#then I remembered the line from v about how his humanity has finally returned | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 3 years

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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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danniburgh · 3 years

Text

Sins of the Flesh (priest!Dave York x f!reader)

Pairing: priest!Dave York x f!reader

Summary: His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed. “Lord, have mercy on me.”

Word count: +10.9k

Warnings: religion! catholic religion to be precise, a lot A LOT of religious references and undertones (shot every time you find one lmao), age gap (around 15 years, reader is legal), smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex, breaking of celibacy vows!, catholic guilt, me making divine metaphors... i think thats it.

A/N: first of all this is all @asta-lily’s fault, she asked why no one had turned this man into a priest and i said “ok ill do it” so i did it, she is to blame. also i wanna say thanks to the pocket wives that encouraged this creation, sorry my loves, this isnt as slutty as yall thought lmao, and thanks to @alliterative-albatross who gave me all the bible verses that shaped this story as well. and i wanna thank the creator of this playlist that i listened over and over while writing this, and yeah, sorry for this monstrosity, love you <3

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by @asta-lily

“So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.”–James 4:12.

Sunday 1.

Like a piece in a puzzle.

That’s how you fit in.

There, sitting in the middle of a ten people polished wood bench, eyes on the four feet tall crucified Jesus on the wall above the altar, ready for the first sermon you were to hear after coming back home.

Home. That was the name.

That church felt like home.

You were enjoying sitting there, among the children you met a couple of hours earlier when you were introduced to them as their new catechesis teacher, breathing in and out the myrrh incense burning and invading the navel and your lungs, filling them with new energy, getting them ready to feel the love that you were sure was about to pour over you.

You heard your name behind you and you turned around to see Mrs. Stevens, one of your mother’s friends waving at you from two rows behind.

“Hi, honey!” she smiled at you and immediately you reciprocated “I heard you were in town, are you staying this time?”

You drowned a chuckle inside your chest and bit your lip, nodding. Just realizing you even had missed the venomous messages hidden behind the kind words mouthed by old catholic moms.

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens, I’m staying this time.” you replied, the woman lifted her hand a bit to the sky and you smirked to her.

“God bless, I bet your mom is delighted you’re here!” she muttered “I know she missed you terribly all those years you were in that school.”

“It’s called college, Mrs. Stevens,” you reminded the woman, and she rolled her eyes, making you chuckle softly again “but do not worry for my mama anymore, I graduated, I’m staying for good.” you told her, amused at the way she acted as if you staying at home was some godsend blessing.

The organ began to play on the upper balcony behind everyone and you saw two altar boys, carbon copy of each other, almost rushing their way to the altar, and behind them… Father Dave.

You smiled softly at the sight of him as he walked solemnly to the altar, his green chasuble flowing with the air and the movement, there was a thought you had all those years you were away from home because of school, always coming back to Father Dave York: the young priest that decided to stay in the first congregation he was sent to, the one that became a pillar to the community, the holy man that held the direct link to God and that gave you your first communion, the one you missed when you went to attend mass at the church near campus because no one gave the sermons like he did. For some reason, whenever you least expected, you thought of him.

You saw him putting his bible on top of the pressed cloth over the altar, kneel and kiss the center of it and cross himself. And then, after he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to himself and to God, he opened his deep brown eyes and he looked at you.

“Let us pray.”

Your mouth dried when his deep timbered voice, with the help of a small microphone on his altar, wrapped the entire navel and you with it, he looked at you as he cleared his throat and he opened his arms to the sky, breaking eye contact with you.

“Lord, have mercy.” he murmured, and the congregation replied to his prayer as you struggled to find the air that had escaped your lungs.

As Father Dave guided the congregation through the sermon and through the prayers, all you could see was him.

In some way, there was something different about him you hadn’t noticed the last time you were there; you didn’t know if it was something about his deep voice as he recited the credo by muscle memory, the way he walked from one side of the sanctuarium to the other as he talked about the scripture or the way his hands wrapped around the chalice when one of the altar boys handed it to him as the organ echoed all around the navel, announcing the communion.

You stood up and walked to the back of the line and sighed as he lifted the wafer to the sky, and your eyes closed by themselves when he lifted the chalice and took a sip from the sacramental wine and locked your eyes on him as the line moved.

As soon as you were in front of him your lips parted and he smiled at you softly.

“The body of Christ.” he murmured, his deep brown eyes on yours as they filled with tears.

“Amen” and you opened your mouth.

He put the wined wafer between your lips and his thumb brushed with your chin, making your skin burn as you brought it inside of your mouth with your tongue and forced yourself to walk away from him.

As you returned to your seat with the gold cross that hung from your neck between your fingers and kneeled to pray for the forgiving of your sins, all you could think of was brown, deep eyes, and a soft, brief touch on your chin that burned more than the wax of a burning taper.

Dave felt it.

The way you looked at him throughout the entire service.

And it made him feel different.

When you rose from your seat to walk to the communion line, he saw the way your body moved, almost as if you were floating instead of walking.

He knew you were back, and his heart was happy you were finally home.

But he didn’t expect to see you so changed.

And he didn’t expect the way your eyes had made him feel.

Then you were in front of him, and he smiled because he remembered the first time he handed the body of Christ to you, years and years before.

And your eyes filled with tears as his breath hitched when your lips parted for him as he fed you the sacred soul of the savior.

God, have mercy.

His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed.

Lord, have mercy on me. He thought as he entered the sacristy.

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”–Proverbs 28:13.

Sunday 2.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” Dave heard your voice next to him and felt the air leave from his lungs. Not you, please God, not you.

You had been avoiding Father Dave for almost the entire week.

And you felt guilty about it.

You couldn’t even look at him in the eyes and not think about those dreams you were having about him.

If God was all love and perfection, why was he tempting you with dreams of Father Dave, his own servant, touching you in places you got shivers from, warming your body with his own, putting his mouth on your skin as you repeated his name like it was the sanctus?

Holy, holy, holy.

Why was God putting inside your head the sins of the flesh you had already asked forgiveness for? Why was he making you desire a forbidden man? A man that was not to be perceived as a man but as the representation of him on earth.

That morning, when you walked into the church to impart the catechesis class, you saw Jesus on the cross and you saw him look at you. And you knew he knew.

All omnipresent, all omniscient, all omnipotent.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Almighty God why were you thinking about him so much?

And the resolution in your mind was asking for forgiveness, you needed to pay penitence for those thoughts you knew you did.

But were you really about to confess to the man you had been dreaming about that he was invading your every thought?

“It has been two weeks since my last confession.” you mumbled, playing with your cross over your neck, Dave breathed in deeply and intertwined his hands on his lap.

“What are your sins?” he asked, closing his eyes as he remembered his own.

Dave was always a man of faith. It was in him from birth. He had been taught and trained to not fall into any temptations and so far his life had been devoted and dedicated to God and only to God.

But your eyes and the way you saw him, and the way your eyes made him feel when they locked on his, had him spiraling down into decadence.

Sometimes, dedicating his life to the word of the Lord made him forget he was still a human, he was still a man.

He had needs.

And he was alright before your eyes. Before your holy eyes were on him.

He had dreamed of them; he had thought of them; he had imagined them when he was in the limbo between sleep and awakeness.

He had dreamed of your lips, of your lips on his skin, he had thought of those lips that just looked like they needed someone to wet them and bring them back to life; he had imagined those lips of yours in places of his body he swore never to use.

He had prayed for them to disappear; he had begged to his God to erase those thoughts of his mind and free them from the temptation that was incarnated in you, in your body, in your eyes that denied to see him when you were in the same room, in your hands as you moved them to teach the children, in your legs trapped in the tight denim of your jeans, in your lips as you smiled to everyone but him, in your entire being, just by existing.

But they had increased, like a tamed flame sprayed with gasoline. He had a fire in his chest, one that was spreading through him as he was closer to you.

He needed them gone; he had sworn to never look at a woman as an object of desire; he had sworn on his life and he had vowed his commitment.

But you were there, kneeling next to him, separated by the thinnest patterned panel, holding the matches and the fuel.

“I’ve been having… improper thoughts, father,” you whispered, closing your eyes and left your necklace alone, clutching your hands together as tight as you could, you felt the aura change and the air grow thicker between him and you, “about a man.”

Dave opened his eyes at your confession and frowned. A man?

He knew you could tell him whatever you wanted; he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask in for details; he knew he was only there functioning as a link for you to get absolved from your sins and you were a young woman granted of free will and enough time to ask for absolution but he wanted to know; he needed to know who that man was.

“He is ol–older than me,” he heard you mumble and his hands tightened their grip on each other “and I can’t have him, father, I–I’ve been having these thoughts about a forbidden man.”

Dave’s mind went reeling, and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t like to assume about the life of his congregation members, he never did, but you were talking to him, after he had been dreaming about you for days, after you two shared something about desiring another man. And he was angry. He wanted to know who. He wanted to know who was keeping your mind the same way you were keeping his.

“He keeps me up at night, thinking of him, that is,” you whispered “I’ve–Jesus,” you let out the air of your lungs and Dave breathed in deeply once more “I’ve touched myself thinking of him.” you said under your breath and Dave felt his chest tug and turn.

“Does this man… know what he is causing in you?” he muttered with a frown and heard you sigh.

“No, I don’t want him to.”

“Alright, child,” he replied after a few seconds, and made a grimace of disgust at the pet name. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty with the word on his mouth, “do you repent these sins?”

“Yes, father, I do.” you closed your eyes at his words and wanted, for once, to be brave and tell him he was the one roaming around your mind. But it wasn’t fair.

“Please, recite in silence the act of contrition,” he muttered to you and you obeyed, feeling your eyes fill with tears.

As he waited for you to finish, he did the same on his side of the confession box

I’m choosing to sin and failing to do good.

“Amen.” you said, and he murmured the word to the ceiling.

“I think the word you do for the church,” he started, and you wrinkled your nose at the thought of him knowing it was you “the devotion you have, and how you repent, you don’t need to pay penance,” he muttered separating his hands and putting two fingers on the edge of the patterned panel that separated the two of you “through the ministry of the church,” your breath hitched as he whispered the words to you, and you saw with teary eyes the shadow of his fingers on the panel “man God give you pardon and peace,” you bit your lip and unclutched your hands, lifting your fingers and pressing it to his as two heavy tears fell from your eyes.

Dave felt the pressure of your touch and felt his hand tremble.

“And I ab–absolve you from your sin.” he said under his breath, pressing back.

“Thank you, father.” you whispered, not moving your fingers. You could feel the warmth of his through it and for a few seconds, you could also feel his eyes on your face.

Dave was the one to break the contact first. Absentmindedly brushing his fingers on his stole as he saw the shadow of you move and get out of the confession box.

He sat there, thankful you were the only one that morning and thinking about what you had told him.

A man of God, a man of hope. He had hoped, even if it was a sin and even if it was forbidden by pure creed and vow, that you were feeling the same as he was.

For a moment, he wondered about those thoughts… Were you thinking about that lucky old man touching you? Were you thinking about that man kissing you? What did that man look like? He wanted to be that man; he wanted to be the one whose touch you desired; he wanted to be that man you thought of as you sneaked your hand inside your underwear at night and brought yourself to pleasure. He wanted to be the one whose kiss you yearned for as your sex ached for attention; he wanted to be the one whose fingers you imagined as your own were buried deep inside you.

He fisted the flesh of his thigh over his dress pants and forced himself to stop thinking of you like that.

Dave stayed inside the confession box for twenty minutes more, praying for forgiveness, as he had done every night since you had been back.

At service, he saw you further back on the benches and he tried not to sneak glances at you as you sat there with your precious eyes on the crucifix above him, avoiding him at all costs.

And at communion, he tried not to brush your soft skin with his fingers as he fed you the wined wafer, failing when his knuckle brushed your cheek, his chest deflating when he noticed the way your face quirked in pain when you muttered Amen at him. Dave tried not to make anything of the fact that you kneeled more time than anyone else on the congregation after receiving the communion.

And when the service was over and he was alone in the sacristy, he tried and failed to not think about your skin, your eyes, your hands and your lips all over his neglected body.

That sunday night Father Dave masturbated in the shower thinking about you with your fingers deep inside you as his mind imagined it was him you thought of when you touched yourself in the darkness of the night and prayed for forgiveness.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

“Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.”–1 Peter 2:11.

Sunday 3.

“Father, sh–shit,” you bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning as your pointer and middle fingers circled your wet clit under the covers of your bed, your legs spread open, the soft cotton of the sheets grazing softly at your inner thighs as you imagined your fingers being one of Father Dave’s, as you imagined him next to you, with his arm above your head as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear and nibbled at your neck while his other hand played your clit like a master pianist. You imagined the hardness of his erection pressing patiently on the skin of your hip, wetting it with pre-semen, making your body burn with the feeling of his warm naked body beside you.

As your other hand played with your nipple you imagined his eyes taking you in, you imagined his lips on your skin, were they soft? you bet they were, and you bet as well his hand would be surprisingly rough for a priest.

“Jesus, fu–fuck.” the knot inside your lower belly exploded with the thought of him and his hand and his body and his lips and his priesthood and you came with a silent scream that made your ears ring for a few seconds and your legs tremble on the bed.

As you hazed out, ready to fall asleep again before your alarm went off to go to work at the church, you felt that familiar guilt cripple inside you and settle in your chest, warming up and leaning against your heart.

Dave was panting, he fisted his hand as he leaned on the tiled wall of his shower and his other hand moved desperately on his cock. The water was still warm, and he closed his eyes shut as he imagined it was your hand on him, giving him the pleasure he was seeking, as he imagined you were behind him, your lips brushing against the wet skin of his back, your free hand around his chest, gliding softly at his skin, making him whimper with your touch.

It was so early for him to be so hot over you again; it wasn’t good for him to give into these desires he had and had been praying so hard and so much to get rid of.

He didn't want to keep doing it and he surely didn’t feel good after it, but his body ached for you, his chest turned every time he thought about you, every time he saw you around the church, he felt the deepest, hottest desire for you and your hands and your body and he just couldn’t help it.

His hand gripped and pumped as fast as he could and he came with a silent groan, opening his eyes as he finished milking every drop of his seed and watched it mix with the shower water and go down the drain. Along with the decency and morality that was left inside him.

You heard your name being said, and you turned around as you finished picking up your things from the small desk you used to teach the catechism; you saw Mrs. Vega, the church custodian, a small, old lady that had known you forever, walking towards you.

“I’m sorry dear, but I want to ask you for something.” she said when you smiled at her.

“Of course, Mrs. Vega, what is it?” you put your small book inside your bag and hung it from your shoulders.

“You see, the little twins that help Father Dave are sick today,” you frowned at the mention of Father’s Dave name but let out a sad sigh at her statement, “and they can’t come help with the service, you’re the youngest of the teachers, could you do it?”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and felt your stomach churn inside you at the thought of standing next to the altar for a whole service.

“Me?” you asked, your voice in a high pitch as Mrs. Vega reached for your arm and tugged you to walk out of the chapel and into the navel of the church.

“Yes, dear, remember only the youngest get to do it.” she obviated, pulling you with her to the transept and up two steps to the sanctuarium “you only need to hand him the communion things and the holy water, I will prepare everything for you.”

“Why don’t you do it?” you asked in a whisper, not daring to take a step further closer to the altar. Mrs. Vega turned to look at you, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Since when are you shy, girl?” she asked with a teasing smile “I remember you singing in that kiddie choir we used to have and doing it terribly,” you chuckled at the memory and bit your lip “it’s only until the boys get that bug they got out of them.” she palmed your arm, and you breathed in deeply.

You looked up at the crucified Jesus above the altar and silently begged him for anticipated forgiveness.

Dave almost cursed when he saw you standing next to the altar as he walked across the navel.

The thought of who would replace Bobby and Chris on their altar duties didn’t even cross his mind as he was more worried about praying for the boys and sending them some sweets and pleading for the cleansing of his soul after the incident on his shower earlier that morning.

As he stepped up to the sanctuarium your eyes locked on his and he noticed you lips parting when he nodded his chin once at you, he noticed the way you swallowed as you nodded back and for a brief second, his imagination ran wild and made him believe you felt the same way as he did about you.

Even if it was the wrongest thing to think about.

It was like torture.

An hour of torture.

You got to see him kneel behind the altar and kiss the white pressed cloth softly as he stood, as you wanted and wished to be the altar’s cloth he pressed his plump lips on, he crossed himself and you mimicked his movements. And for a brief fraction of a second, as he opened his arms to the sky, you saw him looking at you out of the corner of his eye. And his eyes burned in your skin, they made you feel like your chest was aflame.

The communion time arrived, and he turned to you as you grabbed the chalice with the wine, his eyes locked with yours and you felt them weigh heavy on your body.

Dave couldn't concentrate, he felt on his side the way you were looking at him. It was heavily distracting for him to have you there, in his space, so close to him.

His hands brushed yours when he took the chalice from you and he stood there for less than a second, his fingers on yours. His soft touch and warm skin made your lips tremble with the emotion that touching him gave you. You felt a shiver go up and down your spine and the small hairs of your nape rose as his hands trapped yours.

You caught your lip between your teeth as he broke the contact and you knew he noticed; he looked at your lip as you bit it, and you blushed under his and God’s gaze.

You watched him and he felt you observing him as he prepared the wafers and wined them inside the chalice.

Your throat knotted when he lifted the cup to the sky and you felt your mouth dry as he brought the rim to his lip and his neck strained while he took a sip of the sacramental wine.

Because of the closeness you could see the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the wine, you noticed a small drop of the crimson red liquid escape from his lips and the way he trapped it with his tongue settled deep inside your belly and leaked through your sex.

The pain of the greatest guilt you’ve ever felt in your short life appeared again and clawed its way inside your chest and to its now usual spot right next to your heart, you were struggling to keep your thoughts at bay; you were looking at Father Dave, right in front of you, doing what he dedicated his life to, and you were imagining him using his hands on your body instead of handling the instruments of the church.

Would he touch you like that? would he treat you with the same delicacy as he treated the body of Christ? would he caress you as softly as he did the chalice? would his mouth be warmed with your taste as it was by the wine he drank?

Dave turned to you and he saw you clutching your hands together, you walked towards him slowly, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you moved, almost as if air went through you, as if instead of giving steps your feet barely touched the floor because you were floating.

Everything slowed down, the music of the organ in the balcony, the prayers of the congregation, even the way he moved slowed down so he could focus on your face; on your sweet eyes, those that had brought into him the feeling of humanity, on your soft skin that had scorched his hand when he dared brushed his fingers on it, on your lips, those lips that he couldn’t pray out of his head.

He lifted his hand with the wined wafer, and even the way those holy lips of yours parted was slowed down.

Your eyes connected with his and Dave felt it in his body, deep inside his stomach, the temptation, the whispers of his mortal body as it reacted to your actions; he put the wafer between your lips delicately and pushed it inside your mouth, and then, as if by the grace of God in the heavens, you closed your mouth while he did it, and your lips wrapped softly around the pad of his finger as he pulled them away from you.

