#I hope my patrons see their money going on the screen

[theabigailthorn]

Thanks to all my patrons for supporting me!

Turns out when you actually do your own research and writing [AHEM!] it takes time to make good content. These awesome names and plenty of generous people like them help make that happen. Their pledges give me the time to research the show PROPERLY and also go towards paying the crew, who make the show look spectacular.

If you can, and you wanna support what I do, sign up and join them :)

[griffonsgrove]

Hiiii!!! See your doing writing requests for Hazbin, Its my hyperfixation so I am in need of more content 👀 so I'd like to request maybe Vox general or NSFW headcanon ( either one is good lol-) with a afab reader maybe? This is my first time requesting something like this so sorry if I'm a little nervous or bad at requesting. I think this is how people are supposed to request? XD

General Dating Headcanons | Vox

a/n: You're totally alright dear! You said everything just fine! As I've stated before, I got early access to the first two episodes, and it's been so interesting to analyze vox's character! I hope I can do him justice!! He's starting to grow on me now. I'm gonna stick with a gn!reader just because these are general headcanons and I want them to be suited for anyone!

fandom: Hazbin Hotel

wordcount: 1299

cw: SPOILERS FOR HAZBIN HOTEL, swearing, vulgar content, stalking, death and mentions of death/murder., toxic/absuive relationships.

(PLATONIC):

Vox’s got eyes EVERYWHERE in hell. There is no escaping his line of sight unless you go completely off the grid. Which is pretty difficult to do when the entirety of pentagram city is covered head to toe in VoxTech.

However, if you don't pose a threat to him, he really doesn't give a shit about you otherwise, and won’t pay that much attention to your life.

When you first fell into hell, you were mostly confused as to how you wound up here in the first place. That quickly subsided into fear as you noticed the large variety of demons and sinners casually walking down the sidewalk like it was an average tuesday. 

You’ll never forget the sight of seeing a demon gnaw off the arm of another and swallow it whole, like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

You wander aimlessly down the streets, keeping to yourself and being very cautious of those around you. Your clothes were in tatters, and you didn't have any form of money whatsoever, what were you to do??

You had two options: Somehow find a job in this new horrific realm, or, die.

You didn't care too much for the latter.

This is how you stumble across one of the largest studios/clubs in hell, owned by probably the most feared overlords in pentagram city. The V’s. 

You get hired to be nothing more than a waiter/waitress, to serve the patrons of the club, mostly serving them their drinks.

You weren't too fond of the work uniform either. It left nothing to the imagination, and exposed alot of skin, far too much to your liking. The job actually paid somewhat decently though and it was enough to be able to sustain a living. You were quick to rent out the nearest apartment.

One day, while you’re out on the main floor, making your rounds, your eyes briefly lock with the TV demon across a sea of sinners. Call it cheesy, but it was almost like a spark went off the moment he laid eyes on you. Which is something that doesn't happen often with the tech-savvy overlord. Who were you??

He lazily beckons you over with a claw, to which you obediently follow, although it doesn't hide the sheer nervousness written all over your face, He gives you his drink order in that sultry, velvet voice of his, eyeing you up. You gulp slightly and are quick to bring him his order. He thought you were so cute trembling for him.

He begins to stalk observe you closer after that. If you have any electronic devices he’ll watch you through your screens, trying to get a glimpse into what your life was like outside of work. The things you enjoyed doing in your free time, favorite shows, foods etc.

He def goes through your search history.

He would start showing up more in the sections you worked at, oftentimes minding his business, but occasionally striking up a conversation with you.

You did have to admit he was quite the charmer, his smooth voice was hypnotic to you.

OBSESSIVE TENDENCIES. If he notices some creep won't leave you alone while you're working, he’ll take care of them personally, it’s never a pretty sight afterwards. He cant have anyone taking what's his.

You're oblivious to his stalking and possessiveness, you don't think much of it, maybe that's because he puts on a friendly face when you’re around him.

But after some time of getting to know you, He’s the one that eventually asks you out on a “date”. You’re skeptical at first, but decide to accept his offer. And also partially because you were afraid of what would happen if you said no.

(ROMANTIC):

Ngl it’s kind of a situationship in the beginning.

Vox is a busy man, it’s constant work maintaining the studios (especially valentinos temper) and managing the entirety of hell's technology. So, he may ghost you at first.

That being said, He will still keep an eye on you. He often watches through your phone while you sleep, just to make sure you’re safe. Hell is a dangerous place after all.

Speaking of, you’re now under the protection of the V’s, so that’s a plus! You never have to worry about another demon laying a finger on you. They usually never get close enough to anyways.

He very easily gets jealous. He won't show it on the outside because he has an image to uphold, but you can tell every time from that crazed look in his eyes.

Vox is a possessive lover; he wants to keep you all to himself. If he could, he’d keep you locked up by his side all day.

CONTROLLING. He HAS to know where you’re at, at all times, and who you’re going to be with (lest you face one of his tantrums). Also dictates what you wear, He likes to dress you up to his liking, like you’re his own personal doll.

Insecure much?

Say goodbye to privacy btw. He constantly has you in the back of his mind and a watchful eye on you. It can be kind of suffocating at times. The two of you have gotten into a few arguments because of this.

Valentino gets jealous of you too. How dare you take his boy-toy away from him? He’s often giving you the stink eye and will threaten you behind vox’s back. You’re too scared to tell Vox, because you don't want to face Val’s wrath.

You know briefly of his and Val’s “relationship” it all had seemed very one-sided and completely unhealthy.

You're often having to calm Vox down. The man has a very short temper and is easily provoked. 

Imagine you pressing little kisses to his screen after he found out about Alastor’s return. He remains stoic, but secretly enjoys your affection.

Some of the pet names he loves to call you include; Doll, Dear, Darling, Sweetheart, Babe.

Pretty old-fashioned ik, but he's a classy man alright?

He tends to be pretty touchy, always having a clawed hand on the small of your back, or an arm wrapped around your waist. It’s more of a possessive trait of his, to keep what's his close.

He loves having you sprawled on his lap while he’s in his screen room, you stay nuzzled into his side, often taking naps while he does broadcasts.

He TOTALLY spoils you btw. He’s one of the most powerful overlords in hell, ofc he has the money to show it. Whatever dingy apartment you had before, forget about it bc this man has you living in a penthouse suite in one of the most expensive apartment buildings. He sees you looking at something in a store or online?? Boom, it’s yours now.

He loves buying you clothes, as I’ve said before, you're his “doll” and he loves playing dress up with you.

And if you buy him something?? He’s taken by surprise at first, he’s never really been on the receiving end of that affection, so whatever it is you give him he’ll cherish it.

If you ever have someone bothering you, or want to get rid of, you just say the word babe. He’ll be feeding them to his sharks >:)

The man is emotionally constipated, ok?? All he’s ever known from relationships is what he shared with Val (and trust me that was a train wreck). He’s rough around the edges, short-tempered and isn't always easy to get along with, and he’s incredibly possessive which can be suffocating to deal with at times. This probably stems from him not wanting to actually be alone, He doesn't want you to slip out of his grasp, so he keeps a tight leash on you. But underneath all these flaws, he really does love you and care about you. At the end of the day, He just wants someone that will stay.

