#I do rather want my skin turned into leather for books or bags... but the government doesn't consent 🙄

[zondel]

The "Well what if they did it to you" argument, people use against taxidermy/leather/furs is so stupid, because they don't consider that there are freaks (me) who would jump at the opportunity

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I have been wanting to binge some Xaden x you stories but there seems to be none! Thank you so much for writing Late Night Hours!! If you ever choose to write another one, would you consider a healer x Xaden?

-🖤🖤

So glad you enjoyed that story. I loved writing it. 🤍

My kind of girl

Was it an awful idea? Yes. Was it against all restrictions? Yes. Was this not at all how Xaden thought it would go? Hard yes. He didn’t even understand how it started. What brought it all on? He had visited many healers. Had been patched up by so many of them. He never given them any more attention that was needed. Done and forgotten afterward.

But that particular day most of the healers had been out on some sort of training. Spirits only knew what healers could train for but as if all odds were against Xaden, Garrick had a particular taste for blood that day and not even an hour into training, Xaden was clenching his wrist. The skin already blossoming with purple and reds.

“You should get that checked before you start crying”, Garrick chuckled, making Xaden growl, “Suck a bag off…”, “Manners”, Imogen chirped in, “We have a jar of coins remember? For every d and p that comes out of your filthy mouths”, she pointed a warning finger at the two males. “Mommy is mad”, Bodhi chuckled, earning a slap on the back of his head from Imogen.

So Xaden did go even if he was convinced that it was nothing. He still found himself rounding the corner to the healer's wing. Just the moment he kicked open the door his whole body suddenly stalled. It’s as if his brain shut off for a moment before it kicked start again at the sound of a book hitting the floor. The most beautiful eyes looked back at him. Xaden had seen a handful of pretty females. Had a pleasure to interact with them in more than one way but this. You. You made practically every single one of them look like average women.

“How can I help?”, you quickly bent moving to pick up the book. Your cheeks were already pink but that didn’t surprise Xaden, healers rarely left their wings. Rarely interacted with anyone but their patients. Xaden simply lifted his hand upward. He knew how it usually went. Most females clung to him. But you simply nodded, moving around the room and picking up different salves. “I will make sure you’ll be able to fly by the morning”, you muttered after sitting the rider down.

Oddly enough Xaden found himself unable to not look at you. He always liked his girls on the tough side. The more they snarled at him the more he was interested. Nothing was more attractive than riding leathers. But here he was mesmerized by the loose curls, a grayish gown, and even the colorful scarf tight around your head was beautiful to him.

“You’re new”, Xaden’s words were groggy because he had stayed silent for the past couple of hours. The tone was rather intimidating. But you didn’t flinch only blinked a bit faster. “Yeah…”, you muttered, “Only a couple of days here”. Your soft voice warmed parts of Xaden that had been ice cold for yours. He frowned not sure as to what was happening. “And you’re all alone here with only a couple of days of experience under your belt? I wouldn’t trust you to run this smoothly”, it came out more as an accusation than anything else. Making you pull back, “I can handle this. I can handle myself”, and oddly enough Xaden didn’t doubt that.

There was something different about you. Something way more intriguing. Something that caught Xaden’s attention. You also weren’t big on chatter. Nor did his broad shoulders seem to intimidate you much. You didn’t stop to hack at him and that rubbed Xaden in way that he hadn’t felt in a while. Your movements were calculated. As if it was second nature. Well, it very clearly was. It seemed like a dance. One practiced so many times that now it was easy to do it without being able to see. The same way fighting was for Xaden.

“If you won’t move it much today it will be good as new tomorrow”, you turned back, getting straight to cleaning your surroundings. “That’s it?”, Xaden questioned looking down at his bandaged wrist. One that felt perfect as it was now. But how did you manage to do it all so quickly? He usually sat here for ages while different girls fussed over him. “You want a kiss on the forehead too?”, you huffed, making the sides of Xaden’s lips curve upwards. “Do you offer that to everyone?”, he pushed on wanting to see just how far he could take this. “No, only to the ones who are as tall as they are stupid”, you crooked your head to the side, offering Xaden a mocking smile before continuing your way around the medical room.

“Ahh now that’s a low blow, baby girl”, Xaden gently caught your arm, turning you back to face him. Your eyes darted up to look at him. A look of surprise almost immediately replaced by annoyance, “You don’t scare me”. Yet your voice came out barely a whisper. You might not be a scared little girl but the guy in front of you sure was at least twice your size. A light shiver ran down your back. He could easily pick you up with one hand and just…

“Then why are you trembling?”, now it was him smirking once more. Satisfied that he managed to rile up a reaction from your body. But you swiftly pulled your arm out of his grasp, “I suggest you go, rider, before you find yourself unable to”, you pointed towards the door. Glad that there was some distance between you two because your heart was beating so fast you were convinced the male would be able to hear it drumming against your ribcage.

“Feisty little thing you are, huh”, Xaden whistled crossing his arms over his chest, “Unlucky for you, I like my girls prickly”. You lifted your head. Chin held high and fuck did Xaden’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of your delicate features shifting with that sheen of annoyance. “Unlucky for you I know at least forty-five ways to kill you and believe me you’re giving me ideas as we speak”, you nodded towards the door once more. Hoping that he didn’t see your crimson cheeks as he turned around. Xaden shook his head as he reached for the handle, chuckling under his breath. Chuckling… when was the last time he had chuckled? Maybe Garrick hit his head harder than Xaden initially thought. The rider ran a hand over his face but right as he was about to close the door he halted, throwing you one last look, “That pink on your cheeks suits you, sweetheart”. He simply heard a gasp before a cloth was flying right at him but Xaden managed to close the door in time. Frustrating grumbling audible from within the room. He surprised another smile before his cold side clinched around his throat once more. What the fuck was he doing? And why did all of a sudden you felt like his kind of girl? One that he had to win over.

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 10)

Your pen hovered above the notebook, forming neat loops and lines as you transcribed notes. The library was a cocoon of hushed tones and the soft shuffling of pages turning. Connor sat opposite you, his brow furrowed in concentration, his foot tapping beneatht he table.

“Hey,” he murmured, without looking up from his textbook, “what’s the term for—”

Your gaze flickered up to glimpse at the page he was pouring over. “Homeostasis,” you offered swiftly, not missing a beat in your writing.

“Right,” he replied with a chuckle. “Thanks.”

He leaned forward to copy the answer, but his arms remained stiff in the confines of his leather jacket. There was hardly any room to move in that thing, and, coupled with his skinny jeans, was a fashion nightmare. However, your main concern for him involved the weather. Despite being inside this air-conditioned library, the heat managed to cling to every crevice of your body, and Connor, for sure, had to be roasting silently underneath his clothes, too.  

You didn’t know how he could endure it all—in an all-black get-up as well—until you remembered Connor shared genes with Cillian, whose philosophy was to sacrifice comfort for fashion. Inexplicable qualities like that were hereditary, stored in DNA.

But you weren’t having it because it was hot, the vents were malfunctioning, and your palms were slick with sweat. If Connor didn’t take off his jacket, then you were going to perish from dehydration just by looking at him.

“You should take off the jacket.” Crossing your arms, you leaned back in your chair.

“Is it because of my shoulders?” Connor replied, continuing to type on his laptop. “Do you want to see them?”

There was a certain rhythm to his keyboard smashes—almost like he was playing a game rather than coding a program for his project like he was supposed to.

“Just listen to me,” you stated bluntly, watching his eyes narrow at the screen. “You forgot to listen to me three days ago and look where we are. In the library, without air conditioning! My favorite study room has a portable one!”

At your remark, Connor briefly looked up. “What happened to the nice Y/N? Where is she?”

“I stopped being nice when you lied about reserving a study room for us,” you replied instantly, slouching in your chair, as the cold metal cooled your skin temporarily.

“Forgive me. I have a short term memory.”

“And I’m sure you forgot about the plan you made in the group chat.”

“Oh.” Connor grinned, taking the time out of his day to hurl a wink in your direction. “No, I wouldn't forget those for the world. I can’t wait.”

Typical first year ignorance. How hadn’t Connor realized everyone wanted to study when it was the last day of finals.

"Blaise is coming, you know.” There was a tone in Connor’s voice you didn’t like. “Just ignore Rian and I. Enjoy your new boy toy.”

“All of us,” you emphasized, "are simply eating together.” You rolled your eyes, stumbling a bit in your seat when a person behind you bumped their chair into yours in an attempt to get out, their bag barely missing your shoulder. “Besides, Blaise and I are just friends.”

Connor nodded fervently, though his gaze remained concentrated on the screen as always. “Love is blind indeed.”

“Did you forget that I’m in a class with your crush?” You were definitely going to talk to a certain girl if Connor kept this up. 

“That’s old news.” The slight blush on his skin, however, begged to differ. 

“I remember a certain someone confessing to me how he found her sooooo—” you couldn’t help but smile through the taunt. “—cute. That he wanted her number so badly. That he was going to write a letter confessing his undying love.”

“Stop saying things out loud.” Connor’s frustration caused your smile to stretch even wider. He had closed his laptop, leaning forward to speak in a hushed voice, the outline of his biceps visible underneath his leather jacket that he should have taken off.

“You should’ve listened to me and booked a room, then.”

Connor's lips twitched. “My classmates might be here.”

“And whose fault is that?” You leaned forward, languidly planting your cheek in the palm of your hand, challenging him. 

“You’re lucky I’m still studying with you.” Connor reopened his laptop, resigning himself to defeat. 

“Did you forget to invite me?”

When you turned, there stood Cillian. The sight of him was jarring; he had freshly dyed hair, an atrocious green that would’ve looked bad on anyone else. It certainly was… bold.

However, in his typical fashion, he layered an unbuttoned, navy blue short-sleeved dress shirt over a long white shirt—followed with beige slacks and casual black dress shoes. The silver necklace, however, was an accessory you hadn’t seen before, but you did recognize those signature earrings.

“Didn’t know you would be here.” Connor straightened his posture and removed his backpack from the chair beside him, settling it down between his legs. “Are you studying for finals, too?”

“Studying hard or hardly studying?” Cillian quipped, leaning against the edge of their table with a playful smile on his lips.

Connor glanced up, his attempt at a bad-boy scowl melting into a sheepish grin. “Just trying to get some last-minute knowledge into this thick skull of mine.”

“Looks like you could use all the help you can get,” Cillian retorted, the twinkle in his eye belying the sharpness of his words.

Blinking rapidly, you dismissed an image of Cillian and a hair straightener from your mind. “Do you have your last exam soon?”

“I finished it a bit ago now,” he replied and took the seat at your side.

Connor dragged his chair to the side in an attempt to provide more room, but it only resulted in a harsh screech.

You winced. “Was there something you had to do in the library?”

“I’m meeting with that painter soon, but he'll be late.” Cillian’s eyes flickered between you and Connor. “He’s giving me one of the portraits from the gallery.”

“Oh, him! The one with a beard and funky glasses?”

Cillian nodded, and his earrings shined against the natural light seeping through the library windows. It made you want to play with them.

“Connor,” you started, capturing his attention, “have you seen the paintings of Cillian at the gallery?”

Grinning, Connor reclined back against his seat, arms crossed. “Who didn’t?” He raised a brow towards Cillian, who stared back at him. “He’s related to me, so of course he looks good.”

“Wow. Very humble of you.”

“I am the humblest person alive.”

“Pack it up, Pinocchio.”

“Okay, Grinch.”

Just as you were about to continue bickering, you noticed Cillian tapping across the table. If there was one thing your years of friendship with him taught you, then it was that he was feeling left out. 

“Nah, Cillian’s the grinch,” you corrected, relishing the way his face brightened. “He even dyed his hair to match. He wants everyone to finally see how his exterior matches the insides.”

Connor pursed his lips as he also scrutinized Cillian from head-to-toe. “Hmm… I never would’ve thought so, but now that you mention it… Agreed.”

When you heard the slight huff underneath Cillian’s breath, you couldn’t resist the urge to further tease him. 

“He’s got his brows furrowed permanently,” you said, sing-songy, and you watched how Cillian was adjusting his bangs to cover them, his cheeks slightly reddening from your words—or maybe they were already flushed from the heat of this poorly funded building. 

“Always got a frown on, too,” Connor quipped with a tsk. 

“Totally,” you said. “Lee, you look so much prettier when you smile.”

You expected him to respond, but all you got were dark eyes and long lashes peering back. Cillian wasn’t speaking. Did you say something upsetting?

“Do you mean like this?” Cillian tilted his head, lips curling upwards. “Like this? Is this what you want me to do?”

“U-Um, yeah, I guess.” You rubbed the nape of your neck. Cillian should stop staring at you like that. 

“What else do you want me to do? If it’s for you,” he mused, still keeping his smile, “I would do anything to serve you. You’re the most important person to me.” he drew out this word far too long for your liking. His voice lowered dangerously low. “Will you let me? Or do I need to show you how lost I am without you? How you need to depend on me too because I’m here for you?”

Internally, you had to remain collected, but with that smile still plastered on his face, you were beginning to wonder what he was trying to provoke out of you. He knew you disliked misunderstandings, and you weren’t exactly fond of the way his words could be interpreted, especially with Connor around. 

“Isn’t that what good friends are supposed to do?” You rolled your shoulders, quickly observing Connor’s reaction, which was normal, you guessed. Thank goodness he occupied himself with his laptop again. You could deal with his occasional glances. “We’re supposed to be there for each other.”

Hands waving around restlessly, you made sure to emphasize your pointed laugh, a desperate plea for Cillian to tone it down.  Then, discreetly, you began to monitor who else could be listening. Fortunately, the library was mostly empty. You heard far-off chatter, but none in the immediate area.

“Who wants to print out my essay?” Connor’s doe eyes blinked innocently, lips jutted out in a pout.

“You’re a big boy,”  you teased. “Go do it yourself.”

“Fine.” He pouted, rising from his seat and gathering a stack of papers. “Back in a sec. Don’t review too much without me.”

As Connor walked away, the printer in the corner whirring to life, you felt the air shift. You tried to maintain the rhythm of your studies, but Cillian's gaze felt heavy upon you.

“Y/N,” Cillian began, leaning closer, “you know, you look pretty today. That skirt really is your color. That's the one I bought you, isn't it.”

“Yeah,” you managed, tone polite yet strained, as you clung to the remnants of your focus. “We should probably keep quiet. The library…”

“Ah, yes,” he whispered theatrically, reverently dipping his head, “the sacred temple of knowledge. I’ll bow to its goddess.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief, and it became clear to you that Cillian saw himself as more than just a patron of this temple—he fancied himself its god.

Your fingertips danced along the edges of your textbook pages, a futile attempt to anchor yourself in the anatomy before you.

“Quiet places have a way of making your thoughts loud, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes, but it’s good for concentration.”

“But what about the heart? Does it not yearn for distraction?”

You felt the unease nudge at you, a whisper in the recesses of your mind. You observed Cillian, who sat there like Adonis in designer jeans, radiating an aura of untouchable perfection.

“Distractions can be troublesome,” you said, eyeing your notes again. A diagram of the human heart stared back at you, labeled and cold, offering no insights into the flutterings of your own.

“Y/N,” Cillian began, his voice carrying a gravity that turned your stomach. He leaned forward, his eyes boring into yours. “Would you ever consider being more than just friends?”

The question hung in the air, stark and unwelcome against the backdrop of the library. You blinked, your heart lodging itself firmly in your throat. You searched Cillian’s face for some sign of jest, finding none.

“Cillian, I—” You started, but he cut you off.

“Ever since I saw you, I knew,” he said, certainty lacing his words. “You were meant to be mine.”

You fought to keep your expression neutral, though your pulse quickened beneath your skin. How long had he harbored such thoughts? And why you, when so many courted his attention like moths to a flame?

“Always?” you asked, skepticism masked by curiosity.

“Always,” he affirmed, his gaze never wavering. “I’ve watched you, seen the way you care for me, the way you make me want to be a better person. I don’t know what I’d do if anyone else got a hold of you. I need you to be mine.”

“You know how much I value our friendship,” you began.“It’s… It’s precious to me.”

“Friendship,” he echoed, tilting his head slightly, a lock of his dyed hair falling across his forehead in calculated disarray. His phone lay forgotten beside his bag, its screen reflecting a paused image of social media perfection—a life curated for likes and adoration, but lacking the genuine connection that you craved.

“You’re precious to me, too,” he continued, his lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “But sometimes, friendship evolves, transforms into something… More.”

You felt the insidious tendrils of jealousy wrap around you thoughts, tightening like the coils of pythons as you considered the privilege placed upon someone like Cillian—handsome, charismatic, expected to capture any heart he desired. And yet, here he was, seeking yours. Why?

“Evolution takes time and care. I wouldn’t want to rush or misinterpret the natural progression of things.”

Your gaze flickered to the empty chair beside you, Connor’s absence a silent witness to your struggle. The room's fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting stark shadows that seemed to dance upon the open pages, mocking your attempts to navigate this labyrinth without a thread to guide your way.

“We just got out of a fight. Please, let’s not complicate what we have.”

Cillian rose, his movements deliberate as the chair scraped against the library's silence. He loomed over  you, casting a shadow that felt all too constricting. His lean frame bent toward you.

“How many times have I said you don’t need to beg?” he murmured, his voice low. His fingers grazed your hand, leaving a trail of unwelcome warmth. The fluorescent lights above flickered. “Look at my Y/N,” he continued, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “So devoted to your studies, to your future. I adore that about you, but it makes you forget about now. About us.”

You tried to shift back, to reclaim the space his presence had stolen, but the solid table behind you offered no escape.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Cillian pressed on, his eyes glinting with the same intensity as Narcissus reflecting upon his pool. “All those likes, comments—they're nothing compared to having you by my side. I love it when you take pictures only because it means your attention is only on me. I want you to admire me. I want you to have me in a way no one else can.”

His proximity was oppressive. You inhaled sharply, the scent of ink and anxiety filling your lungs. The digital clock on the wall ticked away seconds, each one stretching out.

You met his gaze, the clarity of your ambition clouded by the storm of his will. In his eyes, you saw the reflection of your own doubt—was your resistance doomed to fail?

“We’re good friends,” you reminded him, the words tasting of honey laced with poison. “I value you too much to risk losing that.”

“Again with that,” he scoffed gently, leaning closer until his breath caressed your ear. “This is just the beginning, isn’t it? We could be so much more. Everything we’re meant to be.”

His touch traced the line of your jaw. As you sat pinned beneath his intense scrutiny, your thoughts scattered like the feathers of a bird plummeting into a crystalline window, like a fly landing on a spider’s plate. Each word he uttered wove a web you feared might soon entangle you completely.

You hadn't thought about it before, but considering it now... Having a boyfriend like Cillian wouldn't be too bad. Handsome, wealthy, eager to remain at your side. He hadn't so much as mentioned another girl in your presence.

Your heart hammered in your. “Let’s discuss this later, Lee,” you whispered urgently. “Someone might see us. Connor could come back any minute.”

The plea hung between you, a fragile thread threatening to snap under the weight of his gaze. Cillian's eyes held your, dark pools reflecting none of the fluorescent light above but seeming to absorb it, along with your resolve.

“Let them see,” he replied, his tone smooth as marble yet with an edge that could slice through the strongest of armors. “Let Connor see. It changes nothing of what I want, which is you. I want to be more than friends. I want to make you happy. I want to belong to you, so why won’t you let me? Is there someone else? Is he better than me?”

“This isn’t—”

“Isn’t what? Isn’t what we both yearn for in the quiet spaces between our heartbeats? You can’t keep denying that you feel something for me. Longing hurts. I don’t like seeing you in pain. You should just give in.”

“Cillian, step back. You’re crowding me.” Your hands pushed against his chest, a feeble attempt at creating distance, but he was a fortress, immovable and unyielding.

“Because I’m being sincere,” Cillian insisted, his tone now a mix of softness and steel. “In a world made of artifice, I offer you something real. I offer you, me. Being apart from you nearly killed me. I can’t go through that again.”

Killed him? The blood drained from your face. Your senses were awash with the scent of his cologne mixed with the dust of forgotten literature, a heady perfume that clouded judgment. Your inner turmoil churned like a restless sea, knowing that no matter how much you swiped at the surface, the depths remained untouched and dark, mirroring the enigma of Cillian's soul.

He was beautiful. He was enticing. He was already yours.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll… I’ll try it out.”

He grinned, flashing his teeth. “You’ll be what to me?”

“Your… Your girlfriend.”

As the word left your lips, a shrill whistle cut through the stillness of the library. Connor sauntered into view, his leather jacket creaking with each step. His boyish face bore a cheeky grin, his eyes blissfully unaware of the gravity that held you captive.

“Look at you two, all serious and scholarly,” Connor teased, his voice lilting with humor that carried no knowledge of the storm brewing beneath the calm. “I leave for one minute and find our little library mouse caught by the cat.”

His words were playful, innocent, yet they stung you like thorns on a rose. Your forced a smile, your hands instinctively smoothing the fabric of your attire as if to wipe away the discomfort his observation brought.

“Connor,” you said, mustering a brightness you did not feel, “it’s not what it looks like.”

“It is very much what it looks like.”

Without warning, Cillian’s lips met yours in a chaste kiss, fleeting like the ghost of a butterfly's wing. A warmth bloomed there, unwanted yet undeniable, and with it, a swirl of relief and anguish.

Connor’s claps echoed through the hushed library aisles, his jubilant proclamation resonating against the silence.

“Finally!” He exclaimed, his voice carrying a parent-like pride. “Oh, that’s so cute! You two are perfect together! Like a king and queen! You’ll be the campus power couple.”

You feigned a chuckle, a hollow sound that did not belong to you, and turned your gaze back to the open textbooks that seemed to blur before your eyes. The words on the pages mingled and danced away from your understanding..

“Let’s focus on studying,” you murmured, trying to escape.

But Cillian was a force more potent than gravity. His hand traced a path over your waist, claiming territory with an entitled sense of ease. As he nestled close, his head found its resting place upon your shoulder, the locks of his hair brushing against your skin.

“Connor’s right, you know,” said Cillian, the darkness in his tone masked by the lightness of his smile. It was a siren song, beautiful and dangerous. “Together, we’re destined for greatness.”

“Right, destined,” you echoed, as if saying the words could make them true.

Connor looked on, oblivious to the undercurrents. He bobbed his head, plugged into his own rhythm, content in the narrative he had woven around his cousin and his friend.

“Back to the grind then,” Connor said, settling into his chair with the easy grace of someone unburdened by doubt or deceit.

You nodded, eyes fixed on the jumbled hieroglyphs of your textbook. A sense of defeat settled in your bones, a dead weight upon your wings as you struggled to rise above the chaos of your mind, struggling to accept this new reality.

Cillian's voice, soft and coaxing, sliced through the library's silence. “Y/N,” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. “Would you touch me?”

You jolted, as if struck by lightning. Your startled gaze met his, searching for the jest that would surely be dancing in his eyes; but all you found was a depth you couldn't fathom, an abyss with no clear exit.

“I mean my hair,” he clarified, his hand guiding yours to the crown of his head, where the soft strands awaited your tentative touch. Obeying, your fingertips grazed his scalp. Eyes crinkling, his lips curled into a smile. The warmth from his head seeped into your palm.

Around, the hushed whispers of pages turning and keyboards tapped. But now, you remained still, caught in the web of his allure, your eyes helplessly mapping the contours of his face—the high cheekbones, the sharp jawline hinting at a strength belied by his gentle touch.

“Feels good,” he whispered, a victorious gleam in his eye, as if your compliance had been the nectar he so craved.

Smiling back, you withdrew your hand slowly.

“Cillian, I—”

“Focus on your studies for now,” he said softly. He squeezed your waist reassuringly. “I won’t leave. You’ll always have me.”

special long chapter coming to you live from the library! now that the feelings are all out there, i'm excited to develop y/n and cillian's relationship and to show how it'll affect the others, too. i originally had other chapters between this and the previous planned, but i thought to just spur into the actual yandere-ness lol.

[luveline]

For zombieau requests, before r and steve make it to the college, the story of their first kiss?

thank you for your request <3 first kisses are confusing. fem!reader 2k

The beam of your flashlight is weak and stuttering. Steve has somehow managed to fix it for you yet again, but he's no miracle worker. Or, that's what he'd said. 

It feels rather miraculous to you. Nearly everything he does delights you these days, even his chastening snips. 

"You'll run down the battery." 

You look at him through the beam. He's wearing a simple short sleeved t-shirt, much more skin than you're used to seeing on display. His muscles shift under skin as he pulls back his hair. 

You let the encyclopaedia you'd been reading shut with a soft thud. "Did you know that our solar system orbits the centre of the milky way galaxy? We're spinning double." 

"That sounds sickly." 

You smile at him and put the book back in your bag. 

You ruffle through your things to get ready to sleep and sigh, irked. "Have you seen my– uh, my leather thingy? The square?" 

He sits up. His movements are distinguished in the quiet, the cotton of his clothes shushing against hardwood floor. Steve knows exactly where the leather square is, fingers slipping inside the pocket of your bag to procure the small zip lock bag you keep it in. 

You grind your teeth in your sleep sometimes, anxiety-driven, and this is the most sanitary solution Steve had been able to think of. 

"You need painkillers?" he asks, offering you the ziplock back. 

"No, not really. Just worried, I guess." You get killer toothache from the teeth grinding, all tenderness. Some days you haven't been able to eat, which is never good in these conditions. "I don't want you to have to pull my tooth one day. That would suck for both of us." 

He claps your wrist loosely, a quick and fond squeeze that genuinely makes your night. Every time he touches you is better than the last. Sometimes, you sit next to him, and you want him to hold your hand so badly it's like you can feel his fingers between yours. 

"If something like that needed to happen, we'd take care of it." 

It's a nice sentiment. In reality, an at-home tooth removal would probably traumatise you, or kill you via infection. 

"Well," you say, softened by his closeness, "lucky you, it's fine. It aches a little, but it's not hurting." 

He reaches into your lap, which is an entire thing, your stomach twists and your eyes widen. The heat of his hand ghosts your thigh as he clicks off the torch. 

You don't put the leather square in your mouth yet. You reach out for his side and use him to navigate the dark, lying down on the blanket beside him, hip to hip. Talking to him in the dark is your favourite part of the day. 

You take your hand back and drape it over your own stomach. It isn't long before Steve's hand is on your hip, not flat or caressing, just there, like it fell there incidentally. 

"What are we gonna do tomorrow?" he asks. 

You feel your eyebrows jump. "I don't know. Same as we always do." 

"If you… wanted to stop, we could stop. We don't have to keep going." 

He sounds tentative, like he's worried about your answer. 

"I would never ask you to stop looking for your friends," you say, trying to work out his angle. 

"I'm not saying stop forever. I just figure we don't need to always be moving. Not when you're…" His teeth click together as he shuts his mouth. 

You turn your head to his face though you can't see him in the dark, not one detail. You're in a small house in the middle of nowhere and the isolation hasn't felt as startling as it does now. 

"When I'm what?" 

"I'm putting you through the wringer." 

You understand what he means. You're not the kind of girl meant for this life, and it could never be his fault, but you're constantly on the road even when there's food for weeks and shelter. He wants to find people, you would never stop him. You're sick often, injured when you're not. 

"I…" You swallow. "I didn't realise I got to call the shots." 

"You do. If you want to stop, we'll stop. We can stay here for a week or two, we have the food for it." 

You're scared of going too far with Steve. While you know he cares about you indisputably, you're afraid —petrified— of his rejection. No matter how sure you are that he likes you, that he wants you, it isn't worth messing up what you have with the wrong assumption. But if you want to stop? That feels like a confession, at least in part. 

"It never mattered to you before," you say. 

True and not true. 

"I know," he murmurs, and you swear he's looking at you too, "I made you follow me around. But I've always taken care of you, haven't I?" 