And just like that, the world started moving at its usual pace.

His skin tasted sweet. And you spent the rest of the service thinking about what other parts of him would taste like that.

Would his neck taste the same if you kissed it? would his chest feel like that if you nibbled on it? would his lips be that warm or would they be warmer?

Dave’s finger was burning.

He wanted to chop it off his hand just to stop feeling that flesh-eating guilt of enjoying your lips, your soft, warm lips around it, touching his skin, wetting it with the slick of your mouth.

After the service ended and Dave blessed the congregation, he saw you rush to the exit and he felt the sting of the guilt and the sadness. He wanted to talk to you and offer his apologies before you went home.

Sunday 4.

You weren’t there.

And Dave missed your eyes on him.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”–Romans 12:1.

Sunday 5.

As soon as you walked into the church you felt the eyes of all omnipresent beings on your body. As if the desire that burned deep inside your body left marks all over your skin, that could be visible for all those that looked carefully enough.

You heard your name behind you and jumped slightly, startled. You turned around and felt your blood fall to your feet.

“Father Dave,” you muttered, more to help yourself acknowledge the fact that there he was, standing in front of you, out of habit, his white tab collar was the only piece of his attire that hinted the fact that he was a priest. You tried to control your body as you felt instantly that flame inside your chest beginning to spread.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said, hesitating to step closer to you “are you okay?”

You nodded a few times and bit your lip to stop it from trembling.

“Are you sure?” Father Dave asked, and you dropped your eyes to the floor and saw him give a couple of steps towards you, your breath hitched and your entire body began to shiver when you felt his hand on your arm “I’m sorry.” he whispered.

“What?” you looked up to see him and you could notice his pained quirk, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed and his lips… those lips you had spent all but two weeks imagining printing themselves and making marks on your skin, on a sad, downwards line.

“Can I please talk to you?” he said again in a whisper and you opened your mouth to reply, but only air came out, “please?”

His deep brown eyes were on yours and you felt your chest turn by the feeling of having him so close. You nodded, and he turned to the sides, as if he was making sure there was no one there, and guided you to the sacristy.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a bit altered when he opened the door and let you in first, followed you and closed the door behind him.

“I just needed to be alone with you for a minute,” he clarified, you let your eyes wander around the small space where he got ready every day for the services instead of letting them settle on him, because you knew being that close to him wouldn’t help your situation at all “I wanted to apologize.”

You frowned and looked at him. He had his back almost glued to the door and his hands together, his thumbs fidgeting with each other.

“Apologize for what?” you muttered, and he sighed.

“I’m–I make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry.”

Dave felt stupid telling you that, but it was his truth; he spent every free moment of his days when you weren’t near him thinking maybe it was because of him. It would make sense, that you didn’t want to be there because you didn’t like his closeness, that you didn’t want to be there because he was taking advantage of his position to steal glances and give furtive touches.

He understood, but you were an excellent woman, devoted and committed to the congregation, and he knew he needed to stop or you would leave and he would never see you again. And he couldn’t have that.

“You aren–you…” you babbled, and then the look he gave you made you lose your words.

His eyes were all over you. And you could feel them on your skin, how they took you in, how they navigated through your body and every inch of you was immediately on fire.

Then he looked at your face and you swore you could see in his brown eyes the deepest form of devotion there was. And your mouth was agape and your eyes filled with tears and suddenly he was in front of you and his hands were orbiting your face.

“Can I touch you?” he said, and you nodded.

He cupped your face, and you felt his warm, rough hands scorching your skin as you closed your eyes. His warmth started mixing with your own and you could feel him inside you already. It was as if everything you needed in life was already there.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” you whispered, closing your eyes as his fingers started caressing the skin of your face, tracing your features “I swear you don’t”

Dave let out a sigh when his thumb traced the edge of your lips and he so wanted to lean down and take them in his. There had been so long since he last kissed someone and he, for a split second, forgot everything about him and the only thought in his mind was you.

“I don’t?” he asked under his breath as a tear rolled down your cheek and he brushed it off with his knuckles, you shook your head and opened your eyes and he felt his heart fill with the purest love he had ever felt in his life “you swear?” you curled your lips up and nodded twice.

“Can I tell you something?” you muttered, looking up at him and losing yourself in the depths of his brown eyes.

“Always.”

You allowed your hands to slide to his shoulders and you let out a relieved sigh. They fit perfectly.

“Yo–you are…” he nodded his chin, his hands still cupping your face softly as his eyes studied your face, you let out a trembling sigh and grabbed as much courage as you had left within you “you are the man I’ve been thinking of all this time.”

Dave widened his eyes and the movements of his hands stopped, he looked at you, searching for any hint of mischief or lie, searching for something that could tell him you were lying, that you were playing with him. But there was none.

“That’s why I wasn’t here last week,” he heard you say as he felt his heart burn with the flames of his desire and love “I was embarrassed after what happened at the communion.”

You looked at him for a second, waiting for the rejection, waiting for him to tell you what you already know, that he can’t for you what you wanted him to be, that he can’t give you what you wanted as his duty was with God and not with the mortals, let alone with a woman.

Father Dave had resigned to the pleasures of the mundane world; you knew that, but you also knew he deserved to know, even if nothing would happen.

“Am I?” he asked you, bewildered after such confession, you nodded and moved your hands to cup his face, a gesture that made him close his eyes. You wondered when was the last time, if ever, he had been touched like that “we can’t” he replied, opening his eyes and leaning in to you.

You could feel his breathing mixing with yours as the implications of his words fell on you.

“We can’t” he repeated, pushing his forehead to yours as you trembled under his touch.

“You want to?” you asked him and Dave asked for guidance in his mind as you started crying and wetting his hands. He nodded, and you sobbed.

“I can’t” he whispered, and you shook your head as he looked at you pouring your feelings from your eyes.

“Kiss me.” you pleaded, looking into his brown, deep eyes. Making him frown.

“What?”

“If you’re not gonna give me anything, at least kiss me.”

His face quirked from confusion to pain in an instant, and you gripped the hold on his face.

“Please, Dave.”

Dave sighed at the way you whispered his name without calling him a father, and deep inside him he was grateful. With you he didn’t feel like a man of god, with you, letting him touch you and touching him back, he only felt like a man. Like the man he never got the chance to be.

“I–I” he started, and you shook your head. Dave looked into your eyes and all the air he had stored in his lungs left his body in a hurry, you were the most precious being he had ever seen, and for a second, he wanted nothing but to make worth the fact he had you in his hands “shit.” he said under his breath.

Dave brought your face up to him and printed his lips on yours, stealing the little air and the close to no coherence you still had in you. You let out a soft moan out of the surprise and out of the feeling of your entire body warming up to his temperature.

His lips were as soft and as wars and better than you had imagined, they were a bit dry and hesitant on yours, but the contact of them with yours made you feel like you were floating away from the realm of the living.

Dave didn’t want to stop kissing you. He didn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman, and in that moment he wasn’t kissing any woman he was kissing you; the precious being that had been in his mind for weeks and that had never left.

Unsure of his movements, he let you take control of the contact and soon enough you were sliding the tip of your tongue along the seam of his lips, Dave let out a surprised grunt and opened his mouth slightly of you, and you took his lower lip with your mouth. And he let you kiss him all you wanted, enjoying the contact of your slow, wet, warm lips on his less experienced ones until he was sure his lungs were screaming from the lack of air.

When he broke the kiss, he left a small one on your forehead and pressed his lips there and you closed your eyes to feel him settle inside you

“I’m sorry.” you whispered to his neck. And he nodded slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”–Matthew 5:28.

Sunday 6.

Your knuckles grazed softly with the sacristy door and you heard the muffled noise of the latch and the door opened.

“Hi,” you smiled and Dave looked at you up and down “got your text.”

“Come in.” he motioned his hand for you to hurry and you turned your head to both sides and walked into the sacristy, closed the door behind you and slid the latch.

Immediately after the door was locked, you felt his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder.

“This is why you texted me?” you teased and he moved to let a kiss on your jaw.

“I missed you.” he muttered and turned your body around for you to face him.

“You didn’t.” you smiled at him and wrapped your hands around his neck, grateful for the apparently deliberate choice of him to take off his tab collar.

“Yes, I did, I missed you all day.” Dave leaned towards you and took your lips in his, already knowing, after less than a week’s practice, how you loved being kissed.

His lips were as warm as they always were, his tongue barely present if not just to taste the sweetness of your lipstick, his hands always steady on your waist, and at the end, his forehead on yours, just taking in your breaths with his.

“Mass starts soon.” you said, and he nodded, sliding his hands to your middle back to wrap you closer to him.

“I know.” he left another brief kiss on your lips.

“You gotta get dressed.” you murmured against his lips.

“I know.” he muttered back and kissed you again.

“Want me to help?” you asked under your breath, just for him, as if you saying it as low as you could would stop God from listening.

“Yes, I would love that.” Dave replied and gave into another deep kiss that stole both your breath and made you want to stop the time so you could kiss until your lips fused together.

“C’mon you need to get ready.” you broke the kiss and stepped away from him, making him smile. You wandered around the sacristy and found his tab collar. You sighed and took it in your hands.

Dave looked at you and noticed the way you looked at the soft plastic piece, he walked towards you and raised his hand to grab yours. As you felt his hand on yours; you turned your head to look at him and smiled softly, and you moved your hands, raising them to carefully lift the collar of his shirt and clasp the piece around his neck.

“You okay?” he asked in a whisper, you nodded and bit your lip at the sight of him in front of you.

Dave moved and walked to the small table against a wall with a large bowl of water and you gazed at him as he washed his hands and whispered a few words. You leaned onto the wall just looking at him go to a small cabinet near the opposite corner and took a white, folded linen garment, which he unfolded and you recognized as the long robe he used under all his attire.

He slid it off and whispered another prayer again as he let it fall and graze his ankles. His eyes went to you and you smiled at him, he next grabbed a green square that you also recognized and you walked to him and took it out of his hands.

“Let me do it” you whispered, and he nodded, you unfolded the long stripe that was the stole and found its middle, Dave crouched a bit to help you and you let it fall around his neck over his shoulders.

“Return to me the stole of immortality,” he whispered, looking at your eyes, your throat dried at the deepness of his voice “which I have lost in the sin of my first parent and although I, unworthy,” he continued and took your hand in his “approach thy sacred mystery grant to me everlasting joy.”

You gripped his hands and felt your throat knotting around itself.

“Why are you praying to me?” you asked under your breath. He cupped your chin with one hand and brought you close to his face.

“You’re holy.” he whispered and left a soft kiss on your lips.

“Stop it.” you chastised him and he shook his head, giving you a soft smile that you reciprocated immediately.

You turned to the table and saw a long, golden cord and you took it.

“Not that one.” he muttered, and you frowned.

“Why not?” you saw him taking a deep breath as he took it from your hand and left it back on the table.

“The cincture… it means chastity and continence.” he replied under his breath and you let out all the air of your lungs as he took his chasuble and put it on without looking at you.

“Dave.” you called, and he lifted a hand to you as he said the last prayer. When he finished, he looked at you and as if he read your mind, he smiled at you and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered, taking you again in his hands and pulling softly so your head rested on his shoulders “don’t apologize please.”

“I need to,” you mumbled against the light fabric of the green chasuble “I’m keeping you from your vow.”

Dave grabbed your shoulders and pulled you away from his body, his hands slid to your face and you gripped his wrists as he brought your face to his.

“You’re not doing anything, my love,” he muttered the last words directly on your lips as he stole a few kisses from your trembling mouth “you’re perfect,” he panted out and you shook your head “I’m doing this because I want to, please understand it,” he kissed you again, a bit more desperately “you’re the most divine creation I’ve ever laid my eyes and hands upon,” he whispered rapidly on your lips “and I want you to be mine.”

You gasped as the words left his mouth, and he gazed at you.

“Dave...” you started, but he didn’t let you finish, he wrapped his arms around you and brought your body to his, tightening the embrace as he thought of the implications of what he just asked.

Dave lifted his eyes to the ceiling and for the first time in years, with you slowly wrapping your arms around his waist, exactly over the place the cincture was supposed to go around, and the sweet aroma of your perfume inundating his senses, he felt really close to heaven.

“I want you to be mine too.” you whispered into his ear, and he smiled, leaving a kiss on top of your head.

“How beautiful and pleasant you are, O loved one, with all your delights!”–Song of Solomon 7:6.

Sunday 7.

You stirred on your seat again, the organ was playing the latest song before Dave would bless the congregation and wrap up the service and you were nervous.

You glanced at the crucified Jesus above him and you felt his eyes on yours; you felt him shove his holy hand on your chest and as the last notes of the song inundated the navel, you felt your throat sting with the green tint of your deep guilt, but at the same time, the rest of your body drown with the red warmth of your love and desire for Dave.

Is it worth it? you heard inside your head and your immediate response was yes.

Eternal damnation in exchange for a few hours of love. It was condemnedly worth it.

The service was over and you stood up with the rest of the congregation; you talked with a few people on your way out of the church and slowly and patiently you waited for everyone to disperse.

You walked around the gardens outside the church and slid between the gate that marked the beginning of Dave’s small house inside the church grounds. You rummaged around your small bag and pulled out the key he had given you earlier and with nervousness and the familiar guilt settled next to your heart; you let yourself into his house.

You turned on the lights. The space wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small and everything around smelled like him. For a priest’s home, the place lacked religious imagery, and you automatically chastised yourself for thinking about his priesthood again.

You sat on the loveseat next to the door as you waited for him and got dragged inside your head again; you talked about doing that throughout the week and you had agreed it was something you both wanted. But your head sent you through an unwanted train of thought and you sat there, thinking about the future. Something you hadn’t talked about.

After all, he would still be a priest and you would still be a young member of his congregation. You could spend time with him and let you love him and let him love you as much as you two wanted, but in the future… what else was there for you?

You could never ask him to leave his habit for you, you could never ask him to leave his life for you, you could never do something like that to him. But you were unsure if something like that had any other path but failure.

The door opened and there he was, unclasping his tab collar and dropping it on the end table as you rose from your seat and walked to him. He smiled at you and his hands found his place on your waist.

“You’re here.” he said, not surprised but relieved.

As he took off his attire in the sacristy and walked to his house from the church, he had a few minutes to think about what he was about to do. He didn’t allow himself to overthink it because if there was something he knew was that he wanted it; he wanted it more than he had wanted anything in his life. He couldn’t explain it even if he tried, but he knew there was something about you that made him feel human, there was something about you that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, maybe the way you talked to him, maybe the way you kissed him, maybe the way you always seemed to understand the moral and spiritual dilemma he was in. He didn’t know, but he knew that he loved you, even if he wasn’t supposed to, even when he wasn’t allowed.

And as he thought of it, love was one of the laws of the God he represented, and he felt it deeply.

“I’m here.” he pulled you to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded.

“Thank you.” you closed your eyes and bit your lip, shaking your head at him.

You felt his lips on yours as they re-discovered your kisses and his hands roamed to your middle back to press your chest to his.

You were amazed by how fast he had learned how you liked to be touched, how you liked to be kissed and caressed, as if he was just trying to commit to memory everything you ever wanted and he wanted to do it to you to please you.

Dave slid his hands from your back down to your hips and moved you softly to the side, without breaking the kiss he snaked his hands to the back of your thighs and lifted you. You smiled in his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked to his bedroom.

When you crossed the doorframe you started leaving small kisses on the skin of his neck and he sat on the edge of his bed with you in his lap, you were already feeling the hardness growing inside his pants and his hands started grazing up and down your thighs as he let you taste his neck how you best pleased.

Dave was in a haze. He understood then the power of physical touch combined with deep love; it enhanced the sensations, the flame inside his chest was burning him from the inside out with a deep desire he was sure he had never felt before, and you were there, moving slowly on his lap as you devoured the skin of his neck and kissed slowly around his jaw.

“Dave,” you whispered as you licked his earlobe and pulled out a shiver from him, he hummed in question “touch me.”

He didn’t hesitate on questioning where, his hands roamed all around your body, they were big and warm and they were rough; you cupped his jaw with both hands and took his lips in yours with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that he followed as his hands snuck inside your shirt and you moaned softly at the feeling of skin to skin.

You moved out of his lap and stood up in front of him, Dave let out a soft whine at the sudden loss of your weight on his body but stopped when you moved his legs open and stood between them.

“Take off my shirt, please.” you told him, not in an order but he obeyed, he grabbed the hem of it and lifted it, you raised your arms and felt his lips on your rib side as you finished taking it off and dropped it on the floor behind you.

Dave put his hands around your torso and licked your skin experimentally, which made you gasp at the feeling of his wet tongue against your skin and he smiled to himself, doing it again and nibbling on the same spot softly.

His hands slid to your waist and without being told to he unbuttoned your jeans and dragged them down slowly, his eyes directly on yours. You smiled at him with your reddened, kiss-swollen lips and he felt your smile settling inside his lower belly, his cock twitching inside his pants.

You put your hands on his shoulders as he helped you out of your shoes and jeans and when you were there, standing in front of him only in your underwear, he swore there wasn’t anything more divine than your body.

You sank on your knees and your hands landed on his thighs, Dave’s throat clutched and his chest turned as you smiled at him and your hands slid to his belt, you raised your eyebrows as if asking for permission and he nodded a few times, leaning backward into his hands to give you space for you to do whatever you wanted to him.

You unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, his breath hitched when your fingers hooked to the hem of both his pants and his boxers, and then he lifted his hips for you to pull them off him. Dave smiled when he saw you bite your lip at the sight of his hard cock resting on his abdomen. It did something unexpected on what he thought was his dead ego, but he loved the way you looked at it.

“Take off your shirt.” you said and again, without it being an order, he obeyed. Unbuttoned it as quickly as he could and slid it off his shoulders as you leaned over his lap and took his erection on your hand, your thumb grazing softly the tip and he threw his head back between his shoulders.

“Oh, my love.” he sighed out as you started pumping slowly and when he closed his eyes, you licked the underside and wrapped your lips around the tip, making him gasp.

You took it slowly, enjoying the taste of his pre-cum as it came out of him, pumping the rest you couldn’t fit inside your mouth with your hand.

Dave forced his eyes open and moved his head down to watch you, he shivered when he found you already looking at him; he moved his hand to your face and with his knuckles caressed your cheek, making you smile with his cock inside your mouth.

For him, looking at you on your knees between his legs was like looking at a sacrosanct painting; your lips around him taking as much of his length as you could, your saliva dripping from his dick to your hand, bobbing your head up and down as your eyes, those holy eyes that never left his, it was a pleasure he never thought he would get in his earthly life.

He felt himself close to cumming, and he pushed your head softly upwards, you rose from your knees and clashed your messy lips onto his and he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large hands roaming around the skin of your back. His fingers played with the back of your bra and he broke the kiss for a few seconds to unhook it and help you slide it off, you smiled when he sighed at the sight of your breasts in front of his face and he pulled you flush against his head, taking a nipple in his mouth.