[larkingame]

so, i don't usually crosspost these posts, but this week's update on patreon is available to everyone and I know I have a bit of a larger following on tumblr, and I'd really like everyone on the same page so I'm dropping all I have to say here too.

good evening friends!! i hope you're all doing well! welcome to the first update of 2024. momentous for me personally, because this is the year we finish larkin. i am making this post available to all patrons, (paid or not) because I'd really like to start 2024 on the right foot with everyone aware of the road ahead. i am so determined to get it done you have no idea. this is my year. 2024, i christen thee: the year of the vampire cowboy.

okay, so big things ahead, lets talk about the update, explore some of the features we have in the game, plans for this weekends release, the schedule and a couple other things.

so, if you've played at all with the new version of the game, you'll take notice that it's a little bit different than my first image of the game. at first larkin was just a straight interactive fiction following the likes of cog like games, with choices and avenues and split stats and the like. but now, as of 2024 (crazy) we're seeing a game that is more reminiscent of a ttrpg, like dnd or cyberpunk, with stats, classes and dice rolls. admittedly, the very first encounter of the game is well (it's a little rigged) the game, of course, could not really get started if the preacher gets cooked before they've even made it to nevada, so, the odds are a little bit stacked in the players favor this round, but at least, it gives you a little bit of a taste of whats to come. to dive into the specifics of what's important with this first encounter (or just, how to avoid getting your ass really kicked) these first few rolls give bonuses to players with high dexterity and athleticism—-but that's not to say you need to make your character beefed up in these departments. each stat will get their time to shine later down the line.

but let's talk about what i'm really excited to discuss: classes. so with the new version of larkin, i've introduced a system of classes that operate somewhat like your standard dungeons and dragons class, but with a little bit more of that classic background from the original ttrpg mixed in—coloring the way your character sees the world of the game, sort of how a race might effect a dnd character--(a dwarf player is going to have a much different worldview than say, an elf.) for this i was heavily inspired by games like dragon age origins and baldur's gate, and while I do have those original background ready to be dropped a little bit later on the game in relation to your character's perspectives on the abrams family, I really like how these have come to form.

in total there are seven new classes: con-man, outlaw, healer, thief, gambler, showman and slayer. each of these classes warps the perspective of the player character, giving them new motivations, dialogue options, and affects their relationships with the other characters in the game and the world around them. to illustrate this, I'm thinking of making a little bit more of an in depth explanation screen to be added to saturday's update to really get that point across, but I'm still toying with how I want to phrase the specifics of it. what i might do is something similar to baldur's gate with little pop-up tutorials that can be turned off/on depending on how you'd like to play.

to give an example of some of the more in depth motivations/choices each class offers lets talk about the thief and the outlaw classes. the thief class i am especially excited for, because like the con-man class and similar to a few others, it really allows your character to be very money/materialistically motivated. it opens up routes later in the game, like romancing one of the sokolovs—with motivations reminiscent of gold-digging (hehehe very excited for that—i think it will be very fun to write—because you have this idea of a cold hearted player who is entering into a relationship with them strictly for business, versus a cold hearted player who is in it for the cash but also. might be falling in love with one of the sokolovs? ((a lot of fun dynamics afoot here.)) the outlaw class is also one i'm excited to work with because it really puts something of a strain on the preacher and wyatt's relationship—-mostly because you see a strong division in terms of their ethics—the preacher in that case is very 'do what you gotta do to survive,' whereas wyatt believes (key word—believes) he's living by some sort of moral code—that he's failed to instill in the person he views as his child. so like there are layers here boys. layers of resentment, failure—to connect, to teach, to bond. a final tidbit about the slayer class before I move on: if you would really like to play into the enemies to lovers trope with one of the vampires, I would highly recommend giving your player this class ((that's all I'll say))

so: saturday, that takes us to the bar, where each class will get a unique scene, similar to how the scheming tactic section worked in the original game. we're gonna finish up the encounter with the first vampires, meet our guild pursuers and move to the bar. I'm planning also to implement the character customization here—(sort of a way to prep before the player heads out to the bar.) most likely won't get to all classes by saturday's code, but after that, I'm planning to release again on next wednesday, so we're keeping on track. I'd really like to give a full picture of customization for the player character, with all the original options for physical appearance (i might keep clothes vague for now though and let you dress your character later on, until you get a taste of the inventory/bartering system-—you have to deal with MY poor fashion choices for a little bit.) but that being said, about character customization, if there's something that's lacking here and you'd like to suggest an addition I'd be all ears. This is what I'm planning to implement so far:

skin tone

body type*

hair color

hair texture

hair length

hair style**

height

skin details (acne, scars, vitiligo, rosacea)

facial hair

make-up

piercings

eyewear (glasses, no glasses, eyepatch, prosthetic eye)

gender-affirming customization (for ex. use of binding)

* a note on the body type section, I kind of had this idea of digitally drawing some silhouettes of different heights, shapes and sizes, and allowing the player to click through arrows to select a rough estimation of what their body-type might look like. I'm going to do an art dump later this month, and I have a few sketches of what I'd kinda like to do with that, but I'm still toying with it, because even that could be a little limiting in terms of options. if any of you had thoughts on that, I'd love to hear them.

**I think it might also be cool to kind of have drawings of different hairstyles available to the characters, arranged in the card formats like the previous gender options in that same red colored sketch format.

speaking of art though--and this is purely tangential so I apologize, I'm sure you've taken notice of some of the art being repetitive--for the moment that's purposeful. I'm planning to commission some work for the cards to be implemented in a later update--so what you're seeing are just placeholders for now.

okay! with saturday's notes out of the way, plans for the rest of the week. I need to finish the timeline and then I need to make it readable to people other than myself. it is currently incomprehensible and of the few people that have gotten their eyes on it only one (1) could make sense of my mad ramblings. (shout out to friend of the game bianca from exiled from court if any of you are familiar with her or her stuff, we are  big bianca fans here.) After that I need to do some edits with the new update and such, and poke at the code.

Tonight after I post this, I'm specifically working on sending a few more emails to betas (know that sending emails is. my personal hell because of intense social anxiety. BUT we must persevere. emails will be sent tonight.) after that, I have to work on the phillip/kc/sam schedule + calendar for this month, just to keep the three of us on the same page. I'm in the process of looking at some stamps.com printers for sending out packages with this next round of physical rewards and ordering the merch (hehehe)

okay. super long update for our first one of the year, but I am so excited to get to keep working with you guys :) i'd like to thank you all for your continued support and I can't wait to show you more of the little universe i've crafted :)

until friday! i'm gonna be posting some cyrus asks/scenarios for you all to enjoy, so look forward to that! <3

[darling-heffron]

A/N: Hello and Welcome! Here is the second instalment of Momento Mori! The next chapter will come next week, so stay tuned!

This chapter introduces my oc; Mars (I hope you guys like her as much I do). Also included is one of the Band of Brothers guys, someone who deserves way more attention than he gets, I only hope I've done him justice!

Who are you readers waiting to see in future chapters?

Until next time, -Sol ☀️

Chapter two: Outbreak

Mars’ POV:

Pressing snooze had to be the most satisfying feeling, knowing the day is void of commitments with the ability to roll over and go back to sleep; that alone is worth more than all the money in the world. 

Marleen Finch smacked that snooze button with vigour; today was a rare gem. No morning classes and a day off from her under-paid part time job as a waitress.

The people she served were some of the rudest, uppity customers she had ever met, working in New York City meant she had to interact with real live New Yorkers. Mars was appalled by the audacity these city dwellers had, but had no choice to suck up to them in the hopes they would leave good tips.

Besides, Mars didn’t want to jeopardise her job, so if it meant smiling while customers berated her or running into the walk-in fridge to cry twice a shift, she did it.

She swallowed her pride daily by cleaning up after purposefully messy patrons and pretending she didn't mind. Mars picked up shifts that none of her coworkers wanted to do with no additional pay because at the end of the day; she didn't want to get fired or have someone mad at her, she’d rather just suck it up and get on with whatever menial hours she was assigned. 

