#firefurious

first of all, i want to preface this with how hard it is for percy to be comfortable showing affection. he craves it, he wants to show it but it's not something that comes naturally to him. so when he gets to a point where he's doing these things, you are someone incredibly important to him & he values you beyond the day he's living in.

i absolutely think that percy is a pebbler. it starts out as very much a ' this made me think of you so i picked it up ' kind of thing. that's one of the easiest ways to show affection for percy. it's something he can give to someone & dash away if they reject it, he can usually gauge whether or not they appreciate & sort of temper his expectation of them in that regard. i almost think it's a mentality of ' if they respond well to this, they'll respond well to the next step of affection' if that makes sense?

when it becomes a casual thing he tries to show in passing. i think specifically w/ vox machina he'll clean up after small messes that are left behind, keep the windows & curtains clean, buy incense & flowers to keep their environment nice to exist in. i think though percy prefers a tidy environment, it's not necessarily his priority when he's on his own. he'll complain about it but there is still this sentiment of ' i want the space i share w/ my friends to be a nice space because they deserve that ' where on his own it would be more of a ' i will clean when i accomplish this, this & this ... then i can treat myself to a clean environment ' if that makes sense?

i think a huge part of percy's love language is reflecting what the people around him need as well. i have a post somewhere detailing my headcanons about him having bpd but i am highlighting a part super relevant to this topic

a lot of Percy's love language is reflecting what people need out of him. it's part of why he's so quick to get into a crazy ritual with a bunch of friendly strangers, why he doesn't hesitate to give them all of his money. because that is what they are interested in & doing & he wants to be a part of that whether or not it aligns with goals he's otherwise set for himself.

there is almost this feeling of ' if i am useful, it shows that i care ' if that makes any sort of sense? so this is a clear, defined way he can show he cares. again, it's something he would view as passive affection. i think part of this perception has to do with him having very limited experience caring for people on any level beyond immediate. so he looks at what they need immediately & try to be that...

i want to say as he gets more comfortable with someone, he becomes a lot more comfortable with physical affection. it's something he craves, whether it's on a romantic or platonic level. hugging, holding hands, sharing snacks, just sharing a personal space bubble.

i don't think percy always realizes right away when he crosses the platonic/romantic threshold in his mind? so when it does, he's still hugging, holding hands, sharing snacks, ect. but his hands start to linger, it's a little harder to be casual about it. it's basically him going ' benormalbenormalbenormal ' at himself while also holding your hand like it's the only thing tethering him to this world. also, of course, pet names.

i think when it comes to romantic affection he gets a lot more panicky & a lot more impulsive because of that. he's an impulsive guy as is but i feel like he takes butterflies in his stomach as a challenge because when he cares about someone on that level, he's always afraid & he's unwilling to let fear deter him.

"It's a gift, it's supposed to be free, " Percy insists, voice tight with nerves & excitement. there was a creative glint to his eyes, some sort of thrill. in his hand, was a package. he'd re-wrapped it three times before he was as satisfied with the outside as he was with the inside. A dozen arrowheads of different functions, each crafted carefully by his hands.

a month ago, it would have been too pricey a venture to pursue. he'd have to come up with the materials, the time & most importantly: a place to work. moving into Greyskull keep had been a strange adjustment but Percy was thrilled to have a workspace again. he'd been inspired, working day in & day out on bits & baubles that might make their lives a bit easier. many of his ideas had been dreadful failures, a series of contained explosions & soot-covered nights. but what he offered now was some of his finest work, all of which he was thrilled to share with her.

it felt better than working on ammunition, tweaking his gun, & trying to perfect an imperfect design. it felt good to focus on anything other than the violence he would enact on the world. this too was an act of violence, he thinks. how many times had his life been saved by a rightly-placed arrow? but it was different when she killed.

he had come to trust vex, though it was a clumsy thought. there was something magnetic in her choice between herself or her opponent. there was a cautiousness about her, a tentative love for the world they lived in. ( not the cities or the people in them, but the moss-shrouded earth & what the survivors did in it ) it was something Percy lacked, something he could not help but admire. it felt like an awkward sort of privilege to present her with the means to protect him & their friends. ( she didn't need any help protecting herself. ) but he couldn't name a better pair of hands to do so.

keyleth's breath comes quick, her heart tangled somewhere in her throat as her hands flutter shakily over the archer's frame. the wounds have sealed themselves, seamlessly stitched together by pike's divine magic but it's the still - damp blood and ragged tears in her clothes that still sends pangs of worry through her, a gasp stuck between her teeth. finally, almost hastily, she pulls her hands back to herself and meets vex'ahlia's gaze, but she can't stamp out the turmoil caught within her own.