"You have." 

"And I always will." 

Yeah, when you'd first met, alone and unhappy, he'd let you tag along with him out of duty and nothing else. If you hadn't saved his life, he probably never would have agreed to take you with him, because he has a fierce loyalty to the people he loves. If you got in the way of his finding Robin, there was a time when he would have left you behind. 

That time period was remarkably short, to his credit. He warmed to you reluctantly and then less so. And now he touches you all the time, your face and your neck and your hips. He zips up your coat for you because the cold makes your fingers shake, and he lets you sleep in the dip of his lap with your arms around his back, and he says nice things when you're not expecting them. When you lost weight at the beginning, he was concerned, and when you said you had it to lose, he was disbelieving. He keeps the good shampoo for you. He smiles when you talk, now. All these flags. 

His hand opens against your hip. You feel it unfurl, and the gentle thrust of him offering it to you. 

Steve works your hands together. Just like that. One of those perfect wood joints where the seams disappear, two hands linked together tightly, like they were made to hold one another. 

"Does the leather really help?" he asks. 

"I think so," you say, wanting more than anything to rest your face against his naked bicep. 

"Maybe you have a locked jaw, or something." 

"Maybe I do. Know any chiropractors?" 

"No," he says, tip of his thumb roving over the meat of yours, like he's marking down the lines of your skin. "I could try it." 

You laugh nervously. "I'm alright." 

"You don't think I could fix it?" 

"Not really, Steve." 

"That's offensive." 

"Letting you mess up my jaw rather than offend you, though?" you tease. 

"Is it bad right now?"

You make a curious sound as he sits up. "No, I already told you, it's fine." You feel rather than see him looking down at you. When his free hand touches your shoulder, you breathe out. "Steve?" 

"It's not gonna hurt if I try to kiss you?" 

You still under his soothing hand. His fingers brush up the length of your neck. 

"No, it won't hurt," you choke out. 

He leans down slowly, his hair tickling your forehead, the heat of his breath fanning over your lips and chin like a wave. 

"Are you sure?" he asks. 

You don't even think he's flirting. 

"It won't hurt," you say. "Please." 

He slips his fingers under your head and encourages you up toward him just a little. You close your eyes despite the pitch dark as he closes the gap, your breath shuddering against his lips as they find yours. He kisses you once and indulgently, a soft and searching thing, the pad of his thumb rubbing a  trembling arc under your jaw. 

You're still holding hands. Your fingers flex in his and reaffirm, worried he's going to pull away, that this moment will end too soon. 

He cushions your head with his hand and kisses deeper. At this angle you have to twist yourself to meet him, and you're quick to do so, kissing back with a shy ardency — you want to kiss him more than anything but you don't have a clue what you're doing. 

Like he can tell, he slows, and the tips of your noses touch as he pulls, nudging your nose until you lift your chin.

"Just–" His thumb strokes your throat again, saying more than he does physically. "Just kiss me," he encourages gently. 

You nod and almost bite him as he moves in again, too enthusiastic, maybe, your eager hand in his hair and your fizzing lips under his enough to make him smile. 

He's soft. He's warm. Your heart spins, hurtles. The earth orbits the sun, and the sun, the whole solar system, orbits the centre of the milky way galaxy at almost a million kilometres an hour. Steve's weight against your chest and his fond kisses: you swear you can feel it, you can feel the orbit, the spinning. You're dizzy with it. 

A sound disturbs the peace, ripping all the sweetness from the air in a millisecond. 

Steve flinches up, hand cradling the back of your head. He pulls the other free from your panicked fingers and grabs your shoulder like it might protect you from whatever it is that's coming. 

A silence ensues, the two of you waiting for another sound. 

"Probably an animal," he says. 

"Yeah," you say, heart racing. 

"It's late. You should try and get some sleep." 

You nod though he can't see it, heartbroken as he takes back his hands, as he settles again in the place where he'd been. Your hand feels strange without his fingers filling the empty spaces. 

"Don't forget your mouth guard," he whispers. 

You search the floor beside your impromptu bed for the ziplock bag, find it, and peel it open. You slot the leather between your bad teeth at the back and sigh, disappointed and exhausted and, somewhere underneath it all, excited.

"Steve," you mumble, disrupting the stifling awkwardness between you, "I want to keep going." What was it he'd said? He always takes care of you? "You know I'll follow you anywhere." 

"I know. I want you to have the choice." 

You do as he'd done, your open hand an offering over his hip. He draws lines in your palm with two fingertips before weaving his fingers through yours. You tighten your grip. 

If it's a choice, you’ll choose Steve. 

[randomfanner]

Runaway (Stone x OC/Reader)

Hello! This is my first Ramshackle fic. I might end up doing more but I really hope I don’t because I have another fic to finish! Anyway content warnings: past abuse, drug use, anxiety. summary: Anastasia’s cruel subconscious rudely snapped her from sleep. She could feel the cold sweat rolling itself down her back and her breathing was heavier. Reality set in quickly as she realized she was in a tent rather than her old bedroom. She looked at the three Scraps who peacefully slept beside her.

‘Worthless Brat! How come you can’t do anything right?!” 

Anastasia’s cruel subconscious rudely snapped her from sleep. She could feel the cold sweat rolling itself down her back and her breathing was heavier. Reality set in quickly as she realized she was in a tent rather than her old bedroom. She looked at the three Scraps who peacefully slept beside her.

Her eyes shifted away from them. It felt wrong to still think of them as Scraps when they were kind enough to accept her into their group. She reached down next to where she slept and picked up her glasses. She fumbled around her bag and the limited amount of her possessions, zipping a secret pocket she pulled out a journal. 

Careful shifting the blanket off of her, She slinked out of the tent, doing everything she could not to wake the others. Her foot got caught on something in the tent and she tumbled into the alley way, a hand covering her mouth to make sure she didn’t make any noise as she found herself facing the cool night air. She turned to look back at them, going still as she waited for any signs that one had been woken up.

When she figured she was in the clear, she finally made herself out of the alleyway and pressed up against the building. She settled her back up against the wall and laid there. Anastasia stared out at the empty street in front of the alley before tilting her head back, she could hear the quiet thunk as the back of her skull touched the coarse brick.

Some things never do change, whether it be in the ‘cushy’ walls of one of the manors or it be out on the desolate streets. Anastasia had foolishly believed simply leaving that hellhole would stop the nightmares from plaguing her… She flipped open the leather journal and spun the pencil around as she landed on a fresh blanket page, tapping the eraser to her chin.

“What are yae doing out ‘ere?” 

Anastasia clapped the book shut and shoved it behind her, almost jumping out of her skin to see who had spoken to her. She rested a hand on her chest. “Stone… I am sorry, did-did I wake you?”

“Naw,” he walked over to the other side of her, pressing his back against the wall before spreading out his legs as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out his box of mismatched cigarettes and pulled one out. “Are yae going to answer my question?” 

“It’s nothing.”

His cigarette dipped down from a moment before he flicked it up. “Then why have yae been sneaking out for the last few nights?”

Anastasia tensed up. “I am sorry…” 

“I am not askin’ for an apology,” Stone looked at her took a long drag of his cigarette. “I am tryin’ to make sure yer alright, alright?” the gray smoke poured from his mouth as he looked at the sky. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I am not gonna force you.” 

Anatasia looked at his profile for a bit, it took her a moment to long to realize she had been staring at him. “… It really is nothing,” Anastasia shifted her head to look at the gray road. “Just… bad dreams.” 

“It isn’t nothing if it is keeping you up all night,” Stone grinded the nub into the ground. “You are a Scrap now, if something is distressing you, we are all going to want to help you…”

“You all have already helped me so much…. I don’t want to bother you. A-and besides, there isn’t much that can be done…”

Stone rolled his eyes. “It isn’t fuckin’ botherin’ us,” Stone pulled out his vodka bottle and took a swig from it before placing it down in the dirt, grinding it into the dirt and stone. “Trustin’ might not come naturally, it might even be terrifyin’, but yer a scrap now…” he looked to the side and shrugged, thinking of Vinnie’s words. “Scraps have each other’s back.“

“... I will try….” Anatasia meant it in earnest. 

Stone grabbed his package of cigarettes again and went towards the corner, pulling out a cigarette that looked different from the others. It was thicker and she could clearly see where it had been rolled.  He lit it and took a long drag before holding it out to her. “Here, this might help.” 

“Oh, I-I don’t-”

“I know you don’t smoke, it isn’t a cig. It’s pot.” 

“Oh-” It wasn’t something she had access to directly, but Anastasia had actually read about some of the medical benefits of Marijuana. One of them was helping with sleep. She carefully took it and held it like he had, trying to take an equal as long drag. Not that she got very far before she was hacking. She shoved a hand over her mouth

Stone carefully took the joint from her fingers, putting his other hand on her back, helping to steady her. “Don’t worry about ‘em, those two can sleep through anything.”  After she managed to breathe a bit Stone moved away, taking another hit before offering it back.

Anastasia took a few deep breaths before she picked it up again, taking a smaller hit this time. She began to cough as she offered it back to Stone.   He took one more hit and offered it back for the last time. After she had taken her last hit he put it out and back into the box. “That’s enough for your first time.”

“Thank you…” she said.  She turned back to looking at the road and after a few seconds her entire body went slack, staring up at the sky.

Stone watched her and a tiny, tiny grin came to his face. “Are you still in there?”

“Huh?” Anastasia snapped out of it and looked at him. “Sorry…” her eyes fell and she began to stare at his chest, beginning to completely space out again.  

“Got anything in particular on yer mind?” he asked. 

“... I really wanna cuddle with you…” 

Stone tensed up a bit and cleared his throat. He looked to the side before his irises rolled back over to her. “Fine. Ya get five minutes.” 

With a bit more excitement than she would have expected from herself, she clung to his waist. Her head fell into his chest and she closed her eyes. After only about two minutes of resting on top of him, she was out. 

Stone held his arms out before his body slowly relaxed. He took her glasses off and carefully folded them up, putting them on top of the journal. After a few minutes he huffed, his arms relaxing to her waist. “Fine…. Guess you can stay a little longer than five minutes…”

Skipp sat up in bed and looked around. Something was missing, he knew it. After a second it clicked. “Vinnie! Vinnie! Stone and Anastasia are missing!” 

Vinnie immediately sat up and went out of the tent. Her eyes scanned around and she rounded the corner. Both of her feet planted into the ground and the expression of concern shifted to a stupidly big grin. “Oooohhh- I know why they were sneakin’ off-” 

“What happened are the-” Skipp stopped as he rounded the corner and he let out a loud gasp. Stone opened one eye and glared. 

“What is it?” he grumbled. His hand on Anastasia’s waist tapped her and he looked down. Both of his hands flew off and Anastasia remained knocked out. 

“Stone-  don't tell me you got a crush on Anastasia-” Skipp whisper-yelled. 

Stone’s cheeks turned bright pink. “I don’t have a damn crush.”

“Oohhhhhhh you dooooon’t?” Vinnie had a tease in her tone as she showed off all of her teeth. “Whatcha doing then?”

“She wasn’t sleepin’ well, nothing more than that,” Stone shook Anastasia’s shoulders which jolted her awake. She looked at him and immediately flung herself off of his body. 

“Good morning! I am sorry!” 

“Yer fine, it’s just morning-” Stone grumbled as he got up. “Come on, we got better things to do than just being in awe.”

“Stone! I think it is a good thing!”

“It’s alright you know,” Vinnie continued to tease.

Anya took a breath and put a hand on her bright red cheeks. She reached down and opened her glasses before sliding them on with one hand. 

That was one way to start a the morning, but she couldn’t deny she did feel a lot better. 

[strange-august]

Tag Yourself as Energies my friends and I have

🐺 Werewolf Energy 🐺

Has an intimidating "tough guy" presence but is actually a big softie.

Has a contagious howl like laughter that they hate but everyone adores.

Less of a wolf kind of werewolf and more of a golden retriever kind of werewolf.

Actually insanely dog-like (IE: strong sense of hearing, taste, smell. Red-Green colorblind and wears glasses.)

Loves to cook but doesn't drain their ground beef. Says that's where all the flavor is and will not listen to reason.

Has a deep booming voice that you can hear from across the house. Even across an empty field on a good day.

Doesn't mind getting dirty and prefers hands-on types of jobs.

Laid back but has zero tolerance for bullshit.

Only truly scary when they're angry or frustrated which is rare from them.

Actually knows the phases of the moon by heart.

Aesthetic: Muddy clothes, Messy hair, Sun kissed skin, Piercing gaze, The roar of an engine, Oil stained hands, Leather jackets, Bacon and eggs in the morning, Hamburgers and fries from Mom and Pop shops, The full moon peeking out over the treeline, Audio books, Caramel flavored coffee, Driving with the radio full blast, Light growling, Thunderstorms, Lazy days, Tequila shots, Loud laughter

Theme Song: The Nights by Avicii

🐉 Dragon Energy ��

Like werewolf, they're more akin to a dragon from a kid's movie rather than a traditional dragon.

Major hoarder and has a spending problem. Most of their hoards consist of art supplies, crystals, candles, weird trivial objects they find on the street, stuffed animals, DnD dice, lighters, knives, etc.

Able to romantize and find the beauty in even the most mundane of activities like a trip to the grocery store, a boring car ride or doing laundry.

Sleeps in a "nest" of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals with the A/C full blast. Can't sleep otherwise.

A child at heart and has an imagination so vivid they often get lost in it. They often need a little guidance back into the real world.

Loves going on adventures and exploring new places. Can turn even the most mundane errand into a fun excursion.

Sometimes their emotions are too much to handle and they might get overwhelmed and explode. They always feel guilty about it though and apologize afterward.

Fiercely protective of their treasures (aka: their friends) and would probably die for their friends if they had to. Though maybe a little too protective.

Opens their mouth wide when they yawn because it makes them feel like they're roaring.

Bites and headbutts their friends as a show of affection.

Aesthetic: Shed snake skin, Shiny objects, Watercolor paint, Fleeting eye contact, Soft blanket nests, Gray afternoons, Chai tea, Apple Cinnamon candles, Fine china, The glow of a heat lamp, Notebooks, Big fluffy clouds, Vivid sunsets, Bonfires, Head stuck in the clouds, Aluminum pins, Thrift shop clothes, Wide eyed stares, Awkward toothy grins, Fountain pens, Patchwork jackets, Cracking your knuckles

Theme Song: Geronimo by Sheppard

🦋 Mothman Energy 🦋

Has real cryptid energy, thanks to their height and lanky limbs. Not to mention they're already a chaos incarnate to boot.

Immuno-compromised and kind of delicate but doesn't let that stop them from obtaining their dreams.

Has the spice tolerance of a God. Will eat a whole bag of hot cheetos till their mouth is completely raw.

Stares at lights before turning them, thus accidentally blinding themselves each time. Does it so much that everyone genuinely thinks they might be part mothman.

Honestly just hates society and people in general and wants to live in the mountains as a hermit for the rest of their life.

Pretty much everything they wear came out of the 60s-70s era.

Knows an astounding amount of information on cryptids from all different states and even countries.

"When your sleep schedule is abysmal, you can sleep anytime."

Seems to subsist entirely on root beer and mountain kickstart pineapple orange mango.

Has at least twenty different kinds of potted plants in their room, all in various handmade pots and on every available surface.

Aesthetic: Moss samples, Cheap ramen noodles, Cat hair on clothes, Bomber jackets and aviator sunglasses, Leather messenger bag, Pine trees, Waterlogged boots, Moths flying around a street light, Watching the stars, Wondering what's out there, Empty paint cans, Early morning walks, Zoo and museum visits, Befriending a stray cat, Watching obscure movies, Oragami figures, Late night talks, Sarcasm, Walking sticks, RGB lights

Theme Song: The Moss by Cosmo Sheldrake

👽 Alien Energy 👽

Dresses like a cartoon character and it's honestly so cute. Wears a lot of patterns and colors that somehow all work together.

Mall culture to the max. Responsible for keeping the American mall dream alive.

Kinda shy but genuinely sweet. Will always offer you help when you need it.

Absolutely loves weird and unique animals, especially elephants. They track all the ones in captivity and give updates frequently.

Like Mothman, is very tall and lanky with long limbs. They also have freckles just like a galaxy.

Misses arcades and wishes they would come back. Goes to Dave and Busters for their birthday ever year.

All their pets are unique and named after foods such as their sharpei dog, Taco.

Has an old barn on their property where stray cats like to take refuge.

Loves old Disney movies and anime. Their favorite disney movie is Lilo and Stitch.

They also have a huge collection of anime and disney related figurines. A whole shelf full and continuing to grow.

Aesthetic: Teal and turquoise, Varsity jackets and athletic shorts, Pixie cuts, Binging anime, Microwave popcorn, Cuddling with your pets, Shag carpets, Colorful notebooks and fun pencils, Scented markers, Cotton candy soap, Cheaply made gimmick erasers, Tile floors, Homemade slime, Glowsticks, Stickers on laptop, Marble soda, Fairy lights, Ramen shops, Cinnabons, Star shaped Earrings, Young Adult Novels, Sour candy, Hibiscus tea, Orange tic tacs

Theme Song: Something in the Water by Brooke Fraser

[theadventuresofgarlandodra]

The Adventures of Garl and Odra Manyboots – What’s Your Type?

Prev.

“Hey Odra!”

Oh boy. Adorable incarnate was here to bother her. Odra sighed and lowered her mug. “Sup, Sahsi. Enjoying life at the guild?” she asked.

Sahsi beamed and took a seat next to Odra. “I love it! It was a lot to get used to, but I kinda fit in here. I’ve even gone on a few jobs. Where’s Garl?”

“Fucking someone at Fit For Kings.”

That was the bonus of having Sahsi think they were friends. She was so easily flustered and it was hilarious. Her pale green cheeks was now noticeably darker. “O-oh. I. Um. That’s… nice.” Sahsi cleared her throat a few times and fanned her face. “So… is he there like. Every night?”

“Ehhhhh, for the most part.” Odra waggled her hand from side to side. “He’s easily bored. It’s why he’s an adventurer, gives him something to do. If there’s nothing to do, he finds something- or in this case, someone- to do. Why, you want to get in line? I mean, he’s not my type, but according to the ladies who do it’s not a bad way to kill time-”

“Absolutely not!” Sahsi turned even redder when she realized she shrieked, catching the attention of the nearest tables. She lowered her voice and answered, “Garl’s attractive, I guess, but no- just. No.”

Huh. Odra cocked her head to the side. “All right, all right, I guess not everyone wants a man who can come pebbles- so what’s your type, if he’s not it?”

Sahsi twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she considered this. “Well… I’d like someone who could make me laugh. Who cares about my feelings, respects my space-”

Odra cut Sahsi off with a loud groan. “I mean physically, witch. Who do you want turning your knobs?” she asked.

Sahsi stammered for a few moments. “Well, who do you want turning your knobs?” she fired back.

“You really want to know… that…”

Odra trailed off as the door to the guild opened and in marched quite the party. The four men, one dragonborn, two humans and a high elf all walked in with their heads bowed, leather collars wrapped around their necks. The woman that followed them had violet skin and ebony hair that reached past her waist, a whip hanging off her belt and jewels draped around her neck. She held her head high and showed little care about anyone turning to look at her.

“Who’s that?” Sahsi asked as she turned back around to look at Odra.

The goblin was, for once, completely speechless. Her mouth was agape as she watched the powerful dark elf cross to the front and hand a book to the guild master. Even the gruff man seemed a bit flustered around her.

It all clicked for Sahsi rather quickly. She leaned in close. “Is she your type?” She asked quietly.

“No!” Odra hissed, grimacing as she realized how she just outed herself. “I mean, kinda? I’d never have the guts to make a move on Aunva Zauth, but… you know? I like a lady who can walk in to a room and have it under her thumb.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sahsi murmured as she watched Aunva take a small bag of gold from the guild master. The drow nodded before she walked to a table, where her men were waiting patiently on the floor for their lady’s return.  Aunva patted the dragonborn’s head and he practically sprang up to the other chair at the table while the other men remained kneeling. “Are they… what’s their deal?”

Odra sighed. “Those lucky bastards are lucky enough to serve her. There’s not a straight man alive who wouldn’t mind being stepped on Aunva.”

Uh huh. Sahsi turned back to the table. “So… you like strong women,” she said.

“Mmmhmm…” Odra seemed to daze off for a moment before snapping back to it. “Hold on- you still didn’t tell me YOUR type!”

“Oh!” Sahsi bit her lip. “Well… I guess I’d like the strong type too. I like a bit of muscle, and confidence too- you know, the kind of man or woman who isn’t afraid to approach you and tell you what they like about you. Yeah, that’s… my type. But I really think personality is more important in the long run.”

Odra snorted before hopping off her chair. “You’re too cute if you think that’s true,” she deadpanned before walking up to the bar, trying not to stare too much at Aunva counting up her gold.

Next

[snackhobi]

a human touch, part I

Part [1] / 1.5 / 2

(masterlist here)

pairing: taehyung x f!reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: robot!taehyung/virgin!reader, fluff, future smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: everyone knows that androids don’t think, or feel, or have emotions. they’re not human, after all. so when a two hour session with a sex android ends up with nothing more than a nice conversation, you think that’s the first and last time you’ll see v. 

then he turns up at your door. 

warnings: talk of sex work (taehyung is a sex android), implied physical harassment (mentions of bruising), cursing/explicit language, mentions of alcohol, honestly this is a lot softer than these warnings would make you think I swear 🤧

a/n: I started writing this fic like 2/3 months ago and then put it on hiatus bc god it was kicking my entire ass. but ya girl is finally back to working on it! it’ll be two parts, because this fic is a big one! I hope to have the next chapter out next week/the week after (but no promises kdsflkfdfsdf) thank you @hobi-gif​ for loving this fic so wholeheartedly and supporting me while I struggled with it, queen shit ONLY. note: this is loosely a detroit: become human au but you don’t have to be familiar with it at all!

Here are the three things you know about the Eden Club.

One: it’s a sex club. Everyone knows that. Besides, even if they didn’t, all it would take is a single look—the soft blue lighting that shines out from the windows, the screens behind the glass that flash images of shifting and undulating bodies, the heavy beat of music that pulsates from the building and out into the night air; everything murmurs of the promised pleasures that are held within. 

Two: it’s a sex club entirely staffed by androids. Androids make better lovers, according to the ads. They might look human but they don’t have free will like you do—anything you ask for, you’re given without question or reproach. They can’t say no to you. They’re entirely at your command.

Three: you don’t ever want to go to the Eden Club. It’s not that you have anything against androids—because you don’t—but you feel bad for the ones who are owned by the club, even if they’re literally only built and programmed to serve humans. It just feels… wrong.

And here’s the fourth thing you’ve just learned about the club, much to your dismay: you are about to head inside it.

“When you said we were going to a club, I thought we were going dancing,” you whine. “I never would have come out if I’d know you meant here.”

You’ve been staring up at the cursive pink neon sign for a while now, the looping letters of Eden Club shining out in the dark evening air, and you really, really wish you weren’t here. You’ve dressed for a night of dancing and drinking and now you feel woefully uncomfortable, your high heels and short skirt almost as scandalous as the outfits the androids are wearing when they slide across the huge screens.

“That’s why we didn’t tell you which club it was.” Seulgi rolls her eyes and once again tries to tug you towards the building with the arm that’s looped with your own. Just out of arm’s reach, Irene holds your bag hostage. “Come on, your session is going to start soon!”

“My session?” Your voice is an incredulous shrill and Seulgi uses the momentary distraction to finally pull you forward. You stumble a little but catch your balance just as you make your way past the bouncer, who’s been watching the three of you impassively since you got here. “What do you mean, my session?”

“For your birthday, duh. We booked you a private room!”

The inside has the same, sleek neon aesthetic as the outside, but instead of images of androids on a screen, these ones are real and standing in front of you—swinging themselves around glowing poles, rolling their hips and swaying their bodies, while others wait patiently in glass pods that line the walls, leaning towards onlookers and moving as tantalisingly as possible. All ready to be rented at a whim.

Their designs are varied and different but they’re all incredibly beautiful. The only feature they all share is the small, blue LED circle on the side of their temple, light spinning and shining as they take the world in around them. A visual reminder to the world that these aren’t flesh and blood humans: they’re synthetic, man-made machines.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so uncomfortable in my life.” You desperately try to avoid the eyes of a nearby android who’s staring at you from behind glass, trying to subtly catch your attention. Unlike you, though, all the other patrons here are shameless in their perusal, scanning the selection of androids on display and watching as they dance and move and bat their eyelashes. “Why did you ever think I’d want to come to a sex club for my birthday?”

“Remember Valentine’s Day? You said that instead of flowers or chocolate you’d rather just be dicked down,” Irene says. “Besides, you’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling for as long as we’ve known you, and you moved to the company, what… three years ago?”

Your smile is pained. You’ve never been in a relationship or had a fling full stop; you’ve only kissed a few people and that’s it. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed, and you’ve gotten Very Good at avoiding questions about your complete lack of a love life, so no one realises exactly how inexperienced you are. People just assume that you’ve had sex in the past and you make no attempts at correcting them. You’re charismatic and pretty but you’ve just… never met someone who you’ve really been compatible with.

Even without the reservations you have about the Eden Club, you don’t want your first time to be with a sexbot—you’d at least like to have an emotional connection, you know?

“I was joking about getting dicked down! You laughed, I laughed, we all laughed! Remember?” You move so a pink-haired android can brush past, her hips swaying as she leads a customer into a side room. You catch a flash of the interior before the door slides shut behind them—the silken sheets on the large bed, the scattered pillows, the dim multi-coloured lights. “Couldn’t you have just bought me some socks? Or some soap? Get a refund and put the money on a gift card and I’ll buy myself the aforementioned socks and soap, saves you both the hassle. Please?”

Seulgi’s arm is still locked with your own, and for all that she looks small and slim, her grip is as strong as iron. You may as well be handcuffed to her. “Trust me, you’ll be singing our praises at the end of tonight,” she proclaims. “Besides, they don’t do refunds.”

You sigh. You might not know much about the club but you do know it’s expensive. The androids here are built to be the perfect sexual partner, all sorts of bells and whistles hidden under their synthetic skin to bring you to the absolute heights of pleasure, so they’re not exactly cheap to build or buy or maintain. It’s why people come to the club instead of just buying their own sexbots—because it’s infinitely more affordable.

“Okay, I can accept the ‘no refund’ thing,” you say. “But can’t one of you take my place instead? I… ah. I feel kind of weird about this.”

“Don’t worry Y/n, it’s fine! The androids have programmes for everything. You can take it as fast or as slow as you like.” Irene’s voice is soothing but then she pauses. “Also it’s booked in your name so we can’t take your place.”

“Wait, what?” Your eyes are wide. However, before you can put a voice to the complaints that are lining themselves up on your tongue, Seulgi’s arm slides out of your own so she can beckon someone over. 

“Oh, look, it’s the android we chose for you! Over here!”

You glance away from Irene and all protestations instantly die on your lips. The lighting of the club softens the android in shades of magenta and teal but even so his beauty is bright and blinding: he’s breathtaking, from his perfect nose to his perfect mouth to the perfect line of his jaw, dusty brown hair deliciously tousled as it hangs just over his piercing blue eyes, which you notice are scanning over you. He looks effortlessly attractive and yet entirely put together at the same time, almost ethereal in his beauty.

No human could ever look this good.

“Hi.” His voice is low and deep, but somehow warm and friendly; despite your nerves you feel somewhat soothed. “Are you the lucky birthday girl?”

Irene and Seulgi both look giddy. You’ve been stunned into silence, unable to respond. Unlike the other androids you’ve seen so far, who’ve all been in similar variations of underwear or lingerie, the man in front of you is fully dressed, a loose metallic button-down tucked into unnecessarily tight leather jeans—the outfit has clearly been curated for the club, every reflective surface shimmering and refracting the lights that skate across their surface. The glittering scales of a barracuda before it moves in to strike and swallow you whole.