Today, however, Mars was able to do what she pleased, at least until her afternoon class started. With that in mind, Marleen snuggled further into her cosy sheets and screwed her eyes shut. 

The next time her alarm went off the blonde easied out of bed, stretching her arms above her head as she made her way to the bathroom. Her apartment wasn't anything fancy; in fact, it was in a pretty shady area of The Bronx and that was saying something. 

The dull wallpaper peeled in certain places revealing a sickly yellow underneath, parts of the worn down carpet were stained by who knows what and the faucets either leaked or were coated in lime scale, in most cases; both. But it was hers and hers alone. Sure, her parents chipped in with rent and utilities so she wouldn't have to share with some skeevie stranger from the internet, but the rundown, compact apartment was her first place away from home and no matter how broken it was, Mars loved it.

Marleen showered quickly, skipping a hair wash but decided to take her time planning an outfit; she had errands to run and looking cute while still being comfy was essential for the day. Mars decided on a pair of grey shorts, a baggy sage green sweatshirt and simple white lace-up sneakers. The weather was warming up but there was still a slight chill in the air. She tried to flick on the T.V for background noise but the screen remained black. 

‘Must be another power cut.’ She thought to herself, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence but it was still just as inconvenient every time. 

Instead, she began making breakfast in silence, humming to herself to make up for the lack of ambient sounds. 

A high pitched scream broke the young woman from her current task. It wasn’t abnormal to hear distress from the street below, the area she lived in was a low income neighbourhood, filled with struggling students and wanting vagrants. 

However, this scream sounded different. Unearthly, haunting, it chilled her to her bones. 

Mars stood frozen in the kitchen, gazing at the dusty curtains that engulfed her window. Her feet took her towards said window without thinking. She got closer and closer to the curtain, arm reached out to draw the fabric back. 

~ KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK ~

Mars gasped, her outstretched hand curled back towards her body and rested on her chest as she huffed and puffed, getting her breath back after the jumpscare caused by obnoxiously loud banging on her apartment door. 

She almost wanted to laugh at herself, getting frightened because of an everyday occurrence. One measly scream and a few rough knocks shouldn’t have her so worried…. So why was she shaking? Why was she so nervous to step towards the door and answer it? 

Luckily, her place had a peephole. She utilised it, sneaking a look through to the other side of her door. 

A large figure she recognised immediately stood outside, his back facing the entryway as if he was checking behind him. Mars flicked the lock and swung open the door. 

“Denver?” Marleen called out to him tentatively, her voice paired with the opening squeak of her apartment door alerted him, “Are you okay? What are you doing here?” Her words fell of deaf ears, Denver Randleman, her upstairs neighbour was visibly shaken. 

A tough feat as Denver was a well built, muscular man with little to no fears. He and Mars had spoken quite a bit, living in the same building with similar schedules meant they bumped into each other frequently. She knew that he was a kindhearted gentleman who was often mistaken as a boorish brute.

He was sweaty and panting as he stepped past her and into her home. This only concerned her more, he had never behaved like this in the year she had known him. Mars stepped aside and allowed him to close the door behind him, he immediately locked the door and slid the chain on. 

“Marleen.” His serious tone made her eyebrows furrow, she knew him as a happy-go-lucky man who was always smiling ear to ear. 

“Denver?” She responded gingerly.  

“I need you to listen very closely.” The blonde haired man gently placed his hands on her shoulders and lowered himself so he could look directly into her eyes. 

“Denver, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out.” She knew she could trust him but this situation was a little peculiar to say the least. 

“Something is happening. I don’t know what but it’s serious and we need to leave.” It wasn’t much of an explanation but it was all she was going to get. Marleen knew this man, if he was so shaken by whatever was going on, it was probably best to listen to him and go along for the ride. 

“What, now?” Mars attempted to let the words sink in but her surprise at the situation was ever growing. He didn’t answer with words, instead rushing into her kitchen and opened the pantry. 

“We’ll need canned food, bottled water, you got anything like that?” Denver shuffled through some tinned items, checking labels. 

“Oh, I think I have some-“ The young woman began to explain, but cut herself off when she noticed the bulky man curl his arm the contents of an entire shelf and sweep it into the awaiting duffel bag she had only just noticed. 

“Help yourself, I guess.” Mars watched her neighbour scuttle around, opening every cupboard and checking inside before darting to another. She saw him reaching for food items she had bought long ago with the good intention of making home cooked meals but never got round to and tried to stop him, 

“I’m not sure if that’s in-date?” Her attempt to ease the tension was ignored and he tossed it in regardless, “I suppose we’re taking it anyway.” Her comment was quiet, more of a joke to herself as he didn’t seem to be in a listening mood right now. 

“Denver, you need to tell me what’s going on? Why do we have to leave?” That seemed to grab his attention. 

“Just trust me. We have to get out of the city. We’ll go North.” Denver was answering her question yet it seemed like he was talking to himself rather than her, he mumbled his words and continued searching her house for things to pack.

“Out of the city? Um okay? Should I pack clothes or something? How long will we be gone?” Marleen rubbed circles on her temples, she was making mental notes to call into work at some point as well as check in with her family.

If things were really that serious, she’d better get in touch with her folks, see how they were doing. And maybe her boss would understand? She supposed it depended on what kind of emergency this was, but Denver wasn't exactly explaining much to her.  

“Mars, I don’t think you understand…” His actions finally halted all together and he turned fully to take her appearance in; Mars was a short, petite blonde girl who wouldn't survive a day out there, Denver promised himself that he would keep the young lady safe. They were friends after all, which is why his next words felt like he was breaking her heart, a gut punch: 

“We won’t be coming back.” 

———————

Marleen packed practical clothes, a small journal she was yet to start writing in and her personal items: toothpaste and toothbrush, moisturisers, deodorant, hair clips, ties and brush along with a bandanna. 

Unfortunately, Mars never had a knack for camping, so there were things they needed she did not have in her apartment. However, Denver did. Swiss Army knives, ropes, maps of the area, sleeping bags and tents. He had told Mars that they would need to go up a few flights of stairs to his apartment to gather some more things. More useful things. 

Mars hated the idea of lugging her backpack around but she kept that thought to herself, Denver seemed tightly wound today and she was currently occupying herself by trying to get in touch with her family. 

Sounds easy on a typical day, but today, nothing was typical. 

She had been in Denver's apartment before, only once when she had agreed to get his mail and water his plants while he was out of town. It hadn’t changed much. Marleen hardly looked around as she became more engrossed in her phone. Her notifications had gone crazy that morning, almost two hundred…then nothing. She had tried texting, calling, hell she even messaged her sister-in-law on insta, but nothing was working. 

Scrolling through the endless messages got her more and more concerned. The first few were fairly normal, things like - “Have you seen the news this morning?” and “Did you go into work today?” 

After her family realise she's not going to reply, it switched to doom and gloom -  “We are praying for your safety.” and “We love you so much, don’t ever forget that.” 

The woman's eyes began filling with tears, whatever was going on must be pretty serious. Reading her family's texts had made the outlandish situation a reality. Yet somehow, Marleen was still unbelieving. What was even happening? 

Surely it had to be more serious than a flood or tornado but her mind couldn't think of what and Denver wasn't explaining.

No, he was darting around the room, collecting things and mumbling to himself. Not exactly a comforting sight for the distressed girl, so she went back to her phone, absorbing in the last messages she’d ever get to check.

“Marleen? I need you to do something for me, okay?” The country twang evident in his voice, gaining her attention, Mars put down her phone. 

Denver didn't stop his task, he merely directed her to a certain drawer, telling her whatever was inside was important. Marleen did as he asked, the tears dispersed and her mind focused on the new task instead of the possibility of her family's demise. 