The warmth of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue around the soft skin of your nipple made you cry out his name softly and arousal gathered between your legs. One of his hands rested on your other boob and kneaded delicately as you fisted his hair in your hand. Dave moved his mouth to your other nipple and lapped at it before trapping it inside his mouth, you pressed his head to your chest and let out a moan when his teeth grazed your nipple as he released it.

“I wanna taste you.” he muttered against your boob and you smiled at him, nodding.

He moved you softly to lie down on the bed; the sheets were cool and soft and he stood on the edge, taking you in again, studying your body.

He leaned down to you and you opened your legs to make space for him; he hovered over your body and kissed you again, softly, as if you were back in time to the first kiss he gave you in the sacristy, as if he wasn’t about to devour your body.

His kisses traveled from your mouth to your neck and your chest, he left one in each nipple, making you laugh, he left a trail of them over your belly and one over your belly button. As he kissed your abdomen and your thighs, you looked at the ceiling and you smiled at whoever was watching.

Dave took the hem of your panties on his fingers and you lifted your hips for him to slip them off you, you lifted your legs and he unhooked them from your ankles, grabbing your calves and opening your legs again. He gulped when he saw your wet, expectant pussy right in front of him and looked at your flushed face. He leaned down and left kisses around your thighs without breaking eye contact.

“Guide me.” he whispered and left a kiss right over the hood of your clit, making you moan.

You nodded once, and he looked at your pussy, opened the lips gently with his fingers and blew on your slick folds, making you shiver. He flattened his tongue and licked from your slit to your clit, tasting your arousal, moaning at the richness of it.

You slid your hand to your clit and looked at him.

“Here.” you mumbled, circling a few times to show him how. He had told you he had sex before his ordination, because he didn’t want to go into his holy orders without having experienced it and wondering for the rest of his life what he had missed, but he said it wasn’t as good as he thought it would be and before you, he thought he would never know. So you had to show him what you wanted and what you liked because his experience wasn’t vast.

Dave did as you showed and you moaned out loud, the pads of his fingers were warmer and bigger than yours and he was handling you so delicately you were already on edge.

He kept licking and circling your clit and then, without a second thought, he moved his fingers away and started circling your clit with his tongue.

“Oh m–my god,” you fisted his hair, pushing his face into your pussy and he pressed your hips onto the mattress, looking at your face with your mouth opened in pleasure and your eyes closed shut “Dave ke–keep doing that baby,” you pleaded and he did it, and started playing the pad of one of his fingers on your slit, making your hips buck slightly he saw you pant and smiled when you slid your free hand to play with your nipple so he added a second one to play with your entrance “inside, put them inside.” you said under your breath and he pushed his fingers slowly inside your cunt, making you let out a long moan of his name, he started pumping and curling his fingers inside as he had imagined you doing it all those weeks ago while touching himself in the shower and closed his eyes to hear you moan his name as he brought you closer and closer to pleasure.

He moved his fingers faster inside of you and hand fisted and pulled his hair as your moans became tamed screams and he thought of them as the most pious symphony that he and only him had the sacred pleasure to hear.

You wrapped a leg around his shoulders as you felt the knot inside your belly explode from his ministrations and you chanted his name over and over as he worked you through your orgasm. You panted for a few seconds and opened your eyes to the sight of Dave licking his fingers clean. You smiled at him and released his hair to motion him to come to you; he hovered over your body again and you put your hand on his nape to bring him to you; you moaned softly at your own taste and you felt it smile on your lips.

“What?” you asked in a whisper.

“Did you like it?” he asked back on your lips, you nodded and cupped his clean-shaven jaw, leaving a deep kiss on his lips.

“I loved it,” he smiled, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and felt his cock brushing lightly against your folds. “make love to me, Dave.”

You saw his smile widen, and it was his turn to nod to you, he kissed you again while his hand worked on aligning himself to you; he slid the tip through your folds and you gasped on his mouth when he found your entrance and started pushing in.

He did it slowly, no rush; he wanted to feel you in every inch of his cock; he wanted you to feel him and every ridge and vein of him as he found his home in you.

You nipped at his lip as he bottomed up and smiled when he stayed there, inside you, enjoying the wait for your body to acclimate to his, you looked into his eyes and you felt it.

You felt how you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As if his body was made for you and your body was made for him.

It felt right.

It felt sacred.

Dave started moving at a calmed pace and you with him, quickly finding a rhythm where your hips moved almost in unison and he thrusted into you deeply every time he moved. He was supporting his weight on one arm next to you while the other gripped your hip and helped you with the tantalizing dance you both were having.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck when your hands moved to his back and you pulled his body down to yours, his chest gliding yours and his hips circling as he thrusted faster into you.

Dave moaned into your neck when you scratched his back as his thrusts became pounds.

“Harder, please, baby, harder.” you whispered into his ear and he listened, driving into you as fast as his body allowed, the noise of his skin clashing with yours and the wetness of you leaking around his cock flooded the room and his moans grew louder and you dug your nails into his skin chanting his name as you got closer and closer to your second release.

“Yo–you’re a goddess,” he muttered into the skin of your neck as his cock grazed your cervix, his hand wrapped around your hips and he lifted your ass for him to thrust deeper, making you moan his name loudly “you’re m–my go–goddess.”

You slid your hands to his ass and fisted his buttcheeks, pushing him further into you.

Dave felt his orgasm closer and closer every time he drove into you and your warm walls started to clench around him with the closeness of your orgasm, he nibbled the skin of your neck and clutched his eyes shut tighter when his body started to stiffen as he pounded into you; he muttered your name a few times like a prayer he never knew he needed to make, and it sounded right, your name in his voice as he drove himself and you to climax, his own name on your sweet voice as you begged him for everything he had in himself, it was all right, it was all correct, there was nothing wrong, how could he had felt so guilty about it when it was the most perfect, most righteous, most sacred, most heavenly action he could do.

You in his arms, your hands on his body, his cock inside your cunt, you wrapped around him begging him to cum inside you, everything about it was all he could have asked for to feel like he was in heaven. He had almost said no to feel it, and he bursted inside you at the same time as you broke in pieces around him, thinking that he would rather live his life with you around him than his afterlife in heaven.

“I love you.” he muttered against the skin of your neck and you opened your eyes after riding the high of your orgasm and looked at the ceiling.

You frowned when you heard his words and when you remembered what he said to you before he came, and as you turned to the side to see him that red warmth you had felt earlier disappeared almost completely and the bright green taint of the deep guilt inside you washed over your body and your soul.

He looked at you and narrowed his eyes. His expression changed as he realized you weren’t going to answer his confession.

“Dave,” you whispered and his face changed, his brow furrowed and you saw his jaw tighten “what did we just do?”

pedrito's perma list: @queenofthefaceless @northernpunk @pascalesque @sleep-tight1 @cheekygeek05 @bii-aan-ckaa @letaliabane @starlightmornings @mouthymandalorianalso @supernaturalgirl @metalarmsandmanbuns @purplepascal042 @asta-lily @greeneyedblondie44 @missswriter @pedro-pastel

Dave York pit neighbors: @pascalslittlebrat @mypedrom @mothandpidgeon @rebelliouscat @hnt-escape @maharani-radha @hylliamoon

#dave york #dave york fanfiction #dave york x reader #dave york x you #dave york pit #dave york the equalizer #the equalizer #the equalizer 2 #the equalizer fanfic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal #pedro pascal characters #priest dave york

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marsbutterfly · 3 years

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Hey ! How are you ? Can I request an imagine for Hanji x f!reader where they both get reincarnated in modern time ? They both died side by side during the rubbling and when they get reincarnated they both have memories of their past life (they were already lovers). Reader thought she was never going to see her girlfriend again but one day she finds her by chance.

Take care and have a nice day !

Note: Thank you so much for requesting this. I had fun writing it and the prompt was *chefs kiss* so I really hope you like it.

In Another Life

Summary: Reincarnation is the doctrine or belief that the soul reappears after death in another and different bodily form.

Wattpad Version! | AO3 Version! |◁ II ▷|

Cold sweat drips down your face as you bolt awake, digging your nails into the bedsheets. The same nightmare has been waking you up in the middle of the night since you were a child.

In your dream, you are a soldier who battles to save humanity in the fight against titans. Somehow, you always manage to kill the gigantic beings and return safely to the world inside the walls.

Always by your side is a brown-haired woman with glasses, her left eye is missing in most of the dreams. In all honesty, you have never seen anyone so beautiful before and, somehow, you remember her name.

Hanji Zoe.

One day, you stood by her side as the world you’ve once known was being left behind, turned into dust. She held your face in her hands as tears streamed down her cheeks, the feeling of her lips against yours is vivid and you can even smell the apple she had earlier.

The scream of your comrades echoes through the plane and into your brain but all you can focus on is the image of Hanji’s body catching on fire as the same flames burn down your back.

She hits the ground seconds before you do and somehow you manage to land by her side, hand touching hand as her lifeless body begins to cool down. You don’t have much time to think before a titan’s massive foot squishes your bodies at the exact same time.

That’s usually when you wake up, when your lungs and heart explode inside your chest due to the pressure of the step. When every blood vessel in your body gives in to the pressure and bursts inside you.

You grab your phone, only to realize your alarm was about to go off anyway. So instead of trying to go back to sleep, you simply push the covers aside and begin to drag yourself to the bathroom in hopes of getting your day started.

Not every dream you have is a nightmare. Some of them are about a life you don’t remember living: The combination of joy and fear after joining the Survey Corps, the warmth of Hanji’s naked body against yours, the delicious smell of freshly made apple pie coming from the kitchen in the middle of the night.

At nights where you don’t dream about that life, you miss it. You miss being around your friends, being able to move around the trees as if you were flying, you miss her. Her deep, brown eyes are all you can think about and time slips away from you.

Once your morning routine is completed, you decide to go for a run in the park behind your house. Since the sun has been out for less than an hour, it shouldn’t be too busy and you’ll be able to enjoy some quiet time.

As the armband slides up your skin, a chilling sensation travels down your spine and nearly every particle of hair in your body rises, even though you can’t understand why. So you simply shake your head and push the feeling down.

Carefully, you select your favorite playlist and check to make sure your laces are tied but before you can actually look, your phone rings loudly in your ear nearly giving you a heart attack.

Without a second thought, you decline the call without even checking to see who it is and you make your way outside.

The cold breeze welcomes you and the sweet smell of the food cart in front of your house hits your nose. Usually after a run, you reward yourself with one of their delicious crepes and that is enough motivation for you to finish your jog.

At this time, the park is the most peaceful place in the city. No crying babies in their strollers or loud business men walking around on their phone, there is only you and maybe three more people.

Your favorite song comes on and you feel the energy pumping through your veins with every beat. It’s the perfect weather for a run and you silently enjoy the calm that washes over your body.

Your mind wanders back to your nightmares and you start to remember the better part of it. The times Hanji would take you to a secret picnic after she became commander or the makeout sessions in the janitors closet.

In some ways, you could even feel her warm skin against yours, her kiss-swollen lips attached to you by a string of saliva. It nearly feels as if you had lived throughout all of it, but it couldn’t be possible.

You’re so deep into your thoughts that you don’t notice the stick on the floor and, when you do, it’s too late and you’re already halfway towards the ground so all you can do is protect your face from the concrete.

The impact itself isn’t too painful but the humiliation is what stings the most. If only you hadn’t gotten that call before leaving your house, you would’ve remembered to tie your shoelaces and therefore they wouldn’t have gotten stuck on the stick on the floor.

This isn’t the first time the woman in your dreams has caused you trouble. In a few of your memories, she would make too much noise when you sneak out and the Commander would eventually catch you.

Ever since you were young and these dreams first started, you’ve been going to a therapist after the other in hopes of understanding what all of this means and why is it happening to you but all came to the same result: inconclusive.

No matter how many doctors you see, no one can understand why you have such vivid dreams about a war nobody has ever heard anything about or creatures that have never once been proven to exist.

With your ass on the ground, you notice you used the word “memories” instead of dreams and for a second you feel as if all air has been sucked out of your lungs by a massive vacuum.

You shake your head, pushing those feelings deep down inside of you and getting on your knee, preparing to tie your laces when a familiar perfume rushes by you.

It’s faint and quick, probably carried by the wind but enough for you to snap your head backwards. A comforting feeling settles in your chest, warm and fuzzy if you could describe it. That’s exactly how the woman from your dreams smelled like.

You notice a brunette in a bright yellow sports bra turning around a bush not too far away, but you can’t see if she’s wearing glasses or if she only has one eye, like Hanji did.

“Y/N don’t be ridiculous!” You say to yourself, standing up and brushing away the dirt from your clothes, “Hanji is not a real person, she’s like an imaginary friend.”

Forgetting all about your fall, you decide to resume your run. The pain in your foot forces you to go a bit slower than you are used to but nothing too serious.

Once you are done running your laps around the park and begin to make your way back home, a few drops of rain begin to fall on your skin, forcing you to rush home.

As you are eagerly awaiting for the crepe you’ve been dreaming about for hours, the owner of the small cart has a sad expression on his face.

“I’m fresh out of batter. My husband just went to grab some more, it should take a little longer than 45 minutes, I am so sorry Y/N.” He says and you sigh, a compassionate smile on your lips and you nod.

“You will save me the first one you make when he’s back right?” You ask and the man eagerly nods.

“Of course. With banana, strawberry and chocolate, right?”

And you laugh, knowing that the only reason why he knows your order so well is because his crepes have been your breakfast each morning since you first moved into this apartment.

Once you are done with the conversation, you rush up the stairs and immediately into the shower. With a washcloth you gently brush the dirt out of your bruised knee, quietly hissing as the burning sensation takes over.

Even though you know you aren’t supposed to do so, you pour hydrogen peroxide on top of the wound and a scream leaves your throat at every step of the way.

“Today really isn’t my day.” You say to yourself as you begin to wash your hair. A few specs of dirt fall to the ground and a prolonged sigh escapes your lips. Everything just seems to be going wrong: rain, no crepe, fell during a run, what’s next? Waiting in line at the coffee shop for over an hour?

As you stand in line, you realize you should have kept your mouth shut. Even though you ordered online, the amount of people surrounding the pick up area was beyond ridiculous and you were definitely getting late for work.

Once your turn finally comes, you thank silently in hopes that you will be able to actually make it in time. So with your chest out and happiness on your face, you loudly say over the many other voices, “Order for Y/N!”

The guy behind the counter looks confused as he checks every cup individually and you watch over him as he does so. He shoots you a sadden and a little annoyed look and you realize that the “Order” button never got pushed.

Your eyes fill with tears of frustration but you brush them away and take your phone out, repeating your online order to the barista on the register and they write it down perfectly.

Your eyes are glued to your phone’s screen while you wait for a message from your boss but the same comforting sensation you felt this morning is back again. Maybe it’s the smell of coffee that reminded you of the trips to Marley or the crowds of different people around, much like eldians and marleyans.

“I have to get this shit out of my brain.” You say, shaking your head and focusing on typing out a message to your friend, complaining and hoping that you won’t get fired today. You worked too hard to get this job and if they let you go over some 20 minute wait, you’ll raise hell on Earth.

“Order for Y/N?” A familiar voice says but you can’t identify from where.

So you walk to the counter, finally putting your phone away and counting the coffees. Your eyes land on the barista’s hand, who carries your regular order. You reach for it and in a split of a second, your hands touch.

The world around you seems to stop and so does your breathing. When you look at her, you realize she is the part of you that has been missing all along. She’s a real person and not a dream. You look at her nametag, just making sure you aren’t going insane and there it is. “Hanji Zoe”

In that minimal touch, you are bombarded by the emotions of a lifetime ago. The first day you met, the first titan experiment you had done together, the first kiss, the first time you’ve had to kill a titan because she would always get too damn close to being eaten alive.

But you are also reminded of the last meal you both ate, the last nose rub, the last time her lips touched yours, the last hand holding, the last breath you both took before you woke up where you are now.

And just like that, feelings you didn’t know were possible for you to have emerged from deep within your chest as if a box that has been sitting deep inside the closet has now just been opened. It even seems like the world has just gotten a bit more colorful.

Tears shine in your eyes as the coffee you just waited so long for hits the ground. With a smile on your face, you wrap your arms around her neck and pull her over the counter. It doesn’t take her more than a second to seal your lips together.

Her breath tastes like the hot chocolate she had earlier that day but it still manages to awaken butterflies that laid dormant in your stomach throughout your entire life. It’s not until your phone rings in your pocket that you are brought back to reality.

“I’m so late for work!” You smile at her and rush out of the store, the container with the other cups in your left hand.

“Wait!!” A voice screams from just outside the coffee shop and you immediately turn around to see Hanji, her hat in her hand as she comes closer to you. “I knew something was missing my entire life and….”

“And now I realize it was you.” You two say in perfect unison and she nods.

“Why don’t we start over? This time, without any titans around.” She asks and you smile.

“Hey, I’m Y/N.” You say, extending your hand.

“I’m Hanji Zoe and I would love to take you on a date sometime.” Hanji meets you in the middle, shaking your hand.

“I really have to go.” You say and a frown appears on her face, you have to fight the will to quit your job and start a nice, little life in the woods with her. Something you’ve always talked about but sadly never got to have.

“I’ll wait for you right here then.” She says, letting go of your hand slowly and you immediately touch the back of her head and bring her in for a long kiss while still managing to keep the cups in your hand still.

This time it was not a goodbye kiss. It was simply the second first kiss you’ve ever had with Hanji and hopefully, it will not be the last.

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starksinthenorth · 3 years

Text

Musings on ASOIAF Ladies and Ambition

I’ve noticed people use “ambition” to describe Sansa and Daenerys as if it’s a bad word or an insult (often called “power hungry”). Yet in the text of the series, neither of them are shown to be ambitious people as a core characteristic. I blame the series for a lot of this, because it failed to explore the internal dialogue of Sansa, Arya, and even Cersei, who ends up more humanized than either of them by the end (because of the maybe baby).

Cersei Lannister is the classic ambitious ASOIAF lady, whose point-of-view is introduced in perhaps the most iconic sentence of any introductory chapter:

She dreamt she sat the Iron Throne, high above them all.

I can’t think of a sentence in ASOIAF that better introduces the internal thoughts and view of its leading character.

In comparison, Sansa’s first sentence is receiving news about her father’s whereabouts, Daenerys is shown her new dress to meet Drogo, and Arya has crooked stitches again. Arya’s works to frame her relationship with Sansa and her internal struggle to fit the feminine Westerosi mold, while Sansa and Daenerys are setting up plot points. None of these interactions signal ambition, bad or good. Daenerys did not arrange her wedding, Sansa is just told the information by her Septa, and while Arya is aspiring to have straight stitches, that’s hardly an ambitious goal for a girl of nine.