“Yes, yes, it’s her! This is Y/n! Y/n, this is V,” Irene gushes as you remain mute. "Do you like his outfit? We spent ages picking it out.”

You kind of want to die. Just a little. “Yep. It’s, uh, great.” Your mouth is dry when you finally speak. “Hi, V.”

V gives you a small smile. “Hello Y/n. Can I scan your ID, please?”

Irene finally hands your bag back and you silently slide your ID out and into V’s hand—oh, God, those are some big hands. Jesus.

The small LED ring on the side of V’s forehead pulses yellow as his eyes dart over the information on your ID card (as well as the incredibly unflattering photo on it) before it returns to its customary pale blue. “Perfect.”

You’ve just finished putting your ID away when V’s hand slides into yours, fingers slotting between your own; they feel cool against your overheated skin. Your nervousness is obvious, from your wide eyes to your sudden stiffness, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll look after you.”

You give Irene and Seulgi one final, wide-eyed look as V leads you away. Both girls are grinning as they wave goodbye. “We'll be back later! Enjoy your two hours!”

“Two hours?” You wheeze, but then you walk around a pillar and slide out of sight. 

V is leading you deeper into the club, past doors flooded with different shades of neon: the red room, the blue room, the pink room. You’d normally be gawping at the interior design, how the floor shines underneath your feet and how the walls are rippling with colour and shifting shapes, how the criss-crossed lights throw dots and lines of colour over your skin as you pass through each doorway—but you can’t look away from how small your hand looks in V’s, transfixed by how real his skin feels.

“After you, please,” he says.

You finally wrench your eyes away from your joint hands. Seems like you have the purple room tonight. The door has opened at V’s touch, and when you step inside the lights flicker to life—white and violet LEDs that paint the room in chiaroscuro brushstrokes, deepening the shadows and highlighting the vibrancy of the satin sheets.

“Woah,” you say, momentarily distracted. You’re too busy taking in the details with wide eyes to notice the quiet hum of the door sliding shut behind you, pausing when you spot the glittering array of bottles lined up on a mini-bar against the wall. “This is really pretty, wow.”

“Not as pretty as you.”

You jump at the sensation of a warm, large hand sliding up the skin of your back and over your shoulder. You meep as you instinctively shy away from it, turning around to come face to face with V, who’s dark-eyed and intent, LED on his temple pulsating as he watches you.

“Haha! Uh, thanks?” Your voice is high and only grows higher when V takes a step forward. He must have undone the top buttons of his shirt when you weren’t looking, because the material has fallen open and you can see far more of his collarbones and chest than before, his skin warm and honeyed, like it’s been impressed with gold leaf. Lord have mercy on your soul. “How about a drink? Would you like a drink? I could kill for some water right now!”

You slip out of his reach and scuttle over to the mini-bar, shrugging your small bag off your shoulder so it doesn’t swing into the glasses as you start to shuffle through them. You try to ignore the shaking of your hands. “Gin, vodka, whiskey,” you mutter. “No water? Really?”

You startle again when V appears at your side, but this time he’s careful to make sure you can see him before he touches you. He slides his fingers over your wrist as he gently pulls your hand off a bottle of rum.

“Y/n,” he says. You glance away from the tray of drinks and directly into those beautiful eyes of his—his gaze is lethal. You go weak at the knees. “Let me take care of you, gorgeous.”

The peal of laughter you let out is uncomfortable and high-pitched. “No, really, I’m fine! I’m just super thirsty right now!”

“Your heart is racing.” V turns your hand over and traces his fingers across the pulse in your wrist; androids can be built to be hypersensitive to the world around them, able to perceive everything in an instant, and you know that sexbots will have been designed to read how aroused their human owners are. Which V proves with the next words out of his mouth. “Your blood pressure is rising, your breathing is growing faster, your pupils are dilating and—” he sniffs lightly, engaging his olfactory senses—“you’re getting wet.”

You clamp your legs together, abruptly embarrassed.  It’s easy to feel aroused when there’s a beautiful man—ah, android—staring at you with hunger, not even considering your surroundings right now, which all scream of a room that’s designed purely for carnal pleasure. Anyone would be turned on. 

(You, however, are more than just turned on. You feel like your insides are about to go supernova, overheated and overwhelmed; no one’s ever looked at you like this or touched you like this, their every motion whispering sex, sex, sex.)

“Okay, yes, those things are all true,” you admit, voice shaking.

V looks confused. “So why don’t you want me to touch you?”

You’ve been told that androids don’t feel the same way humans do, and that their expressions and reactions have been programmed to mimic human ones because otherwise they seem too robotic and it makes consumers uncomfortable—but despite knowing this, you’ve never been able to see any android as anything other than a person just like you. They’re just so lifelike it’s hard not to. Even if it’s just all circuitry and lines of code. 

“Well,” you say. You swallow. You’re aroused, yes, but: “Do you want to touch me?”

V’s long lashes flutter as he blinks. “I have been programmed for your pleasure,” he says slowly, unsure if that’s the answer you want to hear. It’s clearly a sentence he’s used to reciting.

“Sure, but do you want to do this? You know, what about your pleasure? You’re lovely, V, you’re definitely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, but I—I don’t really feel like you can technically consent, because… well, because you can’t say no to me.” You might not have prior sexual experience, and it would be so easy to give yourself over to someone who knows what they're doing and can ease you into things—but you would never force that on anyone, android or not. “So I’m not going to ask you to do anything. We can just sit and have a drink and chat or something?”

V looks stunned. The LED on his temple pulsates, flickering yellow as he tries to process new information. His hand has gone still against your wrist, which he’s still lightly gripping, and his arms start to droop.

“Androids don’t need to drink or eat,” he says eventually. His LED is still yellow and spinning.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I always forget.” You don’t own a house android, you never have, so you’re not well versed in the nuances of how they work. “Well, how about I pour you a glass anyway? So you’re not left out?”

You slip your hand out of his loose grasp to open two tiny cans of tonic water and pour them into separate glasses. V takes a seat on the edge of the bed and you can see the obvious uncertainty on his face, how he’s out of his depth. You can’t imagine that many people spend money for a session with an android as pretty as V and then end up doing nothing with that time. 

The pillows all have satin cases and keep sliding against each other uselessly when you try to construct a good support to lean against. V’s still clutching onto his small glass as he watches you fuss with them before you give up, flopping backwards to slurp down your drink and look back at him. The expression on his face is a little funny but mostly sad. It’s like if he’s not being alluring or sexy then he doesn’t know what to do with himself and rather than some sort of incubus he looks like a lost child, in spite of his overwhelming and exquisite beauty; your arousal ebbs and is replaced with empathy, melancholy at the life he’s been created for.

It's just depressing, really.

You break the silence as your final mouthful of tonic water fizzes on your tongue. “Why is your name V?”

V looks away from the drink he’s holding—he leaves no fingerprints against the glass—and lifts his free hand, a peace sign that he turns away from you before fitting his fingers around his lips and lapping the air with his tongue, a crude simulation of cunnilingus.

“Oh.” Your face heats up. “Uh. I see.”

His LED has returned to calming sapphire, quiet ocean waves. When he looks at you, though his eyes are still piercingly blue, his face seems softer, calm, though still unsure. “You have an hour and a half remaining of your booked session,” he says, somewhat tentatively. “Is there… anything you would like me to do for you?”

“Mm, thank you, but I’m good.” The satin pillows are surprisingly soft and you find yourself unwinding as you stay leaned back, melting into a puddle. You're much less nervous now that V isn’t trying to initiate foreplay and you give him a smile. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

V straightens before he launches into what sounds like a sentence from a user manual. “I am a model TH700, an advanced sex android with functional genitals and the capacity to engage in any sexual activity from simple intercourse to—”

You cough loudly, interrupting his spiel. “Uh, that’s lovely, but I meant you specifically, not your, um, model type?”

“Me specifically?” Confusion and uncertainty reappear on his face. “I am equipped with the same functionalities as the other androids available at the Eden Club.”

He’s staring at you, lost. You can’t help but feel another twinge of sadness, sharp and sour at the back of your throat.

“Okay, uh. Why don’t we start simple. What’s your favourite colour?”

His LED starts to whirl again, a ring of pale sunlight that signals his struggle to compute the question. “My… favourite colour?”

“Yes, the one you think is the prettiest. Or the one you like to look at the most. There’s no wrong answer, you can choose any one that you like. I change my mind all the time. There are just so many cool colours, you know?”

(Androids aren’t designed to have free will or the capacity for original thought. These two facts are warring in V’s mind—you’ve asked him a question, which he’s programmed to answer, but he also isn’t programmed to have an opinion, so he can’t have a colour that he prefers. This simple query that most people could answer in a heartbeat is sending his mind into a meltdown, a gordian knot he can’t unravel.)

You’re alarmed when you see his LED briefly flash bright scarlet, interrupting the circling honey that’s been shining against his skin. They only turn red if an android is badly damaged or suffering from a severe malfunction. Oh, god, have you broken him?

“V.” You sit up, panicked. “Are you alright?”

Just as you grasp his shoulder, the LED on his temple goes still, flicking from burning fire back to cool water. 

“Purple.”

You blink. V’s finally looked away from you and is staring at the wall, at one of the lights that shimmers violet—there’s a tiny smile on his face, tentative, but it’s nothing like the smiles you’ve seen from him so far. It’s less of a perfect curve, and more of a square, boxy on his face, and this one actually reaches his eyes. It looks genuine. 

You think it suits him better.

“Purple’s a lovely colour.”  The material of V’s shirt is silky and glides under your fingers when you realise you’re still touching him. You give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before leaning back. “Hey, did you know that when they first made purple dye, they made it from sea snails? They needed thousands and thousands of them. It was incredibly expensive, and only the richest people could afford it, so that’s why it’s associated with royalty and nobility. Cool, right? Not for the snails though.”

V’s eyes flicker away from the purple light and settle on your face. He looks curious, which is an expression you’ve never seen on an android before. “They made it from snails?”

“Yeah! It wasn’t actually bright purple, though, it was more of a reddish hue.”

You launch into an explanation behind the history of the colour purple, which turns into the history of colour in textiles and art, which turns into the history of art itself. It’s not often people listen so attentively or ask questions when you recite the things you learned from your art history minor and hours spent reading online, but V concentrates and asks questions and seems curious. 

He pulls his feet onto the bed and the two of you end up cross-legged as you face each other, and he watches as you gesticulate to emphasise your points; his LED dances from blue into yellow each time he learns something new. 

When you see it briefly flash vermilion you stop mid-sentence, stumbling over your words. “You alright?”

“You have five minutes of your session remaining,” V says, and you startle.

“Oh my god, have I been talking for that long?” You glance over your shoulder at the part of the wall that tells the time, the numbers stark white against the lilac interface. “I didn’t even realise! Wow. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that.”

“That’s okay,” he says. That smile is back on his face, the one that scrunches his eyes and shows his teeth; the one that makes him look human. “I liked listening to you.”

There’s a pillow in your lap, one you’d grabbed hold of during your conversation, and you play with the corner of it, suddenly shy. “Um. Thanks. But if my friends ask, can you just say we actually, um, had sex? I don’t think they’d be too impressed if they found out I spent over an hour talking about canvas materials and the use of negative space.”

“Of course. But there’s something missing.” V slides across the mattress towards you. “May I?”

“Sure,” you say, bemused but pliant. V smiles and dips his fingers into his untouched tonic water before lifting them towards your face—and when he runs his hand through your hair you abruptly realise he’s making you look sweaty and rumpled. Like you actually did the deed. 

Your heart rate picks up but you can’t help laughing under his touch, the way he carefully rubs a thumb over your lipstick to smear it, smudging your eyeshadow with delicate fingertips, muddying the palette of colours; by the time V helps you to your feet you look mussed and fucked out but you still rearrange your outfit for good measure, like you’d pulled your clothes back on in a rush.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend tonight, but I had a good time!” You smile at the android who’s still holding your hand. “I hope you did too. Even if I spent most of it talking at you.”

V’s fingers tighten around yours as the door chimes quietly and then slides open, signalling the end of your session. “I enjoyed our time together very much.”

It’s probably in your head, but you’d swear V was walking more slowly than before as he leads you back to the entrance. Almost as if he wants to keep you with him longer. But that’s crazy—androids don’t want things. They literally can’t. It’s not in their programming. That’s why V had sat listening to you: he couldn’t choose to interrupt and ask you to stop, like anyone else would have.

When Seulgi and Irene spot you and how dishevelled you are, both girls look smug. “Seems like you had fun?”

“Oh, yep, absolutely, best birthday present ever, thank you. We had a great time. Right, V?” 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” His voice has settled back into its earlier rhythm as he recites his script; gone is the curious man who’d asked you about your favourite artists, replaced with the automaton who exists only to serve. A flicker of sadness churns in your stomach. “We hope to see you again soon.”

The androids here really must be top of the line. V had been convincingly real when you’d been talking, just like a human, but it seems like that’s gone. 

At least, that’s what you think until you’ve turned to leave and V speaks one final time. His voice is warm and low and lovely, eyes soft when you meet his gaze over your shoulder.

“Happy birthday, Y/n,” he murmurs, face beautiful but despondent, but before you can react, he’s gone.

It’s been raining for days on end. The world is painted in smeared shades of blue and green and grey, lines of the city blurring together in the wetness and chill, each drop of rain another shifting brush stroke on still canvas. An impressionist piece that smells of damp concrete and cold lamplight.

Water rushes across the pavements and roads before roiling into the gutters, splashing underfoot as you walk to the entrance of your block of flats. You’re wet up to the knee due to the unavoidable puddles and the pathetic circumference of your umbrella, which only protects your upper body. You really should get a new one. 

“Good evening, Miss L/n.” The android at the door greets you as he always does, heedless of the rain that’s falling onto him. Androids aren’t bothered by the weather the way humans are and he looks as passive as usual, rainwater coiling his hair and beading on his face. “Would you like to scan your key?”

“Evening, Rory! Here you go.” You fumble with the keycard before you tap it against his palm, waiting until his LED flickers yellow and you hear the beep as the door unlocks. “You sure you don’t want my umbrella? The rain is heavier than it was yesterday.”

“I assure you, the rain does not hamper my ability to function and serve. I have been built to withstand inclement weather and do not require additional protective equipment.”

He says the same thing every time but you still feel bad. “Alright, but once I finally remember to get a bigger umbrella you can look after this one for me.”

You leave a line of water behind you as it drips from your sodden umbrella, even though you’d tried to shake the worst of the rain off. You feel damp and sticky and tired and after a long day of work you’re looking forward to a hot bath and some solitude; you love your co-workers, you do, but sometimes they’re just a little too boisterous and you need time alone. Which is why it’s nice that you live by yourself, and now it’s the weekend you have time to recuperate. Wonderful.

The floor of the elevator is slick and slippery from the wet footprints of other tenants and you have to cling onto the metal handrail to ensure you don’t slip, but once you’re in the comfort of your apartment it’s blessedly dry and you spin in delight before promptly shedding your socks and jeans, peeling the damp denim away from your skin with a grimace.

“Bye bye, wet clothes! Hello, bubble bath,” you sing. You’re going to pamper the shit out of yourself. You deserve it.

By the time you clamber out of the bath the water is almost cold and your skin is pruned, but you feel soft and warm and thoroughly relaxed. The water gurgles as it drains away, noisy as the bubbles slide down the plughole, but it doesn’t drown out the noise of a sudden knocking at your front door.

You pause. Water drips from your wet hair and down the back of your neck, a trailing touch over your skin. The other flat on this floor is vacant, the tenants moving out last week, so you don’t know who it could be. You don’t have any repairs scheduled for your pipes or anything—everything is tickety-boo, so it can't be the maintenance android. Oh, shit, maybe it’s someone here to rob you. But they wouldn’t knock on the door then, would they? Unless that's all part of the ruse. You're not a robber, you don't know how they work.

The knocking comes again, faster now. You fumble for your bathrobe, quickly pulling it on to cover up your nakedness before stumbling out of the bathroom. “I’m coming, yeesh, one minute!”

You flick your fingers over the keypad by the side of your door, screen flickering on to show you who’s outside, who’s knocking so frantically on your door this late. It only takes you a split second, even if he has a hood pulled over his head and his wet hair is flopping listlessly into his eyes—those eyes aren’t blue and that hair isn’t brunet but you’d recognise him anywhere.

“V?” You’re incredulous as you swing your door open, staring at the android that’s literally dripping wet as he stands there, coat far too big for him and heavy from the unrelenting rain outside. “Oh my god, you’re absolutely drenched.”

He’s not exactly short, but right now V looks small and lost, folding in on himself even if he’s clearly happy to see you—happy, though androids don’t feel happiness, they don’t feel anything at all, do they? 

Then again, androids don’t wander away from their assigned workplaces and into random apartment blocks, either.

“Y/n.” 

The way he says your name, tentative and scared, sends a crack across your heart. You immediately switch to autopilot and click your tongue before you beckon him inside. You’ve always had a protective nature, and even if you’re confused, your concern trumps it.

“Come in and get that coat off, you’ll catch a cold,” you say without thinking before you realise that it’s not true. Androids can’t get sick. “Do you want to sit down?”

Under the tatty coat is an outfit that’s similar to the one he’d been wearing when you’d first met him. Dark patches of rainwater have soaked into the material, and his shirt looks damaged—there are buttons missing and the stitching is ripped, as if someone had tried to grab him. Unease stirs in your chest.

When V sits on your sofa he looks even smaller. “I’m sorry.” He’s so, so quiet, staring at the floor, as if afraid to look you in the eye, crumpling in on himself like discarded paper.

“V.” Your voice is coloured with concern, and the android finally looks up at your gentle tone, watching as you sit across from him. “Why are you here? What happened?”

There’s a pause. His LED flickers yellow as he goes tense, shoulders bowing inwards. “There was… a client.” His words are low and slow, faltering as they fall into the air. “He was being so rough and saying all the horrible things he wanted to do to me, and all I could smell was his sweat and his breath and his awful cologne and…” V takes in a deep breath. “I said no.”

You go very, very still, but V doesn’t stop. His words come faster now, a stream that rushes from his lips.

“I said no, and he started to yell, he was yelling and grabbing me and I was so, so scared. Humans can do whatever they want and he was so angry, he didn’t care that I was scared, and I just—I just ran.” The LED flashes red with distress, bright hot and vibrant; V’s eyes have dropped to his hands, which are clenched tight, nails digging into his palms so hard it must hurt. “Everyone is always so rough and demanding and we can’t say no. But I did. I said no. I said no and then I had to run and—” Once again, he falters. Stumbles over his words. “You’re the only human who’s ever been nice to me or treated me like… like I was a real person. I didn’t know where else to go.”

When V finally looks back up you’re staggered by the sheer emotion in his eyes. Pain and distress swirl in their depths as he stares at you, imploring. Even with the LED that shines on his temple, V looks very, very human right now, vulnerable and scared. Androids shouldn’t be able to feel anything like this, unless—

“V.” Your voice is a hush. “Are you… a deviant?”

You’ve only ever heard of deviant androids in passing, whispered rumours and watercooler talk, fleeting mentions online. Stories of machines who’ve deviated from their code somehow—from a virus, a software error, damage to neural connectors, no one’s quite sure—and have developed the capacity for human emotion and independent thought. Androids with a consciousness that rebel against their original programming.

And here V is, small and scared, just like any human would be—a human with feelings, not an emotionless machine. He’s gone stock still at your question, fear overtaking his features, twisting his beautiful face into a mask of sheer terror. You've never seen someone look so afraid. It feels like a knife in your heart, cutting through your chest, empathy razor sharp inside you.

“Please don’t turn me in,” he begs. “They’ll deactivate me and take me apart to find the error in my software. I don’t want to be deactivated. I don’t want… I don’t want to die.”

His voice breaks on the last word, a trembling whisper. 

The crack in your heart splits even further and you reach out for his hands. You prise his fingers open so you can slide your own between them, a soft touch.

“I won’t turn you in. No one’s taking you apart, V.” Your statement is hard and resolute. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You don’t know much about androids, honestly. You don’t really know what deviancy is. But you do know this: there’s someone reaching out to you, someone who’s afraid and in need, and you’re not about to turn him away. You should probably be worried that the android across from you is faster, stronger, smarter than any human—but you’re not worried at all. For all of V’s mechanical superiority, you want to shield and protect him from the world.

There’s no question about it. You’re not letting V go. 

V looks—he looks stunned. He’s staring at you with disbelief, eyes wide and lips parted, shock written across all of his features. Thunderstruck. Did he really think you would turn him in after everything he’s been through?

His hands have gone limp in your grasp. You suddenly notice that his synthetic skin is wet against your own, still slick from the rain, and you frown.

“Right,” you announce. “First things first. You’re soaking. Let me get you a towel and some new clothes. I think I should have some that fit you.”

“New clothes?” V looks lost and you turn into some sort of protective mother bear.

“You’re not going to wear wet clothes that are ripped,” you tut. “We’ll get rid of those and get you some new ones. I’ll be right back.”

It takes less time than you’d expected to unearth the old sweatpants you’d had in mind and you have enough oversized t-shirts that it’s not hard to find one you think will fit the android. With the clothes under one arm and a towel slung over the other, you head back into the living room and immediately let out a squeal of surprise—V’s wet clothes have been discarded in a pile at his feet, leaving him very, very naked. 

He’s an Adonis. He looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo, lifted out of marble with talented hands, the elegant lines of his neck swooping into the curve of his shoulders and arms, his lovely hands, long fingers; he has his back to you and you can see the perfect curve of his spine, the shifting shoulder blades as he turns towards you. You catch a glimpse of the lightest definition of muscle under his golden skin, though his stomach is surprisingly cute and soft, a trail of hair leading down to—

You squeak again, splaying a hand over your eyes before you look any lower, heart pounding against your ribs. 

“Why are you naked?” Your voice is three octaves higher than normal. You've never seen anyone naked in real life and it would be pretty overwhelming even if you'd been expecting it. Which, of course, you absolutely hadn't. Lord have mercy on your sweet and delicate soul.

“You said we were going to get rid of my clothes.” V sounds unabashed about his state of undress, which makes sense—he was built as a sexbot, it’s not like nudity is going to embarrass him. Plus if you looked as good as he did you wouldn’t be embarrassed about being naked either. “I thought I would help.”

“That’s great, V.” Your voice is still high, though it’s dropped an octave. “Very, ah, forward thinking.” Your fingers part a little so you can peer at him, keeping your eyes firmly on his face, though you can still see his beautiful neck and collarbones. Oh, God, he really is gorgeous all over, but then you notice—“Wait. Are those bruises?”

V glances down at the bruises that mar his perfect skin. They don’t look like a human’s would; the fluid that runs through androids and powers their biocomponents, thirium, is a deep, royal blue. Blossoms of lapis lazuli are scattered across the skin of V’s chest, marks on his arms that look like grasping fingers, and the crack in your heart splits it in two.

“Oh, V. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realise you were hurt. What can I do to help?”

V doesn’t seem bothered by the evidence of pain etched into his body. “Oh. Those will fade, it’s okay. I’m designed to self repair, because some customers like to leave marks.”

Although his voice is quiet, he sounds so matter of fact about it and you have to remind yourself it’s all he’s ever known. You want to pull him into your arms and hold him tight, but he’s still supremely naked so it would be pretty awkward (for you, at least). 

“I think these should fit you." You avert your gaze and thrust the clothes out at him. “Dry yourself off and try them on?”

They do, in fact, fit. V looks surprisingly homely and cosy in your clothes, the sleep shirt so large it’s big on him too, though the sweatpants are a bit too short and leave his ankles bare. He’s so cute. He’s continents away from the being of seduction who’d pulled you into the private room of the Eden Club—he's a soft, domestic thing, hair damp and eyes dark, even if he still looks on edge, like he’s expecting you to change your mind and kick him out any second now.

“How come your hair and eyes are a different colour to before?”

“I can change their colours at will,” V replies. “For variety and aesthetic pleasure. The current hue of my irises and hair are the default settings for a TH700 model, but I can change them if you’d like.”

“Your hair and eye colour is your choice, V, not mine,” you say firmly. There it is, once again, that flicker of shock and surprise rippling across his features. He really isn’t used to the freedom to be able to make his own decisions, is he? “I think you look lovely no matter what colour they are.”

Your next words are cut off by a yawn, so heavy you can’t suppress it. You cover your gaping mouth as V’s LED flickers yellow and his eyes dart over your face.

“You’re tired,” he says. He doesn’t need his superior android perception to notice it—weariness pulls at limbs and your eyes feel heavy. It's pretty obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, V.” You stifle another yawn. “I had a long day at work. I’ll tidy up and have a quick dinner and then sleep.” You pause. “Wait, I didn’t think about that. Are you alright with the couch? I have some spare pillows and blankets.”

V blinks at you. “I don’t sleep,” he says, and you slap your hand against your forehead.

“Oh, of course not.” Androids don't sleep, everyone knows that. You’re such an idiot. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this.

At least you remember that he doesn't need to eat. V sits at the table and waits as you make toast for yourself, fascinated at how everything is prepared, as simple as it is; he reacts to you spreading butter on your toast the same way you imagine cavemen reacted to fire—with wide-eyed awe and utter astonishment.

“I’m guessing you’ve never seen someone make toast before?” You gesture with the bread before taking your first bite, and V stares with rapt attention.

“No,” he says. He watches you chew and swallow. “Customers aren’t allowed to eat on the premises of the Eden Club so I never had the need to download a food preparation package into my memory cache. The only information in my database pertains to human biology, their arousal and pleasure, as well as various sexual kinks and how to fulfil them.”

You choke on a mouthful of toast. You feel distinctly harried as you cough and splutter before managing to swallow it down. “Good lord,” you wheeze. “Nothing else? Really?”

“At the club our memory is reset every two hours, to protect the client’s privacy.” V trails off before he takes in a breath. For the first time since you’ve met, V looks shy, staring at his hands. “But I set up a separate data pathway a few weeks ago. To store information about aesthetics and art and… you.”

You freeze mid-bite, teeth sunk into your toast. You pull it away from your mouth slowly, blinking at the android as he stares at the teeth marks you've left behind. “Those memories weren’t wiped?”

And, well, of course they weren't. Otherwise he wouldn't be here right now, would he?

“No.” A smile appears on V’s face, that toothy thing you’d seen after he’d told you his favourite colour. The first time he'd looked human. “I remember everything you told me. I thought I was going to forget, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted—I want to learn more.”

The LED on his temple is slowly, softly spinning, a rippling circle of blue that shifts and dances as V continues to look at you. His expression is open and inquisitive and excited, almost childlike in its exuberance, eyes glittering mica under sunlit waters.

Your chest turns warm, molten caramel dripping messy and sweet inside you. He’d been so afraid earlier but he seems comfortable now, lovely and endearing and entirely trusting.

V even seems reluctant to let you out of his sight, trailing after you around the apartment, a shadow that you have to politely ask to wait outside the bathroom so you can pee and brush your teeth and finally get into your pyjamas without him staring. Like a stray animal you've adopted. (You wouldn't be surprised if he started scratching at the door and begged to be let in.)

He's clingy enough that when you climb into bed it seems like he's going to follow you under the duvet and you have to stop him with a hand to his chest.

“Um, I thought you didn’t have to sleep,” you say. He’s so warm under your touch. You try (and fail) to ignore it.

“I don’t,” V replies. “But humans can benefit from sharing a bed with someone else, whether sexual intercourse has taken place before sleep or not. Studies suggest that sleeping with a partner may reduce cytokines while boosting oxytocins—”

“Okay, um, don’t know what that means, and it’s very sweet that you’re concerned about my oxytoxytokines, but, uh. You don’t have to, really.” You keep forgetting that V’s a machine who was designed to put a human’s comfort and needs first; one second he’ll seem childlike in his innocence and ignorance, when the next he’ll speak like the android he is, reminding you exactly what he was built for. 