It was a long wooden box. Curiosity got the best of her and Mars opened it, peeking inside. 

Cigars.

The all important item Denver desperately needed was a box of cigars? She deadpanned, giving her neighbour a questioning look. He only grinned at her and stepped towards her, taking the box from her hands, whispering a quick ‘thanks’. 

The distraction had been nice (and surely that’s what Denver had been trying to do) but Mars almost instantly went back to doom and gloom.

“Okay. We should head down now.” His voice broke her from her worst case scenario thoughts.

Marleen didn't want to fight it, she didn't want to put up a fuss or make a scene. She just wanted to know if her family was okay. Had whatever was happening here in New York, happened in Illinois? Were her family safe or were they also running around packing for the end of the world? The questions were endless in her head with no answers. 

Her sacred day off to relax and unwind had become so chaotic and overwhelming. She should have been sipping overpriced iced coffee and staring into shop windows, not trying to flee the city while wondering if her family was dead. 

“Marleen!” Her trance was once again broken by Denver, yelling this time like he had been trying to get her attention for awhile. She turned to face him where he stood at the door, bags in hand. 

“We have to go. Now!” His tone was urgent, pushing her to move her feet and follow him out into the hallway. Out of pure instinct, Mars walked to the shiny silver elevator doors and leaned down to press the button before freezing. Her mind was on autopilot, numb and senseless. 

“Powers out.” Denver watched his neighbour, as she stood there, dazed. He pitied her, she had no idea what was going on out there and he didn't have the heart to tell her.

The things he saw had freaked him out and he had seen some things in his years. Mars wasn't like him. She was sweet and innocent and yet to experience the bad parts of life.

At 20 years old she still saw the good in people, in everyone she came across. Her big doe eyes took in the world with naivety and only saw hope and love and everything positive. 

“I know.” She spoke in a small voice, her eyes still focused on the doors like she was waiting to hear the ding. 

Denver moved to take a step towards her, to reach out and tap her shoulder. They needed to get out of the heavily populated city and standing here was wasting time but he knew he would have to be gentle with her, she was still processing and she hadn't even seen the worst of it. 

“We need to go, Mars.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Carrying backpacks and duffle bags down nine flights of stairs worn Marleen out. She huffed and puffed as Denver led her down the aisles of the parking garage. She didn't typically come down here, her work commute included the subway and the occasional bus. Not to mention, it creeped her out, the ceiling to floor concrete, no windows and flickering fluorescent lights did not give off a welcoming vibe.

“This one.” Denver told her, dropping the bags in his possession next to what Mars assumed was his vehicle.

A white delivery box-truck. 

He jingled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked it. Marleen took that as her cue to put her bags down next to his and watch as he loaded them into the now open trunk.  

With her neighbour occupied, Mars took a second to really look around the carpark. Not another soul in sight, completely empty except for her, Denver and about thirty beat up cars. 

A throaty noise broke her from her scan of the room and her attention was brought to a van a few spots ahead of her. The shadows of another person, now visible to her from the gap underneath. Mars took a tentative step closer, intrigued.

“Hello?” Her voice was so quiet she wasn't sure if the newcomer had heard her, so she took another step, slowly inching nearer. 

A woman stepped out and into Marleen’s view. She immediately noticed the blood running down her face like a stream of red tears, the spatter across the woman’s clothes concerned her deeply. Taking yet another stride towards the injured woman, Mars spoke out.

“Ma’am? Are you okay? Do you need help?” This time she spoke louder than she had previously. The lady in front of her hobbled in her direction, her neck bending at a ninety degree angle giving her an inhuman stance.

“Marleen?” Denver had heard her speaking and come to investigate, Mars turned to face him. He looked past the young blonde, directly at the bloodied lady. Her hands reached up and out, attempting to claw at Marleen while her back was turned. 

“Get in the truck. Now.” He didn’t want to panic Mars but he knew what this strange woman would do if she got to any living person, the tearing, biting, ripping into flesh. Denver’s body involuntarily shivered at the thought. 

“She’s hurt, she needs help.” Marleen looked at her neighbour with pity in her eyes, begging him to allow her to aid the stranger. If only she knew. 

“Marleen,” Denver started out gently, his thought cut short when the rabid woman growled. He watched as Mars tensed and slowly began to turn, curious to what was happening behind her. 

The pair watched in pure horror as the woman contorted her body, bones cracking as she twisted in every direction. 

“Inside. Now.” This time Marleen listened. Scrambling toward the vehicle, right behind Denver. 

The rabid let out a screech the second they started rushing back to the truck and raced after them. Hearing the urgent footsteps and eerie noises from the woman caused Marleen to panic and let out a yelp of her own. The pair split up at the rear of the truck, running down either side and flinging open the doors. 

Marleen slammed her door shut just in time as the sick woman kept running to her. 

It was like she didn’t know that the glass would prevent her from reaching her prey. She acted as if she was possessed, continually smashing her face and body up against the glass, smearing blood and other unidentifiable bodily fluids across the window, all the while letting out ear piercing screams, her voice creaking and crackling.  

Mars’ breath was uneven, her chest heaving, partially from the running and partially the shock of the encounter. 

What is wrong with her? 

The box truck rumbled to life, reversing out of the car park, tires screeching as Denver took off. The ill woman let out a furious roar and took off after them, to no avail as the truck is much faster than a human, if she even was human? 

Sunlight bleared into the vehicle, temporarily blinding Mars. She shaded her eyes, giving them a moment to adjust from the dark garage to the bright street. 

Once she could see again, she wished she couldn’t. 

Marleen’s mouth dropped open in shock. It was pure chaos, people ran through the streets; some human and some not. 

There was blood everywhere she looked, crashed cars strewn across the sidewalks, smashed glass littered the road. 

And the people - They were attacking each other, actually ripping fellow humans apart with their bare hands. 

Marleen couldn’t stop herself from watching and the closer she looked the more she saw. People biting into one another, tearing away at flesh and consuming what they could; as if starved. 

Each possessed person presented aggressive, filled with uncontrollable rage and hunger. Screaming, growling and strange gurgled sounds filled the city the pair of neighbours were now trying to flee. 

Denver knew the backroads of this city well, driving a delivery truck daily had its perks, so he led them through the maze of streets with ease. The closer they got to the outskirts, the quieter it got; less people, less screaming. 

“What is all this?” Marleen finally spoke after strained moments of stunned silence. Her voice was scratchy thanks to the muted crying she was unable to control. Denver sighed loudly, he couldn’t really give her a proper answer, all he knew was whatever this was; it was bad and they needed to get away as quickly as possible. 

“Not a clue, sweetheart.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I appreciate it so much! (And i know Esra ✨ does too) Feel free to leave a comment to let me know what you thought

-Sol ☀️

[crescencestudio]

Devlog #30 | 04.27.23

Hi everyone!

We are back with a monthly update! If you all remember, last month I was feeling a bit burnt out, and I'm super happy to say I'm feeling a lot more like myself this month <3 Thank you to everyone who sent me a lil message/comment, I always appreciate them sm. I won't bore you with my gushing, but I am forever grateful for you all! With that, I'll get into the updates ^^

But first, it was someone's birthday this month! happy bday, hoe.

Writing

I have some exciting news! Kayn's route has officially entered the line editing phase, which is the FINAL stage of editing \o/ This will be the first route completed for Alaris, wow!!! Fenir's route is still going through developmental editing, but the changes are already super cute and he is giving ultimate grumpy baby energy, which we love to see.

