anything, Jaron could feel her quiet grin radiating through the air.

They rode in silence through the woods, waving at the few people they passed, and breathing in the sunset air.

And yet, despite the comfort, Jaron couldn’t fight the anxiety gnawing at his insides any longer.

What if Imogen didn’t like what he’d set out for her?

What if-

No.

If Lady Renlyn Karise, notorious stone-faced, heartless, ambitious businesswoman, liked what had been set out, Imogen certainly would.

The road curved left. Imogen only protested slightly when Jaron guided Mystic to continue straight.

“We, ah, I’m going to dismount,” Jaron stuttered. “But you can stay on, I’ll just guide Mystic.”

“I can walk,” Imogen insisted.

“If- ah, if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

He knew she’d enjoy the surprise, and yet, he was afraid.

Afraid that she wouldn’t-

No. Imogen was his wife. There was nothing to be scared of.

Nimbly, Jaron dismounted, and held out a hand for Imogen to do the same. He held Mystic’s reins with one hand, and entwined his fingers with Imogen’s with the other.

“Your palms are sweaty, Jaron. Are you alright?”

“I dipped them in the fountain before we came, they must not have dried.”

“You’re acting a little- oh.” Her face shifted from confusion, and then to shock.

Before them, Jaron had brought a ragged quilt he’d found in Tithio, boasting squares Imogen’s mother had made herself. Large pillows were scattered about in all shapes and sizes, some hidden behind additional blankets.

Plates of food rested on curling iron stands. A bucket of ice housed two large bottles of something sweet, Jaron hadn’t been able to decide what to take, so he relied on his head chef’s opinion. Candles on holders and stands were placed in clusters in strategic positions. Crystals hung from tree branches.

“I thought about bringing music, but I could only think of Jolly, and I didn’t want him eating everything I brought,” Jaron said sheepishly. “This- this,ah, isn’t all. I have-”

“I love it, Jaron, I absolutely love it,” Imogen was quiet, her fingers steepled together and resting against her nose.

“That’s not all, I, ah, there’s more to the surprise.”

Fink’s head poked out from one of the trees, but thankfully disappeared the second Jaron frantically shooed him away.

Imogen was still marvelling at the quilt. “This is perfect.”

Once again, Fink appeared.

Changing his plan, Jaron motioned for Fink to bring the final gift. The transaction happened in the knick of time, Fink was dashing back to the castle before Imogen looked up from the quilt squares.

Jaron held the package behind his back. “I, um, I couldn’t resist. I wanted to spend time with you. Just you, Imogen.”

“I really appreciate it,” her smile was tinged with a bright pink blush. “I don’t-, I don’t really know what to say.”

“This will probably make it worse, then.”

“Jaron? What are you-?”

He held out the package for Imogen to see.

In his hands, rested a cream colored cat with a bright pink bow hanging loosely from its neck. Imogen covered her face with her arm for a moment. When she finally looked at the kitten again, she was beaming.

“You got me a kitten,” she mumbled, covering her bright pink cheeks with her hands. “Is it mine?”

“If you want it, yes. And ‘it’ is a ‘she’, if that influences what her name is going to be,” Jaron said as he sat down beside Imogen, holding the small cat out to her.

“Where did you find her?”

Jaron didn’t mean for an instant scowl to ruin his smile. “Renlyn sold it to me.”

“Ah, I think I know why,” Imogen scratched the cat’s ears. “We were discussing different royal pets. Supposedly, there are specific cats you can train to listen to you.”

“I’m not quite sure how true that is, especially coming from Renlyn.”

“We’ll just have to find out.”

The tiny cat mewed, and tried to climb up Imogen’s blouse sleeve. She untied the ribbon, cradling the cat to herself.

Nothing in the world could’ve made Jaron feel the same way that Imogen’s smile did.

#okay I love jarogen don't yell at me #prince jaron #imogen #some people don't ship them and I don't blame them but that means its my duty to convince them that theyre wrong #the ascendance series #the ascendance trilogy #the false prince #fic friday #fic Friday except its a sunday

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