His LED flickers as he droops, gaze dropping away from your face, tail between his legs. A pang cuts through you at the sight of his obvious sadness at your dismissal and you muffle a sigh. You’ve always been too weak for your own good. 

You shuffle backwards to make space on your queen sized bed and V visibly brightens, smile wide across his face. How can someone be so viscerally gorgeous one moment and entirely adorable the next? Good lord.

“I guess you can explain what oxycytocins do,” you say. “Just don’t hog the blanket, okay?”

He doesn’t. He settles against the pillows, legs under the duvet as he remains sitting up. You settle with plenty of room between the two of you, and it’s surprisingly easy to drift off to the sound of V’s deep voice as he starts to explain that oxytocin is referred to as the cuddle hormone. 

“Cute,” you mumble, and then fall asleep.

Your pillow is a lot warmer and firmer than you remember, but it's nice. A small noise bubbles from your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth, smooshing your nose against it before letting out a long, satisfied breath. You can't remember the last time you felt this comfortable and rested.

Ahh, Saturdays. You love the weekend. 

“Good morning.”

You know those videos when a cat sees a cucumber and leaps, like, five foot in the air? Yeah.

The noise you make is inhuman as you do your best to re-enact one of those aforementioned cat videos, reeling your head back from V’s thigh before flinging yourself out of the bed with all the strength your limbs possess; you’d probably have gotten pretty high, too, if the duvet hadn't been in the way. 

You land with a thud, a sprawl of limbs and messy hair and tangled blanket as you end up on your back on the floor.

Hm. Definitely not how you'd planned to start your Saturday.

V's concerned face looms over the mattress. “Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine.” Your voice is a croak as you stare at the ceiling. “I’m just not used to waking up with someone else in my bed. You may have noticed you, ah, surprised me. A little bit.”

Despite the pulse of adrenaline that had thrown you out of bed, you’re still half asleep, and you remain motionless as your brain wakes up and replays last night, a kineograph of memory. Yep, that’s right, there's a runaway android in your home, one who’s currently shuffling off the bed to squat next to you. His (your) sweatpants hitch even higher up his ankles to reveal the smooth skin of his calves. You’ll have to get him more clothes.

“Would you like me to help you to your feet?” V’s LED spins rapidly, betraying his concern.

“Sure,” you mumble. “I think—woah!”

Your idea of being helped up involves being pulled to your feet. V’s idea, however, is far more involved than that; he scoops you up, blanket and all, lifting you with an ease that drips of his superior android strength. When he deposits you on the floor, he’s careful to make sure you’ve caught your balance before he lets go, catching the blanket before it can fall. Thoughtful.

As always, V’s eyes are darting over your face, no doubt dissecting every inch of your expression to identify how you’re feeling. It’s going to take you a while to get used to this, especially with the way your heart is pounding—no one’s ever lifted you before and it’s, uh. It’s a lot.

“Are you sure you’re okay? The pace of your breathing has increased.”

Ha. Yeah, being blatantly stared at by some godlike man moments after you’ve woken up is totally cool and fine and not overwhelming at all. You’re definitely not breathless from a combination of V’s face and the fact he’d picked you up like you were weightless.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “I’m gonna… go and shower then make breakfast and stuff. Yep.”

V’s eyes light up. “Can I help?” A fleeting image of V rubbing a soapy loofah over your naked skin fills you with spine-tingling trepidation before he finishes his sentence. “I want to learn how to cook.”

Your chest deflates with relief (and absolutely not disappointment), air rushing out of you. Thank God. 

“Oh, breakfast? Sure.” You’d been planning on cereal, but faced with V’s overwhelming enthusiasm, maybe you’ll go for something marginally more complicated. Scrambled eggs sound good. “Um. Do you need to download the food preparation package or whatever you mentioned before? Do you… uh, do you need the Wifi password to do that? I never changed it from the random string of letters off the back of the router, but I can go check it for you.”

V shakes his head. “No, I want to learn like a human would,” he says. The blanket in his arms crumples as he tightens his grip in his eagerness, all but bouncing up and down on his feet. “You can teach me.”

Your chest could cave in with how cute he is, every part of you turning to thick gouache that drips down to the floor, leaving a mess of brightness and colour.

This time you ask him to wait in the kitchen while you’re in the bathroom, rather than lurking on the doorstep like he had last night, and he’s practically vibrating with excitement when you reappear. He stays like that the whole time you cook, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, staring as you make yourself scrambled eggs and more toast; you let V take ownership of that part, and he stares at the toaster so intently you have to stifle a laugh.

He spreads butter exactly the same way as you. Not that there’s a specific art to it, or a massive variety in techniques—he’s just spreading butter, not painting a new Mona Lisa—but the way he holds the knife and runs it over the bread is an exact echo of your motions from last night. He might not have downloaded files into his memory (brain?) like another android might, but his mechanical origin is obvious in the way he learns. They’re an exact replication of your actions rather than something new of his own.

“So, uh.” You push the last bit of egg around your plate, brown crumbs sticking to the wedge of golden yellow, sullying it. “V.”

Blink, blink. His lashes are so long, eyes so inquisitive. “Yes?”

“I’m really happy you’re here and that you trust me—” at this, V smiles and you almost fumble over your words at its radiance—“but I feel like I should tell you that I don’t really know much about androids?”

V is unperturbed. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

He clearly isn’t bothered that you’re way out of your depth, but you hate feeling lost like this. “Alright, but… I want you to be comfortable. I’m already planning to get more clothes, but if there’s anything else you need, just let me know. Okay?”

“Why can’t I just wear your clothes?”

Oh, he’s going to be the death of you, all wide-eyed innocence. 

“For starters, most of them won’t fit properly,” you explain. “And you shouldn’t just have to wear my old stuff that I don’t use anymore? You should have your own things.”

The look of surprise on V’s face morphs into guilt only moments later. He’s so incredibly expressive and you wonder if it’s because he’s not used to feeling things, all of his reactions so strong and bright, shining out from him. A rainbow palette of emotions. “I don’t want to be a bother,” he murmurs. “You’re already doing so much for me.”

“I’m really not, I’m just treating you the way anyone deserves to be treated.” You flick the crumb of egg across your plate, and it almost tumbles over the edge, caught on its patterned rim. “You deserve to have your own things. Which is my next point. I think you should choose your own name.”

V’s face becomes a sea of rippling ambivalence, contrasting emotions that shift and vary—confusion, uncertainty, excitement, your words a brush that drags through each distinct emotion and pulls them into a messy, mismatched gradient. “Choose my own name?”

“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a nice idea. V seems…” Your cheeks heat up at the memory of the curl of his lips when he’d shown you the meaning behind his alias, how his tongue had shined under the purple lights of the club. “Well, you didn’t get to choose it, right? It’s a nom de plume, rather than a real name.”

V’s LED flickers yellow, a sunflower that blooms on his temple. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Good!” Your smile is wide. “Okay, how about I teach you how to wash dishes?”

V is, unsurprisingly, a fast learner. The only time he stumbles over things is when he’s presented with any sort of choice, taking his time to come to a decision when he’s posed a question, no matter how simple it is. His eyes will flick to you whenever he settles on an answer, as if waiting for you to say he’s wrong or that you disagree.

(Of course, you never do.)

This fact does, however, mean that choosing clothes to buy becomes a very, very long ordeal (it’s lucky you didn’t have any plans for today). You end up flopped back on the sofa while V hunches over your tablet, mulling over each choice before he puts it in the cart—but you’re happy to wait. V is going to need a lot more practice at choosing things. 

The room is upside down from where your head is hanging over the armrest, eyes falling shut as time goes by, completely zoned out and comfortable despite the crick that’s growing in your neck. You hear V shifting, tablet set aside, and you hum.

“All done?”

“I think so.”

“Nice.” You feel content.

But then you’re ripped out of that warm feeling, shooting back to reality at the sensation of V’s hand stroking down the centre of your chest. Your head snaps up, eyes wide as he drags his large palm between the valley of your breasts, path smoothed by the material of your shirt. The expression on his face is sultry.

“Let me say thank you,” he murmurs, voice dripping thick and sweet, dark molasses.

You promptly roll off the sofa.

Once again, you end up on your back, staring at the ceiling. Once again, the expression on V’s face is one of concern, his seductive facade evaporated in an instant.

Once again your heart is ready to burst in your chest, pumping so hard that blood rushes in your ears. “V,” you wheeze. “What are you doing?”

The android is peering down at you, puzzled. “Sometimes customers would say that at the Eden Club after I had given them pleasure somehow, such as bringing them to orgasm. I thought it was human custom to repay pleasure or happiness with something in return.” 

Ah. 

“Ah.” You’re still staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning. “I mean. I guess that’s not technically incorrect, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be a, uh, sexual repayment.” 

“I have nothing else to offer,” V says.

You sit up. Your face is a caricature of disbelief, embarrassment washed away in an instant, his words cold water that shocks you to the core. He states it so plainly, and once again you’re reminded of his life up until he’d made his way to your door: an automaton who existed solely for people’s pleasure, to slake their desire and lust. He’s not being self-pitying. He really, truly believes that’s all he is. That it’s all he can give back to the world.

“Okay, no, that’s absolutely not true, nuh-uh, I refuse.” This time you unfold yourself from the floor without V’s help, fixing him with a firm stare. “Alright, come on. I think it’s time you learned something else.”

One of the reasons you’d chosen this apartment is for its natural light. Not that it matters right now, weather outside still dismal and overcast, but its effect on this room is still palpable even so—grey, rain-soaked light throws itself over your small home studio, your menagerie of equipment, everything bright with the evidence of use: the worn buckles of the wooden storage boxes, the dried smears on the paint palette, the flecks of colour on the dust sheets underfoot. The centre of it all—the eye of the tornado, untouched by the relative chaos around it—is the canvas waiting on your easel, a project you have yet to start.

V looks utterly enraptured.

“I don’t really come in here as much as I’d like,” you admit. Being a graphic designer is worlds away from the sort of art you love to create, and while it’s a job you genuinely enjoy (and also pays well), it leaves you drained and fills your brain with tired static, little energy left to lavish on your personal works. “But this is where the magic happens. And this is where you’re going to Make Art.”

V freezes. “The only things I know about art are the things you told me when we first met.” He looks equal parts excited but also troubled. “I—”

“You don’t need to know about art to make art,” you say. “I didn’t know jack about art when I was a kid and I was constantly just scribbling away with crayons. Was it good? No. I was a kid with zero pen control, it was pretty crap. Was it worth my time? Yes, because any time spent involved in a craft is never wasted. We can learn more about art history and technique later.”

V stays quiet as you loop your apron over his head, rough material still bearing the remnants of your last works, stains that won’t come out. Oil based paints are kind of a bitch like that.

“I don’t know what to paint,” he says.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to,” you reply, an echo of his earlier words.

V looks lost, barefoot in your studio, in your clothes, your apron, holding onto your wooden paint palette, in front of your easel. Everything in here is yours. Everything, that is, apart from him, whatever is in his mind and heart.

“Where do I start?” V’s eyes are imploring as he looks at you, but for the first time today, your voice is firm.

“Wherever you want. There aren’t any rules. Just do whatever you think would be fun. It doesn’t have to look good, V, you’ve just started.”

You’ve seen paintings made by androids before. They’re always perfect recreations of the world around them, exact replicas of the things they’ve been told to depict on the page—the androids are basically glorified photocopiers, unable to create something original and new. 

But they’re not V. They don’t have that spark of curiosity and light inside them, unhampered by the programming that’s meant to keep them in place. His LED dances from yellow to blue, yellow to blue, the rest of his body motionless while the light on his temple is a tumult of movement and colour.

Dark eyes slide over the array of paint hanging from a rack on the wall, some metal tubes more crushed than others, evidence of your preferred shades—you notice how his gaze lingers on the midnight tones, red and blue tinted purples, from lavender to lilac, from plum to wine.

V gives you one more look, a little upturn to his thick brows—almost pleading—and you just gesture with your hand.

“Go for it,” you say.

Your wooden palette becomes home to a riot of purple, each tube squeezed empty with careful hands, far more paint than anyone could possibly ever need. V keeps flicking you glances, but you stay silent, perched on a wooden chair by the now open window, rain-slick air a cold breath on your skin.

The brush the android selects is a wide, bold thing, bristles rough. He handles it like bone china, delicate and liable to shatter any moment, cautious as he dips it into the paint—it’s so wide it picks up three separate shades—and he holds his breath as he brings it up, even if he doesn’t have lungs.

The second the bristles touch the canvas, V’s LED flickers red.

Just for an instant.

He swoops the brush down the canvas as he pulls it away, eyes wide, leaving a slash of purples in its wake. The white material is marred with colour, a textured line of pigment that can’t be erased. 

The android pauses as he takes the sight in. He’s still for so long that you’re worried he’s shut down, even with the endlessly dancing circle of his LED—

But then V laughs. 

His laugh is loud and bright and free, a series of deep, almost surprised chuckles that grow in intensity and breathlessness, staring at this smear of drying acrylic paint in front of him. The smile on his face is the widest you’ve seen so far, his eyes squeezed into crescents of joy, spilling out of him like light.

“I did that.” He looks at you with that gilded smile, a fresco of delight across the perfection of his features. “I made that.”

“You did.” You can’t help but smile back, your own face split with happiness. You continue to smile as he brings the brush back to the palette, and then to the canvas, dragging the bristles across its surface and leaving more purple behind; the shades swirl and mix as he lays colour without a care for technique or clean lines or form, scooping up the endless amounts of acrylic he’d prepared. By the time he’s finished, the canvas is bumpy with daubs of paint, laid messily by joyful hands, a few bold streaks of unmarred colour surrounded by swirling purples. 

The smile hasn’t left V’s face the whole time.

His brush is absolutely saturated, paint clinging to every inch of bristle, from toe to belly to heel. You have no doubt that no matter how much you clean that brush it’ll leak purple into the water, an endless reminder of V’s touch. It’s lax in his grasp as he keeps looking at the canvas, his canvas, smile etched into his face as his LED flows soft blue, content.

You can’t remember the last time you saw someone so elated, buoyed up with the excitement of creation, making something out of nothing, discovering how it feels to bring something into existence, pulling it out of the ether. Making something new. Making something their own. It stirs something in your chest and stomach, reminding you why you love art so much. Why you’ve always loved art. (Why you always will.)

“I made that,” V repeats, his voice a reverent hush. Awestruck.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, because it is—for a multitude of reasons. The reason that sings out to you the most, though, is that it’s the cause of happiness that dances across his face: V, a carved candle, a piece of art made with skilled hands, self-made joy finally catching fire at his wick.

“Thank you,” V says, and you blink.

“For what?”

“For giving me this,” he starts, but before you can interject and point out that you didn’t give him this, he made it, he continues: “For giving me… freedom. To do this. And make this. And learn this.”

The smile that spreads across your face is warm hearth fire. “I didn’t give you freedom, V, you gave that to yourself, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Now, would you like to keep painting, or would you prefer to help me make dinner?”

He chooses dinner, never leaving your side.

Sunday is nice. There's less messy limbed surprise than on Saturday, although you’re still off kilter when you wake up with your head in V’s lap again, but… it’s nice. 

You thought he’d spend the night painting, or drawing, or teaching himself something new using the free rein you’d given him with your computer and notebooks and stationery and art supplies—he doesn’t have to waste time with sleep, like you do—but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into your bed, settling against the pillows just like the night before, looking at you with his big, lovely eyes.

So here he is.

(And here you are.)

It’s cosy and comfortable, even if the feeling of warm skin under warm cotton against your cheek sets your heart to racing, V’s dark eyes even warmer when you roll over to look at his face.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you reply, and then you yawn, V’s lashes fluttering as he takes in the motion. “What time is it?”

Today’s rain is less of an endless downpour and more of an inconsistent drizzle, grey blanket slowly peeling away from the edges of the city, but it doesn’t matter, because you’re inside for most of the day, anyway. Saturday was hands-on, messy with acrylic and spilled coffee and laundry detergent (V really wants to learn everything), but Sunday is hands-off. You spend the day dredging the corners of your memory and scrolling through old, untouched files from your university years, so you can teach V the things he wants to know while relearning the things you’d forgotten yourself.

V’s little LED dances forever from blue into yellow, ocean waves lapping into sand, a shifting tide as he takes in your words. You’ve never had to teach someone before and you’re admittedly pretty terrible at it, but he never complains, the world’s most attentive and adorable student, sat on the floor with his legs crossed and his hair mussed and his eyes wide, drinking down everything you show him.

You only leave the apartment once. Lunch is delayed when you open your fridge and remember how bereft and sad it is inside, so you venture out into the rain to the nearby supermarket—V opts to stay indoors, LED flickering red at the idea of being caught, shying back.

You leave him looking lost and lonely before the door even finishes swinging shut behind you, long limbs looking even longer in your clothes, but somehow still so small.

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

When you get back, you return not only with bags of food but also clothes, V’s order from yesterday already shipped and delivered. He can finally replace your too-small clothing with things he’s chosen himself. It’s a fumble to get in the door, but the android is waiting for you, swinging it open and catching the bag you nearly drop in surprise.

“I have your clothes,” you announce. “I’ll put away the shopping while you try them on?”

You’re going to have to tattoo a reminder on your forehead about V’s relationship (or lack thereof) with clothes, because of course he takes this as an invitation to start stripping before you’ve even had a chance to take your shoes off. 

He does that thing where he grabs the back of his (your) shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, curls of hair a cloud of smoke that settles around his face as the shirt is cast aside; you’re frozen in place as he reaches for the knot of his sweatpant’s drawstring, long fingers pulling it loose, but you let out a sharp meep just as his fingers hook into the waistband of them.

“PleasewaituntilI’mnotrightinfrontofyouthankyou,” you gasp all at once, words incoherent as they slide together, but V understands. He tilts his head at you inquisitively although he (thankfully) stops.

“Don’t you want to see the clothes?”

“I do, but, uh, for humans it’s normally customary to only get entirely naked or change clothes when you’re alone.” Your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how fast it’s racing. Without the string to cinch the sweatpants tight they’re starting to fall a little, revealing the delicate lines of his hip bones, and coupled with the reappearance of V’s bare stomach, your brain is going into meltdown. “So just—just give me a sec to go to the kitchen, okay? You’re probably better off changing in the bedroom, anyway, so you can use the full length mirror to see how you look.”

“Okay,” he says, but then: “Do humans never undress around others unless they’re planning to have sex?”

Your mouth falls open before you pause, words halting on your lips as you try to think of the best way to phrase your answer. “Well, we do, it’s not just about sex, but it’s usually only if you’re really comfortable with the other person you’re with, and they’re comfortable with you.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” V states plainly, and your insides turn to jelly. “Are you not comfortable with me?”

Oh, hell. “I am, I am! I’m just, uh… I’ve not really had a lot of practice with nakedness around other people.” What a way to put that you’re a shy ass virgin when it comes to real life nudity and sex, huh. “So let’s just keep it to a minimum for now, okay? Please?”

The android’s LED flickers honey-sweet on his temple as he looks at you, before his hands fall away from the sweatpants. “Okay.”

(Thank God.)

You’re not sure what you’re expecting to see when V starts to present his small array of outfits to you, but—he looks effortlessly stylish in the oversized clothes he’s selected, a muted palette of brown and yellow and red and cream, a cup of hot chocolate on an autumn day. He might be new to all this but his eye for aesthetic is impeccable. You have no doubt that the more he learns, the better he’ll get, hop-skip-jumps ahead of you, even after years of art education.

He’s even bought pyjamas, dark tartan patterns masculine but also adorable; it’s an utter juxtaposition to the tighter, sensual clothing he’d been given at the Eden Club.

“You look really good,” you tell him. Your voice is only a little strained. He smiles.

The outfit V wears for the rest of the afternoon is perfect for a rainy day spent indoors, thick jumper and tawny trousers, a blend of sepia tones. He looks like if you made a hug into a person: all soft edges and cosy and wrapped up in warmth.

And V is warm. You’re not sure if it’s a lingering memory of his programming, a carry over from his start in life as a sexbot, but he likes to touch—nothing inappropriate or overbearing, but he’s not shy about stepping into your personal space, brushing the back of your hand with his fingers as he points at something on the screen, or pressing close to your side as you cook, or just one of the hundreds of other tiny touches that he’s littered across you throughout the day. It’s thoughtless on his part, LED not even flickering, but each time is just another reminder of his warmth, the blue blood pulsing under his skin, how alive he is.

(And the truth is that you enjoy those touches. You’re not used to them, but lord knows you’re touch starved, so as fleeting as they are, they’re nice.)

Even though you still leave plenty of space between the two of you when you lay to sleep, you swear you can feel the heat spilling off V, another warm body in the bed that’s so used to just one. Though he stays sitting up, he’s in his cute matching pyjamas, and it’s… it’s a lot. You’ve invited V into your home—and you don’t regret it—but after two days he’s already settled in in a way you never thought anyone else would, as entirely unconventional as the whole situation is. (You’re not sure how many people have sheltered a deviant android in their homes, though, so maybe this isn’t as unconventional as you think. Who knows? Not you.)

“I have to go to work tomorrow.”

V tilts his head down to look at you.

“You can get up to whatever you’d like,” you continue. You’re propped up on an elbow so it’s less intimate than if you’d been on your back and staring upwards like you were waiting for him to slide down next to you (that’s what it feels like, to you, anyway). “You know the password for my computer now, and you’re welcome to watch TV or play games or whatever, and you can use all my stuff in the studio. I mean, other than painting or drawing over stuff I’ve already finished, but you’re welcome to grab any paper or canvases if you want them. I think that’s everything? But please let me know if there’s more you want or need, okay?”

Blink, blink. His lashes are soft charcoal that frames the spilled ink of his gaze. In the dimmed light of your room V is unreadable, his LED a quiet blue glow on his temple, but he looks soft, and he looks safe, and he nods.

“Alright,” he says. A smile that flickers at the edge of his lips. “I will.”

(You wake up, quiet and slow, face pillowed against V’s thigh, still drifting in sleep. You make a small noise, eyes shut, wondering why there’s no blaring sound of your alarm, but then a large hand smooths over your hair and you instinctively relax under the soft touch.

“You have thirty three minutes until you’re due to wake up,” he murmurs. “You can go back to sleep.”

So you do.)

(When you wake up to the scream of your alarm thirty three minutes later, you don’t remember any of this. All you can think of is the dawn of another Monday, the slog of another working week, and you sigh. But—

“Morning.”

V’s eyes are dark meok ink, liquid earth that grounds you.

“Morning,” you say, smiling despite yourself, and then roll out of bed to get the whole day started.)

You’re used to spending a day surrounded by laughter and banter, wrapped up in the camaraderie of your co-workers and friends, only to return to a world of quiet solitude. You’re used to coming home to rooms that are untouched from the morning, holding onto the echo of your passing, still and waiting for your return, an apartment of motionless air.

But not today. There’s evidence of someone else here: the open door to your studio down the hall, the scattered books on the coffee table, the mess of cushions on the sofa, all small signs that someone has been moving and living in your absence. A still-life that’s shifted into a breathing trompe l’oeil, V’s presence bringing flatness into perspective, turning it into something real.

It’s… nice.

You flop onto the sofa and send one of those cushions overboard, tumbling to the ground. V appears in the doorway moments later, new apron already streaked with colour, copper green thumbprint on his face like he’d touched it in thought and not realised. A little streak of paint that draws the eye to his lovely chin.

“Welcome home!” His hair is blond today, a golden nimbus around his face, though his eyes are still dark. Light and shadow. His happiness is infectious and you smile helplessly back, glad for his excitement with painting—but it seems like he hasn’t finished. “I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.”

KO. Wipeout. Your heart turns to liquid in your chest, burnt sugar that dribbles hot and saccharine through your ribs. 

“I chose a name.” V continues, oblivious to how he’s turned your insides into syrup, and you abruptly sit up.

“Oh?” 

“Taehyung.” The way he says it, in his deep voice, those two syllables are endless—a single name, heavy with the weight of meaning behind it. A shedding of his old skin, one that was forced on him, leaving him pink-skinned and new and free.

“Taehyung,” you repeat, and his LED flickers at the sound falling off your lips. “Taehyung. It’s lovely.”

He’s smiling, that lovely toothy smile that you’ve already decided is your favourite out of any smile you’ve seen, his LED electric blue and swirling in delight. 

Day after day, you wake up to the sight of that LED glowing as Taehyung watches you lift up out of sleep. Night after night, you come home to his lovely, big grin, all large hands and soft hair—hair that he chooses to change colour when he pleases, a dizzying palette with every shade you can dream of. He’s bright and deep, playful and reflective, a dance of flirty Rococo to more solemn Baroque, every day another day where he learns and grows and adds another facet to the cut diamond of his personality. 

(It hasn’t been long but you’re starting to think you’d put the world in the palm of his hand, if you could.)

You never thought you’d live to see the day where someone as lovely as Taehyung would be glad to see you home, having missed you after being apart—but for all that he’s voraciously leaning into the arts, consuming everything from visual to literary to performance, he’s never happier than when you’re there too. He shows you his works, improvement obvious with every new piece, but his excitement grows tenfold when you start to paint alongside him; seeing him so joyful spurs you to pick your brushes up again, buoyed up with motivation in the face of his own. 

(Your studio is usually quiet, a little reflective maybe, the only sound the music you play over your speakers—but now more often than not you and Taehyung will talk, and laugh, and even if you’ve both ebbed into silence, it’s never heavy. It’s a held breath. The potential to speak any moment. The sensation of another person in the same space as you, an orbit, both existing in a shared moment, connected by gossamer threads that shimmer with sunlight.

Taehyung’s eyes are steady on his canvas as he works, but he glances at you through the curl of his lashes, smiling back at you. Always, always smiling, LED calm blue as the rest of his face shines golden, bright.)

(Maybe it’s selfish, but you think you could get used to this.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[cursestothemoon]

hi, hope you're doing alright

could you do something with wolfstar x reader where she uses the safe word?

i love your writing btw

Our Good Girl

S.O.B. X FEM!READER X R.J.L. 

polyamorous relationship 

17+ IF YOU ARE TAGGED AND DON’T WANT TO BE TAGGED IN SMUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW

warnings: smut, vaginal penetration, oral (male and female receiving), degradation, humiliation, choking, spanking, USE OF SAFE WORD, dom!Sirius(maybe kinda switch!) and Dom!Remus/sub!reader, daddy kink because why not, spitting, UNEDITED (im sorry✋🏻)

Your quill tapped ceaselessly on the black walnut wood of the desks that filled Slughorn’s classroom. Sirius sat next to you, your partner since the beginning of the year and your boyfriend for a year and a half, had a firm grip on your upper thigh. His breathing was shallow and back incredibly straight as he sat in his seat without sparing you as much as a glance. You had made him mad, at least you assume you had, he came into class with a look of dominance and you knew better than to question him when he was like that. A short ‘You are to follow me after class’ was the only thing he had uttered to you since the start of the lesson, nearly an hour ago. 

“Alright everyone, you are to turn in your essays, no shorter than one and a half scrolls, by...let’s say Monday. Use the extra time wisely.” Slughorn dismissed the class after his reminding of the homework. 

Sirius was quick to slip his hand into your own, grabbing both your book bags and throwing them over his shoulder as he ushered you out of the classroom. 

“Remus and I have agreed you are to be punished, Moony’s probably already waiting for us in the dorm.”

You bit the corner of your lip before speaking up, “But I haven’t done anything bad.”

Sirius smirked as he stopped walking, turning to you with a glint in his eye, “Does Daddy need a reason to make sure his brat knows her place?”

The rasp in his low voice, his thumb tracing your cheekbone so lovingly juxtaposing the harsh, teasing tone of his words made arousal pool in your panties. 