I'm still chipping away at Druk's route. Honestly, I'm Very Sad I haven't made as much progress with him as I would've liked, but a lot of my time was dedicated to the enhanced demo this month, and between revamping the demo script, coding, voice acting, and edits for Kayn/Fenir's full routes, I just didn't have the time. I'm hoping this month, I'll finally Actually be able to get his first draft done <3

Art

We officially finished all Demo Backgrounds this month (wow!!). Having started revamping the demo BGs all the way back in, like, November, it's crazy that this first milestone has been reached! Now, it's only full game BGs left. I received the new Dusk Court BG recently, and she's stunning, so I'm excited for the more "core plot" BGs to start coming out :')

In honor of the enhanced demo coming out, I updated the sprite art for the LIs! I'll be getting to the side characters this next month, but I'm really happy with the new art. The differences maybe kinda small for some of them, but I think they look a lot cleaner, and I think the auras especially are pretty <;3 we also whoreified kuna'a

updated sprite preview for kayn, aisa, kuna'a, and etza

The full GUI was also finished this month. I just have to code them in, but it looks SO delicate and pretty and sharp. I'm so thankful to Alice for doing the most outstanding job with them---she is so talented!!

Sneaky peek of screens uwu

Additional Notes

I complained about it 29348 times, but I Finished the Voice Acting Coding this month uwu. That is probably the biggest accomplishment considering how much work it was reviewing all the lines, cutting them, and coding them into the game. I'm terrified for the full routes.

I selected the playtesters for the game so far. Thank you to everyone who applied! I wasn't able to reach out to everyone who applied, and I didn't want to have so so many playtesters, since filtering through everyone's feedback would be overwhelming. But there may come a time when I need more playtesters in the future, so please feel free to keep my little game in mind <3

It's been a bit since I mentioned my Patreon, mostly because I feel bad asking people for money and promoting a platform where people have to pay for content LOL. But it is there, and I do post to it! The reason I bring it up in this devlog is because the highest tier ($10) gets access to playtesting and the second tier ($5) gets early access to finished builds. With the enhanced demo slowly getting finished, I will be doing playtesting for the new beta build this upcoming month in May. SO if you want playtesting/early access to the enhanced demo, please feel free to check out my Patreon* ^^

*Note: If you’re interested in becoming a patron for the early testing/ playtesting, don't become a patron until May starts otherwise you will get charged for both this month and May ((unless you want to give me money for both months in which case u have my eternal love uwu))

Market Research

Lastly, I did a tiny bit of market research this month! I played Bustafellows after my dear friend Seyl (check out her and her team's game Lost in Limbo!!) recommended it to me.

Shu: why is his glove so slutty

And of course the game everyone has been talking about, I played the demo for Touchstarved.

Ais: my favorite, and it's not even close

Looking at these two, and I think I have a thing for smokers lmao. Anyways, I think that's enough from me, so that is all for this month's update! Stay safe, and see you all next month <3

[lonelyhooves]

A Quick PSA

Hey guys!

2022 was a hectic year, and 2023 is looking to be stressful in a whole different way. We're doing our best to get the ball rolling again (we love this story!) but it's difficult when we both keep having to take commission work just to keep the lights on.

While we can't really ask for money to support Lonely Hooves specifically, I'm pretty sure we can get away with panhandling other ways, so if you're interested in supporting us (and able - you need to eat too), here's what we've got going on elsewhere:

Kazzie runs character adopts! She does ponies a lot, but has started dabbling with anthros. You can keep up with her present offerings on her ych.art site (there's a couple running right now! They're very cute!)

Meanwhile, Sera (me! hi!) is running an 18+ Patreon where you can get access to a lot of goodies for a couple bucks a month. There's a couple sporadically updated comic things here, but it's mostly pin-ups at the moment, with the exception of my first proper foray into non-comics writing in... quite a long time! If you like the storytelling of Lonely Hooves and don't mind an original setting where things get pretty spicy on a regular basis, the first couple chapters of Witches' Thralls are already live over there, and I'd love to hear what folks think! There's also Hare Moon, an 18+ MLP smutfic comic where Angel turns into some sort of raging werebunny and needs certain needs addressed. Some of that's public, but half of it isn't, and you can find that over here too! And just, like, so many boobies. (Seriously! Over 18 only!!)

I also take commissions but am pretty bogged down at this exact moment. Kaz can do pony ref sheets and all sorts of things though, and her turn-around makes me jealous as hell. your best bet to get in touch with us about that kind of thing is probably the community Discord, but even if you're not there to throw money at the screen we'd love to have you! We don't bite, usually! Unless... you're into that?? 😳

Okay! That's enough of that for now!

The next page is already sketched, and I'm very excited to finally be sharing this next scene with you all! I hope you all enjoy Muse becoming a bit less of an enigma!

See you soon!

Z (Sera)

[pshenyasstuff]

Hello? I hope your requests are open, heh Because I have a little idea. What if the “Reader”, before his death, wrote various works of a sexual nature in order to receive money and at least somehow have a normal life? And after death they would go to Hell, because sin is sin, and it doesn’t matter what causes it and all that.

But the Reader, looking around, seeing new ideas and opportunities that can be used, decides to continue his career

Hey! This is Hell! Literally a place where graphic porn is definitely going to be popular! Therefore, gradually they gain profit and fame from this

At first they could write anonymously or continue to work under a pseudonym from their life on earth

Heh, they could write a couple of works with overlords who actually hate each other . But in their work it would be more like a romantic relationship behind a screen. And the demons could believe it. I think it would be funny

Just a Reader who at some point would be looking for a patron so that they would be protected if someone found out about their authorship of works

Can you try writing something like this? Just a reaction or interaction with one of the guys from such a Reader

🍞 anon

This is a good idea, but sorry, my requests are closed💦

[quartetofstories]

So the recent spots updated fucks me up bad because I listen to music constantly. It's trying really hard to turn from a listening app into an ai powered tick tock dupe and the new home screen is sensory overload. The recommendations are garbage. Also I pay for premium, like part of the budget, so I don't have to deal with adds and the new "previews" are ads that autoplay over what im listening too.

Maby, I'm just old and unadaptive, but (I'm 23) I hate it. I have an older post where I explain better. But I contacted spotify when it happened, thinking I broke the app and they were unhelpful and basically said this is how it's going to be but they were listening to feed back to try to make improvements and to post in community to make sure voices are heard.

I've posted in community, listened for updates and wrote reviews in the appstore. The general response to the newest update is generally negative. Thousands of posts with nothing but negative reviews and issues people are having with the app. Spotifys response has been to double down, imply that people are using it wrong, insist that this update is the best way for people to discover new music and connect.

I'm tired, it's been like 2 months, longer for people who were forced to beta and every news update they give isn't an update, it's a regurgitation of they're original statement and ignores all feed back. I've been holding back, hoping and waiting to see what happens, but im tired. Im angry, its not just that I feel unheard and im not even really upset about the update anymore, its more that they can receive all this feed back and have such a tone deaf and ignorantly patronizing responce.

Its kinda sad. They took something I loved and twisted it so its unrecognizable. Tried to sell it back to me, and then are trying to push me into just accepting that they know best. Gross.

I canceled spotify premium. Even if they fix the original issues, their overall response, or lack of coherent response, is just like left a bad taste in my mouth. Why should I give them my money if they aren't going to make good on what I'm paying for, an ad free listening experience with playlists for me.

[thesubparwriter]

“Um, can I get whatever the equivalent of a large latte is?” He says with a wide grin. “Sorry, I’m new here and I don’t quite understand the menu yet.”

Heat creeps up chest and flushes my face. “Sure, no problem.”

