#and our lives are an extension of Earth's life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lovelyhan · 7 months

Text

— daylight ⟢

when hoshi first opened his eyes, the singular impulse hard-wired into his circuitry is to dance. a performer in every sense of the word, he simply finds another stage to set foot on in the planet of salax after the escape. people never overstay their welcome here, but he unexpectedly meets you—a mechanic born and raised in a place where no one deigns to linger for too long.

★ FEATURING; soonyoung x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 9k words

★ TAGS; automaton!hoshi, mechanic!reader, a bunch of stray kids members make appearances bc HA!, mentions of sex work, mutual pining? angst, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ WARNINGS; implied dubious consent (with hoshi and a character that isn't the mc), mentions of terminal illnesses and surgeries

★ NOTES; fun fact! this collab was 9 months in the making and i am cramming this on the very last day of my extension :D very unprofessional of me, but here it is! p.s. little side note that the chan that's constantly mentioned in the fic is bang chan, not lee chan!

this is part of @idyllic-ghost's svt sci-fi collab!

★ SMUT TAGS; robot sex, unprotected sex, first time together, they're just so desperate for each other yk

★ PERMANENT TAGLIST; @cheolhub - @pretty-trustme - @just-here-to-read-01 - @idkmelkro - @dejavernon - @venusrae - @jyiiscool - @jiniesclub - @junhui-recs - @bldelaine - @featmia - @fruitzcup - @hoeforhao - @candidupped - @billboard-singer - @caratochan - @novalpha - @dahliatopia - @0717luv - @shiveringgaze - @toruro - @mixling-blog - @minnie-mouser22 - @homerunhansol - @mirtaspace - @ti--red - @zzucculent - @woozarts - @rubyreduji - @mozellerra - @lllucere - @cheolzip - @jjjzzzz - @lissiesykes - @dearjeonwonwoo - @meowmeowminnie - @colored-confetti - @partiallyinfluencial - @speaknowlwt - @flwrshwa - @lilylikesthat - @aurorahongg - @whippedforjihoon - @todorokiskitten - @immabecreepin - @98-0603 - @peachhiz - @dkswife

★ SOONYOUNG TAGLIST; @ak6ko - @nikkell - @yoonzinoooo

100 years ago it was thought that the Earth, as we know it, would disintegrate. That the sun would implode and leave everything in darkness. Miraculously, it didn’t. Due to some external force, human scientists still haven’t agreed upon what it exactly was, none of the planets in our former solar system were ever destroyed.

The Earth, along with the other planets, were pushed away from each other, and ended up in different parts of the universe. Earth just happened to come to a solar system with alien life. At first, we were cautious, and people were prepared to fight.

However, the aliens were welcoming of our planet. Those of us who didn’t die from ‘The Great Journey’ or from trying to fight the aliens, were welcomed into the new solar system.

Soon enough, we had integrated completely, and we received materials and assistance from our sister-planets in exchange for human labor. What humans knew of technology was very limited, but with the resources of the aliens we created artificial life forms. We named these robots Automatons, and they served as workers when humans couldn’t.

Eventually, there was no need for human labor at all. To pay back for the help the aliens gave us, we used Automatons. With the extensive development of these robots, we eventually managed to create artificial sentient life. These Automatons were human-like in looks and had human consciousness, but they could not bleed and were stronger than we ever could be.

At the present time, there are even different levels of Automatons. Level 3 robots are the workers, level 2 robots are the caretakers, and level 1 robots are the celebrities—

“That’s enough telly for one day, don’tcha think?”

A frown tugs at your lips when you hear the familiar voice of your next-door neighbor who also makes a living out of trading tech junk in exchange for money. Han Jisung is a bit of an oddball—even by your planet’s standards, and everyone knows how strange the dwellers of Salax could be. If he was on Earth, he would’ve been ostracized as a complete loon, but unfortunately the stack of television monitors right outside his shop is your only source of entertainment these days.

(Which might sound preposterous to some, since Salax is often dubbed as the planet of entertainment. Just not the kind you’re looking for.)

“Why are you even watching a documentary that’s nearly a decade old?” you huff, clutching a bag of tools you bought from the other side of town closer to your chest. “I thought you didn’t give a shit about Automaton celebrities—that Chan’s dancer trinity could outperform any machine?”

“Now, Giz, no need to be so stingy,” Jisung chuckles and your eye twitches at the condescending nickname. “You know that's not why I’m watching this old thing.”

As if on cue, the only working screen in the sea of television static before you flickers from a scene of breathtaking idol performances to a closeup on a familiar Automaton who’s been burning up the stage since he first opened his eyes.

“Hoshi looked so sparkly when he debuted,” Jisung comments as the documentary continues to play. “Actually, they all did. Makes me wonder why those idols thought it’d be a good idea to break out of their facilities. Weren’t they treated like royalty back on Earth? What’s he doing in a dump like this?”

“Jisung,” you sigh. “Why’d you ask me to come here again?”

“Oh. Right. I'll bring him into your lab, Giz.”

He calls you Giz because you’re known around these parts as someone who can fix any gadget and gizmo; every robot and Automaton that’s dropped into your care. It just so happens that, with the nature of his business, Jisung is the one who typically directs potential customers your way.

Which is what he’s doing right now.

“Didn’t he already come in here last week? And the week before that?” Your neighbor grumbles as he helps your mutual friend Minho heft a powered down Automaton on the table in your lab. “It was Hyunjin who brought him the first time. Then Felix. Now you?”

“He’s a bot, what’d you expect?” Minho huffs. “They break down every now and again.”

“You break down every now and again too, but you don’t visit the doctor every week, no?” Jisung quips. “Idol bots really have no business wanderin’ into the galaxy’s red light district when they can’t handle the heat.”

“Jisung, shut up,” you apprehend him sharply, all while getting to work on the Automaton lying on your work table. “I can’t fix anything when you’re running your mouth too close to my ear.”

Your neighbor simply chuckles before patting Minho on the back. “Oh, yeah. You’ve gotta be in your handywoman element and everything. Well, Minho and I are gonna pop open some cold ones from your fridge—”

“No.

“—from my fridge while you work on that dying star over there,” Jisung makes it a point to cast the same robot he’d just been watching a documentary of a pitiful glance. “Seriously though, won’t Chan-hyung just consider selling him to me? Bet this guy’s parts would make a great fortune in the black market.”

“And how are you going to explain that you managed to turn up Hoshi of 53V3NT33N’s body parts without getting arrested?” Minho barks before yanking Jisung by the ear to the entrance of your lab. “Sorry about him, Y/N. He must be a pain in the ass to have as a neighbor.”

"You're a pain in the ass for constantly getting me to fix this guy, too,” you mumble as you start to unbutton Hoshi’s shirt to access the panel concealing the circuitry panel underneath his chest. “I’m all for saving what can still be saved, but maybe Jisung is onto something. Why aren’t you guys just chopping up his parts if he breaks down this often?”

Jisung nods with a huff. “Can’t be good for business even if he used to be a famous idol, that’s for sure.”

The lab is silent apart from the whir of the machines mounted on your walls, and it’s this sullen atmosphere that makes Minho’s reply have all the more weight to it.

“You guys aren’t dancers. You wouldn’t be able to understand.”

The first time you met rogue idol Automaton Hoshi in his titanium-clad glory was during a rare night when Jisung coaxed you out of your lab to "have real fun for once". Your neighbor is easily one of the most overbearing people you know, so you simply tagged along for the sake of getting him to shut up more than anything else.

But when he droned on and on about this new recruit Minho managed to scour off the streets, you never expected that Jisung would be talking about a bot and not some fledgling dancer with little to his name.

Well, in retrospect, Hoshi is a dancer—a performer, even. Despite his group's intergalactic status as outlaws because of the simultaneous escape stunt they pulled several months ago, not a single soul in Salax wished to report his whereabouts to the concerned authorities.

Where the other bots from 53V3NT33N are, you haven't the slightest clue, but if your planet's natives have widely accepted Hoshi's presence even if he's been here for a month at most, who are you to dictate otherwise?

Passionate. That's the best word you can use to describe the way he dances. All the movements that his body makes are calculated, purposeful. Each roll of his hips, each snap of his limbs, every memorable expression that colors his face—the intensity of Hoshi's performance all bleeds into his passion for the art of dance.

In your many years of tending and tinkering with machines, this is probably the first time you wondered if a bot's creator infused part of his soul into the code. You know of a few Automatons that are being used as entertainers and even escorts for the lecherous visitors of Salax, yet none of them come as close to being human as Hoshi is in your book.

But on that same night, you managed to witness the polar end of the spectrum. The one where Hoshi's fiery passion crumbled into crippling anxiety.

Automaton malfunctions aren't an uncommon occurrence here. The reason why not many Level 1 bots ever set foot on Salax is because the planet's electromagnetic fields mess with their delicate circuitry and sometimes even tamper with their code.

These Automatons are celebrities—meaning their parts are made out of sleek material to allow ease of movement and rid them of the rigid and bulky framework of infernal bots. But because of the flimsy hardware coupled with the harsh environment, you're not surprised to see an Automaton as intricately crafted as Hoshi break down in the middle of a performance.

He's a mess. The practiced choreography was seemingly wiped out of his programming as he convulsed on-stage, sparks flitting from the seams of his joints. The bar’s manager, Chan, was quick to bark out orders to bring Hoshi off the platform and just let the other dancers cover the rest of the routine.

You thought the immediate recall of an obviously defected Automaton would mean he was done for. But then again, Salax is a place with little resources to burn. As long as a bot can still do its job, the owner will have it fixed time and time again until its artificial nervous system shuts down for good.

That’s how Hoshi ended up in your lab the first time.

There’s a childlike curiosity in his gaze when he wakes up after you check if all his wires are in place and if his code remains uncorrupted. It almost feels like seeing a baby open its eyes for the first time, but you know better than to associate human traits with something that’s anything but.

“Horanghae,” Hoshi says without any real context as he bares his fingers at you, while Hyunjin, the dancer who brought him here alongside Jisung, groans in contempt.

“That’s the first thing he said when Chan-hyung booted him up too,” he sighs. “Is it like some starting screen sound effect or something? What does that even mean?”

As things stand, you don’t know either. But seeing that Hoshi isn’t glitching anymore makes a wave of relief wash over you in a rather unexpected way. While it isn’t the first time you’ve had to fix a humanoid robot, you don’t work much on machines that grin at you so wide, their eyes disappear.

Then again, there’s always room for firsts.

“Why’d you choose to go here after you escaped?”

You chose to ask Hoshi the question that’s been weighing on your mind despite having little to no reassurance of the ingenuity of his answer. You’re aware that though Automatons—especially Level 1’s—are sentient, you have zero background on their psychological makeup, the thought process behind their decisions, everything but the baseline components of their hardware.

Hoshi hums for a moment, wincing when you accidentally nick one of the wires directly connected to the nerves on his thigh. “I dunno. I just wanted to dance.”

“Hm. And you thought you’d be able to do that here?”

He nods as if it was a practiced response. Maybe it is. “Yeah. My old mechanic told me Salax is a place where all sorts of dancers flock together. I kinda wanted to go with Wonwoo when we all escaped, but…I wanted to dance even more.”

Whoever that mechanic was, they must’ve left out the part where your home planet is quite literally a den for one’s deepest, darkest desires. Dancers at clubs are just merely scratching the tip of the iceberg. The depravity of Salax’s denizens and visitors alike goes even further than that, but you suppose it’s not the right time to disillusion such an innocent bot so early in his new career.