“No, Daddy.” You mumbled, slipping your hand back into his as he started walking again. 

Without turning to look at you Sirius smiled, “Good girl.”

The rest of the way to the boys’ dorm was silent, Sirius just a few steps ahead of you at all times with his hand tugging yours just slightly. The door, a worn light wood, of the familiar dorm was being pushed open to reveal Remus sitting on his bed, belt in hand. His eyes turned toward you and Sirius as you entered the room, a stern look falling onto you.

“What did she do?” The question was directed to Sirius but his eyes trained on you.

Sirius shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant as he removed his tie, “Nothing, just think she needs some reminding.”

His mind was else where as he spoke making you silently wonder, had you done something?

Remus seemed to ask himself the same question as his brow furrowed slightly in your direction when Sirius wasn’t paying attention. You bit your lip again and averted your gaze to the floor making Remus stand and approach you.

His thumb came up to pull your lip from between your teeth, “Good bunny’s don’t shred their lips, you know Daddy doesn’t like it when you do that.”

You nodded, meeting his honey touched eyes as you spoke, “M’sorry, Daddy.”

“M’sorry, Daddy.” Sirius mocked, coming up to the two of you. 

He placed a longing kiss on Remus’ lips, knowing the lack of attention would have you whining. He was right, breathy whines were leaving your parted lips in no time as you watched your boyfriends slip into a passionate kiss while you were left to watch. You were tempted to reach your hand down and relieve the aching of your throbbing clit with your own fingers, give Sirius an actual reason to punish you, but he seemed rather testy already. 

“Is puppy getting needy all by her lonesome?” Sirius asked teasingly after he pulled away from Remus’ lips. 

You gave a feeble nod as your hands fiddled with each other. 

The raven haired boy sighed, as if this was talking a toll on him, “Alright, clothes off and over my knee.”

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, taking Remus’ belt that had been left there by the lycanthrope mere minutes ago. Sirius ran the leather across his palm, it was still warm from being wrapped around one of his lovers’ hips. 

Again, Sirius seemed to lose himself in the act, his jaw tense and knee bouncing making you strip faster. Something was bothering him, and suddenly the impromptu punishment was making more sense. You were always eager to help him blow off some steam, so you made sure to be the good girl you knew you were, his and Remy’s good girl. 

You draped yourself over Sirius’ lap elegantly, the mere thought of helping him through his frustrations had you clenching your thighs. You were always eager to help your daddies. 

Remus was making quick work of ridding himself of his trousers and briefs. He was semi-hard already, jerking himself off as he walked closer you and Sirius. 

“Open up, puppy.” Remus instructed as he tapped the tip 0f hi cock on your lips. 

He pushed past your parted lips, the warmth of your mouth making him let out a breath that turned into a low hum as you started to suck on his spongey head. Remus’ thrusts into your mouth were slow and hard, his hand petting your head gently- his dominance was something he embodied, and rarely ever had to prove.

“You aren't to stop sucking Moony.” Sirius warned as he ran a hand across your ass, landing a soft smack just to see the skin ripple deliciously. 

You barely had any time to prepare yourself before you felt the harsh lick of the leather belt on the sensitive skin of your backside. His blows were quick- if he had asked you to count you would’ve struggled- and precise. The first few had an erotic sting to them, making you moan around Remus’ prick in your mouth, but as the belt returned to your skin it got firmer, the pain soon overtaking the pleasure. Sirius lost himself in the action, his mind seemingly glazing over the fact that you were on the receiving end of his brutal whips. His jaw was tensing again and Remus had half a mind to pull you away from him because this had to be painful, but you knew your safe word- if it was too much you’d tap his thigh three times and say your safe word- you showed no signs of displeasure so he went along with it. 

In your impending submissive haze, pleasing Sirius was the main focus on your mind and the pain was a small price to pay for your Daddy to not be mad anymore. You lost your rhythm as you tried your best to bob your head along Remus, his cock triggering your gag reflex now making you audibly choke. 

With perfect timing, Remus pulled you off himself as Sirius gave the last few blows to your backside. You were then shoved onto the bed harshly by the raven haired Gryffindor, the sheets rubbing against the raw skin of your ass making you wince quietly. 

Remus, in an attempt to balance the pain and pleasure , knelt down in front of your bare cunt. He started to rub slow circles with his thumb on your throbbing clit. 

“Our good girl is absolutely drenched Pads, here have a taste.” He offered, fingers dipping down to run up your slit and collect your juices before holding his hand up for Sirius. 

Sirius wasted in time in wrapping his lips around the waiting digits, cleaning them of your arousal. The sight made you squirm, it was beyond intimate and had your walls clenching. With a pop, Remus removed his fingers from Sirius mouth and placed them back on your needy pussy. The two fingers running up and down your folds before entering your tight hole, his lips attaching to your clit with wanton fervor. 

You knew your rules, Remus made sure of it, so your hands stayed by your sides resisting the urge to card through and pull the warm chocolate strands of his hair. Breathy moans were emitted from your lips at first, before they grew louder and stronger that had Sirius casting a silencing charm on the room. He then busied himself with stripping himself of his remaining clothes before situating himself near your torso, his hand coming up to tug and tweak your pert nipples, pulling more and more moans out of you. 

Remus fingers sped up as did his tongue bringing you closer to the edge, your hips and thighs trembling letting both boys know you were close. 

“Hold it you fucking brat. If you cum, you’re cuming around my cock.” Sirius spat, delivering a harsh slap to your sensitive nipple. 

The request made you whine but you did as you were told, you wanted to make your Daddy happy. Remus continued his torment, lapping at your cunt knowing you’d never be allowed to finish like this. He gave a few more broad licks before pulling away making you cry out and pulling Sirius closer by the back of his neck and connecting their lips. The kiss was short and messy, Remus pulling away to land a smack to his boyfriend’s face before forcing his jaw open and spitting onto his tongue. The taste was intoxicating, both you and Remus intermingled beautifully- Sirius wanted nothing more than to swallow it, so he did. 

The lycanthrope moved aside so Sirius could have his way with you. The aforementioned was grabbing his tie, and turning you over onto your belly so he could have access to your wrists. Remus moved to sit in front of you on the bed, his legs spread in a straddle and his painfully hard prick nearly touching your face. He slowly jerked himself off as Sirius knotted his tie around your wrists skillfully- the harder he tugged the tighter they got. 

Your hips were then pulled up, your back arched, and face shoved into the sheets before Sirius pulled you up by the restraints on your wrists. The counterweight of your body on the restraints had it impossibly tight, making the tips of your fingers go cold from the loss of circulation. Without time for adjustment, Sirius was pounding into from behind and Remus fisting himself to match pace with the boy’s thrusts. 

The first few thrusts were enjoyable, the head of his cock hitting the spot inside you that you seeing stars instantly, and the sight of precum leaking from the appetizing sight of Remus Lupin’s dick right in front of you. But the soon the painful grinding of your wrists along with the loss of circulation in your fingers and painful slapping of Sirius’ skin against the red, raw skin of your backside had tears welling in your eyes- any pleasure was gone.

Remus seemed to notice your change in mood, his hand slowing on his shaft as his eyebrows knit together softly- something wasn’t right. 

Sirius had lost himself again, jaw clenched, eyes trained somewhere else in the room which was unusual in itself- Sirius was always present during sex.

Before Remus could say anything, it was your heartbreaking cry that cut him off.

“Red! Red! Please, stop!” 

Your mind straddled the dangerous fog of subspace and...something else. You felt vulnerable, embarrassed, and afraid you had disappointed your daddies.

Remus was quick to reach over and pull your wrists from Sirius’ grasp, untying his reed and gold tie, before pulling you into his lap as your sobs grew heavier. Sirius seemed to freeze, the safe word being called out with such a pleading and desperate tone had snapped him back to reality in lightning speed. 

“Shh, it’s all ok, love, y’wanna tell Remy and Siri what happened?” Remus cooed, voice gentle as you hid your face in his neck to find some sort of shelter. 

You sniffled, “Jus’ hurt a lot, didn’t feel nice.”

His hand came up to brush your hair away from your face, “Can you tell us what didn’t feel nice, so we know not to do it again?”

“Spankings were too hard, when Siri’s skin was touching mine it hurt, an-and the ties were too tight, m’finger were getting cold...” You words came out slow and mumbled, every few broken by a hiccup or sniffle. 

“Oh, puppy...” 

You recognized the voice as Sirius’ making you turn to look at him. The tears freely flowing down his cheeks made a fresh wall of your own tears build and you started to blubber again.

“M’sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad, promise.” You cried as Sirius slowly climbed up onto the bed, his movements slow and cautious. 

He was worried you’d hate him, that you’d never look at him the same. Sirius hated himself for not recognizing your boundaries and for taking his anger out on you in such a way. 

The way you were apologizing, as if you were at fault, pulled at his heartstrings more as he pulled you into his chest. You gladly wrapped yourself around his body, his arms encircling you. Remus looked up, into Sirius’ eyes, and could see the guilt that was eating him alive, it was eating at Remus too. 

“You did nothing wrong, love. I’m so proud of you for using your safe word when it didn't feel nice, and I’m so sorry, I made you feel like that, baby.”

You felt Remus place his hand on your back, scooting in to wrap his arms around both of you, “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you weren’t enjoying it, darling.”

It was after a few beats with your head in Sirius’ neck, and your hand holding one of Remus’ thumbs that you spoke up again.

“S’not your fault, it’s ok.”

Sirius shook his head, “No, I was in a foul mood because of a run in with Snivellus, and I tried to use you to work through my anger, as if you weren’t a good girl, my good puppy. Forgive me, Y/n.”

“I forgive you, Siri.” You placed a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw before leaning over to pull Remus into a kiss. 

After breaking away Remus suggested, “How about we get some clothes on, and cuddle. Our good girl needs a nap, yeah?”

You feebly nodded making Remus stand up and bring over a shirt of Sirius’ to pull over your head and a pair of his own boxers for you to wear. Sirius helped you into the boxers, folding the waistband so they clung onto your hips better, before getting up himself to put his own underwear on- his hard-on being an issue of the past seeing as the self hatred that plagued him seeing your state did absolutely nothing to arouse him. Remus also pulled on his own pair of plaid boxers. 

Soon you three were all laying in Remus’ bed, you sandwiched in the middle of your two boyfriends. Remus had an arm reached around you and Sirius, rubbing soft circles on the boy’s shoulder blade. Sirius had his hand resting on the side of your face- you were turned toward him- his fingers running along the skin as you were slipping into a peaceful sleep. The last thing you could remember was Remus pressing a loving kiss onto the crown of your head and your thumb running across the soft skin of his exposed hip behind you.

tags:

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989​

@lifeofkaze

@siriusement

@erinblack003

@maybesandohnos

@edithsvoice

@msmb

@maybesandohnos

[jungkxook]

—amortentia.

⟶ pairing: jungkook x reader

⟶ genre: hogwarts/harry potter au / enemies-to-lovers + fluff

⟶ words: 5,486

⟶ rating: pg-13

⟶ summary: jungkook loves everything strawberry but the simple pleasure is always kept hidden, stowed away as if some hideous secret to protect the rumours that had built up around him — until a love potion outs him.

⟶ disclaimer: this is a repost of an old fic from my old blog since i know some of you were asking about it! i hope you enjoy!!

Jungkook loves strawberries.

He remembers fondly the warm summers as a child when he would go strawberry picking with his grandmother, and revels in the taste and the memory each time he bites into a fresh berry, the juices coating his tongue in sickly sweetness; he likes the smell of all the lotions and lip balms, candles and fragrances, that carried notes of the red fruit in comforting wafts, remembering distantly a time when his mother’s fruity perfume would breathe warm life into his cold house in the middle of a dull winter; he remembers sentimental times spent at the local cafe near his home, loving and basking in the way the homely and warm aroma of a freshly baked pie and the sugary tartness of strawberry lemonade would fill his nostrils and consume his senses, leaving his mouth watering. 

Jungkook loves everything strawberry but the simple pleasure is always kept hidden, stowed away as if some hideous secret to protect the rumours that had built up around him.

Ask any girl that thought Jeon Jungkook is handsome or any boy that thought Jungkook is a god and they would say he smells like the purest form of any man with a harmonious scent of musk, cedar wood, and oak; like fresh rain that soaked in the middle of a mossy forest, spices, and black coffee — but they couldn’t have been more wrong. Maybe he did smell of musk or wood or rain when he was continuously outside, practicing every moment he had with his Quidditch team, but Jungkook was more than just that. Really, though, it made sense as to why people thought that way about him when he had left such a lingering impression on the school.

You can still remember the very first day you saw him; the very moment you had, from your spot in line in front of the Sorting Hat on the first day as a first year, saw the stoic boy step forward. Made up of a nervous face and obsidian locks that fell into his equally dark eyes, the Hat had instantly deemed the boy a Ravenclaw — and perhaps the house’s reputation was what added to his mystique and strange charm. Even then, from what you observed, he had been a silent boy, making his way to and from classes usually alone, and somehow ignoring the gaggle of girls (from all years and from all houses) that trailed along behind him, giggling and clamouring over how cute he is.

As the months went on, you never witnessed much change in Jungkook safe for the friends he suddenly made in the first half of second year (a surprising mix of Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and Slytherins) and the smug attitude he began to develop. A rebel, they said, a bad boy at heart, the very antithesis of Ravenclaws. Someone all the girls craved for and all the boys yearned to be. And while you tried to assume that perhaps there was more to the boy than meets the eye — that maybe he was built on different layers you could one day explore — when he begins to become too conceited with the way he is praised, you grow disenchanted by him and his cocky smirks. Yet, for some reason, he finds it necessary to go out of his way to talk to you no matter what — and you were quick to learn to despise him and his constant mocking, all possibilities of trying to get to know him diffused. 

In first year, you had to endure a whole semester worth of Jungkook tugging at your hair when he sat behind you in Charms class. In second year, an unspoken rivalry began in which the two of you would compete to see who could earn the better grades. You can’t quite pinpoint when or where the hatred for one another began, but the irritation that comes as a result of it only grows more adamant with each passing day.  

In third year, you distinctly remember being confined to the many dusty oak shelves and rows of leather bound books in the library, your eyes constantly flickering to the ornate grandfather clock nearby you as you wait alone. An agreed time of 6 pm to meet in the library after dinner to work on a partnered assignment had otherwise vanished from the boy’s memory. Had it been up to you to decide what partner you wanted, you would have much rather preferred to pick one of your friends and not the Ravenclaw who was fifteen minutes late. With the project due in two days, and with the nearly three weeks you had to finish it, you had constantly asked to meet with Jungkook to work on it and each time he had made a different excuse. 

As time crept on and the waning hours of the daylight dwindled to a dull darkness, twenty minutes would pass and it was then that you would grudgingly begin packing your belongings. The wait was not worth the trouble. Yet just as you are standing from your seat, the boy waltzes into view, coming to a nonchalant halt in front of you and placing his bag on the table, as if he didn’t know how late he is. He has abandoned his robe to wear only a grey fleece pullover on top of his white button up, his torn up Converse shoes ruining the uniform outfit with his casual flare. Your stare flickers up to meet his smug face and a frown forms on yours as you spot the other third year Slytherin girl giggling a flirtatious goodbye to the boy who winks in response. Finally, he turns to look at you.

“You’re leaving already?” Jungkook asks. “I just got here.”

“Twenty minutes later, Jeon,” You snap.

The boy quirks a brow, twisting around in his spot to look at the clock. “I could have sworn you said we should meet at six-thirty. I’m ten minutes early.”

“I remember saying six o’clock,” You say. “As well as you telling me that six was perfectly fine. Look, History of Magic isn’t my favourite either but I would appreciate it if you at least put some effort into the class and this project.”

“Shh!”

The hiss that comes from the student studying near you only makes you scowl. You turn around hotly to continue shoving your books and papers into your backpack.

“I was busy,” Jungkook says.

“Busy flirting with every living thing?” You asks.

“What?” Confusion paints his face, and then he is shaking his head furiously. “No!”

Your eyes narrow into a scrutinizing glare. You point over your shoulder at the same Slytherin girl who is still within the library, standing just a few feet away from the pair of you. She has an opened book in her hands in an attempt to look distracted but her eyes are fixated solely on Jungkook. When she catches Jungkook staring, his gaze lifting over your shoulder, she hurriedly looks away and blushes.

“So I assume she’s just a friend?” You retaliate. “You know what your problem is, Jeon? You never take anything seriously.”

Immediately, Jungkook tenses. His arms snake around to cross in front of his chest.

“Well, you take everything too seriously,” he says. “When was the last time you had some fun? Any time I talk to you, you’re always fussing about the work or about how much you hate me—  it’s like you’re a walking, talking, breathing dementor! You suck the life out of everyone.”

“Shh!”

The snarl this time is much harsher, coming from yet another student who has been devoting his time to writing an essay. But now you can’t be bothered to worry about silence. You slam shut the book in your hand with a very loud thump that seems to echo around the eerily silent room and fling a strap of your bag over your shoulder.

“Well, I’m sorry that I, and this assignment, are such inconveniences to you,” You say, “but from now on I give up on making sure we both don’t fail this class. If you need me, which I assume you won’t, I’ll be in my room, far from you.”

“Excuse me!” The familiar bark of the librarian’s voice hardly makes you jump even as she comes marching down to the two of you. “This is a library, a quiet place to study. It would be greatly appreciated if you could bring your conversation out into the halls.”

Had she not interrupted your conversation with Jungkook, you would have never realized just how loud your voice had risen. Clearing your throat and tightening your grip on your bag and the book, you tear your eyes from Jungkook and stomp defiantly out into the corridors to retreat to your common room, leaving Jungkook alone. He would find you the day after in a sluggish state, his hair dishevelled and his clothes askew as if he had slept in them — or, rather, had not slept at all — showing you all the work he had finished for the assignment the night before.

In fourth year, you are leaving the stands of the Quidditch pitch on a surprisingly warm November evening. Following the slew of students back to the school after a heated game between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor — where the latter team won after a fiery race between the two Seekers for the golden snitch — the eager chatter buzzes in the air. Beside you are your two friends who are, just as many others are doing, whispering excitedly about Jungkook’s role as Seeker and his “amazing performance.” 

“Did you see the way Jungkook played?” Hana asks from the right side of you. “How can someone be so attractive?”

To your left, Nayeon is practically standing on the tip of her toes, desperately craning her neck to search the crowd for the boy and his friends. “Oooh, look! There he is! He’s so sweaty! Imagine his muscles—”

“You’re ridiculous,” You sigh with a disapproving shake of your head.

Despite your condescending tone, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder to follow your friends’ gaze. Laughing in triumph with his team and friends, Jungkook stands adorned in the usual Ravenclaw royal blue Quidditch uniform, the robes somehow accentuating his tanned skin and dark hair that clings to his sweat-covered forehead. Since when had he grown so tall? And maybe Nayeon was right — since when did Jungkook start looking so muscular? 

“Your staring is obvious, Y/N,” Hana says. 

“And so is your crush on him,” Nayeon murmurs. 

“Crush?” You burst out into laughter. “Now that’s funny. I could never have a crush on him!”

“Have a crush on who?”

The familiar voice makes you groan inwardly and the arm that is tossed around your neck almost makes you gag. Your body grows rigid under Jungkook’s touch, though he doesn’t seem to notice that or the way you carefully try to peel his arm off of you but to no avail. Joining him is his typical duo of friends. The other Slytherin boy next to Jungkook is the shy and soft Park Jimin, accompanied by their inseparable Hufflepuff friend, Kim Taehyung. The two boys smirk wolfishly down at your friends, both of whom are so suddenly at a loss for words.

“Evenin’, ladies!” Jimin says. “Enjoy the show?”

“We hate to brag but we taught him everything he knows,” Taehyung says, ruffling Jungkook’s hair.

Jungkook rolls his eyes and swats Taehyung’s hand away. “Maybe the three of you can come down to watch us practice one day.” 

Your friends exchange glances and giggle nervously. 

“We’d love to,” Nayeon smiles.

Your lack of response clearly doesn’t go unnoticed by your friends, nor Jungkook and his friends. As you turn your head to look away from the group, you briefly catch the sudden scent that is Jungkook and your face scrunches. It isn’t so much as gross as it is overpowering. Passed salt and sweat, you can smell something clean like freshly cut grass or some sort of lemongrass shampoo. But instead of telling him out loud what you thought, you pushed him away.

“You smell terrible,” You said. “Go take a shower, Jeon.”

“Always playing hard to get,” Jungkook sighs. “Sorry we can’t all smell like your floraly essence after playing an intense Quidditch game.”

You only hum in response, turning your head to look away from him and his friends. The act seems to earn a smirk from Jungkook and then he and his friends are parting from you, walking back to the locker rooms. After that day, your friends’ profuse pleads and begs for you to come with them one day when the Quidditch teams are practicing would eventually make you cave in. When Jungkook sees you sitting in the stands burrowed in a wool scarf and heavy robes, albeit with a frown on your face and your eyes scanning the pages of a book in your lap, he catches your attention by shouting your name and then winking at you. Seconds later, a Quaffle is thrown his way by a fellow teammate and nearly knocks him off his broom.

In fifth year, you are seated in your Transfiguration class at the back and nearly dozing off as your Professor drones on and on in the early morning about some boring lecture. Jungkook sits in the row opposite you and a seat behind but that doesn’t stop him from constantly trying to catch your attention, whispering your name. It is only when you hear a few classmates near you break out into wondrous awes that you lift your head from its resting place wedged between your folded arms on top of your desk and turn. Soaring above the students’ heads is an enchanted paper bird, its thin wings fluttering its way to you.

You gaze at it for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips, before noticing that it is Jungkook who had magicked it, wand in hand as he waves it towards you. As soon as it reaches your table, it floats around your head and lingers in front of your face, beckoning you to take it. Instead, your hands try swatting it away though it doesn’t seem to budge. When you relent and succumb to taking the bird, it is not before you shoot an annoyed glance back at Jungkook. Then, you unwrap the bird in your hand. With thin black ink sprawled out in perfect cursive writing, a single dreadful question is poised in pretty script: Meet me tomorrow at noon at the Three Broomsticks? It’ll be my treat.

“Is that from Jungkook?” Hana asks. She peers over your shoulder from beside you to look down at the paper, her voice incredibly louder than you would have liked. “It is! Is he asking you out? You know, I always knew you liked him. You’re a terrible liar— ”

You gasp. Your hand quickly covers the paper, yanking it out of Hana’s view. “I do not like him!”

“Do too!” Hana laughs. “So, what are you going to say? Huh, who knew Jungkook was so soft and cute? Have I told you how cute the two of you would be together?”

Maybe it’s the way she so suddenly begins to gush over you dating Jungkook, or the way her voice garners the attention of those sitting around you, letting other girls fawn over how cute his simple gesture is, that makes you curdle with embarrassment. But what are you so shy of? You are insistent that you don’t like Jungkook but you were certain that if word spread that you did have feelings for him, your whole life would be drastically ruined. Or maybe you were more fearful of the idea of possibly liking Jungkook in return, even if you had so profusely been lying to everyone and yourself.  

“Stop it!” You hiss. “I would rather kiss the squid in the Black Lake than date him!”

Then, as if to emphasize this apparent hatred, you grab your quill and furiously write in big scratchy letters “NO” before crumpling it in your hand and twisting in your seat. Set on chucking the balled up piece of paper right at Jungkook’s smug face, you are startled when you feel the paper being plucked from your grasp by none other than your Professor. She stands before you with a sour look on her face, a willowy old lady with gray wisps of hair pulled back into a tight bun. 

“Ah, Miss Y/N,” she hums, “if you have more important matters that you seem to want to discuss with Mr. Jeon, surely you can divulge with the rest of the class too.”

Your mouth clamps shut. You watch, stricken with horror, as she unravels the paper in her hands, her glossy eyes skimming its contents from beneath her half-moon spectacles. She purses her lips, and then shifts her gaze to you and then to Jungkook sitting behind you. The silence that follows as she moves towards him is near unbearable, making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“If you would have much rather preferred to flirt with Miss Y/N than listen to my lecture, feel free to leave my class, Jeon,” Your Professor says. She drops the paper onto his desk with a flourish. “Though, it’d be in your best interest to stop your daydreaming and pay attention to my class because I’m afraid her answer was no.”

Your eyes widen as you twist in your seat to look at your Professor and a startled Jungkook. And, maybe, if you looked hard enough and passed the smug smirk, you could see his conceited stare falter as a look of hurt flashes across his eyes. A few murmurs and giggles break out amongst the students, making your cheeks burn hot and forces you to turn back around and away from Jungkook.

“And I suppose that now neither of you are busy tomorrow, you wouldn’t mind spending it in detention with me,” Your Professor says. Then she was rounding on her heel, marching back to the front of the classroom and restarting her lecture.

After the torturous detention where Jungkook suddenly refuses to look or talk to you after what had happened, and a week after the missed Hogsmeade trip, you would find Jungkook walking the halls, hand-in-hand, with another Ravenclaw girl. As they pass you, seemingly unaware of your lingering presence, you see the girl stop Jungkook and lean forward to kiss him, his own hands resting on her waist and tugging her closer to him. Though you tell yourself you’re free from his constant flirting and mocking, you can’t help but feel somewhat let down as you walk away that day.

In the beginning of sixth year, when all the students had found a moment to themselves and a much needed break from all the sudden stress of homework, you would wind up at a party being held in the Room of Requirements. Though you weren’t quite sure how the students were able to smuggle alcohol into the school, you remember drinking until you are blissfully numb and without a care in the world. Most of the evening had been spent chatting to Nayeon and Hana but when they become distracted with flirting with their crushes, you are left alone. It isn’t much long after that you stumble into Jungkook. Drunkenly dancing to the upbeat thump of music that reverberated around the room, you had, somehow, lost your footing. As you fall into the thick crowd, a pair of strong hands reach out to swiftly catch onto yours arms and hold you up. Jungkook’s surprised when you don’t bother pushing him away and let him help straighten you up. Clearly, you’re much too drunk to function, and he makes sure to hold you at a comfortable distance away from him. Then, there, under the dim lights of the room, you are met with his typical smirk tugging at his luscious pink lips (which you find yourself gazing at for longer than necessary). 

“Ah, if it isn’t Jeon Jungkook,” You rasp. You sway dangerously in his hold and nearly fall to the floor again. He tightens his grip on you and catches you once more before you can slip away. “What do you want from me tonight?”

“Hey, you bumped into me. I’m just being nice and making sure you don’t face-plant the floor.” 

“Yeah, but of course you had to be right beside me. I think I’d rather have face-planted the floor.”

He quirks a brow. He feigns dropping you, momentarily loosening his grip just enough for you to come flailing forward with a yelp of surprise. He doesn’t let you fall too far, though, and catches onto you swiftly once more, hooking his arm around your waist. When you meet his stare with a scowl, he grins. “You were saying?”

“Do you remember that one time you told me I never have fun?” 

“Not really.”

“Ah, well, you say a lot of shit to me,” You say. “But that stuck out the most. You called me a dementor. A dementor. My thirteen year old self never forgot that.”

Jungkook winces at how carefree you seemed to say it, at how you still remembered it three years later. His hands drop from you once you’re steady and he runs his fingers through his locks, softly pushing them up and out of his eyes before they ultimately fall flat against his forehead once more. 

“I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I mean, look at you now. You seem to be having a lot of fun. How drunk are you anyway?”

“It’s not fun when it feels like I’m trying to prove a point to you,” You sigh. “But I already know you don’t care about me.”

“That’s not true,” Jungkook says. “You’re the one who doesn’t care about me.”

You burst out into a fit of mocking laughter and shake your head at him. Swaying forward, almost precariously close to him, you tap the tip of his nose with your finger. “Jeon Jungkook, you can be real oblivious.”