From the corner of my eye I can see Issac’s third and fourth arms begin to form as he prepares to pick up his 10 Christmas shopping bags to leave. My throat tightens and I grip the cash register. ‘Please don’t let this silly little human turn around’ I pray silently.

“Thank you. How much will that be?” The foolish little man asks.

I see an opportunity and I take it. The longer he stands here unaware of the danger he’s in and risk he poses for my regulars, the longer his scent has to spread and maybe, just maybe, the patrons will get a whiff and realise something is wrong.

“That’ll be…” I scratch my chin and fane confusion. I don’t dare turn to look at the menu behind me, so I stare at the screen on the register blankly. “Um… oh dammit. That’s not right!”

I tap random buttons on the screen and by the grace of Zeus, the register begins to protest loudly.

“Sorry, I’m new here and I’m still not used to things myself!” I lie. I own the damn place but there was no way I was going to let this man screw things up for me. I mean how did he even get in unnoticed? How did he not notice the others as he came in? I smelt him the moment he walked in. He reeks of human.

“Not to worry, I’m in no hurry!” He says as relaxes his stance and hooks his thumbs in his backpack straps. “I come this way everyday and I’ve never noticed, I felt so drawn, I just had to come in, I’ve got the time today.”

He’s talking to ease my nerves but the longer he stands there the worse they get, he doesn’t even realise the risk him even being here poses.

I keep randomly clicking away at the screen, when I notice Felix sniffing the air. Felix was my favourite happy-go-lucky werewolf, if he noticed, I knew he’d jump to my rescue without causing a scene.

He looks over at me and I briefly lock eyes with him and shoot a quicker glance at the man stood in front of me. His mouth drops open and he turns to look around to see if anyone else has noticed. Getting to his feet, he quickly and silently makes his way around the tables whispering to everyone as he went. Some people jumped up in panic and began gathering their belongings to leave. Some scowled and began hiding their extra extremities. This was supposed to be a safe space for them. How could I recover from this? How had a human made it through my charm?

After a while, Felix returns to his seat and gives me a nod.

The man clears his throat. “So like I said, I was just walking by like I do everyday and suddenly I heard this mesmerising voice, it sounded like a woman singing… calling to me. That’s when I turned and noticed this place, bright and blooming right there. How I hadn’t noticed it before is beyond me, but there you go. Here I am.”

And that’s when it clicked. Serena.

I smiled and straightened. “That’s wonderful, well your total will be 2 dollars please.”

I don’t even accept human money here but I had no choice.

“2 dollars?” He says astonished and looks around as if he’d wondered into a parallel universe. Little did he know…

He reached into his pocket for his wallet and my chest started to swell with relief, it was almost over.

“Here.” He said, handing me a thin piece of plastic. “And give yourself a huge tip” he said with that huge grin of his that was starting to grow on me.

Dammit, a credit card. I don’t have a machine.

“You know what, it’s on the house. I forgot, we have an offer for new customers.” I say with a smile, I hope he doesn’t sense its falsity.

“You…” he looks at my name tag. “Demetria, have just made my day. I just lost my job and I really needed something nice to pick me up. Now this… thank you!”

A warm sensation bubbles in my belly. And my cheeks follow suit. A shy smile appears on my face and I curse myself internally. “It’s Demi.” I say stupidly.

With a wink he turns and stalks over to the farthest table at the window and takes a seat, grinning wildly at everyone around him watching him cautiously.

I take this opportunity to race into the back to kill Serena.

I find her sat on the kitchen counter with one leg crossed over the other and a devious smile on her face.

“What did you do?” I say in a hushed voice.

“He needs you and you need him. You’re more than welcome.” She says and jumps to her feet. She walks over to me as I’m frozen on the spot. Kissing me on the cheek as she passes. “Yes, I called him with my siren song… it doesn’t take a genius to know only the clean hearted humans hear the call of my song… now do with him what you will. I have a feeling he’s going to fit right in.”

“Serena this is not funny! You can’t bring a human in here.”

“But he’s not just any human, he’s your human. I’m no Cupid, he hasn’t been in yet this morning, but the way your cheeks burn so hot I can feel the heat back here, every time he smiles, I think says it all. Now sis, use a little witchy charm and some of your girly charm and let’s blur the lines between our world and his…”

She danced away singing her siren song and ease flooded my once panicked state…

You run a secret, hidden café frequented by mythical beings. One day, a human somehow finds their way to the café. They have not noticed they are the only human, nor have the other patrons noticed them. Yet.

[chachadelight]

𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝑴𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑴𝒆 |

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 1 | 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 2

𝕽𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 & 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: NSFW 18+ , No smut in this chapter, violence, blood, guns, knives, swearing. No use of Y/N

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Alrighty! Here it is, my new fic, which I should hopefully be sticking to. It definitely is aimed to be a long one with multiple parts. Forgive me, I am a slow slow writer as I get migraines often from looking at screens. But I am paSSIONATE about this so...I will stick to it. And please do not worry, filthy smut to come later. This is to just set the scene and the characters, so I hope you don’t think it’s too boring!

𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Tangerine x Fem!Assassin!Reader

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.8k (I know)

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Tangerine doesn't love, he can't. He knows that. So why does she make him feel the way she does and why does it piss him off so much?

𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝔻𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤 & 𝔾𝕠𝕝𝕕 ℝ𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤

The air was frigid in Windsor, England. The night was clear and not a single cloud could be seen in the sky, stars clearly visible and shining and the moon full and gleaming, making itself known in the autumn weather. A peaceful night, only the sound of the orchestra and the mumblings of patrons could be heard outside the manor of the Lancaster family. A night unsuspecting, nothing could possibly go wrong.

“Why do you never read the fuckin’ brief mate?”

“I skimmed it, got all the important details”.

Tangerine pinched the bridge of his nose, brow creasing with frustration. The pair were perched outside their black Bentley, the hustle and murmuring leaking from the manor a few metres ahead. Tangerine soon pulled a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, letting it hang there as he continued.

“His name is Damien Lancaster, heir to the Lancaster fortune”. He lit the cigarette with a flick of his silver light, letting it bounce between his lips for a moment before taking a hefty drag. “The Lancaster’s being the richest family ere’ in Windsor which of course you knew didn’t you Lemon?”

Lemon rolled his eyes at his brother’s comment, hands slipping into his pockets as he watched the patrons slowly file into the illuminated manor. Large and lavish and obnoxiously luxurious with all its hand sculpted ivory columns and beautifully carved mahogany doors that decorated every entrance.

“Anyway, little Damien’s dear uncle aint so happy about him inheriting all that money so you see, he’s hired us to take care of the problem”. Tangerine rested his cigarette between his fingers, his free hand in his pocket and his eyes trained on the upper level of the manor.

“Get rid of the nephew then the uncle gets all the money, got it”.

Tangerine raised his brow at that, shifting his gaze towards his brother. He simply stared in silence for a moment, taking another drag and letting the smoke glide past his lips. “Glad you finally got the memo Lemon, thank you for articulating the job so eloquently”. Tangerine sighed and took one last drag from his half-smoked cigarette, knowing that the pair couldn’t waste any more time. The last of the guests were filing in which meant it was the twins’ cue to take on their roles as distinguished guests at the Lancaster gala.

“Let’s go”. With that he flicked the bud to the ground, pressing his polished shoe against it to but the last of the cinders out. Lemon grabbed the lapels of his dress jacket, adjusting the way they sat against his chest as he followed closely behind his brother.

The main room was sprawling with wealthy high-society families, affluent politicians, and deep-pocketed social climbers. Chatting and laughing over tall glasses of over-priced wine and amber whisky. The sounds of heels clicking the marble granite floors and crystal glasses clinking against one another filled the enormous room as Lemon and Tangerine made their way into the middle. Dodging other people as they meandered through the wonderfully dressed patrons the twins found themselves at an opening at the bar, needing a position in the manor to be able to begin their survey.