Fans rarely, if ever, deny Cersei’s cruel, cold, often stupid ambition. In fact, it’s one of the reason people seem to love her. She’s internally open about what she wants - power - and when she wants it - now:

All of them are burning now, she told herself, savoring the thought. They are dead and burning, every one, with all their plots and schemes and betrayals. It is my day now. It is my castle and my kingdom.

- AFFC, Cersei III

The rule was hers; Cersei did not mean to give it up until Tommen came of age. I waited, so can he. I waited half my life. She had played the dutiful daughter, the blushing bride, the pliant wife. She had suffered . . . She had contended with Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, and her vile, treacherous, murderous dwarf brother, all the while promising herself that one day it would be her turn. If Margaery Tyrell thinks to cheat me of my hour in the sun, she had bloody well think again.

- AFFC, Cersei V

Cersei is the definition of a power hungry lady, scheming and cheating at every point. Yes, Sansa learned from her, but most of Sansa’s internalized lessons of Cersei’s were to do the exact opposite.

"The night's first traitors," the queen [Cersei] said, "but not the last, I fear. . . . Another lesson you should learn, if you hope to sit beside my son. . . . The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy."

"I will remember, Your Grace," said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me.

- ACOK, Sansa VI

Cersei isn’t the only POV character who views herself outside of conventional Westerosi standards and aspires to something beyond being a wife and mother. Arya Stark has ambition writ clear on the page, though it is not so cold or denying other people their rights or chances. Compared to Cersei, Arya doesn’t want everything, crown and throne and kingdom and all. She just wants something, and even that is denied to highborn women in Westeros. Even when she asks her father about her future, a man who wants to do right by his children and loves them, Eddard Stark is blinded by Westerosi patriarchy:

Arya cocked her head to one side. "Can I be a king's councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?"

"You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon."

- AGOT, Eddard V

With Arya in this, I see some parallels to Elaena Targaryen, who was so good at math and management she served as the secret Master of Coin while her husband carried the title. Elaena was “more willful than Rhaena, but not as beautiful as either of her sisters,” yet is also said to have been “more beautiful at age seventy than at age seventeen,” growing into herself like Arya is expected to. They both even cut their hair, Arya to hide her gender and Elaena to hide her beauty, both instances to gain freedom from captivity in the Red Keep.

Despite both these examples of ambition - Cersei’s all-encompassing, without care for how it affects the realm, and Arya’s attempt to find a place in the world outside the Westerosi model - it still becomes an insult when people speak of Daenerys and Sansa.

Critics claim Sansa is ambitious, and negatively so, because she “wants to be queen.” But this criticism misses a vital point of Sansa’s character. Unlike Cersei, she does not want to be queen because of the power and political influence, but because she will be living a song. In the start, Sansa’s got her head in the clouds, not to the dirty world of politics. Her very first chapter lays out this motivation incredibly clearly:

All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs.

When she thinks of Joffrey and being in love with him, it’s because he’s “handsome and gallant as any prince in the songs” (AGOT, Sansa II),

Alternatively, it has been said that Sansa is ambitious because of her claim to Winterfell. But compare how Sansa thinks of her claim to how Big Walder Frey does. Despite being far down the inheritance line, he is certain he will someday possess the Twins. He’s likely willing to kill his family to become Lord of the Crossing, and already has killed Little Walder.

In comparison, Sansa isn’t the one who realizes her claim as heir to Winterfell, even after her two younger brothers are believed dead. It’s Dontos who mentions it, and after she still thinks that Robb will have sons to inherit.

But she had not forgotten his words, either. The heir to Winterfell, she would think as she lay abed at night. It's your claim they mean to wed. Sansa had grown up with three brothers. She never thought to have a claim, but with Bran and Rickon dead . . . It doesn't matter, there's still Robb, he's a man grown now, and soon he'll wed and have a son. Anyway, Willas Tyrell will have Highgarden, what would he want with Winterfell?

- ASOS, Sansa II

Sansa’s not ready to kill Bran and Rickon if they show up. Her arc is about taking off the rose-tinted glasses and seeing reality, but also working to make reality like a song. For example, her idea of the Tournament of the Winged Knights for Sweetrobin. It’s a song come to life, all by her making. TBD how the ending goes, of course, but it shows that trajectory.

And finally, Daenerys.

Daenerys is not driven by some lifelong desire to win and dominate. She’s forced into it, a la Brienne’s “no chance and no choice.” If Daenerys were raised in a stable environment, I have a feeling she’d be much more like Sansa: dreamy, hopeful, sweet and studious. Happy.

But instead, her eyes are open.

When she’s introduced as a character, she shows an awareness for the schemes and politics of the world. She knows her brother is called the Beggar King in the Free Cities, and is doubtful of the smallfolk’s secret toasts to Viserys III that Illyrio Mopatis claims happen across Westeros.

Like Sansa and Cersei, there’s evidence of her goals, hopes, and wishes in the very first chapter:

"I don't want to be his queen," she heard herself say in a small, thin voice. "Please, please, Viserys, I don't want to, I want to go home."

. . .

Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio's estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him.

Daenerys remembers home as the house with the red door in Braavos. It’s her brother whose only home and stability was the Red Keep, not her.

Throughout her journey of power to take back the Seven Kingdoms, she is doubtful at every turn and most of her wishes are for happiness, for peace, for stability.

Dany had no wish to reduce King's Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father.

- ACOK, Daenerys II

A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros?

- ADWD, Daenerys II

Even later, Daenerys is determined to bring peace to the lands she currently rules. She does plan to return to the Seven Kingdoms, but it’s not driven by pure ambition. And this is, notably, from a conversation when Prince Quentyn Nymeros Martell asks her to come back and claim them now, saying she has allies for that conquest. And still she turns him down, with promises that it will only happen eventually:

"Daenerys said. ". . . .One day I shall return to Westeros to claim my father's throne, and look to Dorne for help. But on this day the Yunkai'i have my city ringed in steel. I may die before I see my Seven Kingdoms. Hizdahr may die. Westeros may be swallowed by the waves."

- ADWD, Daenerys VII

And yet in both Sansa and Daenerys, these visions and hopes for the futures they might have are considered unbridled ambition, although they turn more on happiness and peace for themselves and their people, rather than the type of ambition Cersei has, which is clearly her own power and being heralded above everyone.

Daenerys’ thoughts in her sixth chapter of ADWD have the same energy as Sansa’s “I will make them love me.”:

"A queen must know the sufferings of her people."

. . .

A queen must listen to her people, Dany reminded herself.

Daenerys has figured out how to make her people love her, by wearing her “floppy ears” and appealing to the masses, listening to them, et cetera. She’s also a bit ahead of Sansa in the realm of ruling, to be sure.

But how are these similar thoughts ambition in either of them? It’s an attempt to empathize and connect, not to throw away and disregard and rule by force and domination. Both these ladies are more nuanced, and the fandom does them a disservice by painting them as ambitious or power-hungry when at the end for both of them, it’s a desire to have a happy, stable, loving life.

#asoiaf meta #sansa stark #daenerys targaryen #cersei lannister #arya stark

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azems-familiar · 3 years

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Tell me about the corruption arc Bestie

oh bless you are going to get Such a textwall and i do not even care

what i am currently most emotions about is. how Revan's entire outlook shifts so gradually through the war that she doesn't even realize it's changing/changed! like, she gets to this point where she ends up literally not able to completely remember why she went to war in the first place - it was about revenge, wasn't it? wasn't it? hasn't it always been about- saving the galaxy and about destroying the Mandalorians and about winning?

and like! it hasn't! when she first went to war it was out of compassion, it was this determination that she would do the right thing when no one else would, because the galaxy was being BROKEN and no one was stepping up, and what are Jedi if not compassionate, and what are Jedi if they do not stand by the oaths they took when they were knighted? and like- yes, she was determined to win, but she was determined to win so that no one else would suffer the way the Cathar did, so that she could find justice for their deaths, and the line between justice and vengeance can be so blurred at times but there is such a clear difference at the same time and what Revan ended up doing at Malachor- it's the latter, not the former. violence begets violence begets violence and it's a cycle and in committing a genocide against the Mandalorians to make them pay for a genocide of the Cathar it's just perpetuating this cycle, and early Revan would've- seen that, or at least known it wasn't the right way to end this!

but she gets so caught up in her own legend that she loses all of it. like- how to put this into words in a way that isn't just exploring it through prose. she has the mask and it's originally the symbol of her promise, of her commitment, but it becomes this symbol for her and for her victory from the moment she wins her first battle with it, and the Jedi who follow her, who took her name as their cause, they already see her as their leader. and the Republic starts talking about her as a hero and tying this all to the mask, and it just keeps getting worse and worse as she wins more and more because she is being heralded as this savior and she was told from a young age that she was meant to save the galaxy and she'd never thought it was true, not really, but now- well, she starts to doubt. she starts to believe, maybe, that she really is meant to

and like. the sacrifices are such a huge part of this, i don't know if i can completely explain it. Cassus Fett is out here constantly pushing her to see how far she'll go, and the problem is, the strategies work. she uses people as pawns and it's this constant. sacrificing the few to save the many, and it works but it takes its toll on her. it gets her seeking out absolution from Alek and it gets her justifying it to herself as sacrifices are necessary in war because sometimes, sacrifices are necessary for the greater good and war, this war, is for the greater good, so it follows from there, and originally it's a justification but she comes to believe in it because her sacrifices are winning, not just battles but the war, and she's constantly being told by so many people that she is saving the galaxy and it all just- sinks in. and the mask becomes her in all the ways that matter, because she cannot stay human and cope with everything she's done, everything she's killed.

and also! she has to be right at all times. every decision she's made in this war, it has to be the right one, because if it isn't - if she was wrong - she made these choices for her pride and her pride alone, and she can't handle that. she has to be Right and the Mandalorians, especially Fett, have to be Wrong, and she can't see any shades of grey in this (despite Everything she does being this mess of grey) because she can't confront the fact that her own pride is what lets her really lean into this savior thing. she has to be better than the Mandalorians because if she's not-

if she really is the same as they are, then what was all of this for?

and like. she is angry, she is arrogant, she is proud, these are her flaws, her faults, and combined with this desperate need to prove herself that stems from how she was always regarded as too angry and too attached and too dark by a lot of the Jedi growing up, especially a couple certain masters who i will not name but would like to murder, it all just snowballs into this. she has to be the legend because she has to prove herself and also she needs to Win and she needs to be Better and she needs to do all of this and she physically cannot do it as a human. so she makes herself both more than and less than one. and more than this, like! there's this whole thing where. she cannot accept responsibility for her own role in all of this. she cannot lay the lives of everyone she's sacrificed for her victory on her own shoulders, otherwise she will break, because she is twenty-two years old when she goes to war and twenty-five when she gives the order to activate the Mass Shadow Generator and that same compassion that led her to go to war makes it impossible for her handle the Guilt of everything she's done.

so she turns. and she lays it all at Cassus Fett's feet. because he is the one who drives her into these sacrifices and he is the one who pushes her and he is the one who- on and on and on, she turns him into the villain and the scapegoat and like - yeah, the Mandalorians are at least half at fault for all this, but no one is forcing her into this. (except Vitiate, all of this has been Vitiate from the very beginning, and that's why it's all a tragedy because there were no right answers and at the same time Everyone was right and there was never any other way any of this could end - Revan will always go to war and Alek and the Exile will always follow and Malachor V will always burn) she makes Fett into the personification of all her guilt and she turns it all into anger and she declares that she will get revenge on him for everything he's made her do and so she kills her guilt in the dirt on Dxun, stabs Fett through the gut with his own spear and takes the breastplate off his still-living body to turn into her own armor as proof of her victory, and in his final moments he tells her that they are the same and she looks at him and says that is why you have to die because no one, no one can know that in the end, she Is just like them. that when pushed into a war, she fights for the thrill of battle, that she wants the victory more than she wants anything else, that she is no longer a Jedi and she isn't sure what to do with that.

Fett dies, and then Revan turns, with a golden beskar breastplate and a red sash added to her black robes, and she goes to Malachor V and she kills Mandalore and she shatters the Mandalorians into dust for all their crimes (for all her guilt) (for all her rage and bitter determination and the last dying shards of her compassion). a planet dies, the Mandalorians die, and a war is won and the Republic is saved but that isn't enough. it's not enough. she no longer knows how to be at peace, she has turned herself so successfully into the mask and the legend that without the war she does not know how to exist and so she- goes to find a new one, because the galaxy isn't ever going to be saved.

and the worst part of all of this is- there's this moment, this battle. the second battle of Althir. she's been making bigger and bigger sacrifices but she's never directly fired on her own people before, but this battle - it was all a trap, of sorts, and she is losing, and there is this moment in which she has to choose between a strategic retreat to save her fleet and her people, or a victory, or winning even though it means deliberately killing tens of thousands of her own people to do it. and it's sort of this point of no return for her when maybe things could be different - maybe she could turn back, maybe victory doesn't have to be all-important to her - and then they can't, and she can't, and it does. and she gives the order to kill off a third of the ships she has with her for that victory.

and she does not mourn it.

because sacrifices are necessary in war.

and in the end, living up to the legend she's made herself into - being it, completely and utterly - has become the most important thing to her, more important than saving lives.

and this - it's why she falls, in the end. she makes the conscious choice to become Sith (she was very much hovering on the edge of the Dark, but she wasn't completely fallen) after escaping from Vitiate, because the Jedi weren't strong enough to defeat the Mandalorians, and like - it's not the same, but also, yes it is. it all leads here. everything she has ever gone through leads to this moment, standing on Korriban, surrounded by dust as red as the blood that soaked it a millennium ago with the cold wind stretching her cloak out behind her, when she ignites her violet lightsaber and names herself Darth Revan.

(Revan, still, because her name is not a name, it has not been a name in years, her name is a title in the mouths of her Jedi and her soldiers and her enemies, Revan, Revan, save us, Revan, kill us, Revan, lead us to victory.

and she will.)

#you are getting the Whole Ramble i am not ashamed of this #ramblings #long post #kotor #darth revan #you really did not specify you just said tell me about the corruption arc #well #now you have. probably 2k words about the corruption arc #ENJOY THEM #:)#god i could get more into this in depth but i would need to start pulling sections of prose and also detailing out specific battles #and i was Trying to write this as a summary lol #hmmm this probably qualifies as #my writing #it's prose enough i suppose #have fun reading the novel

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santiagogarcia · 3 years

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cold hands, warm heart

Pairing: Llewyn Davis x fem!Reader

Summary: Llewyn's cold and wet and he doesn't have a place to stay for the night, so you bring him inside. As one does.

Rating: E/M (18+)

Content warnings: explicit sexual content (unprotected p in v sex), recreational drug use (pot), strong language, reader has a broken foot, modern setting

Word count: 2.2K

A/N: This was my contribution for @sergeantkane’s Oscar Fandom (Valentine’s) Fic Exchange back in February. But since I was on a health-related hiatus, it got published on AO3. I’m finally posting it here. Obligatory: I’m more gifmaker than writer, English isn’t my first language, and my spelling is a wildly inconsistent combination of British and American.

For @wasicskosgirl

A flurry of pain-induced curses rises from two floors below and you peer down through the fire escape grille. A man, poorly dressed for the weather, with a headful of drizzle-softened Roman curls and a guitar case, nurses the stinging fingers of his right hand. They’ve narrowly escaped being amputated by the Allen’s heavy, faulty sash window. Yeah, Marty’s been meaning to ask the super to fix that.

“Hey,” you call down, your breath misting the frigid mid-February air, “you okay?”

He blinks up through snowflakes floating down like cherry blossom petals. “I guess?” He kneads his wounded fingers into the palm of his left hand. “Just so you know, I’m not breaking and entering. You don’t need to call the cops or anything.”

You know. You recognised him immediately. “It’s Llewyn, right?”

A frown knits his brows. Warily, he asks, “Do I know you?”

“Not really. I see you come and go every other week, though. Marty and Sue must really like you.”

“Like is a strong word," he says, with a snort. "I think they just have a high tolerance for my bullshit.”

Your baked laugh—too loud and girlish—echoes in the narrow alley. “Can you get in?”

He shakes his head. “Latch’s caught. Looks like I’m locked out.”

“They leave you a key?”

“They’re not that tolerant.”

It's not like you're shouting, but your voices carry in the close air and neighbours are already yelling at you to shut up. You laugh it off and wave Llewyn up to your floor.

He gives the window to the Allen’s apartment a forlorn, longing look—as if he just blew through Plans A through Z for the evening—and trundles up the rattling steel steps. His nose twitches when he gets to your platform and sees you wrapped up in an old comforter like a human burrito, nursing a hand-rolled joint. “That what I think it is?”

“It’s medicinal,” you say, innocently, nodding at the orthopaedic boot encasing your fractured foot and offer him the spliff.

He hesitates, like it’s some kind of trap, then shrugs out a ‘why not’ and sits beside you. “Llewyn Davis.” He offers you his hand, fingers poking out of frayed gloves.

You give them a cursory examination. “I don’t think there’s any permanent damage. Always hurts more when it's cold.” But, just in case, you don’t let go of his hand, incubating it between your gloves.

“That your professional medical opinion, Doctor…?”

He’s fishing for a name, which disappoints you, because you thought he'd remember. Most men remember the girl they get punched in the face over. “Dancer, not doctor," you correct, hoping it will jog his memory.

He glances at the boot. “Someone tell you to break a leg and you took them literally?”

“Funny. When you’re the wrong side of twenty-five old injuries start to add up.” You don’t want to embarrass yourself with the truth: that you tripped over your own feet.

Llewyn dips his chin into his scarf and wraps his free arm around his legs, prompting you to share your comforter. He huddles gratefully beneath it and you can feel the damp through your parka. “What happened to your coat?”

“I’m between coats right now. It’s—” He passes you the joint and tries a name on you that almost offends you. “Right?”

“Not even close. You really don’t remember me at all, do you?” Were you really that forgettable?

“Nonono—you're the pretty girl at the Allen’s New Year’s Eve party.”

You roll your eyes. That was almost smooth, except there were a lot of pretty girls at that party.

“Waitwaitwait, it’s—” His second guess is so close you decide to finally tell him who you are. A smile of recognition and realisation dawns on his face. “Yeah, that's it. I remember your boyfriend, too. Kind of a jerk, as I recall.”

“So were you,” you point out and Llewyn doesn’t disagree with you.

“I was kind of a sorry mess that night. I wouldn’t’ve hit on you if I’d known you were with someone. Your boyfriend gonna come out here and punch me for talking to you again?”

“I’m between boyfriends right now. And if it’s any consolation you were right about him: he was kind of a jerk.” But you don’t want to ruin your high by discussing your ex. You nod at the guitar case at Llewyn’s feet. “I’ve seen you perform a couple of times.”

“Yeah?”

“At Arliss and that place on West Twenty-Sixth—”

“The Owl Bar?”

“What a weird place.”

“I know, right? It’s almost creepy.” He steals a glance at you, looks away so you don't accuse him of staring. “Would I have seen you on, I dunno, like Broadway or something?”