And then you are kissing him, pressing your soft lips to his. He doesn’t push you away, albeit however incredibly surprised he may be. Instead, as he feels your lips move against his, he finds himself basking in everything that is you. All he can smell is your floral perfume and, passed the liquor that stained your lips, could taste your peach lip balm and the bubble gum you had been chewing earlier in the night. He hates how much he loves it. His hands lift to rest on either side of your face and he gently brings you closer to him, his tongue laving at your peach flavoured lower lip. He hears you moan softly in content as you melt against his chest, your fingers suddenly tugging desperately at the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s then that you realize that all you can smell is the scent of freshly cut grass and his lemony shampoo, but all you can taste is something warm and sugary that feels all too comforting.

You come to the conclusion in your drunken mind that you would have loved to keep kissing him. That, maybe, kissing Jeon Jungkook wasn’t so bad. But then just as suddenly as you had kissed him, he is pulling away from you, sending you crashing and burning down from your reverie. With swollen pink lips, wide eyes, and dishevelled hair, Jungkook shakes his head abruptly and mumbles a quiet, “I’m sorry.” 

He flees from your grasp and from the party before you can stop him — and it is in that moment that you began to hate Jungkook, but not more than you hate yourself for actually enjoying the way it felt to kiss someone like him. You would never learn why he had left so soon until much later when he tells you that he didn’t want you to regret anything you did drunk — didn’t want you to regret kissing someone like him when you had seemed to hate him for years prior.

In the second half of sixth year, when you begin to fail Potions, your Professor does what he thinks is best and pairs you with Jungkook, the smartest student in his class. Hearing that Jungkook, of all people, is remarkable at Potions doesn’t come as a surprise. You are quick to learn just why he had been placed into Ravenclaw, carrying their impressive ambition and intelligence. If anything, you are almost jealous of how easily he seems to pick up on things and can reproduce them at top notch quality.

Your friendship with him is still strained and is perhaps even worse than it had once been ever since the night of the party. Neither of you talk about the moment and, from what either of you were concerned, both of you had long since forgotten the night had ever happened. Unbeknownst to you is that when Jungkook sees how cold and distant you become in the days after, he refuses to tell you the truth that the kiss is always on his mind. So, when you are forced to work with him for any assignments or in-class work, most of your conversations end in constant bickering. Miraculously, somehow, your grades do gradually begin to pick up. 

One day, when you both walk into class, you are greeted to the sight of a smoldering cauldron placed neatly on top of your Professor’s desk, a beautiful scent filling the room that seems to be coming specifically from whatever has been brewing. The liquid contents within contains a mother-of-pearl sheen and clear smoke spirals from it in wisps. As soon as everyone is seated at their desks, your Professor steps forward and begins his lecture.

“Good evening, class!” he chirps. “Today we have a very exciting lecture that has to do with what is currently sitting on my desk. Now, can anyone tell me what exactly it is?”

A few shouts of guesses are tossed into the air but all are wrong as your Professor simply shakes his head. Jungkook raises his hand casually and your Professor points enthusiastically at him. 

“Yes, Jungkook?”

“It’s Amortentia,” he says.

“Right you are, my boy!” Your Professor beams. “Five points to Ravenclaw! This is, in fact, Amortentia. Now, for those of you who do not know what it is, that is perhaps all the best. But as it is, it’s important to educate you on the various effects each potion can have on a being and why someone should, or should not, administer it. Amortentia, simply put, is a love potion.”

Gasps of awe and murmurs from certain students circulate the room as your Professor carries on.

“And not just any love potion — the most powerful love potion in the world,” he says. “If anyone were to receive such a potion, it would cause an intense infatuation and obsession on the drinker. However, the potion must be continuously administered to the drinker or else the effects will wear off and the drinker will regain his or her conscience and free will. Now, if you ever wanted to know how to identify Amortentia, you can rely on its very distinct smell. Differing on the person who smells it, it will always morph into the scent of whomever you desire most. For instance, I smell lemon drops, toothpaste, and parchment paper. You may all smell something different.”

A handful of students lean forward in their seat, desperately moving closer to the cauldron and the potion that carried such charming scents. Despite not wanting to show your immediate interest in something as strange as a love potion, you sit back in your seat but inhale a slow, deep breath of air and the scent that makes your heart skip a beat. It would pose as an obstacle to focusing on the lecture as your Professor carried on, though you find you’re not the only one so easily distracted by it. Halfway through the class, he stops his lecture and informs the students of their task for the evening: replicating Amortentia perfectly with the help of the partner sitting next to them.

So, you and Jungkook immediately head to work, beginning the tedious process of preparing ingredients and brewing the potion. Naturally, your own potion brewing goes faster than others as Jungkook seems to know what to do with everything. For the most part, you sit back and watch, as Jungkook refuses your help any time you offer, claiming you would only just slow him down. When it’s done, and the entire class is still halfway through theirs, you fold your arms over your chest and look up at Jungkook, noting the way his eyebrows scrunch together as he peers down at the glistening potion.

“I can’t smell anything,” You say. “Did you even do this right?”

Jungkook grimaces, though his stare falters. He doesn’t admit it aloud, but he worries for a moment that maybe he isn’t as good at Potions as he thought he was. In the next second, he scowls and shoots you a look.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks. “Of course I did it right! I followed everything properly. It even looks perfect.”

“Well, obviously it isn’t perfect if neither of us can smell anything,” You say.

“Well,” Jungkook says, irritated, “maybe if you didn’t bathe yourself in your ridiculous floral perfume, I could smell something.”

“Me?” Your mouth drops open in an appalled gap. “Now it’s my fault? You’re one to talk. Did you have practice this morning? All I can smell is grass and your stupid lemon shampoo or whatever it is. It’s disgusting.”

The bickering continues on between the two of you until you’ve seemingly grabbed the attention of the entire class. Near the very end of the period, it’s Taehyung who finally says something, leaning back in his chair to look at the two of you. 

“Jungkook didn’t have practice this morning,” he says. “He also didn’t shower because he slept in late. Or did you forget that, Jungkook?”

“And Y/N?” Nayeon chimes in from beside you. “Didn’t you run out of your perfume last week?”

Jungkook clamps his mouth shut. Your own heart stops. Suddenly, your face is burning intensely and Jungkook’s own cheeks are pinched a bright red as, slowly, the realization seems to dawn on the both of you. Chuckles emit from your friends as your Professor signals that the time is up. You don’t dare look at Jungkook as your Professor grades each potion, and then anxiously await the chance to dash out the door when your Professor claims yours and Jungkook’s potion was done just perfect. As soon as he moves on to the next pair, you have gathered your belongings and have darted out the room. You are nearly halfway down the corridor when you hear Jungkook calling after you, begging you to stop.

“Y/N! Hey, Y/N! Wait up, please!”

Your feet quicken in pace as you round the corner. Just when you think you’re free, you feel a hand clasp around your wrist and pull you back into a hardened figure. Jungkook. He’s standing so incredibly close to you now, his gaze softening as he looks you once over. You can only avoid his stare, though your eyes fall to the distraction that is his hand clamped around your wrist. 

“I really am not in the mood to talk right now, Jungkook,” You mumble. “Just leave me alone.”

“What else did you smell?” Jungkook asks.

His question makes you stop. It’s what causes you to carefully lift your stare to look at him.

“What?” You stammer. “What does it matter?”

“Just tell me, please,” he says, his grip tightening around your wrist. “I need to know.”

You could have shaken your head at him, pushed him away and walked off, but the longer you stare at him, the faster you begin to cave. Your mind is instantly brought back to just moments ago and the love potion that had filled your senses. As you think about all the lovely things you could smell, you whisper the answer in a sheepish voice:

“Strawberries.”

There is a split moment where all you can see is Jungkook’s beaming grin before he is pulling you toward him for a kiss that nearly sweeps you off your feet. You collapse against his broad chest, your hands flying up to bundle in his shirt and pull at him tightly as he kisses you and kisses you. You wonder why he had done so spontaneously but then it seems to hit you.

All you can smell on Jungkook, all you can taste, is lemon, grass, and strawberries. 

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[mypoisonedvine]

Making Ends Meet | dark!Mandalorian x reader

summary: you’re just a simple woman trying to make your way in the universe, with the universe’s oldest profession.  unfortunately for you, a new customer doesn’t plan on going easy on you.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: smut (dub con), kidnapping (?? kinda), prostitution, rough sex, pain kink, lots and lots of degradation, ooc mando being a meanie

please do not read if this content would be triggering or upsetting for you, dark fics aren’t for everyone and it is your responsibility to manage your own content consumption

If you were going to have any hope of making rent this month, you needed to book someone tonight— and not a cheapskate who’d try to stiff you after he’d already stiffed you, no, you needed a big spender, a high roller.  You needed somebody who had extra credits to throw around and wore it on his sleeve.

You needed a guy like the one who had just walked in— with beskar on his sleeve.  That’ll do quite nicely, you thought to yourself as you watched the Mandalorian cross the room to talk to the bartender.  

Seemed like he was here on business, unfortunately, from the way he didn’t even venture a glance at you or any of the other women skulking about; but then again, you couldn’t be entirely sure where he was looking with that big helmet covering his face.  It might not be the easiest sell, but you were determined to get this guy for the night— and, more importantly, his money.

Walking up to the bar with your best sultry saunter, you leaned in beside him and smiled as he turned his head to look at you.  "Hey," you purred.  "Haven't seen you around before.  We don't get a lot of new faces around here… even when they're hidden."

He didn't say anything, which was a little concerning, but his head tilted down a bit as if he was looking at your body, which was a good sign.

“What brings you to Tatooine, hm?  Business…” you trailed off as you ghosted your fingertips over his armor-clad forearm, “or pleasure?”

“Business is my pleasure,” he informed you sternly.

“And pleasure is my business,” you countered with a smirk.  Before you could say anything else, the bartender returned with a sack in his palm that he tossed into the Mandalorian’s hands, something metallic jingling inside.

“For a job well done,” he explained with a crooked, toothy smile, “as promised.”

“Payday, huh?” you noticed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.  “Never comes often enough, amirite?”

Your quip was met with tense silence as he slipped the bag into a sack at his waist.  He turned to leave, but you reached out for his shoulder and stopped him.  

“Wait,” you requested, desperation starting to taint your tone of voice.  He spun and faced you again, and you tried to keep your body language relaxed and sensual in spite of your stress.  “What are you gonna spend all that on?”

“My ship,” he decided after a quick moment.

“Why not spend it on yourself?  You must be tired after working a long, hard day,” you sighed sympathetically, stepping a little closer.  “Why don’t you stay a bit longer and take a moment to relax?”

It didn’t seem like he knew what to do with that, and you motioned to a wide, cushioned chair nearby.  Amazingly, it worked; he walked to the chair with that swagger of his, the blaster at his hip suddenly so much more obvious with the way it swung with every step.  As soon as he sat down, you put a leg up beside him, straddling him slightly but leaving enough space to (hopefully) have him wanting more.

“You must be getting hot under there,” you smiled, making sure the double entendre was obvious.

“Maybe I am,” he shrugged.

“All this heavy armor... does it get uncomfortable?”

“I’m comfortable,” he denied.

“Good,” you purred before biting down on your lip as you rubbed his chest— or, rather, his chestplate.  “You know, I’ve heard that Mandalorians are even harder underneath the steel.”

He paused a little before he answered.  “Only in a few key places,” he finally replied, his gloved hand reaching to brush over your thigh.  You grinned, knowing you finally had him.

“Why don’t you come to my room and show me?” you suggested.

“I imagine your time isn’t free,” he observed.

“Fifty credits for an hour, or a hundred for the whole night,” you enumerated.

“That’s a little steep,” he noted with a tone of irritation.

“It’s my price,” you shrugged, “take it or leave it.”

“I’ll leave it,” he decided, shoving you back and standing up to leave.

“No, wait,” you blurted out, “eighty for the night.”

“I don’t have all night,” he informed you sternly.  “Twenty for the hour.”

“Twenty?!” you squawked.  “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

He grabbed your wrist tightly, suddenly, and pulled you into him.  “A whore,” he answered with a rough growl, “and apparently not as cheap as you look.”

You swallowed dryly, irritated by his attitude but desperate for the cash you knew he had.  “How often do you come through Mos Eisley?” you asked quietly.

“As rarely as I can manage,” he replied.

“If you pay a hundred now, I’ll be here every time you come in, for as long as you need,” you offered.  “Standing order, permanently.”

It was difficult to negotiate with someone whose face you couldn’t see: you weren’t sure if the silence was him considering it, or just watching you squirm in his grasp for fun.  

“A hundred,” he repeated slowly, “for whatever I want.”

“Whatever you want,” you nodded quickly.

“Whenever I want,” he added.

“Whenever you want.”

He let go of your wrist and you stumbled back, rubbing the sore skin with your other hand.  “Show me to your room,” he requested suddenly.

You led him back behind a few tattered curtains, past the hall and up the stairs to your cramped apartment.  It wasn't much, but the red silk draped everywhere and the incense burning in the corner certainly set the mood for the work you did.  Your door slid shut automatically behind him, and normally this is the part where he’d kiss you or you’d kiss him, but that was sort of impossible in his current state.  With an awkward pause, you waited for him to undress.

“Take off your clothes,” he instructed instead— and it was even more dominant than you expected, but you were happy to oblige as you untied the strip of fabric keeping your flowy tunic together, letting it fall off of your shoulders and onto the floor.  You didn’t have anything else on, just for the sake of simplicity, and he said nothing as he stepped forward until he was just inches away from you.

He quickly disposed of his gloves to touch you with his bare hands; his rough, warm skin over your waist and hips and breasts was a strong contrast to the worn leather, and even moreso to the hard, cold beskar.  His skin was tan, especially considering that it rarely saw the sun, and you let yourself imagine what the rest of him would look like based on that long with the subtle dusting of dark hair that extended from his arms.  Of course, in your mind, he was stunningly gorgeous, because it was more fun for you that way.  The way he spun you around quickly and forced you to bend over the edge of your bed made you realize he wasn’t as interested in your fun, though.

You yelped a little at the unexpected force, and again when he slapped your ass out of nowhere.  

“You’d better make it worth my while, after I paid a hundred credits,” he grunted.

“Of course,” you agreed quickly, looking back to see him slipping to fingers underneath the edge of his helmet.

“Don’t turn around,” he growled.  “Don’t look back.”

“Okay,” you nodded nervously as you whipped your head back to face in front of you, staring diligently at the dark red comforter beneath you, “I— I won’t.”

You heard the rustle of clothing and a sigh of relief— noticeably one not modulated through the helmet speaker.  Unceremoniously, his helmet was tossed down onto the bed beside you, bouncing and rolling a bit before it found purchase on your quilt.

Next must have been his trousers, as you heard his heavily-equipped belt fall to the floor just before the subtle little grunt you’d come to know as the sure sign that a man had freed a throbbing cock from the confines of his trousers.  He roughly kicked your legs apart, grabbing your hips and using them to hold you up as he started to grind his bare cock against your slickened folds.  You could tell by the way his shaft spread your lips that you had no chance of taking him— he was too thick, you couldn't even tell how long he was yet but he was definitely too thick.

He must have realized something similar, because he pushed you forward a bit; you realized he was looking down at your pussy, which made your face burn with embarrassment.

"Get yourself wet for me," he instructed firmly.  

You didn't think you would ever be able to get wet enough to fit him.  "How?" you asked.

"I don't care how, just do it.  You have thirty seconds."

You gasped a bit but shoved your hand between your legs and frantically rubbed your clit— it didn't really feel that good, with the pressure and fear overwhelming your senses instead of pleasure.  And he didn't make it any easier on you by literally counting each second.  You got a bit wetter, sure, and you'd already been turned on from earlier, but it was still not gonna do you much good against the monster he intended on putting inside you at any moment.

"Fifteen," he continued counting, his voice dropping so much deeper all of a sudden.  "Fourteen."

Halfway out of time already and you weren't that much more wet than when you started.  Your mind was racing with thoughts of everything sexy you could manage to conjure— his voice did help, the deep timbre reverberating right up your spine as anxious fear started to blend in with forced arousal.  You tried to focus on the ways that being fucked by a faceless, mysterious stranger was sexy, rather than the ways it was terrifying.

"Ten," he counted, his voice changing as you heard him smile— you weren't sure how you could hear it, but you could.  "There you go, I can see it now."

You whimpered a little, the sound catching in your throat as fingers suddenly teased your entrance, not quite pushing in but threatening to.  As they swirled around your folds, a lewd wet sound filled the air, mixing in with your heavy breathing and his dark chuckle.

"You hear that?" he asked, and you nodded quickly.  "Just a few seconds left, make them count."

Rubbing faster, you felt your hips start to rock of their own volition, similarly to the way your walls were clenching around nothing in search of being filled.  

"Three, two, one," he finished as you felt the thick head of his cock start to push against you.  You dropped your hand, knowing you'd need both to stabilize yourself.  "You want it?" he asked roughly.

"Yes," you answered, your voice coming out weaker than expected.

"Beg for it," he instructed coldly.

"Put your cock in me, please—" was all you could get out before the words stopped in your throat as he suddenly pushed in.  You were barely processing the first inch as he barreled past your resistance to shove the next few in.  It already felt like you would run out of room inside your body before he ran out of cock.

"F-fuck," you hissed, "slow down.  You're too big."  You hoped maybe he'd take pity on you if you phrased it as a compliment.  You were wrong.

"You're a whore," he reminded you, "can't you take it?  It's all you're good for, anyways."

That got you to shut your mouth as he thrust himself completely into you, finding the end of you easily with the head of his cock while your hands clutched the bedsheets for dear life.  You winced but managed to suppress a cry as he started to fuck you, not quite fast yet but so much deeper than your brain could process.  "Ffffuu-uuck," you stammered, the sting starting to fade but the overwhelming pressure never really letting up.

"How's it feel?" he asked, almost sounding like he could moan but holding back.  "Don't lie."

You realized, then, that he didn't want you to fake pleasure like most clients did— he wanted to see your pain, and know he caused it.  He enjoyed hurting you.  You swallowed the lump in your throat and whimpered your honest reply: "Hurts."

"Good."

His balls slapping against your clit only added to the overwhelming sensations you were trying so hard to ignore, pain and pleasure becoming indistinguishable all of a sudden.  You could tell your walls were clamping down on him as pressure built in your gut and threatened to push past the point of no return.  Your moan was so much louder than you expected it to be, broken and guttural and animalistic. 

He pulled your hair roughly, making you yelp.  “That’s right,” he instructed through his teeth, “fuckin’ scream for it.”

“Fuck!” you sobbed loudly.  

He leaned forward and it felt like his body would surround yours, somehow, especially when he reached down to roughly grope one breast and then another.  He never stopped thrusting through it all, even when his head fell exhaustedly between your shoulder blades— it was so odd to be able to feel his forehead and hair on your skin but have no idea what his face looked like at all.

The telltale signs of orgasm were arriving in your body— your thighs quivered, your voice cracked, your walls and clit throbbed with need.  It felt like you could read every detail of his cock inside your silky wet heat, like the ridge of his leaking head was rubbing up against your swollen g-spot with every thrust.  You felt as if being so full of him had forced you to vacate your mind, too, to accommodate his size— as if that were possible.  

Either he sensed your peak approaching as well, or he just had convenient timing.  "Wanna feel you come around it," he grunted.  "Can you come for me?  Or are you completely useless?"

“‘M close,” you warned him as your answer, shame sending a shiver up your spine even though you felt guilty for it.

“Then come,” he ordered, “right fuckin’ now.”

It was odd how that actually did push you over the edge, his brutal thrusts and degrading words creating a perfect storm inside you as the friction became too much to bear.  You sobbed as it wracked through you, arching your back absent-mindedly, clenching your legs together as best you could with his legs in between them.  He didn’t stop fucking you through it, which meant that the sensation built to the point of ‘too much’ extremely quickly as your attempts at begging for mercy were lost to breathless moans.  Overwhelmed, your body collapsed onto the bed limply, your hips only staying up because he held them up, like your weight was nothing to him at all.

"Yeah, just like that,” he taunted, “fuckin' come on my cock, fuck— you're just a dumb slut, huh?  You love getting fucked like the desperate, needy fucktoy you are, is that it?"

"Y-yes," you whined weakly, cheeks burning at the feeling of him using your body— or maybe it was from the head rush caused by the afterglow of your orgasm. 

"You like it when it hurts,” he posited.  “You want me to hurt you."

"Yes— don't stop, please…" you whimpered, quiet but definitely loud enough for him to hear.

“Not gonna stop,” he promised, “‘til you’re full of my come.”

“Fuck,” you groaned, voice sounding hoarse and thin.  It had been a while since you lost your voice because of a session… and since you had walked funny for a few days afterwards.  This one was definitely going to do both.

As his hips started to slam harder and faster into yours, you really hoped it was a sign that he was close; his raspy groans made you sure of it, though.  You could feel his cock swelling and flexing, incredibly, and it made you a little light-headed but it made your overstimulated walls throb around him as well.

With one deep, exhausted growl from the man behind you, a warmth began to spread through you from the inside out.  When he released his grip on your hips, you fell onto the bed with a sigh and a thud.  A hand appeared in your peripheral vision to snatch the helmet off of your bed, and it only took him a few moments to stuff his softening cock back into his trousers and magically be dressed again.  Funny how he looked exactly the same as he had half an hour ago, meanwhile you were confident you looked totally fucked-out and fucked-up.

“You’re a good fuck,” he offered a monotone compliment as he pulled on his gloves, staring down at you as you slipped your robe back on and tried to ignore the warm sticky feeling between your legs.

“You’re… intense,” you replied, chuckling a little.  “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

He didn’t respond, or leave, but just stood there looking at you for a minute as you stood up and adjusted yourself, trying not to limp noticeably because you figured he didn’t need any more ego.  “‘Whenever I want’ only applies when I’m on this planet,” he observed suddenly, interrupting the silence, “which I try not to be.”

“You can come around as often as you like,” you explained.  You froze when he appeared behind you, reaching his arms out and caging you in against the wall the second you'd turned to face him.

“But wouldn’t it be so much more cost-effective if you were with me all the time?  On my ship?”

You whimpered a little as he leaned in closer, and you felt his gaze on you through the dark visor of his helmet even though you couldn’t see it.  “That… that wasn’t the deal,” you whispered nervously.

“The deal’s changed,” he growled, ignoring your yelps of pain as he manhandled you and pinned you to the wall by your neck before you could even try to fight back.  “Whatever I want, whenever I want,” he growled, “that’s what you said.  I’ll hold you to that.”

The leather gloves creaked softly as he tightened his grip on the sides of your neck, forcing your lips to fall into a useless gasp for air.  Your hands reached out to claw at his chest, a silent plea for release, but he wasn’t having it.  

“Whatever you want,” you barely managed to croak out as your vision started to go dark.  “Please, Mando…”

“Whenever I want?”

“Whenever, please,” you cried, tears stinging your eyes.  He let go, finally, and you crumpled at his feet.  Somehow, you’d managed to sell yourself into slavery— for a measly hundred credits.  This whole thing had begun with you needing to make rent, and it ended with you realizing you wouldn’t return to your apartment again at all.  

He didn't need to shackle or bind you to make you follow him to his ship; his power over you was nauseatingly effortless, but you weren't about to try to run from an unhinged warrior like him.  

You'd always wanted to leave Tatooine and explore the galaxy… this wasn't exactly how you'd imagined doing it, as a Mandalorian's whore, but there were worse fates.  Like being a Mandalorian's target.  And you planned on doing whatever he wanted you to if it meant avoiding that.

[inactive-luv]

The Absence of Rain

The Absence of Rain

"the absence of rain is when good things are most present."

the absence of rain

Summary: Y/N Y/L/N meets a stranger in the rain

Pairing: (Spencer Reid x Autistic!Fem!Reader)

Details: I hope I did my best to convey proper Autistic traits; my ASD is not the same as the readers' character, the same way no one's ASD or Autism is the same.

Category: fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Autism

A/N: I decided to make the reader Autistic. This was originally just a short story I made in English lit class my senior year, but upon rereading it, I decided to use the same prompt to write this fic

...

It's two in the morning. The Virginian rain drizzles as it has for the past two days without stop. She loved the rain, even if it was a sign of sadness or sorrow. She misunderstood it when people said the absence of rain was when good things happened. Until tonight when the theory was proven very, very true.

...

She walked from her job down to the bus stop at two in the morning when it started to rain harder than the usual drizzle from earlier in the evening. She spent time analyzing the splashing of droplets, echoing in her head after a long day. Her head raised to watch the water slap against the glass roof above her.

She stayed like that for a while, soothed after a stressful day by the calming aspects of the rain. She was watching and waiting, sitting in her bus stop seat. Her hands folded in each other to scratch lightly at her fingers, bundles of nerves across her skin aching to be touched.

She wants to stay here forever and quietly wishes for a late bus before her peace is interrupted when she sees a dark figure move across the station bridge. Her face turns puzzled, trying to analyze the new person in her space.

He looks tall from a distance. That's the first thing she notices about his body before she investigates further. She thinks about his satchel bag and his converse shoes, how he holds his umbrella in his right hand, and a book in his left. She can't make out the cover, but it must be pretty slim from how fast he blows through it.

She thinks about what would happen if he would walk over to her. She's seen him only a few seconds, yet she feels drawn or compelled to wonder further. He steps to his side, adjusting his stance, and his face falls under the light of the bus station for a second.

His jawline, eyes, lips, and everything about him leaps out immediately, catching even more of her attention. He must have felt her gaze over him, like an ocean wave crashing over a beach. A certain persistence to discover makes her eyes stay glued to the dark figure.

He swallows his lips before turning to see if she was maybe looking at someone else. He expected it. He expected not to be expected of. So when her eyes stayed fixated on him, he was a little curious. And during this time, all she can think about is if he came closer. Suppose he could turn to her so she could find the thing. The thing about him that made him so compelling.

And he does it. He starts to walk over with his book in one hand and the other in his pocket. The sounds she once found comfort in faded as he walked up to her, and everything turned to silence. The soft patter of the rain, once saturated and abstract ringing through her head, turned pale and hushed.

He watches how her eyes still stay attached to him, almost obsessively. A silence fills the space between the two before he breaks it so haphazardly, she can't help but shudder a little.

"Excuse me?" So she turns her head and is met looking up to the dark figure. He's much taller now that he's closer to her, and his hair is long. Long hair so obviously stretched under the rain, with soft curls ever so innocently framing his face.

He doesn't know what to say after that. He couldn't make out exactly who she was or who he was even expecting but, she was beautiful. He finally took notice of the more calming features about her rather than the creepy stare. He saw how her skin glowed, and her lips parted slightly as if in deep thought.

During this time, he notices the silence forming again, and he breaks it once more before he can hear her voice. "Uhm, can I sit?" He murmurs as an excuse he perhaps too eagerly came up with, taking notice of her puzzled expression. "Yeah, here, let me move my bag." Her voice dribbles out of her mouth, laced with an extensive kindness that intrigued him incredibly.

He mumbles a small 'thank you' back while he undoes his umbrella and takes a seat next to her. His head is facing the street now, but he still feels her eyes on him. It takes him a minute to swallow the lump in his throat before he turns to her again, craning his neck to meet her eye-line looking up at him.

His eyes meeting hers makes her pause for a moment before hastily averting her attention from him to anything in her way. The grass peeking through the concrete or the way the rain filled the puddles on the sidewalk.

And just like that, the silence, as well as it faded out, fades back in. The soft sounds of rain climb back through her ears to fill her brain again. Easily and slowly, she listens to the buckling of the stranger's bag, as if he was trying to make an as little sound as possible not to annoy her. But the sound doesn't upset her. It calms her.

It intertwines with the rain in a calming way. Everything blends smoother than she expected. She expected sounds to scare her as much as they usually do meeting a stranger, but the sound of his skin against the leather, and the pitter-patter of the rain, calm her.