The difference, Cassandra thinks, is how darkness corrupts—how it poisons. Like ink spilled onto a page, darkness isn’t something that can be wiped clean away; like the pools of blood that have seeped deep into stone and wood and fabric throughout the castle, it stains, however much they’ve tried to scrub it away. She remembers Father Reynal’s sermons from when she was younger, long before the Briarwoods came, when he would preach about how Pelor would grant His light upon those that repented to burn away their sins, to deliver to them forgiveness—she wishes she could believe it, wishes it were true, but in all her prayers she has never even managed to dream of it. 

(Cassandra isn’t willing to think that, despite those prayers, she still may not be willing to see it. It is a great deal to ask of her to believe that light could seep into her soul in the way that darkness has, in a way that might mean she could be forgiven.)

          𝐀   𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄   .   that   is   what   @firefurious   had   called   this   little   evening   visit   of   his   —   but   whether   or   not   in   jest   ,   he   remains   unsure   .   no   amount   of   busyness   in   her   schedule   would   appear   to   dull   this   skill   of   hers   .   or   was   it   simply   a   natural   charm   ?   whatever   it   is   ,   it   is   effective   ,   and   she   seemed   to   revel   in   flustering   the   sun   god   to   no   end   ,   succeeding   in   that   memory   and   continuing   to   succeed   now   as   the   four-lettered   word   fails   to   settle   comfortably   in   his   stomach   .   it   is   pointy   at   the   edges   ,   for   whenever   the   feeling   shifts   —   whenever   he   recalls   with   alarming   detail   the   pleasant   shape   of   her   lips   forming   the   word   —   he   feels   the   soft   walls   of   his   gut   lurch   in   response   .

it   has   been   literal   lifetimes   since   apollo   has   felt   this   way   —   a   memory   from   the   veil   he   acknowledges   more   in   fact   and   logic   than   he   does   with   any   beat   of   his   heart   or   person   now   .   and   in   contrary   to   how   he   once   told   grace   that   standing   next   to   her   sometimes   made   him   feel   old   ,   he   now   feels   as   if   he   were   a   child   taking   its   first   bumbling   few   steps   .   since   her   trial   ,   their   days   consisted   of   endless   to-do   lists   as   the   idols’   ambassadors   .   this   sometimes   made   it   difficult   for   him   to   see   her   .   there   were   times   where   he   went   several   days   without   hearing   from   her   besides   a   few   text   messages   and   he   feels   abashed   in   all-too-aware   exemplification   of   the   adage   '   absence   makes   the   heart   grow   fonder   .   '

but   how   did   grace   feel   ?   about   him   ?   right   before   the   trial   ,   the   two   of   them   had   both   admitted   that   the   other   had   come   to   mean   a   great   deal   to   them   ,   but   what   exactly   that   had   meant   —   what   it   meant   for   them   now   —   neither   of   them   had   yet   brought   up   .   what   worries   him   now   is   the   thought   that   he's   misunderstood   .   or   worse   yet   ,   that   she   had   only   returned   his   feelings   in   the   adrenaline   of   impending   doom   ,   and   now   that   the   danger   had   subsided   ,   she'd   changed   her   mind   .   '   absence   makes   the   heart   grow   fonder   ?   '   try   '   out   of   sight   ,   out   of   mind   .   '   (   perhaps   worse   of   all   is   how   he   doesn't   think   he   would   blame   her   )   .   but   this   is   only   a   worry   .   a   ...   '   cognitive   distortion   ,   '   he   thinks   his   last   therapist   had   called   it   .   he   ought   to   resume   those   sessions   .

but   …   a   date   .   perhaps   ...   perhaps   it   is   one   .   and   all   the   other   times   ...   were   they   dates   too   ?   surely   not   .   knuckles   rap   against   grace's   apartment   door   and   from   the   other   side   ,   he   hears   a   voice   yell   out   ,   '   j — just   a   second   !   '   if   apollo   were   any   less   distracted   ,   he   might   have   noticed   and   worried   for   its   frazzled   tone   .   fingers   pluck   nervously   at   the   cuffs   of   his   shirt   .   it   is   one   that   she   has   not   seen   him   wearing   before   ,   for   the   god   had   quite   literally   bought   and   had   it   fitted   for   the   occasion   .   as   apollo   adjusts   his   collar   ,   mentally   categorizing   their   last   meetings   into   '   dates   '   and   '   non-dates   ,   '   it   only   now   dawns   on   him   that   he   is   overdressed   for   what   grace   had   originally   described   as   '   kicking   back   and   ordering   some   good   ol'   takeout   .   '   hell   ,   he's   even   brought   flowers   .   does   she   even   like   flowers   ——

the   door   opens   .   it   is   too   late   to   hide   the   flowers   and   it   takes   a   herculean   amount   of   strength   within   him   to   not   try   anyway   .   ❛   —   grace   .   good   —   ...   good   evening   .   ❜