“I was never that good of a dancer. I teach four-to-seven-year-olds the basics of ballet over at the Academy.” The snow’s coming down fast and heavy now and you brush the flakes crowning Llewyn’s curls. “Think we’d better get inside. You know if you don’t have a Plan B, you can stay here tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll figure something out.”

“Now?” It’s after midnight. “Llewyn,” you reason with him as he helps you to your feet, “unless you’re planning to murder me, my roommate and her cousin, it’s fine. Really.”

“You got a couch I can sleep on?”

“Couch is taken." You explain your roommate’s cousin has an audition at Julliard in the morning. Llewyn starts to say something about the floor being fine, but you cut him off. “You can sleep with me.” Shit, that came out wrong. “In my room I mean.”

◻️

It feels like you’re back in high school even though you’re a grown-ass woman and neither your roommate nor her snoring cousin would have any objections to you bringing someone home. You usher Llewyn into your cosy lamp-lit room and tell him to remove his clothes.

He blinks at you with lashes so stupidly long and thick you’re sure they brush his cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t mean all of them. Jesus. I’m gonna lay them over by the radiator, dry them out.” You grip a fistful of his sleeve. “I don’t know how many blocks you walked in the rain, but you’ll be lucky if you don’t catch a cold, or worse.”

Timidly, Llewyn shrugs the corduroy jacket off his shoulders. You won't understand until much later that it’s not being stripped down to his underwear that embarrasses him—he's not shy in that way. It’s your kindness. It’s unfamiliar to him; something he’s unaccustomed to navigating. While you hobble out to the living room as quietly as possible, he sits tentatively on the edge of the bed, figuring you’ll throw him a spare pillow and a blanket for the floor. So when you return and tell him he’s welcome to share your bed, he’s even more awkward and out of his depth. The floor is an option—whatever he’s more comfortable with (you make sure he knows that)—but you seem so comfortable and unbothered by his presence that he decides to take you up on your offer.

And it's not like either of you plan to have sex or that it even crossed your minds (well, maybe a little). It sort of just happens; born of an unspoken need that you both share, and it starts when Llewyn shifts restlessly and his hand brushes the skin at the small of your back where your tank top has ridden up.

“Jesus!” You stiffen beneath the duvet.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t tryna cop a feel, all right?”

“It’s not that—Are your hands always that cold?” It feels like someone backed you against an icicle.

“I can put the gloves back on…”

But he doesn't need to do that. You reach behind you for his arm and wrap it around you, lacing your fingers through his and your body heat slowly does the trick.

“Better?” His breath warms the back of your neck and he shifts to close the space between the two of you.

“A little.” You squirm and clamp your thighs together to stem the first prickle of the heat that’s begun to throb between your legs—involuntarily pressing the curve of your ass into Llewyn’s crotch. He responds receptively, even before an apology has formulated in your brain.

“Can I touch you?” His voice is husky, filled with the gentle promise of sex and you’re immediately intoxicated by it. If you’re really honest with yourself, your attraction to Llewyn was instantaneous; you’ve wanted him since that New Year’s Eve party. You think you might have left with him if your dickhead of a boyfriend hadn’t made a scene and Llewyn hadn’t escalated things.

In answer you guide his hand down beneath the waistband of your pyjama bottoms and inside your underwear. Llewyn pushes into the V between your thighs to palm your cunt and you roll onto your back, hoisting your hips and ass to get your PJs and underwear down over your thighs. He thumbs your clit with skill and attentiveness, as if he were strumming at the strings on his guitar. The appreciative moan that escapes you is muffled as his mouth meets yours. Tonguing at the seem of your lips, he plunges a probing middle finger inside you. Blindly, you feel for Llewyn's boxers and tug them down over the swell of his ass until his arousal bobs free and you’re both half-naked.

“Fuck,” you hiss as he slides a second finger, knuckle-deep, inside your pussy. With one hand threading through his thick dark still-damp curls, the other takes his length and begins to stroke him.

“You want me inside you, dove?”

“Yes.” Fuck yes. You know he’s just as eager for you when he begins thrusting into your palm.

Llewyn withdraws his fingers to help both of you out of your remaining clothing and then grips the base of his cock, lining it up with your entrance. Your petulant whine at his aching, teasing slowness is swallowed by a gasp when he finally pushes inside your heat. With a curse of tortured ecstacy, he fills you, his breath hot and damp against your skin. For an agonising moment that stretches unbearably, he stills—to let you adjust to him, to appreciate the delicious fullness—until you half plead, half order him to move. Llewyn doesn’t need to be told twice, rocking into you with shallow, measured thrusts that build to a feral crescendo; rough, hurried, balls-deep and cervix-bruising. He tells you how good you feel, how warm and wet and soft you are and your pussy clenches around him as if to draw him deeper, wanting him to hollow you out.

“Can I cum in you?” He’s close to his climax, breathing heavily.

You tilt your head to nod against his shoulder and moments later Llewyn loses himself inside you with a cascading, half-choked moan of release. The pulsing knot at your core unravels, the walls of your cunt spasming to send warmth and eye-fluttering shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body. He fucks you through your orgasm, his pace slow and languid and sensual until you come down and he softens, his cum-smeared and pussy-slicked cock slipping out of you.

Llewyn shifts to your side, pillowing his head in the crook of your neck, arm slung across your breasts. Your bodies are sheened with cooling sweat and you pull the covers up over you before fisting your hand into his locks. A trembling sigh escapes him and his grip tightens around you, holding onto you like a drowning man hanging onto a buoy. Your bladder feels uncomfortably full and your cast-encased foot itches like a motherfucker but you don’t move. You don't let go of Llewyn Davis, either.

◻️

“You know I’m playing at The Small Blues Club tonight,” he tells you at the door, whispering because the Julliard cousin is still fast asleep on the couch.

“I did not know that,” you say.

“It’s over on Bleecker. You could come…if you wanted—that is, if you’re not doing anything. I don’t know what your plans are…if you have plans.” He rambles uncertainly. In the snowed-in, washed-out watercolour dawn there’s something diffident and a little standoffish about him; as if he knows the light exposes him for what he really is: a struggling musician trapped in a Kafkaesque existence, the future bleak as the New York skyline in winter. Probably not something a pretty ballet teacher with an apartment and a good credit score would be interested in. “Maybe I could buy you a drink afterwards? I know I’m kind of doing things ass-backwards but I'd really like to see you again. Last night wasn't just—”

“On Bleecker?” You rescue him from himself. He’s so wrong about you: you are interested. “What time should I be there?”

Llewyn scratches his forehead like you've surprised him with a complex math problem. “Any time after seven?” Like it's no big deal; trying to conceal his excitement the way people who are used to being disappointed often do. “That mean you’ll be there?”

“It’s not a date,” you warn, in your most serious teacher-voice.

“Oh, no,” he agrees, nodding along earnestly, “definitely not that.” It's his eyes that give that give him away: big and brown and puppyish, and smiling.

You both know it definitely is.

#llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis x you #18+#*mine #*#*my fic

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nileqt87 · 3 years

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Ramblings about Lucifer referencing Bones, “Close your eyes.” and shows influencing each other

That was never just a Bones reference being made and the season finale admitted it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv_1dJk5yEM

David Boreanaz played the ironically-named Angel on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel: the Series. His character has *so many* parallels with Lucifer (far more than Booth outside of the law enforcement/crime procedural connection).

Angel's spinoff also has noir crime drama aspects mixed with the supernatural starring an immortal protagonist with a dark past and infamously villainous reputation fighting evil as a supernatural private detective in the City of Angels (a city known for its dark underbelly juxtaposed with fame and glamor, broken dreams and chasing eternal youth) and navigating human law (including the LAPD and evil lawyers) while not legally existing.

Angel also fell in love with a blonde human heroine (Buffy Summers) after lifetimes of self-destructive, not-so-heroic behaviors (getting his soul back did *not* make Angel a hero and human Liam was a lecherous drunk with unfulfilled ambitions and father issues) who inspired him to become a better man and make human connections.

AtS made heavy use of sprawling nighttime Downtown L.A. cityscape shots, which Lucifer also shared an abundance of.

During both of their first cases, they failed to save the troubled blonde girl they were trying to help (Tina and Delilah, respectively). They also have a connection inside the LAPD through a blonde cop who also takes their identity secrets pretty badly (Kate Lockley in Angel's case).

Note that Buffy not only screamed (twice, given it repeated during her memory loss in Halloween), but also came after Angel with a crossbow when she thought he'd attacked her mother (it was Darla), so Chloe taking the Devil face reveal (Monster Reveals are iconic old horror imagery) poorly to the point of considering poisoning is par for the course. However, it only took Buffy seven episodes instead of three seasons to get the identity reveal via seeing the horrific second face (arguably also an accident on Angel's part).

They are metaphorically or literally Hell's angels. They also had long stays in Hell or a hell dimension.

Lucifer and Angel are also both Prodigal Sons with long-held grudges against their long-absent fathers (patricide in Liam/Angel(us)'s case) and they're later faced with a situation where they have unexpected, thought-impossible offspring who show up as adults (neither got to raise their miracle child) wanting revenge. Yup, major Connor/Rory parallel there.

Angel is also in a constant struggle with the Powers that Be manipulating his fate and free will (like Lucifer, he's a champion of free will no matter the cost) and making him prophecy's bitch.

Bones famously got jokes about how Booth is Angel getting his Shanshu (made human), since the character is given constant Angel-isms like references to a dark past having killed people (Booth is also named after a historical murderer, in addition to having been a sniper), both being Catholics full of Catholic guilt (note that the Buffyverse is most accurately polytheistic, though Angel does face off against a take on the antichrist--Angel has constant biblical imagery/themes and not just because of vampire iconography), kicking down doors (just not off their entire frames--LOL), turning on a dime and threatening people up against walls, constant wink-wink references to the Buffyverse (familiar casting, references to the Hyperion Hotel, etc...), etc...

The Lucifer finale used the words "Close your eyes." right before Lucifer is sent to Hell. This is literally the BtVS season 2 finale where Buffy kisses Angel and sends him to hell for a century with a stab to the gut (see the season 5 finale, not to mention Lucifer giving up his life for Chloe's à la I Will Remember You).

Note that D.B. Woodside was on BtVS (playing Robin Wood, whose Slayer mother Nikki Wood was killed by Spike). Aimee Garcia was in both episodes of AtS (Birthday--she's older than she looks!) and Bones. See her also playing a cross-wearing religious girl on Supernatural who was slaughtered in a police precinct by Lilith. Kevin Alejandro was also in an episode of Bones.

Tricia Helfer was in an episode of Supernatural playing a ghost who reenacts the night of her death every year. BtVS also had an episode along those lines, but with Buffy and Angelus possessed (not to mention Phantom Dennis!). Lucifer having Dan as a ghost is yet another thing they all have in common (ditto referencing Ghost, Patrick Swayze and/or Unchained Melody--Vincent Schiavelli a.k.a. Ghost's subway ghost was Jenny's uncle Enyos, whom Angelus killed).

Lucifer name-checked Castiel and Supernatural referenced Lucifer using their Lucifer (crime-fighting angel in L.A. made it a double-reference whammy). Supernatural returned the favor again by having Castiel forced to sing in Enochian. Lucifer's reference to his singing voice was already a zing about Misha Collins having to put on that monotone gravel voice and Enochian being far from melodious.

Russell T Davies was quite heavily inspired by the Buffyverse when he revived Doctor Who and spun off Torchwood, so there are absolute tons of Buffy, Angel and Spike respectively in Rose Tyler, the 9th/10th Doctors, Captain Jack Harkness and Captain John Hart (right down to the actor). School Reunion is the episode where the Buffyverse inspiration is most on the nose, complete with Anthony Stewart Head saying "shooty dog thing" in a school setting and a Mayor/Angel-esque speech about the curse of immortality. The Time War gave the Doctor a huge genocide-level guilt complex. Note that the creator of DC comics' version of Lucifer, Neil Gaiman, has also written for Doctor Who and is also the co-creator of Good Omens (the show is brimming with Doctor Who Easter eggs thanks to David Tennant). A barely-recognizable Tom Ellis played Martha Jones' ex-fiancé Tom Milligan during the Year that Never Was, as well.

A lot of shows take inspiration from the Buffyverse and you've probably seen some of them. It isn't just the copycat vampire romance stories either.

Angel's forerunners in turn were a mix of guilt-stricken, rat-eating Louis de Pointe du Lac (his Jekyll/Hyde-esque alter-ego Angelus is closer to the pre-retcon, fully-evil Lestat de Lioncourt, who got woobified into an antihero rocker not unlike Spike--the entire Fanged Four mirror Anne Rice's character lineup), sword-wielding, immortality trope-influencers Connor/Duncan MacLeod of Highlander fighting for the Prize of humanity (akin to Pinocchio becoming a "real boy"--see also Barnabas Collins of Dark Shadows, though he was before vampires became antihero superheroes, not just sympathetic antivillains) and Nick Knight of Forever Knight (vampire detective).

Additionally, Tom Welling was famously the longest-serving Clark Kent of them all (Smallville) on the old WB (there's that DC comics connection, too), so it's not just a Fox shows thing (though Fox, not just Warner Brothers, did indeed own the Buffyverse). One of the least-known things about Clark is that he also has an immortality problem where he wouldn't age parallel to Lois (they wouldn't be able to have kids either) without a workaround. The Kryptonite line directed at Cain/Pierce by Lucifer was quite on the nose! Lucifer and Smallville sort of crossed over even further in Crisis on Infinite Earths, so Tom is canonically the face of both Clark and Cain in parallel universes of the DC multiverse.

Supernatural had quite recently had their own takes on Cain (played by Timothy Omundson, who also played God Johnson) and the Mark of Cain when Lucifer did it. Dan's killer Le Mec was, of course, Rob Benedict, who was God a.k.a. Chuck Shurley, the ultimate villain of Supernatural. Richard Speight, Jr., who was archangel Gabriel/Loki the Trickster, directed a lot of Lucifer's later episodes in addition to being a prolific Supernatural director.

Supernatural and Lucifer use the exact same font for their titles (Supernatural Knight).

The X-Files (which Supernatural referenced constantly) and Supernatural also had stories about nephilim (see the apocryphal Book of Enoch). Lucifer ultimately had two nephilim (forbidden interspecies offspring of angels and humans), even if not saying so as a known concept. Connor can also be compared to the vampire equivalent of being something like a dhampir, though he's not quite that (mostly-but-not-quite-human offspring of two vampires instead of a human/vampire hybrid--see Blade for an actual dhampir). Supernatural has also covered the even rarer cambion species (human/demon hybrid).

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umbralstars · 3 years

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Sothis, the Church of Seiros and Byleth: A Pagan Reading

Due to L!Byleth and the minor hyperfixation he caused I decided to make a whole discussion on how I personally view Sothis, the Church of Seiros as a whole, and examine Byleth's role in the story.

So just some ground rules before I begin:

This is just how I personally viewed the story as I played it, and my own perspective on the plot and meaning behind certain things. I am open to discussion in the comments and reblogs, and if you disagree with my opinion that's perfectly fine. Also so much of this is going to read like headcanons/assumptions loosely supported by canon's thin red strings and I am ok with that.

If any in-game quotes are used they will mostly come from the Church Library since it's easy to check but I'll paraphrase important scenes that I can remember.

Also after compiling a timeline of events best I can understand it I have made a few assumptions: worship of Sothis existed before the Church of Seiros (perhaps even going as far back as pre-Calamity times) and thus Church doctrine and beliefs is largely based upon previously established beliefs about the Goddess. This doesn't have too much to do with the analysis itself, but I just wanted to say it as I quote The Book of Seiros parts a few times and the writings in those books I hold to have a basis in that pre-Church faith.

With those in place, allow me to begin.

The Sothis/Church of Seiros Meta:

While there have been many metas comparing Sothis and the Church to medieval Christianity, I have always looked at them both through a distinctly non-Christian, Pagan lense.

I myself am a syncretic polytheist who has a complicated history with Southern Baptists. These two core aspects of my spiritual life does color my perceptions of the religion presented in this game and I am fully aware of that. Three Houses came at a time in my life where I was finally seperating myself from my latent Christianity, and exercising my Pagan goggles on this was a major step I took towards that. My intention here isn't to say that Christian coding doesn't exist, but to simply give my ideas and perspective on the religion presented in this game.

First, allow me to give the define the Gods through the lense of a Pagan as it's important to the framing of my ideas:

"The Gods are real, sentient, disembodied minds with awesome greatness and powers beyond what we humans can currently explain with science."

This is the simplest, shortest definition of the Gods I can give and Sothis, beyond a shadow of a doubt, hits all of the criteria as she is presented in the game. The Pagan conception of the Gods does not require any pretense of tri-omnism, and I believe it's best to look at Sothis, and many other FE Gods, through this lense. Sothis, when she was alive and even when she is "dead," is capable of amazing feats such as creating life, turning back time in a limited capacity, and restoring entire continents to life after calamity. While she is not tri-omni, she does not need to be so to be a Goddess and one worthy of worship and reverence.

Church doctrine itself also exhibits other fundamental aspects of Pagan practice and belief that are important to me and many others: animism and the reciprocity cycle. As stated by The Book of Seiros, Part 1,

"The Revelation.The Goddess is all things. She is heaven above and the land below. She is eternity incarnate. She is the present, the past, and the future. Her eyes see all. Her ears hear all. Her hands receive all."

Obvious allusions to omnipresence aside, another reading of this passage is a far more esoteric, and hard to put into words, aspect of Pagan belief about the Gods. In a sense , the Gods are not limited by the physical constraints of the world and their bodies are inherently an aspect of the very universe itself. They are not omnipresent at all times, but they can be wherever they wish to be especially wherever their presence and power is strongest. That is actually the purpose of idols, alters, and temples. The Gods are not idols or are bound by them, those things are simply repositories to allow us humans to connect with and worship them.

The natural world as well can be the "body" of a God. Places where their spirits decide to dwell. Natural phenomenon one can feel their presence in. They are not limited to these places, but upkeep of them is necessary to maintain their power and spirit. In this way that passage can be read as Fodlan and the Blue Sea Star being the places where Sothis' spirit chooses to reside along with her actual remains needing to be maintained to keep her spirit maintained. Her sacred body likely extends across all of Fodlan and her spirit resides most strongly as the Blue Sea Star.

Gods in FE also, more often than not, have a physical body that is important for their connection to the physical world. FE Gods are not incapable of interacting with or watching over the physical world from the spiritual, but have much more free reign when their physical body is alive. The places where their bodies are buried are where their power is most heavily felt, and their spirits the strongest, as evidenced by the Mila Tree and the Good Ending of Future Past in Awakening. This what I believe the true purpose of the Sealed Forest to be. Given how protective Rhea is of the place, the strange alter and Crest of Flames that is just there, and that being where Byleth awakens and Sothis remembers, either parts or the entire rest of Sothis' physical body must be buried there and not actually in the Holy Tomb.