After all, Chan’s club might be like any other salacious establishment out there, but from what you know about him through Minho and Jisung, he isn’t the type to just throw a clueless Automaton into becoming a nightly escort. You’ll let Hoshi live out his dream to keep dancing on whatever stage he sets his eyes on—even if that means he’ll start frequenting your lab for regular maintenance checkups.

“Where’s Jisung?”

The question surprises you a little when Hoshi articulates it while you’re in the middle of tidying up your work table. Normally, he’d be out of the lab once you were done and whichever human dancer is chaperoning him for the day would pay for the services you rendered and they’d be on their merry way back to the main district.

It’s completely out of character for him to ask questions. You weren’t even aware that he knew Jisung’s name, which makes you wonder…

Does he know yours? You’ve never really introduced yourself to the machines you end up tinkering with on your work table.

Choosing not to dwell on it, you instead respond with, “Jisung is…at the hospital. He goes there every weekend.”

“Hospital,” Hoshi repeats the word as if it was something he’s only hearing about the first time. “My mechanic had to go to the hospital because she was sick one time. I didn’t see her for a while. Will Jisung be okay? Why is he in the hospital?”

You didn’t think sentient robots would have such a complex sense of self that they’re actually capable of empathy. It makes you stare at Hoshi, who’s staring back at you with a look asking for confirmation, and the unreadable expression on your face melts into soft laughter.

Your reaction, however, confuses the Automaton a little. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just amusing for me that you care that much about someone who’s constantly threatening to disassemble your parts and sell them in the intergalactic black market.”

“Well, if he needs them, I don’t mind.”

“If you let Jisung do that, you wouldn’t be able to dance anymore,” you point out before locking your toolbox, casting him a pointed look. “Will you really be alright with that? Not being able to do the thing that brought you here in the first place?”

Hoshi’s face scrunches up for a moment—as if he’s taking his time to actually think about his answer. Another speck of amusement prickles your chest. He has such human mannerisms that if you didn’t constantly see what’s underneath the clothes the bar provides him with, you never would’ve thought he was a bot.

“It would suck, but… Automatons were made to serve the humans around us, weren’t we?” he wonders out loud. “If my purpose is to get chopped up for parts, then I don’t really have any qualms with that.”

“Your purpose was to entertain millions of people across the galaxy as an idol group,” you deadpan. “But here you are in Salax, light years away from the rest of your members. You can cut the moral bullshit, Hoshi. We’re all selfish degenerates here anyway.”

For the first time, his expression twists into a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t understand…?”

“You don’t have to. It’s not that much of a big deal.” You shake your head and at the same time, you hear the sound of someone rapping their knuckles on the door to your lab. “Oh, Felix is already here. Good luck with tonight’s show.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

You can almost hear the pout in Hoshi’s voice, prompting you to cast him a sidelong glance. “Answer what?”

“Why is Jisung in the hospital?”

You let out your umpteenth sigh of the evening, opening the door to your lab to reveal a dressed-to-kill Felix that smiles and waves at the two of you.

“His older brother is sick and Jisung always goes to the hospital to take care of him on weekends,” you explain as simply as you could. “Does that finally sate your curiosity?”

It takes him a few moments to process the information he’d just been told, but Hoshi eventually breaks into that familiar, eye-crinkling grin—clearly satisfied with your answer.

“It did. Thank you, Giz.”

Well, that’s not quite your name, but you suppose it’ll do.

For Hoshi’s next checkup, you immediately sense that something’s amiss.

Typically, the Automaton waltzes into your lab and hefts himself on your work table before you can even get a chance to say hello to both him and his assigned chaperone. Today, it’s Minho but unlike last week’s visit, Jisung is here to lighten up the atmosphere in his usual Jisung fashion.

Though it’s not enough to conceal the obvious discombobulation your patient is currently experiencing.

“You two,” you call out, referring to the only other humans inside the lab. “Can you step out for a while? I’m gonna talk to Hoshi.”

Jisung, of course, is quick to initiate his rapid-fire questions. “What? Why would you need some alone time with a sexy bot, Giz? You’re not becoming one of those deranged mechanics who gets off with their Automatons, right?”

“Quit yapping and just let her do her job,” Minho scolds before dragging Jisung out of the lab by the wrist. But he doesn’t leave before yelling over his shoulder. “Just call us when you’re done!”

When Minho pulls the door shut and the automatic locks come into place, you turn to Hoshi with an inquisitive look.

“What happened?”

The question is met with a wince—as if you took out a cigarette and burned his silicone skin with the smoldering edge. Hoshi makes it a point to avoid your eyes, which only further confirms your theory that something is most definitely up.

“I…had my first client the other day.”

Ah.

While you haven’t personally dabbled in the services being offered by the red light district, you’ve been friends with Minho long enough to pick up on the basics. With how much attention Hoshi has been garnering for himself, it was only a matter of time before Chan would let him entertain their club’s regulars in a way that he was probably never taught as an idol.

After all, Level 1s are considered the purest of all the Automaton classes. You’ve always wondered what would happen if they were exposed to activities of the sexual kind, but from the uneasy look on Hoshi’s face, you’re afraid it might not have been a great first time.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

It feels a little silly, playing therapist for a literal machine. But the longer you serve as Hoshi’s regular mechanic here on Salax, the more you realize that things would be less stressful if you treated him just like you would treat any other human being out there.

He’s an Automaton—a robot—but because of the groundbreaking discovery of their ability to become sentient several decades ago, you’re more than inclined to hear him out.

“The other dancers helped me prepare. Chan told me time and time again that I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to but…” He starts, voice coming out softer than you’re used to—more reserved. “I wanted to. I wanted to be of use to them. I knew that lots of our customers wished for me to become their escort, so I just repaid Chan’s kindness by doing my job.”

Your lips tug into a grimace. “You don’t look very pleased with the outcome though.”

Hoshi purses his lips and that alone is already an answer.

You don’t pester him any further than that. Instead, you quietly instruct him to take off his shirt and lie on the table like he always does. Hoshi complies surprisingly quickly—following your orders with clockwork precision. He’s in position merely ten seconds after you gave the word.

When you perform your regular examination beneath his chest plate, nothing seems out of turn. Part of you wants to check the circuitry inside his head just to make sure he’s doing alright up there. It’s been a while since Hoshi has been brought here because of a breakdown, so you haven’t bothered inspecting the wires beneath his artificial skull. You wonder if he even wants to—

“It felt good,” your patient tells you all of a sudden, nearly making you drop the tools you’re using to poke around inside his chest cavity. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to even feel that way, but I did.”

Composing yourself, you manage a small nod. “Okay. Did you enjoy it at least?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you want to do it again?”

“...With her? Not really.”

Hoshi falls silent for the next few minutes once more, which affords you all the silence you need to concentrate on what you’re doing. After closing his chest panel and lubricating the screws on his external joints, he was more or less in the clear. But from the way his uncharacteristic silence still persists, you know that he still has a couple more things on his mind.

“I didn’t like the way she said my name.”

You glance at Hoshi with a quizzical look, implicitly asking him to elaborate, which he thankfully does in a heartbeat.

“When I was still with the rest of 53V3NT33N, the fans would call out my name and it always felt good. It felt euphoric, even,” he reminisces as he sits up on the table, dark eyes trained on the tiled floor. “But with my client…it was the first time I felt unnerved hearing it come from another person’s mouth. It’s like—like she only saw me as a thing to enjoy. Not someone she loves, like our fans love me.”

The honesty in his words makes your heart sink.

Turns out, ridding an Automaton of its figurative innocence isn’t so different from that of a real person. The glittering curiosity that’s always been present in Hoshi’s eyes is nowhere to be found and you feel a deep-seated anger pooling in the pit of your stomach at the knowledge.

“Can you give me a new one?”

Blinking the irritation out of your eyes, you stare at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“A new name,” Hoshi says softly. “I never really liked the name Hoshi. Our management just thought it would make for good business to base my image around tigers. What’s more is that this city has already tainted it for me.”

The bitter laugh that follows his words has your chest aching with an emotion you can’t name. When was the last time you became this sad on a machine’s behalf, you wonder…

“Are you sure?” you murmur. “I’m not your boss or anything. If there’s anyone who has the right to give you a name, wouldn’t it be Chan?”

Hoshi shakes his head. “No. I want it to be you.”

Humans are already hard to figure out, but with each session you share with Hoshi, you learn that Automatons are even more so. He stares at you with such intense desperation in his eyes that you find it difficult to deny him. So, with a deep breath, you say the first name that pops into your head.

“How about...Soonyoung,” you breathe. “You are powerful because of your innocence and glory combined. It’s obvious in how you haven’t tapped out because of that less-than-stellar time with your first client.”

“Soonyoung…” he whispers under his breath, as if testing how the syllables would taste in his mouth. When the corners of his lips twitch into a smile, you know you’ve struck gold. “Did you just invent what the name means or…?”

“That’s for me to keep and for you to find out.” You shrug. “Well? Do you like your new name?”

“It’s not just my name. It’s yours, too.”

“...That doesn’t really make a lot of sense.”

Soonyoung laughs. “You’re the one who gave it to me. So it belongs to you, too.”

I belong to you too, you can almost hear him say, but erase the idea from your brain before you can get any more silly thoughts.

“Well, I think we should go. My sensors tell me that someone is very pissed off on the other side and I’m guessing that Jisung must’ve said something that annoyed Minho again.”

“For a robot, you’re pretty adept at picking up on human emotions,” you point out teasingly.

“Of course I am. I always want to appeal to the emotions of those around me, Y/N. Why do you think I dance my heart out every time I’m in the club?”

Oh.

He does know your name after all.

That evening, you decided to tag along with the boys to the club—grabbing a table for Jisung and yourself as you watched tonight’s lineup of performers. Soonyoung, with his newfound confidence thanks to the name you bestowed upon him, looks just as breathtaking as he was in the prime of his idol years. You wouldn’t have thought he’d just had an unsavory encounter with a client with how brightly he grins at the audience.

He reminds you a little of daylight breaking through the horizon minutes after dawn—almost blinding in his brilliance, but too precious for you to miss out on.

“What’re you doing?”

Soonyoung sounds a little annoyed when he glances over his shoulder. Your most loyal patient came in alone for the first time in months for his weekly maintenance check-up, but for some reason, his trusted mechanic is much more interested in something else.

You’re still tinkering with a portable hologram projector that wandered into Jisung’s weekly junk stash—one that your neighbor gave to you as a little plaything that’s been taking up most of your morning trying to figure out.

“Give me a second,” you grumble as you attempt to salvage the inner workings of the worn out thing with a soldering iron. “I’ve only read about these things in books, and my old mentor said they usually contain the final messages of a ship captain whose spacecraft is about to get destroyed.”

“That’s weirdly specific of you, don’t you think?” Soonyoung huffs. “Come on. I’ve got a client to meet in two hours and Hyunjin’s being really annoying with this new routine he came up with. I need to go back and practice as soon as I’m done here.”

You let out a quiet laugh before giving up on the hologram projector. “Oh? Time sure flies, doesn’t it? I could’ve sworn you hated taking up clients just yesterday.”

He whines. “It’s been half a year since I started doing that!”

“Like I said—time flies!”

Your sessions have grown shorter and shorter with each passing week. Every time you fine-tune Soonyoung’s circuitry, you observe that he’s become less prone to internal malfunctions. You didn’t think it was possible for a Level 1 Automaton to fully adapt to the frequency of the electromagnetic waves in Salax, but Soonyoung has surprised you time and time again.

Now, he can go on for weeks without powering down to regain his energy. He’s as good as any dancer—both human and robot—can be, and you honestly consider telling him that he doesn’t really have to come in for his weekly check-ups anymore.

Soonyoung, however, doesn’t seem thrilled with the news.

“What do you mean I don’t have to come here anymore?” He pouts.