Tangerine flagged down a bartender dressed in a bowtie, ordering a scotch on ice. He flicked out his wrists, adjusting the cufflinks on each arm. “Now, Damien will be hosting a gentlemen’s meeting upstairs at around 8pm after the first round of mingling. Just before that he should be preparing himself in his office. That’s when we’ll get the job done”. Lemon’s eyes were trained on the crowd in front of them as he himself ordered a drink.

“Sounds like a piece of piss”. Lemon looked down at his watch, a gruff noise passing his lips when he noticed the time. “What are we s’posed to do before then?” He leaned his elbow back against the bar.

“Always does, doesn’t it?” Tangerine grinned as he took a sip from the glass the bartender had slid towards him. “What do ya’ think Lemon?” He grinned, smacking his brother on the shoulder and taking a step further into the crowd. “Mingle”.

Lemon deadpanned his twin, followed shortly by an eye roll. He took his drink and followed his brother’s lead, stopping for a moment to lean into Tangerine’s ear. “I’ll check out the security, you hang here and see if there’s anyone we should look out for yeah? Meet you back here at 7:30 then?”

Tangerine’s gaze had fixated on a group of conversing women dressed in exuberantly designed gowns, a small smile growing on his lips. “Yeah, 7:30”. Lemon’s brow creased for a moment in confusion to his partner’s lack of concentration before following his line of sight. He nudged Tangerine in the side, prompting the other male to let out a grunt. “Oi!”

“7:30”

Tangerine rubbed at his side, frowning at his brother. “Yeah yeah 7:30, bloody hell”

With that, Lemon disappeared into the crowd, leaving Tangerine alone. He moved his attention back onto the women from before, quickly adjusting the lapels of his jacket and smoothing his moustache down with his index finger and thumb. Tangerine sauntered towards the group, smile and charm dialled to an 11.

“Good evening, ladies”. The women all turned their heads in unison, confused expressions quickly turning into giddy smiles as soon as they set their gazes on Tangerine and his towering stance.

The woman with blonde hair, dressed in an obnoxious gold dress spoke up first, her voice high pitched and dripping with pride. “Well, well…to what do we owe the pleasure Mr…?” She reached a single manicured hand, the rest of the women’s gazes fixated on Tangerine as he politely took the offer and shook gently.

“Jeffrey Baldwin”. He flashed the brightest grin he could muster as he provided his faux name, the blonde woman hiding back her own grin as she took back her hand, pink lips wrapping around the edge of her wine glass. “And you are…?

She chuckled again, looking between her gaggle of friends before rolling her shoulders back and puffing out her chest. “Evangeline Astor, my father is Baron Astor, founder, and CEO of Astor Enterprises? I am surprised you don’t know who he is, he owns half of…well everything”. Evangeline let out another laugh that this time came out as more of a cackle that had Tangerine testing his ability to hide his expression.

“Ah, of course I know who he is Miss Astor. I knew he had a beautiful daughter; I’m not surprised it’s you”. Tangerine slipped a hand into his pocket, sending a wink her way as to diffuse to tension.

It seemed to work because she smiled shyly, her eyes looking him up and down, practically undressing him with her gaze. Something Tangering did not mind, and frankly he was happy about. He was about to speak again when he was interrupted…

“Jeffrey Baldwin?” It was another female’s voice, yet it was deeper, sultrier. Nowhere near as headache inducing at Evangeline’s. Tangerine and the women all flicked their attention to the culprit. A taller woman, her body wrapped in a smooth black gown that hit the ground and hugged her figure in all the right places.

Tangerine raised a brow, first wondering where on Earth she had come from. Was she there the whole time? “Sorry?”

She smiled, red painted lips pulling back wide. “You said your name is Jeffrey Baldwin correct?” Her dress was corseted at the top, pulling in her waist, and holding her chest high and proud. The diamond necklace that sat between her breasts did nothing to help Tangerine focus his attention.

Tangerine peered around, the group of women now silent and plain faced as they all awaited his answer to this mystery woman. “Yes, is there a problem?” He fixated his gaze back on her and she simply held her smirk, even taking a step forward. She brought her champagne class to her lips and paused, tilting her head to the side.

“Mm, I’ve never heard of him. Have you ladies?” She held her gaze on his, piercing him with an intense gaze he couldn’t quite describe. Who is she?

The group of women all murmured amongst themselves, soon followed by the shaking of their heads and quick shrugs when none of them could place the name. Tangerine returned the gaze to the woman in front of him, a small frown playing at his expression and his moustache twitching with annoyance. “I’m not from around here”.

“Clearly”. Her grin never seemed to fade from her features, black painted nails tapping at the glass of her drink.

Tangerine’s eye had begun to twitch the way it did whenever his temper was played with. Who the fuck is this woman? Did she know who he is? Whoever she was, she was beginning to fuck with his cover and this job.

“How about I buy you a drink aye? Then you can get to know me, won’t be strangers anymore”. Tangerine broke the tension in his face, quickly covering it with a false grin to ease some of the growing tension.

Her smile had dropped at this point, but her gaze never left his. “Sounds wonderful”. She peered at the group and her smile appeared briefly. “Ladies”, and then it was gone once more.

Tangerine made sure to lead her to the far corner of the bar that was attached to the far side of the wall, somewhat hidden by the large velvet curtain of the floor to ceiling window. He was using every muscle in his body to not explode in the middle of this gala, his buttons were already pushed at this point. Who was this woman? That’s all he could think of. However, maybe she really was just another patron of this party. He couldn’t just lose control and blow his cover on the suspicion that she was someone he needed to worry about, someone like him.

“A negroni please”.

“What’s that now?” He was broken from his train of thought, quickly turning around to find the object of his ire standing there with a brow raised.

“The drink you offered to buy me? I will take a negroni”.

Tangerine pursed his lips, taken aback by her straightforward attitude. He didn’t linger on it for too long before he ordered her drink and one for himself, flipping the bartender his card between two fingers. The pair gazed at each other in silence, both studying one another, eyes taking in every last detail. Who was going to break the silence this time?

“So…” Her turn. “Mr Baldwin… here on business or pleasure?” She took her drink, twirling the peach liquid with the straw and taking a sip. Tangerine noted the way her red lips wrapped around the straw for a moment before speaking.

He took a moment to give her another look up and down, admiring the shape of her hips and the length of her legs. “Both”. He grinned, casually leaning against the bar as he too took a sip from his own drink.

She let out a little noise and Tangerine couldn’t tell if she believed him or not. Or if she was just unimpressed by him. Which in fact, would be a first for him. In general, she was hard to read, everything about her screamed red flag however she had yet to do anything to warrant extreme concern for Lemon and Tangerine.

“Do you do this for every woman you meet at fancy galas?” She took a couple steps forward until their bodies were a few centimetres apart. She pulled her drink back up to her lips and peered from beneath her lashes, looking ten times more unsuspecting than she did only five minutes prior. Tangerine’s brows were instantly raised, not expecting the sudden proximity but definitely not opposed to it either. He chuckled and tilted his head at her, taking in the scent of her vanilla and smoke perfume.

“Definitely not”. Suddenly every worry Tangerine had about her had floated away, a mere memory at the basement of his mind. He was entranced by this woman’s gaze, watching carefully as she placed her empty drink down yet remained as close as she was. Another small noise passed her lips as she let on a small smile, long fingers climbing up his chest to gently toy with the end of his tie. She leaned in closer now and as if on instinct Tangerine keened forward, giving her access to his ear.