As an aside, the remains of the Nabateans can also be seen through this lense but to a lesser degree. It's obvious that parts of their souls and power remain with their bodies, and thus, maintaining the Relics, Crestsones, and the other Nabatean remains not fashioned into weapons would be of utmost importance to Rhea. Because, if they were to be lost or damaged her kin's spirits may forever be lost to the physical world.

Fodlan being the sacred body of Sothis is also why I believe the Church of Seiros to be an ethnic religion and a henotheistic one to the people of Fodlan. The Goddess is only ever credited in the creation story and a lot of other Church doctrines as having created and choosing Fodlan as her sacred ground. The people of Fodlan likewise are seen as her sacred people. Nothing in Church doctrine says that Sothis is the only God to exist and I truly cannot remember a single instance where anyone says other religions outside the Church are false ones. Hence why I say Fodlanders are henotheistic, where they do not deny the existence of other Gods, but Sothis is the most important and only one worshipped by them. To the people of Fodlan as long as foreigners do not deny her existence and those of Fodlandic descent worship her as they should there is no cause for an uproar.

This is not to say other religions can be practiced freely on Sothis' sacred ground, as evidenced by the women in Abyss who says she worships there "because Abyss is where it is allowed." Along with Atheism among Fodlanders to be a taboo in their societies. Whilst I don't see the Church to be a beacon of religious tolerance (or that Fodlanders don't believe their religion to be the best), I also do not believe them to be proselytizers to places outside of Fodlan.

The reciprocity cycle also has a place within Church doctrine. The Book of Seiros, Part V describes the various commandments Sothis gave to her people and how if they abide by them the Goddess pays the people back with blessings and gifts. Textbook reciprocity is doing something for the Gods, such as sacrifice or ritual, and gaining something back in return or the Gods do something for you and you give back to them in turn. Reciprocity can be as simple as giving thanks for the blessings the Gods give or complex as full ritual, sacrifice, and or prayer to gain a blessing/aid or give thanks for one. The best case of reciprocity I see in game is the restoration quest for the Saint Statues. Whilst the Saints are complicated in how I believe their divinity is handled there is no doubt the player receives blessings from them for restoring their icons.

(While I would like to devote an entire section to them and the Nabateans in general like 80 - 90% of my ideas are headcanon that I'm still not sure of. I don't think the Nabateans are Gods like Sothis is however immortal or long-lived they may be. I also still don't know whether the Saints would be worshiped or venerated in the Church, as I still don't understand the distinction of those two things myself, so I don't want to make a judgement call).

What about Byleth?

Byleth...is tricky. Now, I must preface, that all of this is my opinion. Some of it may not be supported by the game, but this is how I personally write him and his status regarding everything we see in game.

Byleth is, for all intents and purposes, the 13th potential vessel for Sothis to return to the world as they were given Sothis' Creststone on the request of Sitri. Here's the thing. I personally do not believe that Sothis is truly dead or that Byleth manifested her consciousness on happenstance. It has been my personal belief ever since playing the game for the first time that Sothis' spirit does indeed reside in the heavens and that the piece of Sothis that resides in Byleth until his awakening is only a fragment. Along with that I believe that Sothis' consciousness and power manifested in Byleth specifically because Sothis wished for it to be so.

My ideas are centered around a few aspects of the game that have always stood out to me as rather strange if kept in line with the larger context.

Why after all this time and Rhea's many attempts did Sothis manifest in a stillborn child?

How was Sothis able to speak to Byleth and wake him after his 5 year coma?

Why does Byleth loose the Goddess' power at the end of Crimson Flower?

How was Sothis able to speak to Byleth if you choose to S-Support her?

How exactly was Byleth able to dream about something that happened long after Sothis' death even if he can access her memories?

These sticking points have always struck as odd given everything that Sothis says before Byleth's awakening. Sothis should not be able to speak to Byleth at all, but still does so only a few chapters later and comments on the war that Byleth was only privy to the very beginning of.

Hence my belief that Sothis' spirit as the Goddess of Fodlan does reside in the heavens, watching over the continent, and only able to interact with it and its people in subtle ways. Some of her spirit and power laid within her Creststone as it passed from vessel to vessel. One way or another, she was able to foresee the coming war that would change Fodlan fundamentally forever and chose to manifest that piece of her consciousness when the opportunity presented itself. It's why Byleth can dream of a battle that happened long after Sothis' death because he's remembering something experienced by the Creststone and knowledge given by the Goddess soul who resides in heaven.

I also believe that Byleth and Sothis as we saw them during the game was a mistake in some way. Byleth as his own entity was likely not supposed to be and the piece of Sothis' soul that was supposed to manifest wasn't supposed to be amnesiatic or at the very least not separate from Byleth. There were a few times pre-time skip where Sothis would be talking and Byleth's model would be moving and his facial expression changing. Almost like their thoughts were so intertwined that they were practically the same even before the awakening. It's very likely to me that Byleth's memory issues, lack of ability to properly express emotions, and other aspects of their character to be directly connected to the fact that Sothis' soul manifested incorrectly.

The Sothis he hears before waking from his coma and the one he speaks to during his S support is likely the full spirit of the Goddess communicating with him through great effort and only able to because he's her avatar. She knows of the pain Fodlan is experiencing because she can see it and feel it even as Byleth slumbers. Same thing for why Byleth would lose her power and soul piece on Crimson Flower, as Sothis may have interpreted siding with Edelgard as a rejection of being her avatar and simply deciding to be human instead (I don't wish to speak too long on a route I don't particularly like, but I felt that strange ending should be addressed).

My experience as someone who follows a Kemetic path leads me to not see Sothis' soul being split in this way as strange. In this particular religion, as I understand it, the soul is encompassed as multiple different parts all combining to make a singular being. Both Gods and humans have multiple parts to their souls, so one residing in the Creststone, later manifesting in Byleth, and another part residing in the heavens is plausible to me. Also if I wanted to compare Byleth to another FE character, his situation reminds me most of Nagi from FE 11 & 12 who is an amnesiac and likely an incarnation of Naga to aid Marth on his quest. Nagi doesn't get much characterization in those games, but it does show that incarnations/avatar of Gods, who aren't the confusing mess of Robin and Grima for instance, isn't a new concept in series for Byleth.

In terms of what happens after Byleth awakens I do believe that Byleth himself becomes a God or at the very least a demi-god in his own right. As it was Byleth absorbing the piece of Sothis' soul into his own, the Goddess' power was inherited by him alone. The inner turmoil caused by two souls sharing one body finally ceased and Byleth was fundamentally changed becoming, well, an Enlightened One. As the game doesn't really explore Sothis and Byleth much post-Time Skip, due to the war taking precedence and Byleth's unfortunate existence as a silent protag, how exactly he changes is up to personal interpretation. I personally believe he gained not only Sothis' power but some of Sothis' memories and insight that the Creststone soul piece had. He also gained greater control and range of emotional expression and probably took on some of the characteristics Sothis had.

Byleth is both an avatar of the Goddess and his own person at the same time. He is and is not Sothis.

#fire emblem #fe3h #byleth eisner #fe sothis #church of seiros #fodland #fe3h headcanons #m!byleth #i really do apologize if this is rambling #i've had these ideas since first playing the game and never wrote them down #and they all came back to the surface all at once #i can't tell if this is supposed to be meta or pure headcanons #both? both is good

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liquid-luck-00 · 4 years

Text

Little!Mari

Bio!Dad Bruce

Day 12: Little!Mari

@biodad-bruce-month

Ao3 ~~~ First ~~~ Previous ~~~ Next

Sorry this is late I’ll be late for a bit as I try and catch back up, hopefully.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marinette was back in Wayne Manor for the winter holidays. And just like every morning she was awake before almost everyone else. Granted she just came back from patrol and it was already too late to fall sleep.

She had noticed she was running low on transformation macaroons for Tikki, so she decided to make a batch. And she did but she may have fallen asleep after placing the Macarons in Tikki‘s designated cookie jar, accidentally leaving out a couple of the potions.

Jason was the one to find her and noticed that she was asleep so he moved her to her room. So that got the boys to talking. They wanted to make sure that this was the best Christmas break ever, as it was their first Christmas together, so what better way to make their youngest sibling smile like the little sunshine she is, than to surprised her with baked goods like she always does with them.

Surprisingly it was Bruce who stepped up to the plate. Granted everyone kind of just stared at him. Alfred’s expression was a mix of shock and horror. Shock because Bruce was in the kitchen and asking Alfred where a list of ingredients were. Horror because Bruce was in the kitchen and it seemed as if he was going to cook. By the time it seemed he had all his ingredients in front of him Bruce looked up and noticed them all staring.

“Is something wrong” Bruce asked with a completely straight face.

“Yes!!!” Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian all yelled..

Alfred, oh poor Alfred, seemed to be close to fainting as he was probably imagining the mess that was going to be occurring. “ Master Bruce what are you about to make.” Alfred asked.

“Brownies”

“Sir where did you learn of the recipe you are to be using?”

“From Mini”

Once they all knew that the recipe was from Mari, they begin to work, still eyeing him warily.

"Vanilla has anyone seen it?"

"There it is Little Bat must have left it out" Dick handed Bruce the vid that was labeled with the letter 'V' and had a violet cap from a line of vials.

They finished the batter and Alfred set it in the oven.

"That went better than the last time" Bruce sighed as they left the kitchen.

"Now I need to know" Jason stopped Bruce looking straight at him. "When the hell have you baked, and what happened the last time ?"

"same occasion, the same day I met Marinette, she took out the ingredients left and I started making the recipe." He looked at his boys and they were silent for once, giving him their undivided, attention. "And I ended up covered in flour." With that he left.

---

Mari woke up a couple of hours later and heard a knock on the door.

"Breakfast will be served soon Miss" Alfred called.

"Thank you Alfred" she returned rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She got dressed and went down. Everyone was already at the table and they all ate relatively peacefully.

"And finally the masters have made you brownies Miss Mari" Alfred stated setting a plate of brownies in front of her.

"You guys. Thank you." I took two from the plate and handed one to Tikki. "Yummy" that was when there were two flashes.

---

"Mari" several voices shouted looking where she was previously sitting.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no" they heard Tikki but could not see her.

"Tikki, what is going on?" Bruce finally asked.

"Humans aren't..." that was when she began to grow in front of them. "humans shouldn't have transformation potions" She looked around, and so did everyone else. That was when they saw the blue eyes and black hair peeking over the table at them.

"Mini are you okay" Bruce tried asking softly.

"Dad" she called out running over to him. At least she still remembers we are family.

"Mari what is the last thing you remember" he asked her, she was curled up in his lap.

She shook her head. "I don't know everything is fuzzy"

"Hey there Bluebell" she turned to face Jason, who sounded to be the calmest at the table. "Do you remember us?"

She seemed to study them all. "Jay or Red" she faced Jason.

"Bluebell" he responded with a smile.

"Dick or Blue" she faced Dick.

"Little Bat" he smiled and she giggled.

"Tim or Genius" she was now smiling at Tim.

"That's right Bean" he gave a nod and yawn but she laughed at his actions.

"Damian or Qamri" she was now looking at Damian.

"Correct mon Sol" His second youngest said giving her a rare smile.

She then turned towards Alfred "Grandpa Alfie" she was now smiling and bubbly, while Alfred seemed close to loosing his composure at being called Grandpa. He simply nodded his head and gave her a smile.

"Tikki how long do you think this will last?" Bruce asked.

"I'm not completely sure" she responded.

"Fairy!" Mari cried looking at Tikki smiling. Tikki giggled.

"Well there is only one thing to do then" Dick clapped his hands a large smile spread on his face.

Tim seemed to suddenly wake up completely, Damian was eyeing him suspiciously a scowl now on his lips, and Jason well "I'm out, I am not getting caught up in any of your insane plans." he started to rise out of his seat.

"Come on Jay let's have a family fun day. We didn't know Mari when she was, how old are you right now little bat."

She scrunched her nose and furrowed her brows "Um nine if think" she finally responded.

"See we need to be with her" Dick began to plead, giving him puppy eyes.

"Please Red" Marinette looked at him giving him her own puppy eyes.

"Ugh how can I say no to those puppy eyes"

"Works every time" Dick answered.

"Not yours" Jason responded, Dick appeared hurt. "so what's first?"

"Puppies" Mari cooed as Titus and Ace entered the room.

"let's go outside then" Damian stated reaching out for Mari's hand. She readily took it and they walked out, the rest of the family following soon after.

---

The majority of the morning was spent playing with Ace and Titus as well as a very difficult game of hide and seek within the manor.

By lunch she was in the kitchen alongside Alfred. After which, everyone had to deal with an Arkham breakout. So Mari wandered the cave while Alfred manned the comms. She ended up on Dick's gymnastic equipment. Once everyone was back they found out she was on the trapeze.

"Blue your back!" she yelled in mid flight. As she landed she turned and again yelled. "Come and fly with me Azur"

Dick began to move towards the ladder when Bruce grabbed his shoulder.

"I think it's best you come down" he called up to her.

"But"

"She's a natural B just a few minutes" Dick stated as he climbed the ladder.

A few minutes turned into two hours. After a bath she was curled up in the library next to Jason as he gave a dramatic reading of the Odyssey.

That was where they stayed all afternoon until Alfred called them for dinner. After which Mari dragged Tim to the living room to make a blanket fort to end all forts. Where she proceeded to tuck her brother under several blankets to get him to sleep.

All five of them ended up watching Disney Movies all night. Where they all fell asleep in the fort.

---

"Why are we in a blanket fort?" Marinette questioned the next morning.

"Mari go back to sleep" Jason grumbled next to her.

"Jay?" she asked out finally waking up. "Dick? Tim? Damian? What how?"

"Breakfast will be ready shortly" Alfred called from outside the fort.

A chorus of ‘Ok Alfred's’ were heard from inside the blankets.

Her and her brothers all got up and went to prepare for the day, and when they sat for breakfast she was still confuse Id.

"What happened yesterday?” she asked. Everyone shared a look and began to laugh.

"Would you prefer the photos or the videos?" Alfred asked and everyone seemed to laugh even harder.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@mochinek0 @justafanwarrior @abrx2002 @ranger-gothamite @fantasiame @moonystars14 @mochegato @bigbeautifulandfullofsugar @maribat-is-lifeblood @iglowinggemma28 @miraculous-ninja @talutah0 @vixen-uchiha @danielslilangel @witchsblackfox @pawsitivelymiraculous @lizziejay @marinettepotterandplagg @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @dast218 @sassakitty @miyla-lokidottir @lilkymilky @tazanna-blythe @tired-butterfly @lozzybowe @smolplantmum @queencommonsense @loopingtangent @chez-pezeater @paintedhope7 @technicallyburninggarden @meme991001 @wannajointhecrabcult @melicmusicmagic @trippingovermyfeet @greatcatblaze @fidget-eep @miraculouslydumb @iamablinkmarvelarmy @laurcad123 @hauntedwintersweets @fc-studios @fusser90 @madking-warqueen @buginetye @little-lady-bird @thebooki3h @iamabrownfox

#dc x miraculous #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #miraculous x dc #miraculus ladybug #maribat #ml marinette #batfam #marinette dupain cheng #bio! dadbrucewaynemonth2020 #b ! dbwm2020 #bio!dad bruce wayne

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sparklinpixiedust · 3 years

Text

Descendants

This has been in my drafts for over a month now, decided to finally polish it up and post it.

Okay so warning, this is my headcanon. It may or may not make sense but I dont care. This seems like a cool theory in my head so I'm sharing it. Also I dont know if this has been theorised before or not.

Anyway, let's begin.

Gwen, Kevin and Micheal are all descendants of the same species i.e anodites.

Because all of them deal with energy manipulation in some form or the other and all them absorb their respective energies in order to use them.

Mana is all around. Anodites use this and control to do things like flying and 'cast spells'.

Anodites don't have a DNA. But Gwen is a human , who has a DNA but she can also become an anodite.

The 'spark' in my theory is something that helps control mana but also helps to form or get rid of DNA.

So a being can get rid of DNA and become an anodite or can form DNA to become human or whatever species they want, which explains how Verdona was human enough to have human kids.

This 'spark' works to manipulate DNA.

Anodites are already energy beings, they have enough of it in themselves but can also absorb from their surroundings if more is needed.

So how does this relate to osmosians?

For every reaction there's an equal and opposite reaction. Or atleast something along those lines in this case.

The chances of the spark messing up the DNA is possible.

There was probably a time when an anodite and a human had a kid, a human kid. But the spark didn't exactly work properly. It messed up the DNA somehow and made that human into sort of energy-less anodite.

This person has the spark , but for some reason they are empty within.

An anodite naturally is made if energy, but in this case the person doesn't have any energy.

We know anodites absorb mana i.e the spark helps them absorb it.

Since being full of energy is the natural state, the spark works to have an 'osmosian' want to absorb energy. In fact, in order to fill the emptiness within, the spark has modified the host to be able to take up any form of energy , whether raw like electricity or stuff like wood and metal in order to return to the baseline state.

But obviously there's something wrong with the person, they are 'mutated'.

Their bodies are unable to retain the energy and hence release it fast.

So osmosians constantly take up energy to reach that baseline. But anodites have a lot of energy within themselves and manipulate a lot. That along with osmosians releasing energy , that baseline energy can never be fulfilled.

Osmosians can become other species by absorbing their energies [ I'm thinking of having another post on how they absorb actual aliens as a whole, don't know when that'll be done]

And we know Kevin 11k and Devlin can mutate on will. Again , anodites can change into other species.

We know the mutation happens only after osmosians have absorbed them, which guess that's how anodites work too. They absorb that mana and can mimic that DNA.

Once they make it, they may not need to reabsorb again because the 'spark' remembers what that DNA is supposed to look like and can change when wished.

I guess this kinda reasons why people refer to osmsosians as more of mutants rather than an alien species.

They are human mutants, and this kinda explains why they are the way they are instead if accepting that a plain human DNA just underwent an abnormality to give them powers out of the blue.

They do have a planet though. Osmos V does exist but again there aren't many of them beacuse this condition isn't very common, but also enough to have a planet of them. once you have it, it can be inherited in their offspring.

Like how Devin was an osmosian and then Kevin inherited the ability, and then Devlin got it.

Micheal is another mutant , however they are even rarer. They lie between the 2 extremes of the spectrum of being empty i.e osmosian and being complete i.e an anodite.

But the spark has modified to lean more towards being an anodite, which is why they can absorb energy such as mana and alike and not raw material like steel or copper.

But like osmosians, they cannot retain the energy and need a constant source.

Now how are these inherited?

Anodites are a female majority species I guess since we've never really seen any male anodites. But , in What Are Little Girls Made Of, it is implied that Verdona expected her sons to get the spark. Its also mentionedshe showed up when the kids were born.kids meaning both Ben and Gwen , or else they would've mentioend she checked up on Gwen specifically [ i could be wrong, idk]

So male anodites do exist but again it not so common.

Osmosians are more male dominated, since we've never really seen a female osmosian and tje mutation seems to have a direct inheritance pattern.