“There’s nothing left for me to check, big guy,” you sigh as you seal his chest panel back up. “You’ve been stable for months now. I don’t even charge Chan for your check-ups anymore since everything is relatively normal.”

“But if I don’t get any check-ups, can I still come here?”

You make a face at him. “What for?”

“To hang out! Minho and Jisung do it all the time. Although Jisung always barges into the club uninvited and we have to stop Minho from beating him up…”

His invite perplexes you more than it flatters you because… You’ve never encountered any cases where an Automaton would willingly go out of its way to spend time with a human that doesn’t hold any sort of authority over it.

They’re sentient, yes, but at the end of the day, those emotions that others trick themselves into believing that bots can feel are just a clever arrangement of ones and zeros. It’s easy to lose oneself into one’s own delusions when in need of a little company, but you know that you aren’t that desperate for companionship.

It’s always just been you and the bots and other machines you fix for a living. Well, maybe Minho and Jisung when they’re not busy trying to piss each other off. You don’t need to hang out with Soonyoung.

And yet…

“Fine,” you relent with little resistance, feigning nonchalance by fluttering back to the projector you’ve been trying to salvage. “Just don’t make too much of a racket or I’ll kick you out.”

Soonyoung beams at your agreement, tugging his shirt back on before shuffling towards you and embracing you from behind. The suddenness of the gesture obviously catches you by surprise. You nearly drop the portable holo projector, but Soonyoung’s reaction time is quite phenomenal.

“Hey, don’t drop it. It’s already been through a lot.”

Still unnerved by the feel of his beefy, synthetic arms wrapped around your frame, you glance at him warily. “You talk like it’s some sentient creature.”

“It is! Well, by some degree, I guess,” Soonyoung chuckles before flipping the thing over in his hand. “Machines are just like people too. If you listen close enough, you can hear what they want to tell you.”

“Uh-huh,” you drawl before disentangling yourself from his embrace before you could implode from embarrassment. If he notices just how flustered you are, he doesn’t show it. “What’s this thing trying to tell you then?”

“Its creator hid the switch inside the motherboard, but you’re damaging it with a soldering iron. You just need to look for it harder.” Soonyoung hands the gadget back to you with a warm smile. “Well, I’ve gotta go now. Hopefully, when I go hang out with you, that thing will already be fixed.”

Soonyoung prances out of the lab with a skip to his step before you can even give your own input. When you hear the front door of your house click shut, you grab your toolbox with a withering sigh before trying a different approach to your current predicament.

To your chagrin, it’s just as Soonyoung said—the switch was hidden somewhere beneath the motherboard and you were able to witness a space cadet’s last five minutes of life.

He talked about how much he missed home, how he wished he just died on Earth instead of being launched into space after the implosion of the sun of the first solar system. Then, he left a message for a woman that used to be his childhood sweetheart—saying that it was only a matter of time before they were reunited. Before you can glean any more information about the cadet, the feed was cut off and hologram flickered out.

The entire experience leaves you dumbfounded for about five minutes. A hologram from over a hundred years ago just wound up in Jisung’s junk stash. What are the odds?

“Giz? Are you in here?”

Speaking of Jisung, the devil himself weasels his way into your lab just when you’re done tidying up your little experiment for today. You’re just about to tell him what you saw in the holo projector, but the look on his face makes you pause.

The cheerful, pain-in-the-ass neighbor of yours seems a little…exhausted. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his cheeks look a bit thinner than you remember. Jisung is the kind of person that rarely lets the things that bother him show on his face, so you’re a little concerned to see him in such a state right now.

“Jisung, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “It’s Jieun… He’s—He needs a heart transplant. If he doesn’t get a replacement in eight weeks, he’ll die. I can’t handle that, Y/N. I can’t lose him. He’s the only family I’ve got left…”

You panic internally somewhat when Jisung starts rambling in front of you, tears streaking his face as the man who you thought was always a step ahead of everybody starts to crumble before you. You’re not expert in consoling people who direly need it, but you’re at least rational enough to lead him out of your stuffy lab and back to the comfort of your living room.

There, you give Jisung a glass of water and several minutes to catch his breath.

Once he calms down, he speaks.

“I’ve already outsourced a compatible donor,” he murmurs. “It should all be in the clear now, but the problem right now is money. The shitty healthcare system on this planet won’t greenlight any transplants unless everything is paid in full. I-I can’t come up with the money they want from me in less than two months.”

Fuck. He’s in a tight spot then. “Oh, Jisung…”

“But I’ve thought of a way that might work if you help me.”

You flash him a confused look. “What do you mean?”

Jisung’s throat bobs before letting out a shuddering breath. You only notice how bloodshot his eyes are when he leans closer to tell you about his so-called plan.

“Some intergalactic guards have been spotted around the main district lately. Word from the street is that they’re still searching for the other members of that idol group that escaped Earth and that a generous reward would be given to everyone who’ll cooperate,” he whispers conspiratorially, and from those few sentences alone, you’re already dreading what he’s planning. “If I lead them to Hoshi, I should be able to raise enough money for Jieun’s surgery. Enough that I can even split the reward between the two of us!”

“No,” you tell him sharply. “You’re not going to sell out Soo—Hoshi like that. He practically lives here already.”

“He’s just a fucking bot, Giz,” Jisung snaps. “The worst they’ll do if they catch him is give him time out for a few days until he’s back to being the idol that everyone knows and loves. If I don’t get the money I need for my brother’s transplant, he’s going to die.”

You hold Jisung’s intense stare despite not having a good enough comeback. He’s right. Soonyoung isn’t even supposed to be here at all. And if surrendering him to the cops meant Jisung would have the means to help his brother survive, the only logical thing to do is give him a hand.

But then you remember the way Soonyoung’s eyes disappear behind the widest of grins whenever he’s enjoying himself. How he trusted you enough to confide in his troubles during his first client booking, the way his eyes sparkled when you first called him Soonyoung—

It’s not just my name. It’s yours, too.

“I can’t help you, Jisung,” you murmur. “If you’re going to go about the situation like this, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

Your neighbor and long-time friend nods once, twice before getting up from your couch. Guilt bites into your chest as Jisung leads himself to the front door, and you could’ve sworn your heart sank into your stomach when he closes it behind him.

In the ear-splitting silence, you wonder if there’s any way to save someone without sacrificing anybody else.

While it’s true that you’ve never taken up the type of entertainment that Salax is famous for, that doesn’t mean you’re completely unaware of what goes on during those sorts of transactions.

Despite himself, Minho can be a bit of a chatterbox especially when he’s had one drink too many. There was a time when he told you about how he was booked for the night by a married couple and they edged him until he was in tears on the mattress. Then, he proceeded to share that he was quite literally incapacitated for days because the wife had exceptional skill with her strap-ons.

You don’t really hear these kinds of stories from Soonyoung. The possible reasons are 1.) Automatons don’t have a sense of gossip and see no benefit in sharing the gritty details of their sex lives, and 2.) He just doesn’t see you as someone worth telling said gritty details about.

The second possibility gnaws at you more than it should. You don’t really care about Soonyoung’s nightly escapades. You’re just his mechanic. As long as he doesn’t fuck himself up like he used to when he first started working at the club, you’ll have no complaints.

But after a late-night grocery store run, you unknowingly run into Soonyoung and someone who you presume to be one of his clients. They’re right outside the building of Chan’s club, and Soonyoung is obviously romancing the woman who paid for his company that night by caging her against the wall, whispering something in her ear with a sordid smirk.

You’ve never seen him like this. Whenever he’s with you, Soonyoung’s all too-wide smiles and unprovoked hugs. The more he hangs out with you during his free time, the more difficult it is for you to picture him as that seductive dancer that has charmed everyone who’s anyone on Salax.

Part of you—an irrational part of you—wants to hide him away from the rest of the world. But then you remember you’re just his mechanic and that it would be weird to be feeling this way about an Automaton, of all things.

You manage to brush off the scene you witnessed for a few weeks. Soonyoung still shows up at your house to watch a few movies or help you fix some other bots that come into the shop. He’s excellent company because his robot-to-robot communication skills make your job easier than it used to be.

Until one night, he snuggles up to you on the couch a little too closely—your heart beating a little too fast at the close proximity.

“I don’t get why she has to give up her tail for a man,” he murmurs from where his chin is propped on top of your shoulder, pulling you closer to him whether he knows it or not. “Aren’t there any other mermen that Ariel could just get with?”

“That’s what makes the story interesting, Soonie,” you chuckle, trying not to melt in his embrace despite knowing that the heat of his body is all artificial. “She’s sacrificing everything for love. It’s all part of the human experience.”

Soonyoung scoffs at that. “But Ariel’s a mermaid.”

“Just shut up and watch the movie.”

Ever the obedient bot, your current company does as he’s told until the credits start rolling and you have to get up to rid yourself of a crick in your neck. You’ve been in the same position for over two hours, having forgotten that Automatons don’t need to move around to get comfortable in their seats. Oversight on your part, really.

But before you can even attempt to crawl out of Soonyoung’s secure embrace, he tugs you back down—forcing you to face him with a puzzled expression.

“I’m gonna get some water,” you tell him. “Let me go, clingy robot.”

He doesn’t budge. Soonyoung simply pins you in place with his firm grip and the heat of his stare, and it takes you a few moments to realize that he’s looking at you the same way he looked at that woman outside of Chan’s club a few nights ago.

“You saw me while I was working, didn’t you?” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

You swallow thickly. “W-Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I accidentally introduced myself with the name you gave me,” Soonyoung sighs, lower lip swelling into a pout. “I always go by Hoshi at work, but we’d just finished watching Pocahontas together before I timed in that night.”

“Soonyoung,” you address him warily, unsure of where you should place yourself in this situation. “What are you going on about? That name is yours.”

“And I told you that it’s yours as well, didn’t I?” His laughter is a soft noise that tickles the back of your neck, making gooseflesh prickle the skin of your arms.

“I’m yours.”

His words make a steady buzz resound in your head, making you second guess if any of this is even real. Did you drink too many pints of beer and are currently hallucinating a Soonyoung that might feel the same way you do about him? That’s not right. Jisung already emptied your fridge of alcoholic beverages months ago and you haven’t bought any new packs since.

But if you’re not intoxicated, why in the world is an Automaton speaking to you as if he’s confessing feelings he doesn’t even have?

“You’re just hung up on the movie, you bucket of bolts,” you grumble, trying to push him off of you to no avail. Fuck. This is all very much real then. “Soonyoung, I’m not playing around.”

“Neither am I,” he whispers. When he leans closer, you don’t feel his breath on your face, don’t hear his heart thundering in his chest because he isn’t human.

He isn’t human, yet why doesn’t that stop you from wanting him anyway?

“Tell me to get up and leave if you want me to stop,” Soonyoung proposes with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll leave you alone for good.”

You want him—you want him so fucking bad, it feels like a disease.

“Why’re you only coming for me with this now?” you whisper. “What prompted it?”

The handsome Automaton laughs quietly, caressing your face so delicately, you wonder if he learned to practice it from the countless clients he’s entertained. “I think I’ve always been a little attached to you since I first woke up after breaking down. You’re the one who cured my anxiety, Y/N. It’s only natural for me to feel drawn to you.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Heh. Fine. Maybe it’s because Ariel inspired me to be a little more like her—to sacrifice everything love.”

…Love?

Soonyoung loves you?

It doesn’t make sense. He isn’t supposed to love. Automatons are sentient, but they aren’t capable of a full spectrum of emotions. The mere prospect of it goes against everything you’ve been taught ever since you decided that you wanted to become a mechanic.