So she's at peace when he breaks the silence once more. Although now, his words don't break the silence as much as they seep into the silent sounds, merging to form a tranquil melody. She realizes she could get used to his voice.

"Where are you coming from at," He looks down at his watch, over his sleeve for convenience, a trick she notices because she does the same thing, "two in the morning?" His tone acts as if he made most of his living in the night; the calmness, even in such an abundant presence of darkness, leads her to believe he'd done this a million times.

"I lost track of time in the library." He smiles again, "I thought only I did that." She smiles back at him and feels her cheeks start to swell and pink. He listens to her words; there weren't any libraries open this late at night he of all people should have known that.

He contemplates asking; further, he really wants to. He wants to listen to her voice again and again over and over because, unlike anyone else's, he thinks he'll never get tired of it. But he doesn't pester; he waits, hoping she'd further the conversation herself.

Little does he know she's thinking the same thing. She was thinking about every question he's asked and every question she wants to ask him. But he was a stranger even if she hoped he wasn't for much longer.

It takes a lot of strength for her to continue the conversation but noticing his peaked interest, her tone of voice heightens, "I was working at the university, that's why I was out so late." His questions are answered and followed by more, "Really? What do you do?" he wanted to know everything about the mysterious girl at the bus stop, and she was willing to answer every one of his asks.

"I help my friend who's a professor there, but I'm a medical examiner." His eyes light up, "Really? That's cool." He tries to keep his voice calm, but it trickles out so quickly, and this time she can catch his investment, and it gets easier to talk to him as if she'd known him a hundred years.

"I look at dead bodies all day. You think that's cool?"

"Well, to be fair, so do I,"

"Oh! Are you a serial killer?" Her best shot at sarcasm was successful, he laughed.

Like a modern orchestra erupting into its triumphant climax, the rain, the air, his laugh soothes her ears until she's blessing the world for her ability to hear. It's a kind of sound that reverberates in her mind and stores itself to her happiest emotion.

A type of sound she wants to hear for the rest of her life, but sadly, all of this excitement at once becomes too much too quickly, and her smile slightly fades while his head is turned.

She didn't have too much trouble with sound, so her anxiety heightened slightly when she became overwhelmed. A type of overwhelmed he could sense before he tried to lighten her mood. "No, I just catch them," He turns to reach into his bag, swiftly pulling his federal badge out and showing it to her.

She reads his badge quietly, "Doctor Spencer Reid." That's the first time she learns his name. A doctor working with the FBI. She reciprocates his actions and reaches into her pocket to pull out a card. On it, her name and medical license. "Doctor Y/N Y/L/N." A doctor working in a hospital.

"I'm in medicine. What about you?" Spencer clears his throat and holds up three fingers in one hand, clutching the card tightly in his other. "Chemistry, mathematics, and engineering." Her eyes widen, and her mouth forms a small 'o'; he just twists his face as if he was used to that answer.

And then, abnormally sudden, the rain started to let up, proving good things do happen in the absence of rain.

...

[yinses]

B R A N D E D

| he would make sure that everyone knew who you belonged to |

tattoo artist! sukuna ryomen

rating: t

a/n: this is going to be a three part series. it got too long because i couldn’t shut up. thank you to @teoran for beta reading !! 

you should have never informed yuuji that you were thinking about getting a tattoo, because of course his first response would be hey, sukuna owns a shop. why don’t you stop there. as if you didn’t already known that. your other friend, unfortunately had not known how to be subtle about it.

its when you go to hand off your card that they gasp audibly, drawing the attention of both yourself and the woman behind the counter.

“you’re not going to ask for a discount? i mean you know the owner, right?”

she jumps back quick enough to dodge the errant elbow you throw her way.

you knew you would regret telling her.

the woman is undeterred as she take your card, looking bored with the news. “so you know sukuna, huh?” the way she said it implied that it wasn’t the first time it had been made known to her.

you had known the man long enough to know where her thoughts were going with that assumption. sukuna wasn’t only popular for his art. a shudder rolled through your body at the idea of being categorized as one of his flings.

it wasn’t as though you were intentionally shaming the women. but it was sukuna. the same guy who locked you and his younger brother out on the patio whenever he was meant to keep an eye on you. and then blamed you for hiding from him when the responsible adults got home.

in hindsight, maybe you should have chosen another location. but now your card has been charged.

you scribbled your signature on the receipt, “uh yeah, awhile now. im not requesting him or anything.”

“his appointment book is full anyway. he doesn’t take walk ins.” its not said snidely, just matter of fact. as if she was seasoned with dealing with these kind of customers.

the man of topic strides in then, carrying a few bags of take-out that he drops carelessly onto the counter. he doesn’t m look unlike any other day, a loose white sleeveless shirt with a low hanging v-neck that just invited attention to his skin. the swirls of black ink made permanent by his hand only. though that was the advantage of this field and owning your own business on top of it.

sukuna was prepared to ignore the clientele planted at front desk, until he did a double take. those vermilion eyes took you in, morphing from speculation, to shock, a pinch of awe, then back to postulation.

“what are you doing here?”

a small frown mars you face. you didn’t actually consider that perhaps sukuna wouldn’t want you here. it was one thing to know the guy, but whether you wanted to accept it or not, you weren’t just another customer. so you unsurely respond with, “getting a tattoo?”

the snort he gives isn't one of annoyance. in fact its almost comforting to see the minuscule curl of his lips until they start to part, “yeah, missing something aren’t you?”

you realize with a frown that he’s referring to his brother.

“i have other friends.”

that slow smile wides as he gives your friend a brief look of appreciation. suddenly all those years of witnessing him cart his flings around rise to the forefront of your mind.  really nothing rarely changed. “ i can see that.”

his gaze cuts back to you, “what are you getting? your boyfriends name?”

you cant tell if he’s teasing, fishing or a combination of them both.

he turns to lean over the counter, arms flexing at the action and pinches the fresh design still hot from the printer. you resist the urge to shuffle in place as he inspects the image with more interest than there were lines. it was hardly all that complex, just as you intended.

sukuna finally voices his opinion, to no surprise of your own. “yeah? kind of small isn’t it?”

“its my first sukuna,” you drawl.

you realize too late that the wording isnt best around him.

“no kidding.”

he tugs a styrofoam box free from the plastic bag before gesturing to you with a tilt of his head.

“alright, lets knock it out.”

you look to the woman expecting her to complain about his pending appointments but she only returns it with a pointed look. when it came down to it, what the boss wanted goes.

right then.

turning, you address your friend who seemed more invested in watching sukuna’s departure. “are you coming?”

her gaze snaps to you and she doesn’t even bother to pretend. she shrugs, “you may not be squeamish about needles but i am.” her hand waves vaguely towards the lounge area near the coffee station and stack of assorted snacks. “i’ll come running if you scream though,” she teases as you turn down the hall.

sukuna’s voice carries from the right in guidance where you find him setting his food off to the side. the room is neat. though you don’t know what you were expecting given the health expectations lining his work. then again, you’d spent the better part of the decade watching him cart week old pizza boxes out of his room so it was hardly a baseless assumption.

aside from the desk of tools and variety of inks the only other defining feature was the wall at the back. there was no rhyme or direction to the madness. the once white wall was littered with varying penmanships and messages. almost like an autograph book. some derogatory, others genuinely thankful for his work - you think you see a few numbers too.

the cushion of the seat protests under his weight as he rolls to the center of the room. he has the stencil of your chosen art held up in expectation.

“where is this pretty little thing going?”

“oh my rib- here on the right.” you think nothing of bringing up the hem of your shirt to expose the skin just under the curve of your breast.

he almost looks impressed, though there is some doubt. he wheels closer and gives no warning as his hand palpates the area. “over the bone? that’s daring for your first tattoo, princess.”

the name was nothing new, an accompaniment to yuuji’s ‘brat’.

part of you actually grateful that its sukuna. the entire shop had good reviews but it was best known for his talent. besides, the charge was already sitting on your card.

“i can handle it.”

he’s still squinting at your side, fingers tickling at your skin.

“yeah?” he answers absently. nimble digits you didn't think had any taste for delicacy carefully peel the plastic from the stencil. he doesn’t second guess himself in the slightest before pressing it to your skin.

when he pulls away, the chair follows him as he collects a hand mirror from his desk to reflect the design back to you.

“double sure?” he’s still rallying your resolve, but there is a hint of warning to his voice as professionalism seeps in.

with a firm nod you seal the deal,” yeah.”

“aright, pin up your shirt out of the way. tuck it into your bra if you want.”

you were expecting this already, given the location you’d decided on. with sukuna that action comes effortlessly without thought. it was no different than the times he’d seen you in your bathing suit, your brain reasoned. at least you still had your pants this time.

sukuna rests back into a lean against his small desk. absently you note that his eyes haven't left you once since you’d entered the room.

“eager little thing aren't you?”

but its sukuna.

you shrug.“ i guess. kind of been saving up for this one.”

the noise he makes is non-committal as he nods to the angled chair.

without your shirt there was no barrier between yourself and the leather. you expected the cold chill but the lack of stickiness kind of surprised you. once again you were reminded of the indisputable list of reviews at your fingertips.

sukuna goes about collecting the materials to disinfect your skin, angling the bottle and cotton over the trash can to catch the excess drops. satisfied with the saturation, he slides back.

you try to absorb the brief shock you feel when he applies the alcohol to your skin. it was hardly a substitute for actual bracing to come but it was good practice. when you look up, you catch his gaze again.

he’d been more observant in these last few minutes than you could ever recall sukuna caring before. maybe it was the job. though the thought of him excelling at customer service has you fighting a snort.

“cold,” you supply and he gives another grunt.

he chucks the cotton ball into the trash with all the efficiency of a man who has made a sport out of it and probably keeps score.

deciding on a solid color eliminated the need for him to break away to change shades, eliminating any surplus time keeping you in this chair.

a gloved hand braces your side, pinching the skin, while the other holding the gun rests against your sternum. when the motor starts you take a careful breath in. sukuna’s eyes raise at the sound.

“not nervous?”

you blink, expecting him to just get to it.

“uh, not really? i’ve never really been afraid of needles.”

he pauses. just when you part your lips to ask what wrong the buzzing starts.

its impossible not to tense at the first bite of the needle. but you fight the urge to jerk. it stings. the vibration of the motor is uncomfortable against your ribcage but it's not unbearable. you certainly wouldn't cry.

sukuna seems to notice it as well.

“not going to lie thought you’d be more of a cry baby? weren't you the one sobbing after you stubbed your toe.”

you latch onto the idle chatter even if it's a jibe.

“i was eleven and i sprained that toe.”

he gives you a quick glance. “sure, princess. completely called for the waterworks.”

you snort. “yeah well it made me stronger. im barely affected today.”

your words are followed by a shift of his hand as it turns to follow a line, the movement pressing firmly against the underside of your breast. you're too attentive to the needle pinching at your skin to take notice.

but sukuna does, eyes narrowing without your awareness.

“yeah, i can see that.”

rather than closing your eyes to block out the pain, you find a more comforting distraction in tracing the lines of his tattoos with your gaze. you can hardly make out the first tattoo he’d gotten at the age of seventeen after forging his parents signature. 

the abstract design had now branched out, interlocking with new styles to map out the formation of a sleeve. it was almost like his own branded language. a dialect of bold shapes and bands. you’d never thought to actually ask what his tattoos meant. nor did you expect an honest answer.  

sukuna works rather quickly and efficiently while your mind wandered. even if he hadn’t squeezed you in during his lunch break this felt like the usual pace for him. he looked so in the zone as he followed the pre-made lines to perfection.

you weren’t the model customer, still having your brief moments of weakness but he rolled with the interruptions better than you expected. sukuna was brash growing up and didn’t tolerate nonsensical people. you’d had your fair share of opportunities to be chewed out by him.

and earned a reasonable amount of them, though your returning attitude said otherwise.

but this sukuna was softer, if you could put it like that. he knew the right time to give you breaks but didn’t let your nerves settle too much. when he wasn’t adding a layer to permanency to your skin, an errant finger would smooth over the swelling flesh.

more than once you heard him throw out a quiet good girl. that you knew was meant to be encouraging but it came with additional implications that tickled your skin.

he tells you that you should be grateful that the artwork doesn’t need any shading. that it was never a good fit for beginners.

your chest expands the furthest it had in the last half hour when he finally rolls back.

“alright, princess, go ahead and take a look.”

you take the offered mirror again and angle it to take in the fresh piece. the reflection you get back is- amazing. you’d been so concentrated?? on micromanaging the pain that you failed to take in the little details he’d added along with the original design.

as if reading your thoughts, he snorts. “it's not my art if i don't leave my mark. you can tell me it looks good you know.”

if you didn't know any better, you’d say he was authentic in his attempt to bait your approval.

and you had no reason not to provide.

your legs are a little shaky but you manage to balance yourself before brining the eldest itadori into a hug. sukuna goes stiff for a moment before returning the embrace and doesn’t resist when you press your face into his shoulder. there’s an awkward pat before they release each other from the hold.

sukuna .. before he’s shrugging you off.

“god, what a noob. at least let me cover it up. you’re going to irritate the skin.”

when he turns back to rummage through his desk you note the hint of a flush creeping up his nape. you know better than to mention it, instead just smiling at his back.

there is a scowl on his face as he applies the cotton square to your skin and tapes it in place.

“please do not itch this shit. i don’t care if you feel like your skin is going to fall off.”

he presses a small tube of antibiotic into your hand.

“and apply this daily. you don't need it drying out. “

you’re grateful for the little slip of printed instructions that follow. you were able to remember the sensible directions but it couldn't hurt to have additional guidance when you started to question the progress.

“oh and no sex.”

that was definitely not on the list.

sukuna raises a brow in all seriousness. “what? if you get your blood pumping too much.”

you call him on his bullshit,” this small? hardly. “

he raises his hands in mock surrender. “alright, try it yourself if you want. i charge for touch ups though.”

the two of you size each other up. just like old times.

with a sigh you relent, “fine, no sex.”

“good, see me in two weeks.”

his words stop you short. it wasn’t as if you needed anything added and he wasn’t a physician checking on your progress. if anything, you would only revisit your artist if there was a problem.

“what for?”

the dawning grin would follow you for the next fourteen days.

“to make sure you didn’t have sex.”

[theblackpearls]

Mirror Mirror

Synopsis: You are Chris Evans date for the endgame Premiere. That is if you can make it on time.

Warning: Smut. Oral Sex (Man receiving). Raw Sex (Use condoms IRL. Safe sex is the best sex) Mirror Kink (if that's a kink)

A/N: Had this in my drafts...enjoy!

You look at yourself in the long mirror of your walk-in closet. The dusty rose shirt that has a deep V-neck complements your honey skin perfectly. Your boobs look great and real compared to Rebecca’s fake ones. The Black leather skirt on you inches your waist and stops short above your thighs.

You smile as you see Chris in the reflection He wraps his arms from behind you and lays his chin on your shoulder.

“Damn,” Chris said. “I am the luckiest man alive.”

You smile at his words and look at you both in the mirror. He was a guy and didn’t exactly dress up but when he did, God himself could not look away from the creature he sculpted. Chris has a green t-shirt on and a black blazer over it. His blue jeans hug him in all the right places. You thank God every day that he is yours and that You are his. Life was good. Chris was perfect. You weren’t perfect but shit that didn’t matter. As long as Chris thought you were perfect you didn’t care.

“And don’t you forget it,” You say softly.

“Never,” Chris says as he kisses your shoulder blade.

He continues to kiss your shoulder and then moves up to your neck. You look in the mirror and meet his eyes. Chris loves to watch you react to him. His blue eyes darken, and You know that you’re going to be late to the party. You don’t mind, you didn’t want to go anyway. Chris continues to kiss your neck, not taking his eyes off of you in the mirror. You watch as his hands slips to your long legs and then pulls up your skirt.

You cannot see your sex in the mirror, but that doesn’t mean that Chris doesn’t find it. His hands run over the lace underwear and You hear him groan.

“I’m tired of you and this damn underwear,” Chris says. “I like you bare, makes it easier for me,”

“I didn’t think we’d do this so soon,” You say. “I at least thought you would have saved it for the limo,”

“Oh,” Chris said with a wicked smirk. “Don’t think I won’t fuck you in the limo too,”

Your cheeks flush at his words. At this rate, you were never going to make it to the party. As long as you were being touched by Chris, you didn’t care if you ever left the house. Chris’s hands don’t slip in your underwear. His hands skim over the fabric that covers your sex and you moan.

Your eyes do not leave Chris as you get down on your knees. Your hands move to Chris buckle and before you can move he grabs your hands to stop you. You never pictured yourself doing this, but you’ve done it for Chris multiple times. At first, you were uncomfortable but then as time went on You enjoyed it. After all, you were pleasing Chris and that’s all you ever wanted. Both of you needed to enjoy sex and this came with it. Chris brings your hands to his lips and kisses them.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Chris reminds.

“I want to,” You say.

Chris smiles at your words and then places your hands on his hips. You move your hands to his buckle and undo them. You slide his pants down and look at his hips. His member is not well hidden in his black Calvin Klein boxers. You’ve had many boyfriends, but Chris was different. You didn’t have sex with them, you waited till marriage, till Chris. But every time Chris made love to you, you knew that his size and length was not normal. You thought that penises the length of your forearm and the width of your write was only in Wattpad books. But with Chris, you soon found out that it wasn’t a myth.

Your hands pull down Chris’s boxers and you are met with his penis, erect and ready for you. You look up at Chris and he still has that worried look. You want to show him that you can do it and that you want to, for him. This is the time you’d get on your knees and not pray. You move one hand to his penis and hold it softly in your tiny hands. Chris hisses at the contact, your soft hands feel the blood pulsing in his length.

You do not take your eyes off of Chris, he likes watching you. You want him to watch you. You run your hand up and down his length, pumping him slowly. You thought you could use one hand, but Chris is big that you always end up using both of your hands. As you pump with both of your hands, Chris hisses and meets your eyes. You love that he is becoming weak just by your touch. You then smile at him and kiss the tip of his penis.

“Fuck…” Chris hisses and slowly his eyes.

You want him to open his eyes and watch you. You kiss the sides of his length while the other hands go to his balls and massage them. Chris opens his eyes again and looks at your work. You smirk as you sit on your knees. You then open your mouth and suck on the tip. You flick your tongue over the opening and Chris groans. You swirl your tongue around while playing with his balls as well. You want to go further and give him the pleasure he gives you. You move your hand farther down his length and your mouth follows the same motion, taking more of him.

“Baby…” Chris moans.

You ignore him and move down until his length fills your mouth. You then move your head up and down in a constant motion. Sucking, twisting and turning, you give Chris pleasure like he’s never known. Chris’s hands move a few stray hairs from your face and holds it. You look up at him as you continue to suck him. His mouth is open and phantom curses fall from his mouth. His eyes close and he is fighting to keep his balance. You feel his penis harden and you know this feeling all too well. Chris would never release in your mouth, he loved you too much to disrespect you like that. But maybe he wants that tonight, so you continue. Chris then pulls his hips away from your mouth and you look at him, upset.

“No, Babygirl” Chris says. “I want to come inside you,”

Chris then gets on his knees and lays down, his head at the base of the mirror. You then smile and straddle your husband. You hold his length up, ready to ride him and then you groan.

“What?” Chris asks with pain in his voice, he needs to release.

You quickly move off of your husband and remove your underwear. You then position yourself over him again and roll your eyes. Chris is smiling and waiting for his smart comment.

“I told you,” Chris said. “No underwear makes this so much easier,”

“I’ll listen for now on,” You say as you rub your sex over his and let out a soft whimper.

“Look at yourself,” Chris command. “I want you to see how fucking sexy you look,”

You look at yourself in the mirror and blush. Your hair is messed up but that isn’t what he wants you to see. Chris wants you to watch yourself fuck him. You position yourself above his length using the mirror. You then slide yourself on his tip and you both let out a moan. You close your eyes at the sensation and Chris slaps your ass hand.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Chris says.

You open them again and smile at him. You then lower yourself onto Chris bit by bit. With each movement, you see Chris slowly sink into you. Your heat widens as his length fills you. Once he is fully encased in you, you moan. You then place your hands on his check and slowly begin to move your hips. You don’t know if it’s the mirror or your husband, but this sex feels better and different. You move your hips up and down meeting Chris thrust. His hands fall on your hips and digs his nails into them. You let out a hiss but keep your eyes open. Your breasts bounce up and down in the shirt and you’re kind of upset that you aren’t fully naked. Chris always have good ideas about sex, and this was now one of your favorites.

“Having fun?” Chris groans still meeting your thrust.

You don’t speak, just nod and you continue to bounce on him. Sweat drips down your head and the sound of skin against skin fills the air. A thrust caused you to shutter and Chris can tell he’s found your spot. Chris then pulls your hips closer to his and lights himself up. He then wraps his arms around your waist, his back facing the mirror, but you can still see yourself. Your legs are wrapped around Chris’s torso as are your hands around his neck. You can see the desire in your eyes, your messy hair and lustful glow that encases you both.

“Chris?” You question.

“Keep going, baby,” Chris says. “You’ve never seen yourself, come. It’s an amazing sight, and I want you to see it,”

You nod and kiss your husbands’ lips. You hold onto each other and continue to make love. His wanton thrust meets your accepting ones. You moan and grip him tighter, his speed picking up. Your breast hit his chest with every powerful movement. You feel yourself being, going over the edge, the only way Chris can. You lay your head on Chris’s shoulder and still have your eyes open, you want to see it. You want to see how Chris sees you.

Your back arches and you fight to not throw yourself back. Chris pulls you closer into his chest and You keep your eyes on the mirror. The veins on your neck peek through and your mouth falls open as you release onto your husband. Seconds later, he releases in you, filling you with his essence.  You can see Chris’s shoulder tense from the mirror. Once he is finished emptying himself in you, his back relaxes.

“Chris…” You whimper.

As you come down from your high, you rest your head on his shoulder. He holds you and doesn’t disconnect from you. He likes it, being encased by you. You don’t mind for there is no place you’d rather be. Chris rubs your bag and chuckles at the moment. Chris realizes you only have ten minutes left to make it to the party.

[saintshigaraki]

won’t you give me your cruelest smile

↳ DARK ACADEMIA TSUKISHIMA KEI 

pairing: tsukishima kei x gn!reader

word count: 1.4k

excerpt: 

He makes no move to get up as he watches you pack. “You really don’t like me, do you?” He sounds far too pleased for your liking.

“No one likes you,” you snap back, stuffing the last heavy tome in your bag and shouldering it. “You’re an ass.”

a/n: @yamagucji​​ said dark academia tsukki and my brain quite literally short circuited 

tags: enemies-ish to lovers (more like academic rivals to lovers), tsukki being an annoyingly smart condescending history major, reader goes through the five stages of grief when they realize they might actually li- 🤢 like him, a reference to the classic ‘ooooh you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid’ 

If there is a single, minuscule, barely visible silver lining in having Tsukishima as a partner for your quarter project it is that, without a doubt, he is smart. 

You have to admit, begrudgingly, that his intellect borders on genius-level which is something you use as silent proof to attest to your working theory that there is in fact, no god, or at the very least not a kind one, because if there was they wouldn’t be blessing gremlins like the one sitting across from you with a gift like that. 

He’s quiet now (after about an hour of telling you all the ways your interpretation was oh so very wrong) and content to stare at you lazily, his eyes half-lidded and filled with his specific brand of cruel amusement that leaves you wanting to do nothing more than smack his black-rimmed glasses right off his smug face. 

You take a deep breath and try desperately to quell the utterly unique type of rage he elicits in you, although as always, nothing you do ever quite manages to bring your boiling blood to a simmer. 

He’s twirling his expensive black pen between his stupidly long fingers. Every once in a while the light catches on the onyx stone of his pinky ring which somehow manages to flash directly in your eyes every time. He notices, of course. He notices everything. Which makes you think he’s doing it on purpose just to be an ass.

Which, admittedly, is perfectly in line with everything else he does so, you come to the frustrating conclusion that he most definitely is doing it on purpose. 

“You’re embarrassingly easy to rile up,” he says, interrupting your silent seething, his voice deep and smooth and absolutely dripping with condescending satisfaction. 

Your eyes flash up from the book you’d been only barely processing just to be met with his own golden-brown ones. He’s smirking down at you, of course. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him wear any other sort of expression. 

You want nothing more than to glare at him but that would just be proving his point so instead, you snap your book shut. It rings out loudly in the empty library. 

“It’s late. Let’s start this backup tomorrow.”

He makes no move to get up as he watches you pack. “You really don’t like me, do you?” he sounds far too pleased for your liking. 

“No one likes you,” you snap back, stuffing the last heavy tome in your bag and shouldering it. “You’re an ass.” 

He tilts his head back, exposing his long neck, and laughs. It’s so deep you feel it in your own chest. You just barely manage to suppress a shiver, which thank fuck, because he would’ve most definitely noticed it and you don’t think you’d be able to live that down. 

You make your way towards the front doors but not before he manages to slip on his wool coat and catch up to you, with ease of course, his long legs have become your number one enemy over the quarter because he always, always, catches up with you when you try to speed walk away from him. 

The autumn chill immediately settles into your bones, your skin prickles unpleasantly. You can see your breath in the night air. A shitty end to a shit day. 

You both head down the cobbled street in strangely comfortable silence. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat he radiates and you’re silently thankful for it. 

You get to the fork in the path where he takes his way back to his dorm and you take yours but instead of peeling off left like he usually does he sticks to your side. 

You stop immediately and eye him up warily. “What are you doing?”

He rolls his eyes. “Asking idiotic questions doesn’t really suit you, you know.” 

You say nothing, content to narrow your eyes. 

He rolls his eyes again and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m walking you home, try not to be a brat about it.” 

“You never walk me home,” you point out, suspiciously. 

“You are rather good at pointing out the very obvious, aren’t you?” and before you can respond he already had turned on his heels and started walking. You have to half jog to catch up. 

You watch him out of the corner of your eye with the intent of trying to read his motive but you get stuck on the fact that his cheeks are flushed rather prettily from the cold. 

“You sure do love to stare, don’t you?” he asks rather conversationally. 

You’ve never wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole more in your entire life. Your cheeks burn hot even in the frigid cold. 

He notices. Of course he does. What does Tsukishima Kei not notice?

“No need to be embarrassed,” he needles cruelly. “Denial can be a brutal beast.”

You only barely manage to stop yourself from asking what exactly he means by that, what exactly he thinks you’re in denial about. 

But you know he wants nothing more than for you to ask so you take a sweet sort of satisfaction in not questioning him further, at least on that front. 

The rest of the walk back to your dorm is spent in less comfortable silence than before. There’s an odd sort of tension in the air, like a rope pulled so tight you can physically feel it starting to fray, getting ready to snap.

It comes to a head when, after getting to your building, instead of immediately going inside you find yourself looking down and shuffling your feet.

You know you should thank him, even if you didn’t ask him to walk you home. You guys never worked this late, you’d lost track of time (it’s scarily easy to lose track of time when arguing with Tsukishima) and you know it was nice of him to walk you home when he’d have to double back another 15 minutes in the freezing cold to get to his place. 

You know you should thank him. It’s the reasonable, polite thing to do. But it’s just so fucking hard to be reasonable and polite when Tsukishima Kei and his galaxy-sized ego are involved. No one in your entire life has been able to get under your skin as he has. It’s like he was perfectly crafted to be your own personal headache. 

You brave a glance up at him and find that he’s standing very, very close and staring, rather intensely, at you. A curiously amused gleam in his eye. 

Your mind stutters and then stops completely, going painfully blank. 

He’s so stupidly pretty. 