Darkstar is a bit tricky because we don't know about his family. He mentions his mom and his step dad but its never really mentioned if his parents had any powers[ I could be wrong ]

The spark can skip generations, like in the case of Gwen so it could've skipped a few in Mike's case as well.

#ben 10 #my take #anodites #descendents #kevin levin #gwen tennyson #darkstar #alien #ben 10 classic #ben 10 series #ben 10 alien force #headcanon #ben 10 au #devlin levin #ben 10 analysis #b10 #ben 10 omniverse #ben 10 ultimate alien

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gureishi · 3 years

Text

day 9: want to be a human again

Here’s day 9 of the Human Again prompts. For the master list of all the ficlets, click here.

SaeyoungXReader (also Jumin, Saeran, and—finally—VANDY!!!)

T (references to cannon death and violence [post-SE]), words: 2539

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

There’s a distinct air of death in the apartment.

Maybe it’s in your imagination, because you know that the man who once lived here has died. Maybe it’s in the photographs stacked against the walls—the ones he never sold, the ones no one ever saw while he was alive. There’s a kind of darkness there that surprises you; it’s hard to take your eyes off them.

Or maybe it’s the feelings radiating from the two people beside you—people who knew him far better than you ever did, people who deeply loved him.

“Hyung, why did you want me to come here?” Saeyoung’s voice comes out a little too loud, and a little too harsh, and he clears his throat.

“I found something you need to see,” Jumin says. He sounds uncharacteristically cautious. “It’s up to you if you want to—act on this in any way, but I thought it was only right that you see it, regardless.”

Saeyoung tenses up beside you. It’s not the first time that you’ve been to V’s apartment since his death, but it’s been months since Saeyoung and Jumin finished their cursory sorting of the things that remained here. Since the apartment was left to Rika, who was—for numerous reasons—unable to make a decision about it, no one knew quite what to do about it. It was left more or less untouched—though Jumin, it seems, has been returning periodically to go through the stacks and stacks of documents filed neatly in and around V’s desk.

Saeyoung doesn’t say anything, and you bump gently against his side; he interlaces his fingers with yours. You can feel his trepidation in the stiff way he’s standing and the tight grip he has on your hand.

Without any further preamble, Jumin hands Saeyoung a folder. It’s plain, with “Luciel” written across the front in a delicate scrawl that you can only assume is V’s.

Saeyoung grits his teeth and opens the folder. Realization seems to dawn on him immediately.

“This is…”

“Yes.”

Saeyoung tilts the folder toward you so you can see better, and he rifles quickly through the pages, as if he doesn’t want to look at anything too closely. There are printed-out emails and grainy photos and old news articles; one name stands out amidst it all: Choi Saejoong.

“It seems V was putting together evidence that would incriminate him,” Jumin says in a quiet voice. There is a surprising and unfamiliar gentleness in the way he’s speaking to Saeyoung.

Saeyoung shakes his head. You can feel him consciously slowing his breathing, using the techniques he’s been taught to stay calm under pressure. Still, his hand trembles a little in yours. “Why didn’t he—why didn’t he ever…?”

“This is only speculation,” Jumin says, in that same soft tone. “I imagine he was conflicted about taking any action that might go against Rika’s wishes or—”

“—or implicate her in any way,” Saeyoung finishes, his voice rough. He sets the folder aside and runs a hand over his face. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, beaten down—the way you remember him looking so often in the days and weeks following V’s death.

“Yes.” Jumin nods slowly. “This information is meant for you, not for me. But I did look through it to a certain extent and—for what it’s worth, the documents go all the way up to a few weeks before Jihyun died.”

Saeyoung inhales sharply.

“At any rate, I leave it entirely up to you what you wish to you with this information. If you were to choose to hold onto it or throw it away, I would understand.” Jumin hesitates. He looks down, and then he looks up at Saeyoung. You notice a hardened, confident look in Jumin’s eyes, one you’re sure has earned him the respect of important decision-makers around the world. “On the other hand,” he continues, “if you choose to—disclose this information—I, and C&R, would be behind you.”

Saeyoung is looking at Jumin, and Jumin’s gaze doesn’t waver. Their relationship is strange, you think—though you know Saeyoung has a great deal of respect and admiration for Jumin, he’s rarely relied on him, rarely asked anything of him. Saeyoung, you think, still sees Jumin as V’s best friend, above all else—and naturally, that’s complicated.

Slowly, Saeyoung nods. “I have to think about it,” he says, his voice a little raw. “I have to talk to—”

“Of course.” Jumin moves away a little, straightening his coat. He’s back to normal: brisk, formal. But there was genuine care in the way that he spoke to Saeyoung about the documents, and you’re certain that, beneath it all, Jumin has a fierce love for the RFA—for Saeyoung.

“Thank you, Jumin,” you say. He looks at you with surprise.

“Of course,” he says. “This was never my decision to make. And—” He glances at Saeyoung, who is still staring at the folder in his hands. He looks like he’s far away. “No matter what you decide to do, you should know that—” For a moment, uncertainty flashes in Jumin’s dark eyes, and then they are clear again. “Jihyun was always wishing for your freedom,” he finishes.

Saeyoung doesn’t look up, but his grip on the folder tightens. You know that he wouldn’t ever cry in front of Jumin, never in this room, amidst V’s carefully chosen furniture and piled-up old photographs. But he nods.

“Thanks, hyung,” he whispers. You’re not sure if he’s addressing Jumin or the other man, the one whose presence still seems to fill every corner of this apartment. Maybe it’s both.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

The security system activates.

You drop the manual for the expensive espresso machine you’ve finally decided to learn how to use and peer around the corner at the cameras. You catch a glimpse of a familiar disgruntled face before the doors swing open.

“Vanderwood!” You swiftly cross the bunker to meet them at the door. They’re standing at the threshold, an annoyed expression on their face, an Arabic dictionary in one hand.

“You haven’t gotten tired of him yet, huh?” Vanderwood asks by way of greeting. You beam at them.

“Neither have you,” you reply. Vanderwood grunts and kicks off their shoes. You notice they take a moment to line up not only their own but all the shoes that are lying in a jumbled mess by the door.

“Madam!!!” Saeyoung comes barreling around the corner, tries to skid to a stop, catches himself on the coat rack, and somehow manages to stay upright as coats and scarves cascade to the floor around him.

Vanderwood groans. “I can still leave. It’s not too late for me to just go,” they say, shooting Saeyoung what can only be called a death glare.

“Saeyoung!” You pick up one of the coats and he shoots you a grateful look. Then you smack him with it. “Don't act like an ass just because Vanderwood is here.”

Saeyoung collapses dramatically into his pile of coats.

There’s a quiet chuckle behind you, and Saeran crosses the entryway, peering at the scene with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“Hey, little Choi,” says Vanderwood, stepping over the pile of coats-and-Saeyoung to shake Saeran’s hand.

“Hey, weird agent guy,” says Saeran.

“Don’t ignore me!” cries Saeyoung. You throw a scarf at him.

Vanderwood follows Saeran into the living room; they are chatting quietly together. You hear Vanderwood’s barking laugh, and you smile to yourself. It’s been a while since you’ve seen them, but they haven’t changed. They can complain about Saeyoung all they want, but you’ve learned to see right through it: when Saeyoung calls, they show up.

You bend over to peer at your fiancé, who has thrown a coat over his eyes and is loudly pretending to sob. You kiss him on the cheek.

“I love you but if you act like a lunatic I’ll let him tase you.”

Saeyoung runs a hand through his already-messy curls. “I’ll be good,” he says, puckering his lips for a kiss. You roll your eyes and offer him a hand instead; he scrambles to his feet and then darts forward to kiss your eyebrow.

“Do your best,” you say, pulling him by the hand. He follows obediently.

In the living room, Vanderwood and Saeran are already peering at something on Saeran’s laptop. Vanderwood has somehow produced three other computers, which are all open and humming, running some mysterious program or other. Over a year ago, this would’ve been a strange sight to you; nowadays, you are unfazed

Vanderwood glances up at Saeyoung, who is trailing behind you like an acquiescent child.

“Glad to see you’ve still got him under control,” they say. You give them a salute.

“Just doing my job,” you reply. “Sit,” you say to Saeyoung, and he obligingly takes a seat on the couch. Vanderwood barks with laughter again.

“Wish I’d had you around years ago,” they say, shaking their head.

“Me too!” Saeyoung sings, pulling you into his lap and nuzzling his head against your neck.

“I take it back,” Vanderwood groans.

“I swear he’s a little more normal when you’re not here,” Saeran says, his attention on one of the laptops.

“It’s true! I just get extra excited when my favorite maid is here!” Saeyoung bounces, making the couch shake.

“Why me?” Vanderwood mutters, just loud enough for Saeyoung to hear.

You scramble out of Saeyoung’s lap. “Saeyoung, act regular. Vanderwood, do you want coffee?”

“Please.”

You ruffle Saeyoung’s hair (it’s really all over the place today) and make your way to the kitchen. Leaving the three of them to stare at the laptops (now there are, inexplicably, eight), you return to your espresso machine manual.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

When you return to the living room, the three of them are talking in hushed, serious tones.

“Wow,” Vanderwood says as you hand them the latte you've (finally) figured out how to make. “Seven-Zero-Seven has an espresso machine now?”

Saeyoung shrugs. He’s more subdued now, his eyes on one of the computer screens.

“She wanted it, so I got it,” he says offhandedly.

“Seriously, spending time here is almost bearable now.” Vanderwood gratefully accepts the drink from you and you slip back onto the couch beside Saeyoung, peering at his screen. You know what they’re doing, in theory, though the numbers on the computer mean nothing to you.

“This feels too easy,” Saeran says. He’s hunched over another computer, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The now-familiar files from V’s apartment are strewn around him on the ground.

“It is easy,” Vanderwood replies. “Taking down bigwig types? This is—was—literally our job.”

Saeyoung vaguely nods. He’s fiddling with the frayed hem of his sweatshirt. “Actually putting it all out there is no problem. If he had any leverage against us, that’d be one thing. But now, with no agency, no Mint Eye…” Saeran flinches. “…he’s got nothing on us. Actually doing the job isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

Vanderwood leans back on the couch, stretching. “If you’re so worried about the whole world knowing about all this, why’re we doing it?” they ask. “Seems like he’s basically given up tracking the two of you down. You could’ve waited it out. You’re safe in this crazy bunker-house.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. The twins look at each other. Saeran looks down.

“I spent a long time under the ‘protection’ of people who said I’d be safe. It didn’t end great,” he spits out bitterly. Saeyoung twitches, as if he almost went to his brother’s side but thought better of it. You nudge him with your shoulder and he leans into you just a little, sighing.

“I do have mixed feelings about this all being in the open,” Saeyoung says. “He deserves whatever he gets, but—”

“—we’re doing exactly what he always said we would do,” Saeran finishes. “I hate that.” His red hair, softer and thinner than Saeyoung’s, hangs over his face, casting his eyes into shadow.

“Listen, we destroyed lives of people who deserved it a whole lot less,” Vanderwood cuts in, looking back and forth between the twins. “This guy is—from what I read, he’s a real monster.”

“I don’t even care about that part anymore,” Saeran mutters. For once, he’s just wearing a t-shirt, and the bottom-half of his tattoo is visible, peeking out from under his sleeve.

“Yeah,” Saeyoung adds, his attention on his twin. “It’s not a vengeance thing. And I mean—you’re right. We could live underground like this forever, and probably be safe from him as long as we don’t try to go out in the world or use our real names or anything.”

Saeran nods slowly. You notice that your shoulders have tensed up, and you try to focus on releasing them. If it were up to you, you’d have made chasing down and punishing the twins’ dad first priority. But—as Jumin said—it’s not up to you.

Saeyoung peeks at you out of the corner of his eye and you know he’s reading your thoughts on your face. He turns back to Vanderwood.

“I still want to do it, though,” he says firmly. “Because…I want to move someplace where we can have windows. And an even bigger garden. I want my fiancé to be able to have friends over without them almost getting bombed by my stupid security system. I want to use my real name when I get married. I want…” He clears his throat a little awkwardly. Vanderwood watches him intensely, unblinking. “I want to live like a human being,” he finishes.

No one says anything. Saeran is still looking down at the carpet. Vanderwood taps a finger thoughtfully on the table. If anybody understands what Saeyoung means, you think, it’s Vanderwood.

Agents can’t have families, they told you once, when the four of you—the same four of you that are sitting around in your warm and well-lit living room right now, you realize with a jolt—were holed up in the middle of nowhere, hurt, misled, in the midst of a war. Agents don’t get names, or friends, or things they like and dislike. That’s just not part of it.

One of the laptops beeps, breaking the silence. “It’s ready,” Vanderwood says softly. “Just say the word and it’s done.”

You look at Saeyoung, who looks at Saeran. Saeran stares at the floor for a long moment; finally, he looks back at his brother, and his mint eyes are clear and sure.

“Do it,” he says.

Saeyoung grabs your hand and squeezes it and, without hesitation, Vanderwood hits a key. The computer hums.

“There’s no guarantee—“ they say, as if the twins don’t already know.

“Whatever happens, we can handle it,” Saeyoung says decisively. He stands and stretches, and then he puts a hand on Vanderwood’s shoulder; Vanderwood flinches as if expecting an electric shock. “Don’t freak,” Saeyoung says, with a lopsided smile. “I just—um. Thanks.”

Vanderwood doesn’t meet his eyes, but you swear you see the corners of their mouth twitch upward.

“Nah, you were right,” Vanderwood says. “It’s time we all started living like human beings.”

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mydrug-is-dragonage · 3 years

Text

Veda Adaar, Life after Bull

Victory. Triumph. Glory. Pride. What we usually feel when we win a battle. The quiet grief of cutting down lives, regardless of how worthy they are of death, but the warm joy, knowing we saved someone or something or everyone or everything from a grand or small evil.

Victory. We stood on the balcony, crowded together, together again for the first time in years. Thom and Sera, Divine Victoria’s watchful eyes, Cassandra and Varric’s constant disdainful flirting, Cole and Maryden’s quiet affection, Dorian and Vivienne both wine drunk trading insults, the quiet acknowledgement of a friendship that grew against both of their wills. Josephine and Cullen arguing, treating the terrace like battlements, more performative as they both know the end is closer than the beginning. Solas, our own personal god, long-gone into the eluvian. We’re all here, we’re all together. All of us, but Bull.

Triumph. The weeks have passed, a quick and effective rebuke from the Arishok, King Alistair and Empress Celene accept it quietly, no time for war with another battle floating above us in the air. Back at Skyhold, a skeleton crew, these days just Harding and me spend our time in the battle room, staring at maps; Leliana’s other protégés are always off on missions. Sera pops by every now and then to see Dagna with bees and trinkets and little things to remind me that she’s never really gone. The best day, or the worst depending on the audience, Sera and Dagna came up to my room, giggling, presented me with a crossbow for where my arm ought to be. “Widdle’s a wizard, yeah! You’ll be on rooftops sticking it to people too big for their breeches in no time!” I thanked them, and sent them away. This is love, at least for Sera. Her love is violence and showy maneuvers, dancing with both hands and feet shaking about.

Glory. Josephine writes me letters, telling me to eat, to ask Cullen to write back. After a few months, she finally pens, “I know I am no longer your formal ambassador, but as your informal friend I find it painful to admit what has been sung in the inns and halls. Bards have taken your loss and turned it into song. Unlike what Maryden had composed, these are unfortunately mocking in nature. People have taken the final act and written it as the whole narrative, my lady. A play premiered in Val Royeux putting you at the center of the conflict, as the one who allowed it to happen. If you desire, I can put an end to this. Divine Victoria recommended assassins, but I’ve temporarily dispelled her more primal desires. Likewise, Mr. Arainai also reached out, grateful for the assistance you had given him evading the Crows. I similarly told him no. Above all, regardless of what action we take, I want you to know I am sorry. You’ve lost much, suffered more than so many of us. I’m sorry, Veda. I love you.” It wasn’t unexpected, bards sing, playwrights write. They tell the tales people want to hear. Immortalizing betrayal has always turned them into legends.

Pride. A cold morning, one with little to be done, Charter and Rector off in Nevarra, the crows neither coming or going, Lace came into my room, “Sorry to bother you, V, we’ve got a vistor.”

“Avoidable?” I ask.

“What an impossibly rude question, darling.” I looked up from my desk and saw her horns pointing from the stairway.

“Oh, Vivienne, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I don’t stop the smile on my face. For all our differences, we’d become like sisters. On her best days, she’d fawn over me like a mother.

“That’s Grand Enchanter now, My Lady Inquisitor.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lace said, excusing herself. I waited to hear the door close, then the other. Vivienne stood, graceful and stoic as ever. A few more moments of silence, then she broke into a smile. She took off her hat, placed it on the sofa, and walked towards me, arms splayed.

“Oh, my dear, how I’ve missed you!” I stood up, robes draping and hiding me.

I leaned into her hug, resting my head on hers. “Grand Enchanter, really Viv?”

“One must keep appearances, darling. Besides, imagine if Bull heard you call me…” She heard it as it left her mouth. “Oh, my sweet, I’m so sorry. While we should have anticipated his betrayal, I know the loss must weigh on you heavily.” She nestled further into my chest. I breathed out, for a moment just Veda, not the Inquisitor, not the betrayed lover, not the important person forced upon me. I was mortal, Vashoth, tall and strong and being hugged by someone who loved me enough to allow me to be small and weak. We settled onto the couch. I pulled my legs in front of me

“You know better than anyone. I remember, I was there when you lost Bastien.”

“And I was there when you lost the Iron Bull,” she sighed. “We are sisters in grief, as well as sisters in victory. We’re sisters in success, although your’s has had its struggles as of late. I assume the Divine told you of the bards?”

“Josephine.”

“The Nightingale sending a gentler songbird. Wise.”

“I assumed it would happen. Charter brought back the lyrics and playbook from what she considered the more consumable tales,” I said.

“They’re vile, darling. I offered the services of the Circle. The Divine declined. I assumed she had sent assassins.”

“No, I turned down the offers.”

“You’re losing political capital, my dear. If you want to return to the world, recruit who you need to defeat Solas, you’ll need allies. New allies, old allies. It will require quite the force and connections. You know you have the Circle, as much as we can politically sacrifice in this turbulent time,” she said.

“It isn’t the first thing on my mind, at the moment,” I said.

“And why not darling? If you choose to remain in obscurity at some point it will no longer be a choice.”

It’s spring, it is the last night at Skyhold before we leave for the Exalted Council. Cullen and Josephine have been up bickering most the evening, finally put to rest. I settle into my room, sitting at my desk, twiddling my pen. My bag is packed, the horses are ready. The door creaks open. I don’t look up, I can smell him from here. Even after a bath he smells like home, smoky and warm. “Hey, Kadan.”

“Hey,” I say, “they finished?”

“Well, Cullen is now arguing with Cabot which gave me enough time to get the serving girls to feed Josephine. She wanted to get back to bickering, but I asked her if the itinerary had been checked. So I think they’re fine for now.”