But from the way Soonyoung is looking at you alone, you remind yourself that every now and again, there are outliers to all the facts printed on every Automaton textbook you’ve buried your nose in.

Rationality is your enemy at this point, and you toss all of it to the wind when you yank the front of Soonyoung’s shirt—mending your lips into a kiss that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. His mouth is soft on top of yours, and he moves to the cadence you’ve set so languidly, it almost feels fluid. You gasp into his mouth when Soonyoung curls an arm around your waist, pressing you as close to him as humanly possible.

“Soonyoung,” you whisper. “Want you.”

He pulls away for a second—not even looking a fraction of how disheveled you are from a single kiss. “Are you sure?”

The concern in his tone sends a rush straight through your skull. What kind of algorithm allows for an Automaton to express that kind of emotion on its own accord? Are the other idols that escaped with him the same way? You find out that you don’t really know the answers to these questions right now—nor do you want to know.

What you want is for him to be so deep inside you, you’ll feel him for days.

You yank him down for another kiss all while you desperately rid yourself of your once-comfortable and now-stifling clothes. They come off one by one until they’re but a heap on the floor and Soonyoung has the gall to chuckle at your impatience.

“If you wanted me this much, you should’ve just told me sooner,” he whispers, peppering your face with featherlight kisses. “I think I’ve had enough practice to be a good enough lover for you.”

“Mention that so-called practice again and I’ll deactivate your nervous system,” you growl and Soonyoung responds by trailing his mouth across your neck—suckling at the skin above your pulse with a conniving grin.

Just like any other humanoid Level 1, Soonyoung is soft in all places humans should be. His lips, his skin—everything. While the physics that surrounded an Automaton’s male genitalia are out of your scope of expertise, it’s infinitesimally interesting to know that their cocks work the exact same way as a human’s. Even if there’s no blood coursing through his non-existent veins, Soonyoung still gets hard with just the right stimulus.

That stimulus being the swell of your breasts because he hasn’t parted from them since he started suckling on the sensitive flesh five minutes ago.

“Soonie,” you whimper, grinding your sopping core against his thigh. “More. Give me more.”

He laughs—a breathless little sound before his gaze flickers up to you so lovingly, it almost hurts. “I thought I was the impatient one between the two of us.”

“Just shut up and fuck me, please.”

The raw desire in your plea makes the smile disappear from his face. When Soonyoung presses his forehead against yours, his gaze sears into your own so intensely, you’ll still be able to see him with your eyes closed.

“I never thought I’d ever get to hear you beg for me,” he admits, adjusting himself on the couch for your comfort. “I want to hear it again.”

Your Automaton lover doesn’t give you any forewarning that he’ll be pushing the head of his cock inside you. You’re simply greeted by the welcome intrusion of him parting your slick walls—little to no preparation needed because of how much you’re dripping onto the cushions. Soonyoung hisses between his teeth, a ravenous look that you’ve never seen sitting on his face, which has you clamping down deliciously against his length.

“Do you feel it?” he murmurs, sinking inch by fucking inch into you. “Do you feel me inside you?”

You feel him everywhere. All of your senses are overloaded with him, him, him. Right now, he isn’t Hoshi from 53V3NT33N or Hoshi, the rising star of the red light district.

He’s Soonyoung. Your precious, irreplaceable Soonyoung.

“Yes,” you moan out loud, fucking your hips back onto his to generate the friction you so direly needed. “Deeper, Soonyoung. Want you deeper.”

And he gives you just that.

Soonyoung pistons his hips with practiced ease, not a single pant to be heard from him as his cock plunges in and out of your wet heat. You pull him into your embrace like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto him tightly enough and your lover quickly picks up on the message—wrapping his strong arms around you as he mercilessly pounds you into the sofa.

Every word you know eludes you as the mind-numbing pleasure frazzles your brain. You can’t even articulate how good it feels to have him ram into you like he wants to leave his mark inside your body forever. You’ve never had sex this toe-curling, and it’s a little pitiful to make that discovery when the one who’s fucking you to an inch of your life isn’t even human.

But that’s what makes it feel right in the midst of its wrongness.

When you come apart on his cock the first time, it makes you wonder if that’s what it feels like to fall from grace. The creeping high leading up to your release as you free-fall into oblivion should’ve been daunting, but all that sings in your veins is pure ecstasy as Soonyoung fucks you through your orgasm.

He leans down to capture your lips, devouring your mouth in a way that only means he’s staking his claim. It’s a kiss that bruises—a kiss that persists. And you barely hear yourself scream his name into his mouth when you finally come down from bliss.

Just when you thought you could finally let yourself breathe, Soonyoung gently turns you around on the couch—forcing your back into an arch as he props you up by the knees. Still disoriented from your last orgasm, you don’t immediately process what he’s trying to do until you feel the hardness of his cock nudging against the ridge of your ass.

That’s when you remember that Automatons do not get tired.

Fuck.

“You better be ready for me,” Soonyoung chuckles into your ear before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“If you want me, you’re getting all of me.”

In the aftermath, you let yourself look at Soonyoung even with your eyes streaked with tears. He’s smiling at you like you’re the most precious thing in all the galaxies combined and you’re too fucked out to not melt into his embrace when he engulfs you in the heat of his arms.

You love him, you think.

Loving a machine that shouldn’t be capable of love is contradictory in every sense of the word. He’s a complete softie whenever he hangs out with you, but would pass as a predator when he’s with his clients. He’s a bot that loves to dance, but would give that up in a heartbeat if others needed him for another purpose.

Then again the lines have started to blur considerably since Soonyoung started fucking you into incoherence. Pain and pleasure, human and not human, love and lust—

“I love you,” you murmur, only half conscious as Soonyoung carries you to your bed. “Soonyoung, I love you…”

A soft laugh rumbles deep in his chest as he tucks you in—replacing the warmth of his body with the comfort of your blanket. You frown at the sudden change, but he’s tired you out too much for you to hold up any sort of protest.

As he stands before the doorway, you manage to wrench your eyes open just a tad—enough to see the ray of sunshine standing before you with a loving look on his face. He even does that little pose with his fingers clenched like a tiger’s claws—the one he did when he opened his eyes after you managed to fix him the first time.

Horanghae… That’s what he called it, right?

You’re too exhausted to notice the pained undertones that lurk beneath Soonyoung’s smile, but perhaps it’s something that you can deal with once morning comes.

If he’s still there at all.

“That took you a while.”

Jisung’s voice is clipped when Soonyoung emerges from your house with an indifferent look on his face. Standing right behind him are a bunch of familiar faces—namely 53V3NT33N’s main manager along with a handful of guards that used to keep them tightly locked up back in their main facility on Earth.

He never thought he’d have to see them again.

“If I’m leaving this place for good, I’m not going to go without giving her something to remember me by,” Soonyoung grumbles, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats as he rejoins his former colleagues. “Is it true? You’ll give Jisung enough money for his brother’s transplant if I come back?”

His manager nods once. “Positive. The reward money will be doubled since you returned without resistance. But I cannot guarantee the degree of the punishment you’ll be facing because of your escape.”

Right. Of course there’ll be consequences for his own actions. But Soonyoung is just glad that he got to have you at least once in his robotic life before he has to turn himself back in.

“Jisung,” Soonyoung—no, Hoshi calls out. “Can you promise to take care of her? If you don’t, I’ll personally fly back here to kill you with my own two hands.”

“Hoshi,” one of the guards grunts behind him, shoving his back with a warning glare. “No violence. Even minor threats like that will make your sentence even heavier.”

He doesn’t care. Not really.

“Just give the man his money and let’s go,” he grumbles, forcing himself to turn away from the direction of your house before his code malfunctions and he ends up bolting back inside.

His manager nods before one of the assistants presents Jisung with a suitcase full of enough wads of cash to fund his brother’s surgery and more. There’s a look on your neighbor’s face that Hoshi can only identify as regret, but there’s really no use for that now.

Even if Jisung didn’t need the money from turning over a rogue Automaton, Hoshi still would’ve surrendered eventually. When word got around that his hunters had finally tracked him down to Salax, he already knew his days were numbered.

But despite knowing all that, it doesn't stop him from wishing he had more time.

When daylight comes and the sun lights up the darkness of your room, you squint at how bright it shines even through the curtains. You’re sore all over and it only takes a single glance at your body to realize that maybe having multiple rounds of sex with a tireless Automaton wasn’t one of the best choices you’ve made in your life.

That, and you’re going to have to give Soonyoung a very long lecture about the physiological differences between his body and yours. And that leaving without waking you up is a major foul when it comes to sleeping with someone you care about.

Right after freshening up and soothing every bit of tender flesh, you go about your day like usual—doing chores, checking if Jisung is home (he’s not), and holing yourself up in your lab to work on a few projects you’ve been procrastinating long enough.

But just when you’re about to bust open your toolbox, you notice a familiar gadget sitting on top of your work table. The same work table that you could’ve sworn you made sure to clear out the previous evening.

It’s another portable hologram projector—one that looks exactly like the old artifact you managed to revive thanks to Soonyoung’s intervention. This one looks less shabby than the one Jisung gave you back then, and you realize that there’s a note stuck to the bottom.

The switch is right beneath the motherboard. Don’t forget! - S

Huh. That guy had the time to put together a hologram for you, but he couldn’t be bothered to wake you up before he left? The nerve of some Automatons, really…

None the wiser about your newfound lover’s actual whereabouts, you followed the instructions Soonyoung whispered into your ear several months ago before letting it play.

⟢ end notes: yay you're at the end of it! thank you so much for reading <3 thank you so so much to bee for being big-brained enough to put this collab together. i've always wanted to 1.) write a sci-fi fic and 2.) write more for soonyoung so this opportunity was a good avenue for both <3 i'm just bummed bc i procrastinated this for too long and kind of ended up with a subpar fic, but !! i still kinda enjoyed building the world around soonyoung and yn and their friends :') in another life, i would've fleshed this out properly, but for now, i'll leave you all with this! do check out the other fics in the collab bc it will definitely expand on this massive universe that we all worked hard to put together <3

this is part of @idyllic-ghost's svt sci-fi collab!

#seventeen smut #svthub #soonyoung smut #hoshi smut #seventeen x reader #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #lovelyhan #📖 collabs #full length fic 📚

282 notes · View notes

skinnypaleangryperson · 3 months

Text

Feeling strange because I'm pretty sure that the next time I sit down to write and work on my stories tomorrow I'm officially going to be done with my 20 million plus or narrative of the BoJack Horseman fanfiction I started writing I think 3 years ago and worked on everyday since, which has been the biggest and most complex spiritual profound in a journey that I think I've ever gone on in my entire life, and I've never discovered so much about myself neither as a creative or as a person until I started writing it after the experience BoJack has a character gave me.

It's strange because an American society if you're just a nobody that's creating things, especially fanfiction, people will either ignore you or insult you, and that goes for literally every platform in existence with no relief from it. I know that the story that I've created will never receive anything but apathy from every person and every community that will ever exist have best, and it deranged morbid insults at worst as has been the case with the entirety of the journey of writing this.

But I'm so happy, and I'm more content and more confident and fulfilled within myself and I've ever been in my entire life, despite the fact that I also feel like I've completely lost my mind from the individuality that I've learned and from the experiences I've had solely from my creativity and the extensions of the worlds I've created.

I know I'm not the only person on here that's creating entire worlds and emotions and feelings only to be completely ignored. It's just the way that things are. I feel like I'm living a completely split identity, one for the people around me (both for real life and online communities), and one for the person that I actually am going the person that I wish that I could be if people cared about it or if people were wired to care about something other than what they've been molded to only care about within the superficiality of the way that people think and are. This goes for both real life and online life, there's no difference, and I'm literally forced to put on a performance between the person that I actually am, a profoundly passionate storyteller, and the person that realizes that those things don't matter to literally anyone on this earth, and having to be able to accept putting on the performance of person people will ever respond to.