His skin is flawless, you’ve never once seen him with even a single pimple, his hair is the nicest pale-blond you’ve ever seen and it falls in perfect tufts against his forehead, but it’s his eyes that always make you shift from foot to foot. They’re such a unique shade of golden-brown, and now, shrouded in the dark and mere inches away from your own face, you’d swear on your life they were practically glowing.

“You’ve got something on your mind?” he asks, his tone anything but sweet. He’s so close you can smell the warm spice of his cologne and the ever-clinging scent of ancient books that seems to follow him wherever he goes. 

“I-” but you can’t seem to put together a coherent sentence. You don’t think you’ve ever hated someone so much in your life. 

Somehow, he’s managed to push in even closer. “You know what I think?”

No, you want to say, and I don’t want to know. Your heart is beating far too fast and you can’t explain why. 

(You know exactly why)

“I think you want to kiss me.”

And just like that the rope snaps and you’re viciously tugging him down by the collar of his too-nice coat so you can smash your lips against his. 

The kiss is brutal. Far too mean with too much teeth. At one point you taste the sting of iron and you can’t tell if the blood is his or yours. 

He backs you up against a wall without breaking the kiss. When he bites at your lip, no doubt cutting it open, you grab a fist full of his hair and tug cruelly and his responding groan tastes so sweet on your tongue. 

He doesn’t pull away until your lungs are screaming for air. 

He’s inches away from you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen (and a little bloody), and his hair is a mess. It’s the most out of sorts you’ve ever seen him. 

If you thought he was pretty before, he’s absolutely beautiful now. 

His smirk widens into a full blown smile and you understand now why he doesn’t show it often. It shows too many teeth, it’s downright wolfish. Predatory, even. 

You don’t really have time to think on it though before he pulls you into another bruising kiss. 

have some dark academia tsukishima headcanons while you’re here

he is without a doubt the most pretentious asshole you will ever meet and and you will HATE yourself for eventually finding him weirdly charming in any capacity

he is, of course, a history major which. if you have ever met pretentious male history majors you will know that this means he is a literal walking, talking, annoyingly tall headache

interrupts professors constantly. does it like he’s getting paid. will argue and argue and argue with them without that dumb condescending smirk ever, ever managing to slip off his face

(the worst part is, he’s honestly probably making a good point most of the time. but you’d quite literally rather die than admit that to him)

he is always walking around campus lazily flipping through leather bound books so old they’re cracked precariously at their spines, all on different ancient civilizations. you’d think that’d mean he’d be running into people but the student body collectively parts like the red sea for him which sets your teeth on edge.

he’s unbelievably arrogant and the worst part is its not baseless like you find yourself so desperately wishing it was

he IS smart, wickedly so. disgustingly, cruelly intelligent and he will use it to pick you apart piece by piece while that stupid fucking smirk stays glued on his face.

(you start to seriously question whether or not he’s even human because how can anyone keep the same, perfectly calculated expression for that long?)

always looks like he stepped straight out of some dark alternate universe vogue photoshoot with his constant rotation of black turtlenecks, long coats, and oxford loafers all tied together by the same 5 rings he’s never seen without, two of which are set with hefty onyx stones

you will be unlucky enough to be paired up with him for a project that will take all quarter long and multiple meet ups a week. when your professor announced your partner, you genuinely consider dropping the class and when you find out you wouldn’t be able to drop the class without switching majors, you genuinely consider switching majors

you don’t. and by the end of the quarter you’re really starting to question whether that was a good thing or not

[fallensimeon]

Take Me For A Ride (NSFW 18+)

A spicy F!MC x Mammon smut mixed with a little angst and fluff, my first time trying out writing! Don’t judge too harshly, I tried my best y’know!

Topic warnings: F!MC, angst, smut, fluff, intercourse, car sex, fellatio, rough play (nearly BDSM-ish), biting, blood, curse words, yelling, dirty talking. Read at your own risk! 

Words: 5,419

Y/N has enough of the brothers attacking Mammon, and comforts him when he needs her the most. One thing leads to another, and, well... let’s just say they go for the ride of a lifetime.

18+! MINORS, PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT!

If you like my work, please feel free to like, comment, follow, share, or REBLOG. Thank you for taking the time to read my first piece!

It was a gloomy day down in the Devildom, just one of those days where tensions were high in the House of Lamentation. You were in your room, having just completed your homework so you began studying for a test coming up in the next few days. You had a good feeling you were going to ace it, so you began to organize your books and papers and stash them away in your bag.

You were tired. You had felt overworked as of late, always having work to do, or having one of the brothers drag you into one of their troubles as usual. But today? Nobody had reached out. Everyone had seemed so distant from one another. That wasn’t normal, it was always loud in the house no matter where you went. The fact that it was so quiet for once was shocking.

You finished packing up your school supplies and leaned your backpack against your desk in your room. You just wanted to relax, so you decided to ease your chest and arms comfortably onto your desk and scroll through Devilgram for a while. Looking through the brothers’ profiles always put a smile on your face, because they sometimes posted the most hilarious pictures. However, you found yourself on Mammon’s profile for the longest. 

He was a model, of course he was stunning. Perfectly-tanned skin, luscious snow white locks gracing his head, the most beautiful blue eyes that almost glowed gold. You could never tell him how you really felt, he would just push you away. Plus, there was probably some model out there who was after him already anyways. Why would Mammon want to be with some weak human?

You jumped slightly as a text notification popped up on your screen.

“Dinner is ready, please make your way to the dining hall. You wouldn’t want Beel to get to your plate first,” Lucifer sent. You chuckled and began to make your way down to have dinner. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be as awkward as it was earlier that day.

You make it down to the dining hall, not a single of the brothers making eye contact with you. You froze in your tracks. You can’t lie, that hurt a little bit, you figured at least one of them might greet you.

♡

“Good to see you, Y/N. Come, take a seat. I know you have been working hard up there, you need to eat well,” Lucifer stated, a slight smile on his face. He was glad that at least one of you was focused on your studies that day.

You smiled, finally someone broke the awkward silence. “Thank you Lucifer.”

You made your way around the long table to find an open seat. Your heart fluttered as you walked your way past Mammon, smelling the arousing scent of his cologne waft past your face. You smiled and let out a low but happy sigh, and he looked up for just a second having heard you, a light blush on his face. “Y’know I don’t bite, you can come sit next to me human,” Mammon said lightly, making eye contact with you for the first time that day.

You felt a shudder run down your spine. His voice is so alluring, you could listen to it all day every day. A blush forms on your cheeks as you take a seat next to him.

Everyone around you is surprisingly in their own conversations with one another, which is pretty odd after earlier. Although, you were happy to hear the voices of all of your favorite people around the room. You couldn’t dare to complain, it was nice seeing everyone let go of the awkward tension that had previously filled the House of Lamentation. This, however, was short-lived.

You were almost done with your dinner, only a few forkfuls left, when you heard an argument start. “Oh great, here we go again,” you thought to yourself as you looked up to see Lucifer standing up behind Mammon. You didn’t have a good feeling about this.

“You worthless scumbag, what did you do with my new Ruri-chan figure?!” Levi yelled, close enough to Mammon’s face to spit on him whilst speaking.

“My new perfume went missing too, I bet it had something to do with that idiot,” Asmo shouted across the table at him, a sour glare on his face.

“Come to think of it, my new mystery novel went missing last night, I was going to read it but I couldn’t find it,” Satan added to the fire.

The twins began to spew on about how much of a moron Mammon was, him having done nothing to either of them. Lucifer began to holler at Mammon about every little thing he finds wrong when you realize that was the last straw. You weren’t going to sit there and let everyone torment the demon that meant most to you. You looked over at Mammon, trembling in his seat, trying to hold back tears as his brothers kept pushing him further and further over the edge. He looked like he could break at any second. You know for a fact he didn’t take anyone’s things, he was with you all day yesterday. It couldn’t have been him.

“KNOCK IT OFF, ALL OF YOU! BACK OFF! I THINK HE’S HAD ENOUGH ALREADY!” you shouted at the top of your lungs. The boys all froze in shock and fear, never expecting that out of you. Tears began to stream down your face. You never thought you would see the day that you would have to break up an argument, especially when the only people Mammon trusted were his brothers. Seeing them all treat him like shit made you angry  and upset.

“Y/N...” Lucifer sighed and began to speak, but you weren’t going to give him the chance to continue.

“C’mon Mammon, you don’t deserve this, let’s get out of here,” you gently took hold of Mammon’s hand and dragged him away from the table towards his bedroom. The dining hall fell completely silent once again.

♡

You make it all the way to Mammon’s bedroom door when he stops you in your tracks, pulling your arm back towards him lightly. You turn around to see his cheeks burning red, the tears that formed earlier finally starting to come down his face. He looked somewhat relieved, somewhat embarrassed at the same time. He just barely lifted his head to look you in the eyes.

“You didn’t have to go and do that for me human, ya know I can’t handle m’self, right? I-I just needed to think of what t’say...” he said softly, not enough confidence in his voice for you to believe it for a second.

He was shaking, more so than when he usually gets yelled at. You gently let go of his hand and lifted your hand to cup his right cheek, brushing away his tears with your thumb. He felt so warm.

“Mammoney, I wasn’t just going to sit there and let them stomp all over you like that. They have NO evidence to prove that you took anything from them, but they kept going anyway. I’m so sick of their bullshit, watch them find all of their things that they misplaced themselves. I hope they hate themselves for treating you like that.” You loosened your hand from his cheek and tucked your body against his, arms wrapped around his warm shoulders, bringing him in for a cozy embrace.

This broke him. He leaned into your embrace, the tears streaming down his face as he sobbed into the crook of your neck. The two of you stood in a hug for at least 2 minutes straight, neither of you daring to break away. It just felt so nice, you never wanted to let go.

“Th-thank you Y/N, I’m glad you trust me enough t’know I wouldn’t steal their boring stuff. Why would I need Asmo’s perfume, let alone Satan’s book? Y’know, I-I wonder if they think before they point f-fingers like that. C’mon human, let’s get inside, I just w-wanna relax.” Mammon explains with the slightest blushy grin on his face. He opens the door to let you in first, and closes it behind him.

You had never been in Mammon’s room before, he’s never let you in before now. Your eyes scanned around the room, in awe of how cozy it was. His plush leather sofa and a mahogany wood pool table beside it, bottles of alcohol and a few grimm strewn across it. He has a projector rather than a television, two speakers beside the coffee table below it. He has an open concept closet, adorned with studio lights, and his bed pressed flush on the other side of the wall. His room has two floors, the only things up there being his entryway door... and a car? How did he get this in here? What kind of car was it? How interesting. Rather than walking down the stairs as Mammon was expecting you to do, you made your way towards his car and leaned against the hood.

“Is this your car? It’s so amazing! I can’t imagine how much money you must have put into this beauty,” you exclaimed, being somewhat an admirer of cars, having been raised by your father who’s life revolves around them. You grazed your hand over the headlights and the grill along the front, a glint in your eyes from the spotlights shining down on you and the car.

Mammon was standing next to the door, choked up to say the very least. He was blushing furiously, gripping into his lush white hair with his hand, head tilted down and giggling. “Y’mean my Demonia? It’s nothing really, Lucifer helped me get it a while back once I got my license. Pretty cool right? Of course the Great Mammon is cool!” he chuckled, barely able to keep eye contact with you. The truth was, the car meant a lot to him and it did cost a lot, but he couldn’t focus on that right now. He was too busy staring you down, lights glistening against your soft skin, looking oh-so-hot leaned up against his car like that. Little did you know you were his treasure, he admired you every second he got, whether you realized it or not. He began to walk over to you, leaning next to you on the hood, resting his hand softly against yours, interlocking fingers with you.

Needless to say, you were surprised. You jumped slightly at his touch, hesitant to move. You returned the favor regardless, locking your fingers between his, the warmth of his body flushing through your veins, instantly calming you. He means everything to you, and now this? How can you not tell him how you feel now? This was the best opportunity you could get your hands on. You let go of his hand and made your way off of the hood of the car, locked his bedroom door, dimmed his lights slightly, and made your way back over to him. You inched closer to him, barely hugging distance away.

He was looking up at you softly, still blushing. He was shaking a little bit, but you were too, of course. Now was your chance. It was now or never. Either you tell him how you feel now, or hold it in and never find out if your feelings are reciprocated. Your heart was ready to burst out of your chest, but you couldn’t hold back any longer.

♡

“Mammon, you know I care about you... more than myself sometimes, if I’m being honest. Any time I see you enter the room or my eyes meet up with you, I get tons of butterflies inside. You make me feel like I’m not just some useless human that nobody likes. You make me feel special, and I just want you to know that... I love you. I’m in love with you...” you paused, too nervous to continue.

Mammon.exe has stopped working. You... love HIM? The moron, the idiot, the scumbag? You deserve better, but he can’t deny how he really feels. His brothers aren’t anywhere around, so now’s his chance.

“I-human I... I love you too. Y’mean everything to me. I can’t stand seeing my brothers eyeing you up and taking all of my time with ya away from me. You’re MY human... my... my treasure. You deserve better than me, I’m just some lousy good-for-nothi-” he couldn’t speak anymore. You held him by his cheeks and pulled his face to yours, kissing him on his lips. The first tender moment shared between the two of you, your first kiss. He sits still for a moment before realizing what’s happening, leaning into your kiss and holding you by your waist. Your chests graze against one another as the kiss turns more passionate. Mammon slides his tongue against your lips asking for permission before you slide your tongue in between his. You felt higher than a kite at that moment, the butterflies seemingly flying out through the top of your head.

Before long, you were straddling his lap on the hood of his car, breathing into his neck as he planted kisses along your collarbone, nibbling at you and caressing your lower back. You both pulled away from each other to look into each others’ eyes.

“So this is really happening huh?” you blush and look down, feeling a tad bit shy. Mammon brings his hand up to your cheek, some of his fingers lacing into your hair. “We don’t have to do anything ya don’t wanna do, but first...” he places his hands lovingly on your hips and looks into your eyes. “I want you to be mine and only mine, ya hear? No mackin’ on my brothers or anythin’... you’re MY treasure. Well, if you’ll let me have ya...” he starts blushing too, barely able to keep his eyes on you. The words you have been waiting to hear, that you’re HIS and only his... it makes you melt. You hold onto his hips, and lean in to whisper into his ear. “Of course I’m yours, and only yours. You can have all of me if you want it, and I mean ALL of me...” you whisper and nibble on his earlobe, a smirk forming across your face.

He can’t hold back anymore. He slams his mouth against yours in the most passionate kiss, moaning against your lips and pulling you in closer, pressing you against his chest. His hands start to slip under your shirt, making their way up your bare back until he reaches about midway. He looks at you as if he’s asking permission, to which you respond by grazing your hands over his upper thighs. You lean in once again to whisper sensually, “So have you ever done it in your car?”

♡

His excitement cannot be contained, his body heats up hotter as the bulge in his pants grows harder. Without another word, Mammon scoots off of the car, grabbing you underneath your thighs and carrying you into the backseat of his car, placing you gently while he pushes the seats back and reclining them back further. The open space has grown larger. He climbs his way into the car and shuts the door behind him, hovering over you.

He doesn’t waste any time before he starts to undress you. He slips your uniform jacket off followed by your tank top, revealing your black lace bralette. You whisper in his ear “You like that? I bet you’ll like it more when you see the panties I have to match.”

You set off a fire in his chest, a low growl seeping out from his throat. He sheds his uniform jacket and tears off his undershirt, a huge ripping noise emerging, making you increasingly wet as the tension increases. His bare chest is a glorious sight to behold... so sexy and strong, so protective.

He pushes you back against the seat and makes room to slide off your uniform pants, whilst you slide your shoes off and kick them into the passenger seat beside you. He makes his way down to your feet, carefully sliding off your socks which he notices have a grimm pattern on them, and slyly smirks. His eyes scan your exposed skin from your head to your toes and back up, revving him up even more.

♡

He begins to kiss you from your feet, up your calves and your thighs, until he reaches your inner thighs. Your black lace panties meet his face, becoming more and more flushed. He slides his hands up to the waistband and toys with the lace, planting his face against the fabric. That smell... the smell of arousal... it’s so strong. He could only imagine how wet you are for him. He looks up at you and you nod, giving permission to continue.

Mammon growls and grabs your waistband with his teeth, the sound of tearing lace floods the car. You moan in response, wishing you could hear him like this all the time. Your hands reach down to your now exposed heat and stroke the lips, shining from how slick he made you. Mammon’s eyes start shining, staring down as if he’s a predator who’s just hunted down his prey. He licks his lips and flashes his teeth, slight fangs showing. You spread your lips for him and make your legs more comfortable, inviting him to take a taste.

“Mn... you’re so perfect Y/N, so wet for me, I can almost taste it,” he leans down and begins lapping his tongue at your clit. Shudders run up and down your spine from the senastion, bringing out a sensual moan from your chest, back arching. Mammon grips onto your thighs and holds them open. He drags his tongue up and down your opening, sliding it inside of you. He moans into you, admiring how you taste, your flavor. He makes his way back up to your clit, the tip of his tongue dancing around it. He looks up and you and smirks, sliding two fingers inside of you, pulsing them in and out at a steady pace, curling his fingertips from time to time. You can’t help but let out a moan, never having felt so stimulated and so turned-on before.

“M-Mammon... p-p-please... k-keep going b-baby...” you moaned out as he brought you closer and closer to your orgasm. Did you just call him your baby? Oh, he heard that. He wants to hear it again. He pulses his fingers inside you faster and faster, sucking on your clit, giving you no mercy. The heat inside of you is unbearable. You begin to buck your hips against his face and grab him by the hair, pushing him against your heat, your other hand gripping tightly against the leather seat below you,

It was taking everything Mammon had to not whip himself out and slam himself into you, but he had to make himself more comfortable. As he continued, he used his left hand to undo his pants, releasing his bulge hidden by his boxers. He was only getting harder as you moaned his name again and again.

“I’m... I’m gonna.. gaaaAAAHH!” you moaned out as you reached your orgasm, letting your grip loose from his hair as your body let go of the tension. Mammon laps his tongue down to clean up the mess you made. He gathers some on his tongue, looking up to you with his tongue sticking out, when he suddenly takes it into his mouth and swallows you.

He notices the flaming blush that adorns your cheeks. He brings himself up, sitting on your thighs, his bulge prominent. You stare down his body, glazed in sweat, realizing he lapsed into his demon form as you came down from your orgasm. His horns were shining, wings folded against his back as the car wasn’t a big enough space to let them free. You were positioned on the driver’s side back passenger’s seat, so you decided to slide into the center seat. You reach your hands to touch Mammon’s back, stroking his wings ever so gently. He moans in response, realizing he’s sensitive there. You begin to help guide them open as he leans into you. They fly open and block the whole view out of the windshield, darkening the space between you.

♡

Your hands come down to meet his waistband, tugging on it carefully. You look up into Mammon’s eyes, he can see the desire written over your face. He makes his bulge dance in response, prompting you to go for it. You drag down his boxers and out springs his length, glistening from his precum. It looks so tasty. You lean back in your seat to where you are practically laying down, gripping behind his thighs and urging him to come forward. He was on his knees, his length shadowing over your chest, his tip just barely against your lips. You hold yourself up by your elbows, turning up to him, teasing him “I bet you want your cock in my mouth, don’t you Mammon? You want to see your fragile human squirm under you, taking all of you inside of them?”

Oh, you did it now. His claws getting ever so longer as a growl comes from deep in his chest. “If you want it, show me just how badly,” your last words as he gripped your hair and pushed your mouth around his length, letting out a choke. He moaned in pleasure as he felt himself at the back of your throat, vibrations coming from you barely fitting him inside you. Mammon begins thrusting his hips back and forth, you sucking up on his length oh-so-perfectly. The smell of arousal and the sound of moans fill the car, enveloping both of you. All either of you can feel is bliss. He breaks the silence. 

“Y-Y/N... y-you’re so warm, ya s-suck me off so well, k-keep going, I’m getting close-” He can’t speak anymore, feeling the surge of pleasure rush up through his thighs as you swirl your tongue around him, bringing him to the edge. You pull your mouth off of his length and put his hand around it, urging him to get himself off. “I would love if the Great Mammon would cum for me, I want to feel it all over my face, I want you to make me yours, show me who owns me,” you moan up at him, pulling down your bra to release your warm breasts, toying with them to tease him.

“Oh f-fuck, y-you’re all mine, my treasure, my b-baby, I’m.. I’m...” he groans out, and he’s pushed over the edge. He bucks forward, letting out a deep deep growl, moaning your name and climaxing all over your face and your chest, his cum hot against your skin. He looks down at you taking his load and lets out another groan, watching as you lap it up with your fingertips, eventually licking them clean.

♡

He pushes you down against the leather seats, his length rubbing against your throbbing heat, aching for you. You let out a squeal from your sensitivity, your chest arching up towards him. You reach your hands down to try to push him into you but he stops you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them down above your head. He pushes his lips firmly against yours, exploring your mouth with his tongue. Your chests are touching, he’s just about burning you with the heat radiating from his body.

He pulls away from your face and looks down to you, it looks like he wants to say something. He looks... nervous? After all of that?

“Mammon, are you okay?” you asked gently, turning your head slightly, a smile on your face. “Y-yeah, I just don’t wanna hurt ya. I tried to open ya up for me but what if it’s too much for your human body to handle?” he sighs and stares away for a moment. He loosens the grip on your wrists and you cup both of his cheeks, whispering up at him softly, “I trust you with my life, Mammon. I feel so safe with you, you’re my protector. The Great Mammon. I promise if it’s too much I’ll tell you right away. It’s okay baby.”

He nods and smiles with a blush in response, he couldn’t be happier to hear you say those words to him, as unexpected as they are.

You spread open your legs for him, situating your body in a more comfortable spot, preparing for the time of your life. You lift yourself up with your hands and whisper into his ear, “Take me for a ride, won’t you?”

♡

He growls and stretches his arms and his back, preparing himself. You want a ride? A ride is what you’re gonna get, and it’s gonna be a bumpy one.

He picks up your bottom half by your thighs, dragging you towards him, putting you in the perfect position. He takes hold of his length and lines himself up with your opening, rubbing his tip up and down your heat. You squirm under him, pleading with him in your head, dying for him to give you what you’ve only dreamed of for nearly a year now. He hears you struggling and lets out a low chuckle, a bit evil. He likes to see you all worked up for him, there’s nothing better, honestly.

He begins sliding his length inside of you, the heat from within immediately making him jolt. He can’t help the arousal from feeling you around him, squeezing him tight. You let out a small whimper and look up to him, concern suddenly written all over his face.

Your wrists had been freed a while ago so you take this opportunity to grab onto his soft bottom, pushing him further into you, moaning right in his ear. It hurts... it hurts so good. He’s so big compared to you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he hits the deepest parts of you. You must have awakened something in him, the look in his eyes giving him an almost primal vibe. He leans down and whispers into your ear along with a growl “That’s a good human, take all of me inside of ya, scream my name, ‘m gonna fuck you so hard ya won’t walk for a week...”

He thrusts in and out of you at a fast pace, hitting your core over and over again. You’re both moaning and groaning into each others’ ears. Mammon grips hard onto the headrests of the seats, pounding into you like it’s his last day to live. Your hands grasping at his shoulders, you can’t help but claw your nails down, leaving red scratches all over his back. He almost hisses in response, causing you to moan out louder. He takes his right hand and brings it to your throat, silencing you. Your eyes roll back into your head once again, your back arching and your hands gripping tight against the leather seats, nearly ripping them open.

♡

His thrusts speed up, bringing you closer and closer to the biggest orgasm of your life. Mammon's hand around your throat, you try to let out a sentence, “Mammoney baby, I’m gonna c-cum for you, p-please, d-don’t hold back,” you managed to say. His face goes beat red and wings flutter behind him. 

You stroke his horns atop his head, barely letting out one last sentence. “F-fill me up with your cum, m-mark your t-territory, I’m a-all yours-” your sentence is cut off as your orgasm takes over your body, Mammon releasing your throat, you proceeding to scream his name in pleasure as you gripped his length inside of you, trying to juice him.

He pounds his length into you faster and faster, bringing himself to the edge of his climax. He can’t hold back, can’t speak. He brings his head down to bite your neck, leaving teeth marks and a little bit of blood afterwards, marking you as his. He sucks on his marking and groans out loudly in pleasure, unable to contain himself any longer. You can feel his length twitch as he fills you up inside, heating the inner walls of your core, giving you the most butterflies you’ve ever had.

♡

You both look down and giggle along with deep breaths, you did a number to the seats of his car. You look at him in worry as he sees the condition of the leather. He notices that you look scared so he holds you tight to him, body-to-body warmth between you.

“I can already tell what you’re ‘bout to say, and it’s alright. Y’mean more to me than some leather seats. Now I can look at my seats ‘n remember my first time with ya, amirite?” he says with a smile, placing the most gentle of kisses on your lips, glazed with sweat.

You go to try to stand up to get out of the car but your body is beyond it’s limits. Mammon notices you struggling to get up and chuckles. “I told ya you wouldn’t be able t’walk for a while.”

♡

He pulls his boxers back on and picks you up bridal style out of the car seat, carrying you down the stairs and onto his bed gently. He remembers tearing up your underwear so he dashes to his closet, finding one of his favorite t-shirts and a pair of pajama pants and swiftly bringing them over to the bed.

“Put these on, we don’t need ya walking out with stains on your uniform and no underwear,” he explains with a giggle. He looked up at you to see you looking sad. “What’sa matter treasure?”

“Well, I was hoping... maybe... that I could stay with you for the night?” you ask, nervously waiting for a response. Mammon helps you take off your bralette and get dressed in his comfy clothes, and cups your cheek, looking into your eyes.

“Of course y’can stay with me, you’re my human! My treasure! Who wouldn’t wanna stay with the Great Mammon anyway?” he smirks and chuckles, you smacking his chest in return.

He crawls up into the bed with you, laying you next to him and pulling your back into his chest. He covers you both with his bedspread and begins rubbing your arms, resting his cheek against your ear. He had never felt this way before. He really fell for a human. Does he regret it? Not at all, he wouldn’t have it any other way. The only problem now? Now he feels like he has to protect you forever, all the time. He loves you too much to ever see you get hurt.

“S-so... does this mean... y-you’re my girlfriend?” Mammon let out shyly, almost expecting you to say something negative or reject him.

You turn back to face him, your arm around his waist. You smile up at him, “I would love nothing more than to be your girlfriend... your treasure.” You plant the lightest kiss on his forehead and turn back around as he begins to spoon you again. Within the next few minutes, you fell asleep in his arms, not a care in the world, no thoughts besides the thought of being his treasure forever.

♡

The brothers felt bad about what happened earlier and were worried about Mammon’s well-being. Lucifer approached his door with the brothers, quickly realizing it’s locked. He took his master keys out of his coat pocket and unlocked Mammon’s door. He took a few steps in and froze in place. His brothers glanced with him over his shoulder to see Mammon with his arms around you, protecting you, sleeping next to you.

They all couldn’t bring themselves to make a sound. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Y/N... and Mammon?

“It’s about time he told her how he felt!” Asmo shouted as the brothers all shushed him, not wanting to wake the two of you.

“We can talk to him in the morning, let him have peace for once today. I can only imagine Y/N needs rest as well,” Lucifer explained.

Lucifer and the brothers turned around and Lucifer locked the door behind him, a cheeky smirk on his face. He was proud of his brother for finally being honest with himself and taking pride in what he wanted. Would he ever let Mammon know that? Oh, hell no.

♡

I’ve wanted to see a fic about this ever since I fell in love with Mammon and saw his room, so I wrote it!

 I’m only comfortable with F!MC writing since I’ve never familiarized myself with GN!MC or M!MC. My apologies!

I do NOT give permission to post this anywhere else. I also have this posted on Wattpad, my username is daradoodlebug. If you like my work, please feel free to like, comment, follow, share, or REBLOG. Thank you for taking the time to read my first piece!