“They’re just worried about tomorrow, the coming weeks. It’s normal,” I say,

“You’re the one who grew up with humans. They worry too much, but it makes them easy to work with. Like clay.” I smile and look back down at my papers. “Enough work, Kadan. You can’t do anything more today.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Are you going to make me?” I smirk.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” I laugh. “I thought you knew it all, everything I needed, Ben-Hassrath training, remember?” He smiles and walks towards me, I slide back in my seat and he scoops me up.

In bed, his heart pumps slow and heavy in his chest. I trace his body with my hands, his arm around me. Our horns rub against each other, small grooves from the years of lying here together. “Better?” He asks.

“What do you think?”

“I know. I just want to know if you know.” I lean up and kiss him.

“Yes, better.” He smells better when he’s sweaty. Something about those early days, seeing him tear through crowds, watching his arms lift and push those heavy swords and axes. Long before, when the Chargers still existed, when he wasn’t just my man, but their man.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I’m sorry, you know,” I say. For a moment, he’s silent, sitting in the grief.

“You made the right choice. You made the only choice. You led like a Qunari.”

“It shouldn’t have been my choice. I should have let you decide,” I say.

“No,” He says, clipped. “You are the Inquisitor. It was your decision, to keep the alliance or lose it. You made history. You stopped a batshit insane darkspawn from destroying the world.”

“I could have stopped him anyway,” I say.

“We don’t know that. The Tamassrans used to say, ‘When there are no right choices, the right decision is the one you make and the one you live with.’” I nestle into his chest.

“I’m happy the Qunari have kept you here.”

“Me too, Kadan.”

“I love you, Bull.” He pulls me closer into him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s crying.

“I don’t want you to be angry, Viv,” I said.

"Oh what now darling? First you go into solitude like a hermit, what’s next?” I put my legs down and pulled my robes back. “What’s this?” She looked, at first with curiosity, then her eyes widened. “Veda, oh Veda, are you?”

My eyes well, “Yeah, Viv. I am.”

She covers her mouth, the first time I’ve seen her truly shocked. “And is it…?” With that question, the tears fall. The heavy sobs wrack my chest and Vivienne crawls towards me, arms draped around my shoulders and I cry into her chest. “Oh darling, of course you’ve been distracted.” She rubs the back of my head, stroking my neck as I calm down. “Should I ask Harding for some tea? Juice? No wine, of course.” I shake my head. “Oh dear. Who all knows?”

I swallow and trap my tears in my chest. “So far you, Leliana, Thom, and Cassandra. Lace knows, and she’s kept questions from Charter and Rector to a minimum.”

“You haven’t told Josephine?”

“How could I? What could I possibly say, ‘Oh yes, enjoy your new career in Antiva! By the way, I’m carrying the betrayer’s child! Send my love to Yves and Yvette!’”

“I don’t think keeping it secret is much wiser, my dear. People will know, especially once the child is here. Do the Qunari know?” She asked.

“As far as Leliana’s sources know, no. Bull was loyal to the end, they had no reason to think he’d do this, especially when it hadn’t happened in the years before.”

“When did this happen?”

“Right before we left for the Exalted Council,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I know,” I said. “He must have known. I can’t decide if this was kindness or cruelty.”

“What’s that line he always said, darling? ‘When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.’”

The tears well again. My hands slide to swollen belly. “It isn’t what I wanted. I had never even considered it. He was Qunari enough that I knew we’d never have a family.”

She reached a hand towards my belly, “May I?” I sniffed and nodded. She placed her hands on my stomach, on top of my own hands. “If this isn’t what you wanted, then it must have been what he thought you needed.”

“He couldn’t have known we’d win. He fought like he meant it. He struck me with his blade. He wasn’t fighting to lose.” The anger and grief mixed in my throat.

“He wasn’t, he never did, darling. But he knew you. He knew us. He knew you’d bring me and Cassandra. He knew what the Qunari could and couldn’t do. He believed in you, at the end. Just as he had at the beginning, my dear.” I took a hand from my belly and moved it to the outside of my horn, the groove still there from the years spent lying together.

“I’m not planning on bringing my child into the public life. We’ll have a few years, at least, presuming we aren’t all destroyed by Solas,” I said.

“Shh, no reason to worry about that right now, darling. We have today’s troubles and tomorrow’s troubles.” She sat back and blinked away her own tears. “I’ve never been an aunt before. I’ll of course send over a suite of clothes and supplies from Val Royeux.”

I wipe my eyes and smile, “Are you going to be an aunt or a Grandma’am?”

"Oh you miserable louse, how dare you?” She said, the tears finally pouring from her eyes.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor #adaar x bull #iron bull #the iron bull #inquisitor x bull #da #dai #fanfic #dragon age adaar #bull x adaar #dragon age vivienne #madam de fer

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sleepylixie · 4 years

Text

Never gone, my love

Demon-Hunter!Changbin x Demon-Queen!reader (Fits the Halloween moodies, me thinks)

2.8k words, Fantasy Angst Oneshot.

Warnings: Strong Language, gore, blackmail, murder by decapitation, a healthy dose of violence overall. An obsessive romance?

A/N: HELLO! Tis me! Before anything, the inspiration for this fic comes entirely from the amazing fic (My love is Come to me) written by @silverlightqueen- Oof, what a queen! Reading that piece had me lowkey mind blown and itching to give it a spin myself and so, Never gone, my love was born. Guys, no joke, I enjoyed writing this fic so insanely much. I’ve been missing from Tumblr for the sole reason of not having the inspiration or the guts to write and post anything anymore. Recently, I’ve been learning and making changes to that attitude of mine, so HERE WE ARE! I’m here to bug everybody with my fics and writing again!!

ONTO THE FIC!!! Hope y’all like this!

What is a queen without a king? Unhinged.

What is a queen with her king? Unleashed.

The silver rings on my fingers glinted wickedly, winks of light reflecting off them from the hellfire blazing outside. Being queen was no mean feat, even if the queen in question was of part- noble blood to start with. Not everybody was happy with Satan’s oldest heir being a daughter- if anything, they expected me to take to my mother’s path and become a low-rung sex fiend, running errands day-to-day, begging for a good fuck. Imagine their horror when I turned out to be my father’s daughter instead, the woman that is begged for. Holding power came to me as naturally as playing the seductress and it was only a matter of centuries before my father and his court relented, finally giving me an ascendancy to my own realm of Hell.

If power is currency, I am a feral tycoon, trading in smiles, sex and savagery. I played the game I wasn’t expected to play and here I sit, on the Fifth circle’s throne, dripping in authority and gemstones.

No, I’m not the type to dress so frivolously every day. It was the coming of All Hallow’s Eve and my subjects were all too happy to enjoy the lines thinning between our world and the mortals’. The air was electric, alive with the sounds of fear, lust, anger…. Sin. It was a symphony to my immortal ears. While my people revelled in their festivities outside my castle, I had my own celebrations well underway.

“I know you’re outside, my love!” I called out, elongated canines flashing against the smirk on my blood-hued lips. “Why don’t you join in the festivities,” I grinned wider, “it’s all for you anyway.”

If I had breath in my lungs, it would have been knocked out of me by the man who stepped into my throne room. Jet black hair, sharp chin and sharp eyes narrowed as he took a step, and another into the chamber. He was dressed like any other of his stature would be- comfortable fighter’s clothing over his muscled physique, harness over his shoulders, thighs and waist with weaponry all over his frame and disdain on his face.

“What is it going to take for you to leave me alone, Y/N.” Seo Changbin wasn’t the type to mince words and oh, how I loved that about him. I let my smile grow further into a snarl, baring teeth. “You know the answer to that too well, my love.” I cooed, allowing myself a flash of satisfaction at the way his jaw gritted in annoyance.

My demon hunter love. Oh, what has that curse done to you.

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.” His eyes bore hateful holes into my own as he looked me up and down, wrinkling his nose at the sight of my royal regalia. “You know that’s never going to happen. When are you going to stop with your infernal games?”

I clicked my tongue, standing and walking down my throne’s podium, jet black smoke and orange sparks trailing behind my dress.

“You loved these infernal games more than I did, darling. When will you stop depriving yourself of what’s truly yours?” My stilettos clicked against the black marble floor as I made my way closer to where Changbin stood, ramrod straight in front of the double doors. “When hell freezes over.” He snarled back, watching my every movement.

I knew how I looked to him, a vision in debauchery, a shining beacon of temptation dipped in black corseted silk and silvery green gemstones. It is exactly what he hated about me- what he was cursed to hate about me. “I’m sure I can arrange that fairly easily if that’s what you wish, my love.”

My cold, beautiful love. Oh, what has that curse done to you.

He was the strongest, cruelest son of a Hell’s prince, smitten by my power and I, by his strength. We were inseparable, indomitable, bonded by mischief big and small until he was taken away from me.

He sucked in a breath, momentarily thrown off-guard before regaining his bearings. “You’re not strong enough for that, sweetheart,” he spat out the endearment like a curse. “You’d have done that a long time ago if you could.”

I looked him in the eye, unfazed by his argument. My heavily braceleted hand rose, palm first, wreathed in a ball of hellfire. Fire that blazed so hot, it was almost white. I let it burn bright between the both of us, illuminating the previously shadowed chamber around us.

There was an almost disappointed- no, frustrated look in Changbin’s eyes as he took in the utter carnage around him. Body after mortal body lay on the floor of my throne room, all limp, pale and unmoving.

“You- They said it was one dead body!” Changbin spluttered, his angry expression giving way to horror as he took in his vicinity. “This is just the beginning of what I can do. What you could do. You reveled in this debauchery as much as I did, darling.” I responded nonchalantly, allowing the hellfire to light up the chandeliers above us. “I’m sure you remember that one All Hallow’s Eve when we went on a rampage like this.”

“There is nothing fun about MURDERING INNOCENT HUMANS.” Changbin exclaimed and I shrugged, delighted at finally getting a rise out of him. “But you don’t know them. You don’t care about them. What does it matter to you? They’re just more souls for my people to feed on.”

“This is basic human empathy, Y/N!” He snarled at me and oh. There it was. The otherworldly strength that even the curse couldn’t take away from him. It set my nerves aflame, my body singing in it’s presence, it’s familiarity. “There is nothing more abhorrent than the way you keep killing and killing like these people don’t matter.” His voice rose in volume, raspy in it’s pitch. “What will it take for you to understand that I am not. YOURS. There is nothing under this godforsaken world that will let your devilish hands take over me, or the mortals on Earth-”

“What do you care about Mortals?” I screamed back, the fire in my nerves sparking into a wildfire at his words. “You’re NOT MORTAL.YOU’RE LIKE ME. YOU’RE MINE.YOU LIE TO YOURSELF. ”

Silence stretched between us as he stared at me again, stunned by my outburst. But then again, this isn’t something he hasn’t heard before.

The race of demon hunters is an abomination come to life. That coming from a demon princess is the highest order of abhorrence. Even more so because.. My love is the first, and worst of them.

The elders in the first mortal civilization felt the need to find a way for them to bring demons from the thralls of temptation and make them immune to the point where they can slay their kin to protect humankind. I was there. Trapped and in pain because of my childhood innocence , forced to watch as those infernal mites plunged my love into the light that turned him away from me, since time immemorial until now. Forced to watch as he rose from the flames, eyes alight with hatred as he plunged my father’s dagger into my chest.

“Admit it, my love,” I purred, stepping closer to him, leaning closer to his ear. “You miss being mine, as I missed being yours. You missed sitting on that throne, as King. Some part of you misses this.” I turned around and threw my arms out, encompassing the massacre in front of us.

I let out a velvet laugh as I made my way back to my throne. “This was all yours, until you walked away.” Taking my seat, I looked down at where Changbin stood, having moved from the doors to the middle of the room. “All I ask is for you to return to where you belong.”

“Maybe if you die for more than a few hours after I kill you, I’ll consider it.” Changbin snarled at me, looking for all the otherworld like a king without a crown.

I forgot what loss, pain and heartbreak felt like after that day, all those millennia ago. That is, until I found him in my chambers again, bristling with human weaponry and the need to kill me thrumming through his veins. So began our cat-and-mouse game, him wanting to sever his last connection to the Otherworld and me, savoring the sheer frustration I left him. You see, I forgot loss, pain, heartbreak- but I didn’t forget possession. He was mine, for glorious centuries, until he was taken away from me. I vowed to bring my Changbin back again and Satan’s daughter never goes back on her words.

“Or what if hell freezes over?” My pleasant question stopped Changbin short, head cocking to the side in slight confusion. “You see, darling, I might be Satan’s daughter, but I made my way here from the bottom.” I picked at my fingernails, looking like I didn't have a care in the world- which, of course, I didn’t. “ After you left, I gave and took many more favors to get to this fine evening. They call me Hell’s Whore, for all the things I was willing to do that even low-grade scum wouldn’t. You see, the darkness owes me a favor,” The color draining from his face stoked at the ice-cold fire burning in my mind. “And the darkness never fails to deliver.”

“What did you do,” Changbin breathed, his hands going, almost unconsciously, to the knives sheathed at his thighs. I smiled my sweet sinner smile at him, crossing one leg over the other as I leaned back on my throne. “Oh, nothing. Just asked for hell to freeze over Earth on All Hallow’s Eve night if you don’t agree to turn back.”

The curse was very simple. The only way my love would ever come back to me was if he chose to make the Turn himself. It was a clever ploy, because immunity to temptation was rooted into every demon hunter’s veins from the moment they are created. Luckily for me, I wasn’t beyond playing dirty.

“What the fuck?” Changbin exclaimed in rage, his feet carrying him of his own volition up the steps to stand over me in front of my throne. I continued smiling at him, not a hint of remorse on my face as I looked up at him. “You have a few minutes to decide, my love.” I purred, not breaking eye contact. It was that split second of uncertainty that flashed through his face, which urged me to move, pushing him down onto the twin throne that sat beside mine, empty for centuries without it’s true owner.

“And I’d suggest you make yourself comfortable.” I whispered, my lips mere inches from his face. The glare he levelled at me was one for the books, raging wild fury and utter desperation all wound into one.

“Stay where you are, darling, or I’ll butcher these precious mortal bodies one by one.” I grinned as I straightened up, sauntering back down the stairs to nudge my foot against one of the bodies closest to the throne. “I’ll have you know that none of these mortals are dead,” I giggled. “Only unconscious from the fear of the Otherworld. Delicate creatures, these mortals. It’s a wonder why you want to be associated with these weaklings.” A growl ripped out of Changbin’s throat as I stifled another laugh.

“How do I know you’re not bluffing? About the darkness?” Changbin shouted behind me, still rooted to his spot on the podium. I didn’t respond, only humming softly as I picked my way through the many bodies, looking for all the world like I was frolicking in Eden’s Garden. The singing of a blade flying through the air brought me out of my fake reverie, spinning and catching it by the handle just before it pierced my skin.

“Tch. You really didn’t think I’d make it this easy for you to kill me.” You wagged the knife point first at Changbin, who was still on the podium- what a sight he made. He was made for the throne, but his entire form bristled like he was seated on hot coals instead of opulence. “You don’t know if I’m bluffing until Hell actually freezes over, my love.” I responded, just loud enough for him to hear. I pulled up one of the limp bodies I stood amongst, a young girl who barely looked 16.

Changbin’s knife twirled in my fingers as I gripped the handle, moving the blade almost sensuously over the skin of her throat. “Maybe the massacre should start with her.”

It was a soft prick of pleasure that slid through my veins at the look of panic that danced across Changbin’s eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.” He growled. I did nothing but stare him in the eye, allowing the point of his knife to dip slightly into the child’s neck. Drops of ruby blood blossomed at the wound and the scent. Oh, the scent of human blood. What a magnificent feast.

“You have 3 seconds left, my love.” “What-” “Three,” “What the-” “Two,” “No, wait-” “One-”

“OKAY. FINE. FINE. STOP.”

“What was that, darling?” I cocked my head, pretending like I hadn’t heard him. “I’ll do it.” He sighed in defeat.

Oh. “Do it then,” I urged him, still having the knife pointed edge down into my young victim’s throat.

“You’re a fucking menace, Y/N .”Were the last words I heard before his eyes closed and his body slumped back into the throne, his face deliciously blank.

Did he Turn? The stabs of curiosity danced across my spine as the moments of silence stretched ahead, one, two, ten. And then he stirred. First he sat up, cracking his neck from the awkward position he’d fallen back in. His hand brushed back his hair and then, he opened his eyes. Bright red eyes, twin to my own.

I stared at him in barely veiled disbelief and he stared back, the glow in his eyes fading from neon to ruby. Then he smiled, and I knew. There was only one person in the Otherworld who had that smile of ice and terror. I couldn’t help but throw him a grin of my own, canines bared in an amused snarl of unholy victory. Like he was never gone, my love.

The knife twisted in my hands and went clean through the mortal girl’s throat, twisting away as her head fell off of her body in a shower of blood. But I couldn’t care less about the bloody mess on my arms, shoulders and cheek because I was walking my way back to the twin thrones. Changbin watched my every movement with a predator’s gaze, leaning back onto the throne-his throne, with a sense of stone-cold authority as his ringed fingers tapped the velvet on the arms of the chair. He was made for the throne, my love.

Soon, I stood in front of him, a snap of my fingers bringing forth the cold-iron and obsidian crown that was a male contrast to the feminine tiara that rested on my brow. “My King, my love.” I whispered, setting the crown atop his head. He was meant for a crown, my love.

“My Queen, my love.” Changbin’s smirk sent a jolt of wicked familiarity through my body, a thing of fiendish beauty. He took one of my hands into his own, raising it to press a gentle kiss onto my knuckles, the red eyes never leaving my own. When he tugged at my hand, it was with a sense of belonging that I allowed my body to fall onto his lap, uncaring of anything and anybody else. He nuzzled his nose into my neck, tongue darting out to taste the splatter of mortal blood that had found its way onto my skin. A low groan fought its way out of his mouth at the taste. He was never the type to hold back, my love.

“Oh, how I have missed the taste of human blood.” He rasped against my ear, a shiver making it’s way down my back at the proximity I’d missed so much. “Almost more than I felt the lack of you.” I hummed, placing kisses from his cheekbone to his ear. “Not as much as I missed you, I wager.” I murmured against his skin, nipping softly at his ear. His grip on my waist tightened as I pulled back, smirks mirroring each other. “What would you have me do to prove you wrong, my Queen?” Changbin’s expression was nothing short of vicious excitement as he matched me stare for stare. He was always a fierce one, my love.

“Rule over Earth with me.” His eyebrows raised, almost imperceptibly. “So you’re truly Hell’s Whore?” I chuckled, capturing his lips with mine for a brief yet passionate kiss. “No, my love. Darkness is mine.”

Changbin laughed, the deep sound ricocheting off the hollow space in me that he had left empty for the past centuries. “For you, my Queen, my Love….gladly.”

It was like he was never gone, my love.

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