It's a profoundly lonely existence, to be a genuine creative person and to write and to create every single day, to have profoundly complex interimagined experiences that cannot be found in officially published consumption. But as lonely and as disorienting as it is I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. Not a single thing. Finding my own inner voice as a creative has changed everything about the way that I view the world and how I navigate the day-to-day life of myself and the people around me. The blackest part about it is that I've developed a disdain for 99% of people because I've realized that they were never care about the true genuine imagination in of who I actually am and I will be forced to put on a mask if I ever want a relationship or a sense of community with anyone, and I'm looking at a very dull disorienting performance of an existence to appease my need for human connection even if it's only fake tolerance at best.

But I can't change the way that people think. I certainly can't change the way that the only respond to things that are officially published for them to consume that they are assumed the only things that are worth paying attention to. If my own family cares more about celebrities and TV shows more than they care about their own daughter's projects, of course I can ever expect a partner, friends, or a community to ever care.

I'll always have my muses themselves, and the profound in our life in and of itself of an experienced, and I will continue to live an entire world that is apparently only for me, that will only exist, as the entirety of my existence has really only been experienced by me in all of its resounding complexity, and magic, and experience and will continue to be so. I will continue to see what nobody else sees, and I will continue to have a rich life for it.

Congratulations to Bojack And His Wife being completed, a 20 million word romantic fantasy philosophical narrative.

#bojack #living in my own personal version of Hollywood here

85 notes · View notes

hot-astrology · 3 months

Text

The Shunned Yoni

We all know creation and birth stems from somewhere. From the most sacred gateways that nature created The womb vagina or ; the female genitalia which symbolizes generative power. The woman is delicate, graceful and loving at same time, forceful, impactful, insightful, and a creator. How can we call this realm mother earth and not think women were here first or the creators only a true creator could create and be humble while their creation becomes egotistical while claiming to be the original archetype From their mesmerizing eyes calming vice diplomatic minds soft touch hypnotic walk and seductive aura. From the spiritual abyss, every angle, precise detail was made to flow with the oceans waves, their calming nature can settle the storms, or be fierce as the storm. So much history and powers lays beneath these ripples in the sea. As the tear drops of sorrow and betrayal fall upon the blueish lake. Shunned no more, openish enters the heart, truth reveals the veil, expressiveness leads way, acceptance is here to stay.

As an active plot to pacify her & her waters, her descendants, her priestesses, her daughters, her initiates, her love, but most disrespectfully her waters. She was made as an extension, and as the image of god. She started in darkness, she is the water they poisoned. Look inside, and you'll see that you are purely her mirror, because you are her. She was demonized, and in the end turned against. Hell hath no fury like a black woman scorned.

The deepest part in you resides, this is the sacrum area. You hold future generations and civilizations within you yet they seek to destroy and disrespect you. Let there be no mistake, that you are the force and the life way past than what science can understand or comprehend. Do you remember? Do you remember your throne, and those you taught. In the end, they turned against you. Used your teachings for their new world, and white washed yours away just for a seat on your throne. There's a part of you that lays deep in the water waiting to be awakened and take back what's hers. They took the seed of life and realized they could not imitate because they did not have it within them. There will be a storm that awakens that seed, she is abrupt and comes like nothing you've ever seen before. Deep Down, we as women have been taught to hide our sexuality or that it was a bad thing. However, these days feminine sexuality has been more accepted, and broadcasted for everyone to see. In a way, this is good but also bad, because the sacredness of this has been corrupted and the true meaning is lost in ignorance.

In the womb, we grow, and develop in water for up to 10 months. Our bodies are mostly water, and the planet we live on resembles this. All Life must be formed through liquid, it is the most fertile, and feminine. Think of a plant without water, and sun, but water especially nothing will sprout. Whether it be alchemy, or astrology, the most feminine elements will be water, and earth. water is the 1st element, signifying its power. water can heal, and destroy you. The yoni is simply a portal, entering into a sea of memory, and mysteries. When we look into the mystery of outer space, galaxies, stars, plane-ts, and black holes. Then you begin to look within yourself, your own body, you see the sayings, "As above, so below" " As within, so without", and the most telling " Your body is a temple". You see the answer manifest, and replicate inside of you.

The power of the yoni, is nothing to be taken lightly, and is actually a symbol of life and death. If all women collectively agreed to stop reproducing, that would simply be the end. For this reason, there has been a demonization placed upon women whether that be our bodies, hair, features, etc.

There is such a huge attack on the water spirits right now. Looking back to the astrological take on this matter, the sign pisces is the last and final sign of the zodiac. This is a water sign. In christianity, the symbol "Vesica Pisces" is a very prominent symbol representing Jesus Christ who "walked on water." Ironically, this symbol represents a fish, and the pisces symbol is a fish. If you look closer at the shape of this symbol, you'll realize this looks similar to the vaginal canal. Pisces is known to be the yin most, and the darkness which the creator resides in. In sacred geometry, there is the flower of life and seed of life, both using the symbol vesica pisces within those shapes. Within all of this, we begin the covering up of our primordial origins, within christianity, and many modern-day religions. the presence of priestesses, goddesses, empresses, and queens have been stripped and burned away. We know by now that the source of creativity, love, and rhythm comes from depths of the darkest waters, which pure yin. So what does that say about the bible or the said authors. let alone, the books, and the most important teachings that have been taken out of the bible, and also many others. This wasn't the only crime, but while erasing her presence, they tried to take away your magic, your creativity, and use your sexuality (which is your ability to manifest, and create) for their gain. As I ponder upon this, I am compelled to question: How many chapters of HIStory are indeed tales of men, or could they be the untold stories of women masked in masculine guise...

To close this out, let your mystical minds wander.... Think about how, in Christianity, to get baptized, you are laid into the waters to be reborn or cleansed from sin. Or, how a woman's water breaks signifying life & birth, or how you couldn't survive without water for more than 2 days.... Things like these make you wonder....

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭

𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔: 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐳 || 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢

#astro community #astrology chart #astrology content #astro notes #forbidden astrology #hot astrology #spirituality #spiritual community #astro blog #spiritualgrowth #spiritual awakening #water initiate

56 notes · View notes

mightyhydrator · 1 year

Text

Chainsaw Man and the Four Horsemen as a parallel to societal development

Since Famine first showed up, there was a lot of surprise at the idea that the four Horsemen might consider each other to be siblings. Fami is our second look at the relationship between the four of them, the first being Makima’s desire to erase the others, which, put together with Yoru’s panic at Fami’s introduction, paints a picture of a contentious, if not antagonistic relationship between them.

What surprised me, however, is the relative lack of discussion on what the “big sister” part says about the four devils. When we consider that the Horsemen represent fears humanity had to bear since ancient times, age becomes relevant, and by thinking about this relationship we can glean what this quarter represents about society’s historical development, and in what way it’s an inversion of the Book of Revelation’s original Horsemen.

From Makima, we already knew the Horsemen are a disarrayed unit, so Famine considering War to be her little sister has one chief implication to me: Famine, the devil, is older than War, and so is her name. Fami, or something like her, came into the world before the devil who became Yoru did. But what does this mean, that humanity feared Famine before War? Let’s look at each of the four names and see how and when they would have come about.

When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him.

Death is the foundational fear, and thus the oldest. Every living being is afraid of it, every other primal fear is an extension of it. Darkness, the first primal devil shown to us, is feared for the danger and isolation night brings. One are afraid of it because something unseen will end their life, or because they will be lost and will die alone.

When He broke the third seal, I heard the third living creature saying, "Come." I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand. And I heard something like a voice in the center of the four living creatures saying, "A quart of wheat for a denarius, and three quarts of barley for a denarius; but do not damage the oil and the wine."

Famine, or Hunger, in its more basic form, is likewise an extension of Death. Hunger always meant a slow and painful death for yourself and your family. At humanity's dawn, it was inescapable — a fact of life, as there was simply not enough food to sustain us without starvation, not even taking droughts and natural disasters into account. Eventually sedentary lifestyles emerged, which prompted increases in population densities, a trend reliant on a more efficient way to acquire food. This strengthened or even gave birth to Famine, as sedentary societies turned hunger into a massive catastrophe. Now, not only will your family starve, but so will other families, and the people reliant on you growing the food.

When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, "Come." And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from Earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.

War, unlike Hunger, is tied near-entirely to larger societies. Higher population densities require vastly more resources, including food. It will become that armed conflict will be used to acquire these now-coveted resources, like food during times of hunger. Plowshares, created to stave off Hunger, to stave off Famine, are now used to kill other people to execute War. There is fear of being killed by your fellow; fear of your loved one dying far from home, killed for food, land, or dominion.

Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals, and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, "Come." I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer.

Death and Famine are extremely base fears; they are very materialistic. War, being a fear of what other humans might do to you, is more abstract and reliant on historic developments, but it is still a very grounded fear, based on the easy to grasp principle of not wanting to die. Conquest, on the other hand, is a very abstract and extremely human (in the sense of belonging to humanity) concept. The word itself brings to mind War, yet implies so much more. It is a fear of being unable to control your own life — a fear of submitting to an authority, like a king; a fear of institutions bigger than you can imagine leaving you with no choices; a fear of people you had never known taking advantage of you, forcing themselves onto you. It is, in some ways, the most human of all fears. It is something only humans can exercise on each other, somethings one can expect only from other humans, and something reliant on history moving away from things so basic as Famine, and through tools like War, towards a future of society, of governance, of Control.

It only makes sense that such an abstract fear, so foundational to civilization in its pervasiveness, would be youngest among the three other pillars of societal fears: Death births Famine births War births Conquest. And an aspect to this order, which we can contrast with the source material for the Horsemen, is that this order is an inversion: in the Book of Revelations, the prophesied Apocalypse follows the breaking of 7 seals, each hailing catastrophes to come; the first four releasing Horsemen into the world.

Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.

The order in which they are released (Conquest, War, Famine, Death), though, is opposite to the order of each one’s emergence in the history of humanity.

Fujimoto, having given an age to the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, inverted the process: they symbolize not the end of a civilization, but its genesis. However, the original order is still present. As Chainsaw Man’s engine revs again, Conquest — the youngest sister — answers the call. Then War. Now Famine. Soon, we shall meet Death.

#chainsaw man #csm meta #makima #yoru #fami

425 notes · View notes

nova--spark · 6 months

Text

Earth 101 : A Manual for the Visiting Cybertronian

Introduction : Welcome to Earth !

To preface this manual, we would like to add that all Autobot and Decepticon alike who is found within these pages consented to their usage as an example of what NOT to do.

If you are said Autobot or Decepticon reading this manual once again, we simply hope the kind refresher truly remains within your memories this time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greetings and welcome to Earth, the ‘Blue Planet’, ‘Gaia’ or ‘Terra’ if you prefer!

This comprehensive guide has been crafted with the aid of both native Earth inhabitants known as ‘humans’ and long-time Cybertronian residents of the planet, who have learned the curious planet’s customs, culture and general manners. With this guide, we hope to make your stay on Earth, no matter its length, smooth and relatively free of possible 'road bumps' as the Earth saying goes.

We will cover a number of topics in this extensive guide, ranging from Terran laws when driving on their roads to avoid detection by human authorities and locals, to explaining the native species of Earth and how to cohabitate with them, and the culture of the planet’s various continents.

Earth is a very small planet in comparison to our beloved home of Cybertron, but is still a planet rich in culture, technology, and life so different yet similar to our own all the same.

However, this does mean that we Cybertronians are to be cautious when it comes to interacting with the natives.

Earth’s native species, called Humans, number close to 8 billion, and average a height of five to six feet, and are generally divided into ‘female’ and ‘male’ categories , though there are sometimes outliers in this categorization due to genetic differences.

Humans are naturally curious creatures, and in the past, when Cybertronians encountered them, they reacted in varying degrees.

Most commonly was shock and fear, though some of their species likely originating from their warrior class reacted with aggression and were commonly those that used offensive techniques of their kinds battle strategies, seeking to protect their kind.

It is for this reasoning that the Autobot faction of our people has generally sought out human liaisons in the human militaristic factions.

There has however been small exceptions to this, in times where inadvertently, we created bonds with non military human liaisons, who perhaps found us in our vehicular forms and without our intentions, would find out our true nature.

These cases are highly monitored and we insist that newcomer Cybetronians to Earth maintain the following motto:

ROBOTS IN DISGUISE.

We implore that this motto be followed at all costs.

Countless breems (or hours as they are known on Earth) have been spent to ensure our utmost secrecy, and yet still we have found that many in our ranks fail to uphold this singular motto.

We have spent too much time scrubbing the entire datanet of Earth of our presence and even then, some of these incidents still are hard to cover up, especially as the human datanet is vast and ever evolving.

We hope that this guide to Earth and its customs is an enlightening and informative experience and aids in your adjustment to the vast differences of our homeworld and this new planet.

This guide was written in collaboration with various leaders, medics, researchers, native Terrans and Cybertronians who have lived here for decades, and is constantly evolving with the times and various eras lived through in our time here.

If there are subjects you believe should be added to this manual, please inform the correct officer, medic or official who has authority to create entries.

Please do not suggest entries which are : practical jokes, inside jokes, suggestive in nature, entirely misinformative, or may cause harm to your fellow Cybertronian and human alike.

Enjoy your time on Earth, and please remember to drive safely on the Terran roads.

#transformers #maccadam #maccadams #tf bayverse #tf rid 2015 #tf rid15 #transformers prime #tfp #tf prime #tf knightverse #earth 101 : a manual for the visiting cybertronian #nova writings #nova notes

100 notes · View notes

2kmps · 7 months

Text

A SELFISH LIFE

eriks!vash x reader | 3.3k

synopsis; you were a doctor's apprentice when you met eriks for the first time two years ago. since then, you always felt there was more to his story and scars than he let on.

story warnings; mentions of a gun, not entirely canon complaint, trimax-coded vash, sweet smoochies at the end

please reblog if you enjoyed reading!!

On occasion, you noticed that he wouldn't respond to the name 'Eriks', even while looking him dead in the face. There'd be a certain glazed, faraway stare in his eye that speared straight through you like ice, telling you stories of unknowable agony and misery and guilt that you believed you would never be prepared to understand.

You had been there the day Lina happened across that man—beaten, broken, donning the devil's red garb in complete tatters as the remnant strips billowed out around him as though extensions of his own body. It was advantageous to him that you were there, traces of relief ebbing the severity of his brow when you assured him you were the doctor's apprentice.

In those fleeting seconds before his eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed, you thought he looked at you as though you were star-filled sky on a clear night—hopeful and soft.

Two years had come and gone since then, possibly the longest of your life. The old doctor in town had passed in his sleep six months ago, bringing your apprenticeship to a screeching halt, and now you were stuck bringing water cups and handfuls of painkillers to disgraced bounty hunters and rowdy children.

"Is it really so bad?" Eriks asked, tipping your stool on two legs as he nudged you. "You're still helping people, you're still saving their lives. Without people like you, there'd be so much more death."

"Do you know how bad it sucks to have spent years and years studying and studying, only for some random travelers to come swoop in and say my apprenticeship is invalid?" you shot back, air hissing between your teeth as you sighed. "I don't want to be a nurse, Eriks. This wasn't how it was supposed to be!"

Eriks stared a while, you couldn't see his eyes through the orange lenses he had tendencies to keep on his person—like an old habit he couldn't break. He settled himself deeper into the old rocker, reaching to the opposite side for two long cans of beer.

You didn't say anything as you took one of them and pulled the tab.

"It's hard to accept, I understand." Eriks let his knees and heels do the work to rock himself in the chair. He sipped the froth from the top of the can. "We come into this life and do our hardest to achieve something—anything—and it just... doesn't turn out how we want it to. No matter how desperately we wish we could change things, we're limited by what we can control."

Mustering the energy to leave your stool, you stepped off the front porch to sit on the edge, legs swinging circles while you drank. "So, what's the point, then? What's the point of having goals, dreams, desires if those things can just be ripped out of hands? Just like that?"

"It's a hard pill to swallow, I'm sorry," he continued, "more than anyone, I... wanted to see your dream come true. You would have made a great doctor."

The can cracked and crumbled under your fingertips, chin dimpling as you suffocated the ache pulsing in your chest. "It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks! It's not fair! Screw those fucking assholes, screw the university!"

There weren't many things you could control, but you were able to quiet your sobs to an occasional wheeze and shudder of your shoulders. The can of beer fell from your hands, bubbling as it pooled above the parched, fissured earth.

The slabs of wood under your body vibrated just as long arms wound you, pulling your weight into Eriks chest. The point of his chin nestled on your shoulder, tips of his blonde hair tickled your neck.

"It's okay to cry, you should cry." He assured, guiding your body into a gentle sway side-to-side. "There's nothing wrong with mourning what you've lost but, please, don't give up on your patients. Don't give up on the people who truly need help."

"I couldn't do that, even if I wanted to." You confessed, eyebrows creasing inward as a bitter smile inched itself across your lips. "No matter how much I hate the clinic and the university, I can't let people suffer and die. I'll find my own way forward..."

"Good." His jaw moved, stubble coarse against your skin as his hold slowly eased. "Find your own path, and never stop walking."

The sun had come and gone by the time eriks decided to let you go, inviting the chill of the cold, lonely desert night to caress your back and skin in a way that didn't compare to the warmth he had given you. Inside the house, Lina and Granny had already retired to their rooms for the evening, whereas Eriks busied himself with emptying the rest of his beer off the edge of the porch.

"It's getting pretty late," he said, glancing out into the vast nothingness beyond the house. "You should stay the night. Don't go trying to walk home when those gangs have been running around causing problems."

"Eriks, I need to get back to town. I need—"

"Stay." He said, voice carrying a hard edge that made your jaw clench and a shiver race down the back of your neck. "Don't be so willing to put yourself in danger. You can't help anyone if you're dead."

He kept the screen door open with a hand, saying nothing and waiting patiently for you to duck below his arm through the threshold into the house.

You took a glance around, everything looked the same as it always did, even with Eriks' presence floating about for the past two years. The layout was sparse, but not hurting for necessities that had earned their title of 'well loved'. It was the type of house you expected would feel amiss if something were removed, leaving a spot on the floor oddly pristine and free from the wear and tear of shoes and messes and life.

The old floorboards bent underfoot, amplifying yours and Eriks steady footfalls to the opposite end of the farmhouse where his room was.

This wasn't anything out of the ordinary: being led down a narrow, inky black hallway to where this lumbering man slept. You'd seen it a few times before, even sat on his bed once or twice when Granny's health issues stirred up during a dust storm and he wanted to know the details—privately.

"I have a couple extra blankets, so you can take the bed and I'll sleep on the floor." Eriks said, jolting you from your thoughts as linens and pillows landed in a heap, rousing clouds of dust that had settled quietly, undetected for a time.

"Are you sure about that?" you asked, sweeping the side of your shoe along the ground. "This is your room. It's bad for your back to sleep without support."

His smile was daring, almost lewd. "Are you saying you want to sleep together in the same bed?"

"I—" your jaw unhinged, chest flouncing as you choked out a laugh. "That's not what I said! You—ah, you really need to go to the brothel, buddy. Get some of that energy out."

"Nah, I'll pass." He sighed, shoulders rolling forward into a slumped posture. "Are you good here if I go and take a bath? You'll probably be asleep by the time I get back."

"I never sleep." You withered against the bed, seating your rear right on the edge. "Never could fix my sleeping schedule after university. But, are you gonna be okay?"

He perked at that. "What do you mean?"

"Eriks, you let yourself get beaten on all the time by the gangs in town," you said, gesturing to his entire person in as many places as you could. "I was the one who treated you when you showed up, and I'm the one treating you now when you're covering for Lina being a loudmouth."

"Hey, now, c'mon," Eriks shook a hand towards you. "She's just a kid. She doesn't know any better yet."

You couldn't understand how he was taking this in such stride, not when you were the one who had seen him in the beginning and watched blood ooze from the gouges and lacerations in his flesh, turning the clear bathwater red by the time you finished cleaning him off.

"All I'm saying is that we should start talking some sense into that girl." After a moment, you continued, "I don't want her to get hurt. She's so strong, Eriks, but that kind of strength gets beaten out of you around here. She doesn't deserve that—no one does."

Eriks took steps towards you, the scuffed tips of tawny shoes just on the fringes of your eyesight as you stared at the ground. "Do you want her to hide herself? We don't get to choose who people are—how they are—we just have to accept them. She hasn't done anything wrong."

It was your turn to return the venom, eyelids reaching your brow as you looked up at him through your lashes. More than upset, he seemed disappointed.

"Sometimes, it's better to blend in than to be another client for the undertakers, Eriks."

You saw his jaw twitch, thought maybe you heard his teeth clicking as well. His eyes were ablaze with emotion you had never witnessed him from, glistening like clear crystal in the pillars of moonlight streaming in through the window. As much as you wanted to believe you knew this man, you truly didn't, and definitely not now as he warred with himself through frustration and defeat.

Without a word, he swiveled on his heel, grabbed a pair of towels from a chair and pulled the door shut after him when he left the room. You were alone now, needles in your thighs and ass from where you sat, to consider what it was he was most upset about.

The man you knew as Eriks hardly seemed to be the one you had just spoken to. Eriks was a man who enjoyed dallying and drinking in his free time, unflappable, and always willing to lend a hand. This man was scared and confused, something felt fragile about him.

It made you feel bad.

"Goddamn, I'll just take the floor." you complained, picking up the linens to fold them as thick as you could get them, pillows stacked out in a row to give some cushioning to your back through the night.

You lasted thirty minutes on those dirty down pillows and blankets before the tossing started. Above your head on the nightstand, a round alarm clock clacked on monotonously to remind you how long a minute really could last.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me..."

First, you faced the door, hands tucked under your chin while you stared at it, half believing you had seen the doorknob twist a few times in the dark. The ground didn't vibrate under your body, no distant cries of flexing wood slabs—no one was awake, Eriks was still in the bath.

When it became too tedious for you to gawk expectantly at a door, you beat your way across the pillows onto your other side, facing the bed and streams of moonlight. Your hands nestled in the same spot under your chin, elbows digging down into the makeshift mattress just as one of the wooden boards beneath you jiggled and lifted a couple of inches.

"Did that dipshit put a hole in the floor?"

It sure seemed that way, you confirmed with yourself, pressing against it to raise it higher into the air until the bulge through your pillows was impossible to ignore.

Everything was ripped away from formation, lifting wild spirals of dust into the air and letting you choke on it while fussing with the board. You caught it just then, when the soft white glow from the window glinted off of something metallic in the hole. It beckoned you, lured your curiosity to the point of pressing your chest flush to the floor, arm buried to the shoulder, fingers desperately groping around.

"Has to be the foundation of the house." you growled, kicking your legs out to reach deeper. "None of the other boards are loose... he did this on purpose."

What unsettled you more than that realization was when your pads struck something freezing, large, and metallic. You recoiled some, arm catching those jagged edges, making you spit.

Prayer didn't save lives, but in this moment of sinking your arm back down to fully grab the thing, you prayed it wasn't what you thought it was.

And, as you used all the strength in both arms to reel it out from its hiding space, the moonlight fully revealed to you the ominous glow belonging to a monstrous pistol.

"Fuck!" your shoulders dragged from the weight of it, making it a task to heave it onto the bed to rid your hands of it. "Fuck, this guy is packing some heavy fire power here."

Your mind was in a spiral. Of all things secrets that you expected Eriks to be towing around, being a gunman wasn't one you set high on your list of possibilities. He didn't seem the type, not easygoing, loveable, kind, gentle—

"What are you doing?"

For the second time that night, you felt needles prickling against the back of your neck, down your arms, making your palms start to sweat. If it weren't for the fact that you knew Eriks voice by heart, in a crowd, in a rowdy bar—you wouldn't have believed that tone belonged to him.

You took a deep breath, heart thundering in your ears as you turned to him. "Who are you? And don't feed me some stupid bullshit."

Vash's eyes were wide, frenetically skipping across the scene of the upturned board, the pistol on his bed, and the way your face warped in confusion and fear. When he took two steps forward, you were already on the other side of the bed, dragging the gun closer to you and further from his reach.

"Don't—don't do this..." he showed you his palms, coming as close to the bed as his knees would let him. The only thing he wore on his body was a pair of gray sweatpants and a white towel across his neck. He wasn't hiding anything, surely you could see that. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Fat fucking chance I'd believe that," you spat, nearly grabbing the old chair next to you to fling at him when he tried to round the bed. "If you come any closer, I'm going to scream. Are you a gunman?"

Vash kept his hands up, managing to uphold a neutral expression despite the way his insides felt like they were being ripped apart. "No, not anymore. That's all in my past."

"You expect me to believe that? After I pull this thing out from a hiding spot?!" you strained your voice to a hoarse whisper, for some reason not fully convinced you needed to yell. "Are you insane? Are you a hitman? Part of a gang? A bounty hunter?"

"No." He said.

The corners of your mouth twitched, eyes tracing a path from the gun to him, and then towards the closed bedroom door. You wouldn't have enough time to get around him to escape, and the window was too high for you to break and climb out of. You wondered if he was also aware that you were cornered without an exit.

It's funny that life always worked out like that.

"Your name isn't Eriks, is it?"

He frowned. "It's not, no."

"What is it?" you asked, pressing harder, "I think I have a right to know after two years of lies."

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry," he said.

Oddly, you were more frustrated by this situation than you were scared. If he was a gunman of the bad type, he could've killed you by now, could've dropped you with a single round in cold blood, done the same to Lina and Granny and no one would ever know. He had a chance to do this everyday for two years.

He never did.

"Don't look at me like that," he rasped on a single breath, refusing to let his hands drop until he saw the tension ease out of your body. Slowly, he tried rounding the bed again, eyes never leaving yours even when he caught the motion of your fingers twitching towards the pistol. "It's not loaded. I haven't had bullets for it in a long time. I swear, I didn't keep it hidden to hurt you or Lina."

"You won't even tell me your name." You were staring at his chest once he was in front of you, studying the scars and patchwork metal across his pectoral. Faintly, but there, something called to you to reach out and touch him. "What do you expect me to think when you say that?

"It makes sense now. Your scars. You showing up in the condition that you did. The secrecy—hiding the gun. You don't make it easy for people to figure you out."

His eyes softened, an even more brittle smile formed across his lips as he reached out with his left arm, the cold fingers were a strange sensation against your cheek. You flinched from him a few times, tilting your face away, but he followed until you let him touch you.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you everything, but I just... can't.'' His voice was purposefully gentle, soothing and reassuring, reminding you of how he was when he had held you earlier in the evening. "Please, don't tell Lina or Granny about this. My life right now is all I could have ever wanted. The chores. The dinners. Everyone in town... you."

It was hard for you to think when he was stroking your face so sweetly, lovingly. "You're lying to them. You've been lying to them. You've been lying to me."

"I'll never complain about another chore, or when you poke and prod at me with needles, or when granny makes me help her ball her yarn." Vash pressed his false hand into your face, angling it so you could see the sincerity in those brilliantly blue eyes. "I want this for me, however selfish it may be. This quiet, peaceful life carrying around groceries and bringing you lunch at the clinic."

"Eriks—" that name didn't sound right on your tongue anymore, but he didn't correct you.

"So, please, I'm begging you, don't say anything to them. Let me live in peace with them, with everyone—with you."

Those eyes of his seared into your soul; a beautiful, yet tumultuous storm of emotions swirled in them. There was then wetness just below your eye, warmth streaking along the curves of your face. The second time you realized that they were not your tears, but his.

"I don't want to let any of this go," he pleaded.

The dull ache behind your ribs never subsided, not as you leaned into him to place a fleeting peck to the corner of his mouth, and especially not when he intercepted that with his lips for a kiss he seemed to revel in forever.

"What's your real name?" you had pulled away long enough to ask. "Tell me."

"Don't make me tell you. Not right now."

Vash took you by the shoulders, one large hand cradling the back of your head, thumb stroking your face as he kissed you feverishly and long.

divider by; @/anlian-aishang

reposted from my deleted blog officiallytheduchess/cardeneiv

112 notes · View notes

cathedralcomic · 1 year

Text

Clowder Info — The Basics

There are three cat clowders residing on the outskirts of an abandoned lake town. They formed 40+ years ago through various house and farm cats left to their own devices after humans disappeared from the area. The clowders are organized and similar to small communities.

Each group has their own last name, but this doesn’t mean every individual in one clowder is related. The “surname” is to differentiate them from each other. There are the Rosens (the flower-loving barn cats), the Bethels (the strange church cats), and the Darrows (the serious hunting shack cats). The clowders appear to be the only intact colonies in their area.

The clowders are known for taking in wanderers down on their luck. They’re safe spaces for cats to stay for the rest of their lives or only a short while. The Darrows are an exception and they’re not as receptive to having strangers among them.

These cats are semi-anthropomorphized in their lifestyle. They have their own written language, traditions, and many other traditionally “human” concepts. Occasionally a northern cat will venture into the clowders’ territories and voice confusion about their behaviors. This implies the clowders’ anthropomorphism is somewhat unique to them and the cats in the area.

ART

The clowders love art — be it music, storytelling, or painting/drawing. They use pieces of bark and slate to produce most of their art. Birch bark in particular is a favorite due to its lighter color. Paint is sourced naturally from crushed berries, clay deposits, blood, and ground-up leaves.

Rosen art consists of bright, vibrant colors and an adoration for whimsy. The inspiration lies in nature and the romanticism of life itself. Rosen cats teach their children art from a very young age and it is engrained in their way of life. They’re the “loudest” clowder in that the other two can hear them singing all throughout the day and night.

Bethel art, aesthetically, is the opposite. Their colors are muted and earthy, and their songs are on the morbid side. Bethels have a strong fascination with death and what comes after it. A notable tune from the Bethels is a ditty about our infamous serial killer, Darcy Darrow. It’s become so popular that it’s extended to Rosen youth and beyond the clowders themselves.

Darcy Darrow, Darcy Darrow,

has the voice of a field sparrow

She’ll skip you in the lake like a stone and

strip you down to meat and bone

Darcy Darrow, Darcy Darrow,

has the voice of a field sparrow

She’ll steal you at third hour dark and

peel your skin like birch bark

Despite its popularity, it’s garnered strong criticism from older cats who experienced the murders firsthand. Most of the youngsters simply can’t comprehend Darcy’s devastation because it didn’t affect them.

Darrow art often refers to or depicts winter. Snow is a religious symbol, a merging of heaven with the earth. There’s a haunting quality to the Darrows’ creations, coming off more unsettling than holy to some. The Darrows encourage their cats to sing and paint for their god and rarely anything else. Art functions as prayer.

ROLES

There are a handful of roles cats can fall into. These roles serve to better the quality of life within the clowder, and most require extensive training and work.

Head cat — The head cat is a leader and a role model. They are in charge of ensuring the safety of the vulnerable and settling conflicts with outside colonies as well as wanderers. The head cat is in their position for ~three years before a new one is chosen by popular vote.

Physician — These cats are in charge of tending to the sick and injured. They gather useful resources from the town, such as gauze, adhesive tape, disinfectants, and small tools. They hold a bi-monthly healing lesson for all the cats in case of emergency. Throughout the years they have attempted surgical procedures, however these always end fatally.

Flora — Often working directly with the doctor, the flora is a cat with vast environmental/plant knowledge. They’re in charge of plant safety, informing cats what is and isn’t safe to use or eat. They gather plants with medicinal properties to give to the physician. Occasionally a single cat can be both the physician and the flora if they’re skilled enough.

Fauna — This cat is knowledgeable of other animals and their behaviors. They are able to communicate with other carnivores and social groups such as the wild dogs. When there’s a rare territorial or food dispute, they clear up the situation by serving as a translator. The fauna tends to have many friends across multiple carnivora. Corvids are excellent communicators, however due to the biological differences in vocal cords they must use body language and mimicry to convey their thoughts.

Scribe — The scribe is a history buff and a talented writer. They are in charge of historical records, books, and other writings. They hold literacy and spelling classes, and they are often the sole cats spearheading attempts to translate human words. Modern day scribes are very interested in what became of humans and they've dedicated their free time to research.

Gatherer — This cat will go deep into the forests or town to search for items. These can be used for practical reasons (such as bedding), decoration, or to trade with other clowders. These consist of “furniture,” bones, human scraps, or anything interesting/useful the cat can find. Gatherers can be gone for up to a week, departing with a bag in which to stuff their discoveries.

Members — Cats of any age who have no particular rank. Some are hoping to be head cat one day while others are content doing their own thing. Members are either former wanderers or the children of cats who’ve resided in the clowder for years. All members no matter their age participate in classes taught by the important clowder cats.

The Kindle — All nursing parents and their kittens. Everyone pitches in to help the Kindle and it’s required that as much food gets to them as possible. Kindle beds are well-protected and made up of old blankets, feathers, and wool.

TERMINOLOGY/SLANG

Clowder: A group of cats, specifically used for the lake cats.

Colony: General term for a group of cats.

Crick: A small stream.

Day-legs: Unusually active during midday. “I see you got the day-legs. Go back to sleep.”

Draping: Placing your tail on another cat’s back comfortingly.

Flower folk: Nickname for the Rosens, can be used as an insult.

Glaring: A group of cats who don’t trust each other or a group of highly aggressive/territorial cats.

Old yawler: An elderly or middle-aged cat, used as an insult by younger cats.

Outsiders: Derogatory version of wanderer.

Rhuner: A devout follower of ‘Rhune,’ the feline god. Used as an insult against the Darrows or any extremely religious individual.

Stare-scratcher: A cat who makes direct eye contact to start a fight or argument.

Stone-skipper: A cat with high energy.

Tail-twined: In a committed romantic relationship. “Sorry, my tail’s already twined.”

Triller: A very talkative cat.

Up in my whiskers: Being nagged or annoyed, especially by a cat who ignores personal space. “He’s been up in my whiskers all day.”

Wanderers: Cats without a colony.

Lunar cycle: Another term for a month.

First/second/third/etc. hour dark: The hours after the sun sets.

Shroomhead: An insult, used as a substitute for ‘dumbass’ by young cats (think ‘crap’ vs. ‘shit’).

#info #*dies a hundred times*#cat ocs #mythic xenofiction #cat xenofiction #Embellishments to be added lol

209 notes · View notes

drawingdroid · 4 months

Text

Melting Point: Chapter II

A Sculptor Din Djarin x Art PhD Reader Series

Read Prologue | Chapter I

Chapter II: The Sculptor/Temper

Summary: You get a job offer you can't refuse and meet your new boss, a gruff sculptor who is so familiar.

Words: 2393

Warnings: This is a slow burn, you've been warned!; a lot of talking about Art and PhD life; Reader is not Grogu's nanny but this is very Grogucentric if that makes sense; And Reader is Din's employee too; Very grumpy and antisocial Mando; Grogu is human but the only thing described are his eyes; Reader appearance is left blank; Age gap of 10-15 years; Fluff fluff fluff

A/N: I darlings! I hope you enjoyed Christmas if that is your thing! I'm back with a new chapter, let me know what you think because I have a lot of feelings about The Armorer being reader's thesis tutor *cries in mommy issues*. Hope you enjoy this!

That morning you so were nervous. No, terrified. Finally, you were having your first meeting with your thesis tutor, the renowned artist and professor Dr. Armorer. You admired her work so much, and her deep knowledge of Ancient Mandalorian Art was admirable. All of her books were constantly by your bedside, extensively annotated. What would your role model think of you?

Your first impression was that she commanded so much respect with only her way of standing. She insisted on meeting in the faculty’s foundry, while you had expected to talk in her office. You couldn’t get your eyes off her while she was working with the red-hot metal against her anvil. She stopped hammering when she noticed you standing awkwardly at the door.

“Welcome kid.” Her voice was flat while the visor of her safety mask was fixed into you. “I’m sorry for the scholarship.” Okay, so right to the point, no pleasantries. You shivered, feeling self-conscious, and downed your gaze to the floor. “Your proposal is magnificent and I pushed for you to be admitted, but the budget is limited and now Nevarro City is placing its interest in other departments.” After placing her tools in their place. She didn’t remove her leather gloves though.

“Thank you Dr. Armorer, I’m well aware that investing in Art has never been one of the top priorities of the governments.” Your tone came surprisingly cynical while it was sad too. Your cheeks blushed for the sudden outburst in front of the professor.

“Do you drink caf?” You nodded and she directed her attention to a little coffee maker in a corner that you hadn’t noticed earlier. Soon she handed you a steamy cup of the dark liquid. She had brewed one for herself but hadn’t lifted her golden mask to drink yet. It looked like she was studying you.

“Professor, I’m very embarrassed to admit this, but I applied to the program expecting to receive that scholarship, and without it I’m afraid cannot afford my studies,” you blurted with your gaze fixated on your drink. “I’m very sorry for having wasted your time, but…”

“What brings you to want to study Mandalorian art, kid? She interrupted mid-sentence and you swallowed hard. A heat started expanding through your veins and it wasn’t because of the coffee. It was always the same when you spoke about your passion.

“Mandalorian culture is one of the most ancient ones still alive. The artistic manifestations were present early in their history and bound intimately with the development of the technology necessary to process beskar. The importance of the clans' signets was another factor to push for a more refined technique when working the metal…”

“I didn’t ask you for the book definition of Mandalorian art. My question was why you, a non-Mandalorian, want to specifically specialize in our art.” Her tone was still flat, but commanding. Had you made her mad? Was it wrong that you wanted to study Mandalorian Art?

“The way your sculpture is so raw and naked and still conveys the most profound, earth-shattering feeling while using something as cold as beskar, turning it into living and breathing things. It’s bold and succinct, it shows and hides and that gives me goosebumps every time I look into a Mandalorian sculpture.” You didn’t want to be so passionate in your first encounter with Professor Armorer, but the fear of being rejected not only by the scholarship commission but also by her, made you snap. Your skin felt hot and your heart was hammering inside your chest.

The Armorer, as everyone called her, hummed in contentment, and then she grabbed a notepad and a pencil that had seen better days and scribbled something.

“My friend is looking for an assistant to help him around in the studio. Since your background is in Fine Art, I think you’ll manage just fine.” She gave you the paper with only a number and address on it. You looked at her quizzically. “The salary he offers should cover your stay here. I’ll arrange your schedule so your obligations as a PhD student are met.” You could cry with gratitude right now, even though you knew nothing about this job. “And concerning your tuition fees, let me move some strings. I can’t promise anything kid, but I may know someone who’d be interested in sponsoring you.” You could hug this woman, kiss her on her protection mask. But you stayed in your seat grabbing the mug she gave you like a lifeline.

“I can’t…I don’t know…” You babbled with watery eyes.

“I only expect the best of you kid, it’s gonna be hard work. Now go.” And then she returned to her work in the forge, leaving you trembling with excitement.

After scrolling down some job portals, you closed your laptop with a sigh, calculating the best way to manage your savings to stretch them to the limit. With maximum frugality, you could make it through three months.

Professor Armourer had given you that mysterious number, but even though you were going to try, you didn’t want to depend 100% on her kindness. Moreover, you didn’t know which type of “studio assistant” job this would be since she provided little description. You grabbed the piece of paper and called. Nothing. You went on with your routine and tried again later, but no one responded.

Would it be too bold to just show up there? After all, your tutor had provided an address, so it was assumable it was okay if you just went there to speak to her friend in person. Like the old times, didn’t people do that? So you made up your mind and grabbed your tote bag and your trusty flannel. Slipping in some sneakers, you went outside to explore Nevarro City.

The area was definitely more industrial, certainly convenient for someone who was a metal artist, nevertheless, it had some charm to it. The warehouses were old, some of them reconverted into homes or other artist’s studios. You looked again at the paper provided by the professor when you recognized a building with large windows and a silver, old truck parked in the door as the one you were looking for. A big container with metal scraps was against one of the walls. You looked for a doorbell or something similar but nothing was in sight, so you decided to just pound the door.

Metallic sounds could be heard from the interior, and you asked yourself which kind of artist they were. After a while, you pounded the door again, it was clear they hadn't heard you. But the noise was loud and on top of that some electric guitar music was playing. You decided to make a bold move and try to open the door.

The inside was bright due to the big windows. The studio was neat and functional with all the tools one needed to work metal from small to large scale. Semi-finished projects were here and there, but it looked like everything had an order inside the warehouse. You could spot a little kitchenette too and a mattress in a cosy corner.

The man you were looking for was working at the big wooden table that occupied the centre of the room. It looked like he was polishing a metal piece, and sparks were flying all around. The first thing you noticed was the welding mask. It was beautiful, reflecting all the little sparks like fireworks, and had a similar design to the one The Armorer wore. It was shaped like a traditional Mandalorian helmet, the one the ancient warriors once used as battle armour. You smiled to yourself.

You went closer to where he was working, being cautious to not startle him, but it looked like he hadn’t sensed your presence yet, so you just observed him. The sleeves of his work jumpsuit were rolled and you could admire how muscular his forearms were between the fabric and the leather gloves he used for protection. The zipper of his clothing piece was down until his sternum, letting you see thigh undershirt under it, revealing sculpted pecs.

Maker help me if this man is gonna be my boss.

His black visor was suddenly pointed in your direction and you almost jumped from the surprise. He had left de welder on the wooden table and lowered the volume of the music on a radio that looked as old as time and then approximated you. All his movements were slow and restrained.

“What do you want?” He asked drily, without removing the welding mask from his face. As his friend the professor, he didn’t waste a second in pleasantries. His voice was as gruff as his looks. He didn’t look like an artist at all but a sort of mechanic or technician.

He waited for your response with his gloved hands in his narrow hips, a leg slightly flexed. The way he carried himself made him look like a statue in a museum. He was observing you carefully, from head to toe. You noticed your mouth was dry.

“I…The Armourer sent me…because of the job…assistant.” You said finally. Perfect, you now had made a fool of yourself by speaking like you didn’t know grammar when you indeed made a living of writing. You could die of the embarrassment.

“I told her…” He started and then sighed, lowering his broad shoulders in defeat. “Come, have a seat.” He said tilting his head towards a desk next to the large windows.

You assumed it was a desk because it was completely covered by stacks of diverse documents and you couldn’t even guess the material of the piece of furniture. You observed them as you sat in a beautiful vintage chair, while he did the same in front of you. A lot of invoices, a PC as old as time, sketches of what looked like sculptures, sheets with budgets, newspapers, exhibition brochures. You smiled softly when you distinguished the characteristic doodles of a little kid. You kept that last info to yourself, thinking it wasn’t polite to be nosy in your first meeting.

He then looked at you like it was the first time he acknowledged your presence. His legs were wide apart, but while he looked confident you noticed he was fidgeting with his gloved fingers. What a curious man. And why was he so familiar?

“What can you do?” He asked, always the eloquent one. You looked around you for a moment, gathering your thoughts.

“Anything you need around here.” You responded, now a bit more confident. “I can operate almost every machine in this place, know the basics of wielding, and can help with molds and the foundry” He now looked more interested, bending his large body towards the table. “But for a start, I think the most urgent matter is this mess.” Sure, you were cheeky, but you needed the job, and it was obvious the man needed help with admin. You went from nervous to sassy in five minutes. “Does that even work, or is it part of an art installation?” You pointed to the PC that looked like it was stuck in the 90’s. He made a noise that could be a chuckle or a grunt.

“The Armourer sent me your CV.”

Oh, so he knew you were coming after all.

“What makes a qualified researcher as you want to work as an assistant?” This was probably the highest number of words he had put together to this moment. His low baritone was warm and nice to hear.

You blushed a bit. Of course, you had made your apportations, but you were only starting in the Academia even though you had some articles published. But qualified was a bit of a stretch. You could tell him the truth. That you needed to pay rent after being denied the scholarship. But that didn’t put you in a good light, especially in a job interview.

“Being a researcher, I tend to spend most of my day in my head. Manual labour grounds me.” You bit your lip a bit nervous because you had just offered a piece of personal information, even though anything in your tone revealed that you weren’t referring only to your job.

He only nodded in understanding, crossing his thick forearms over his chest.

“You start tomorrow at 1500.” Okay, former military maybe? That was rich. And it was the shortest job interview of your life. “I usually wrap up at 2100, is that okay for you?” His voice had a kinder tone now, although sounding still gruff. You recounted mentally the bus timetable to your home and calculated it would be tight but you could make it.

“Yes, is perfect.” You offered him a big smile for the first time feeling grateful. “Thank you for the opportunity.” Then he accompanied you to the door and you realized he hadn’t provided you a name. He probably knew you from your CV though. You panicked a bit, trying to recall if Professor Armourer had told you his name but you couldn’t remember and it seemed awkward to ask now.

When you made your exit through the door, he leaned against it and you noticed he was as wide as the frame. The perks of being a sculptor, you supposed. You had to stop admiring his physique if he was going to be your boss. You arranged a bit your heavy tote bag on your shoulder and put a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” You said to the statue man. He just nodded and you awkwardly acknowledged the interaction was over, so you left with an energetic handwave while he was standing there nonchalantly. Was he observing you? Just having some fresh air? You couldn’t tell with that damned mask. You found yourself wondering how he’d look under it. But it felt weird you didn’t know your boss's name or how he looked. You turned on your heels and gathered some courage. He was still in the same position and you felt super awkward. “I’m sorry, I think I didn’t catch your name and it felt wrong leaving without…”

Your new boss sighed heavily, and so so slowly, started to remove his welding mask. Your jaw dropped. Those sad eyes weren’t easy to forget.

“It’s Din, Din Djarin.”

Next Chapter

Taglist: @technicallykawaiisoul @dameron-grant-spector

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #modern au din djarin #modern din djarin #the mandalorian x y/n #din djarin fanfic #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x female reader #sculptor din djarin #the mandalorian fanfiction #droidwrites #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro boys

34 notes · View notes