“It’s funny how quickly you trusted me with a few bats of my pretty lil’ lashes”. Her posh accent was suddenly gone and replaced with one that sounded a lot more like his. Tangerine had barely any time to react to her before he was suddenly being rammed into the wall behind the curtain, a groan leaving his lips as the air was stolen from him.

“Who the fu-!”

Before Tangerine could get a sentence out, he felt the familiar cold press of knife against the base of his throat. He quickly shut his mouth at that as he leaned his head against the pillar behind his head.

“I think the question is who the fuck are you? Jeff-rey Bald-win”. She accentuated each syllable of his fake name, her face twisted in what look like disgust. She definitely knew he wasn’t who he said he was. “Stupid fuckin’ name”.

Tangerine growled, attempting to push against her until she pressed the edge of the knife harder against the skin of his throat to which he retreated, hissing his next words through gritted teeth. “Your friends seemed to like it”.

She scoffed, pressing the knife in even further, causing Tangerine to begin sweating nervously. That was obviously not the answer she wanted to hear. “Alright alright…! I’m ere’ on a job”. He hesitated to tell her exactly what for. What if Damien knew about the attempt on his life and hired someone to take out whoever that was?

“I’m gonna’ need a little more than that”. She hissed in displeasure again, her fingers turning ivory against the handle of her knife. “Who sent you?”

“Afraid I can’t disclose that love”.

She sneered at the pet name, her red lips curling with disgust. “Give me one fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t slit your throat right here?”

“For one, we’re in the middle of party sweetheart”.

She paused at that, and her eyes darted to the side, noting that they were in fact way too in the open and killing Tangerine here would be way too risky, blowing her own cover and ruining the job. She looked back at Tangerine for a moment, eyes blown wide before she groaned and lowered the knife from his throat, however keeping it strategically aimed at his stomach. “At least tell me what you’re here for”.

Tangerine hummed to himself in thought, noting carefully where she had her knife aimed now. If he tried to make a move on her like this, he would for sure be getting a gut full of blade. Perhaps they had different motives. But if they didn’t, this would complicate things ever further. Where was Lemon when you needed him?

“I’m here for Damien Lancaster…someone wants him gone”.

Suddenly she grinned and that wicked look in her eye returned. Tangerine frowned, unsure what to feel by her reaction.

“Looks like little Damien has a target on his back…”

“Aye?”

“I’m here on behalf of Baron Astor…” The tension in Tangerine’s shoulders dropped slightly. “The Lancaster’s currently own the other half of Windsor and well…Mr Astor isn’t so thrilled”.

“Well then I guess we don’t have anything to stress about, so if you could just move this…” Tangerine reached for her knife, placing his fingers over her own before she suddenly lunged forward, the knife pressing uncomfortably into his side. He hissed; eyes blown wide as he watched her.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head at his words. “I’m afraid I need Damien Lancaster alive. He has all the access to the Lancaster data base. I need access so Mr Astor can do his little dirty work and run Lancaster name through the mud, then poof! Suddenly everyone wants to work for Astor Enterprises and the Lancaster’s are ruined”. Her smile was wicked, amused, she clearly enjoyed her job.

“Now I’m sure we can work something out”. Lemon would be looking for him by now, surely it was reaching 7:30.

“Mm, I don’t think so. A shame really, you are so handsome”.

“Thanks love, a shame for you though”.

“Why?”

“You’re beautiful”.

“And?”

“And I’m about to fuck you up”. Lemon appeared behind her, firm hand against her shoulder that had her immediately reacting by spinning herself around and swatting Lemon’s arm away from her. Using the opening she swung forward and landed a punch against his stomach, sending the larger male keening forward with a guttural groan. She used the opportunity to slip past the pair, quickly disappearing into the crowd before either of them could react.  

“Fuck me! Took your fucking time didn’t ya Lemon?”

“Fuck you! I had no idea where you were. Who the fuck is that anyway?!” Lemon clutched his stomach as the pair already started making their way through the crowd.

“I don’t fucking know! She’s here on another job, said she needs Damien alive and was bout’ to fucking stab me”.

“Shit…it’s almost 8pm, we’re way off schedule”. Lemon groaned as they now found their way past the main part of the foyer and into the silence of one of the many halls of this damn manor.

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

The two brothers found themselves hiding on either side of a large open archway. It was a rather inconvenient predicament to be in as they were way too out in the open. There were four suited guards patrolling the empty hallway and there was no doubt that there would be plenty more to come if a single gun went off.

Tangerine locked eyes with Lemon, a stern look on his face as he pulled his pistol out and slowly twisted a silencer barrel onto the end of it. He was going to try his best not to use it at all, but precautions were put in place nonetheless. Lemon looked equally as concerned about their position, not to mention that there was now another assassin on the job. God knows where she was at this point. But that wasn’t the main focus. The pair needed to get past these 4 brutes in order to get to Damien Lancaster’s office.

Tangerine made the first move by carefully timing the moment guard 1 and 2 had their back turned around the first corner, Lemon following suit as the other 2 made their way to the other side of the hall, moving to the balcony that overlooked the main foyer. Tangerine swiftly rounded the corner, silently easing his way up to the first guard before wrapping his arm around his neck and promptly applying heavy pressure to his throat. The man only struggled for a moment before he eventually fell limp to the ground. Tangerine made sure to drag his body away from the main hall, letting him slump in a nearby alcove in the wall.

Guard number two put up slightly more of a fight, having noticed Tangerine’s shadow before he could attack. With a little more of a struggle, Tangerine was still able to throw in a single punch before whacking the guard with the butt of his pistol, quickly subduing the man.

“Fuckin’ ell’… arsehole”. Tangerine let a puff of air through his nose, tucking in his pistol and smoothing his curls back down as they had come slightly loose from the struggle. As if on cue, Lemon came back around the corner. Tangerine frowned as his brother came to his side, noticing a small splatter of blood on the front of Lemon’s white shirt.

“Bloody ell’ Lemon, what’d you do?”

“Eh?” Lemon peered down at his chest, clearly unaware of the mess he’s made. “Ah! Yeah no worries bruv, old mate pulled a knife on me so I sent it back to im’”.

Tangerine sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “Right well. You hang out here, keep an eye out. Lancaster’s office is just down this hall on the left”. He signalled downwards with his fingers, Lemon nodding along to his words.

“You be quick yeah? I got a bad feelin’ bout this”.

“What are you on about Lemon?”

“Well I just know if it were Thomas-“

“Don’t”. Tangerine raised a palm to his brother, closing his eyes with a frown. “Fucking don’t bring Thomas the Tank Engine into this”.

Lemon raised his hands in defence to his brother’s distaste. “Alright…just hurry up”.

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

Tangerine had made it the large mahogany doors leading to Damien Lancaster’s office. He adjusted his tie before reaching for his pistol and taking it out once again. “Right Mr Lancaster let’s have a chat”.

The familiar press of a barrel of a gun suddenly pushed against the back of his head, paralysing Tangerine in his spot. He didn’t dare move, not surprised by the voice that followed. “How about we have a chat first?”

“Ah darlin’, you found me”.

“Mm, and now I’m really gonna’ end it. Now your little friend isn’t here”.

“Not so little I’d say”.

“Shut up”.

Tangerine made his move by quickly manoeuvring his arm to whack her hand to the side, sending the pistol flying. Reaching forward he gripped her wrist and sent her back against the adjacent wall. She didn’t take kindly to this when her back was met with a loud thud, causing her to grunt from the. She hissed with annoyance before kicking Tangerine square in the gut, sending him hurling backwards. Stumbling only for a moment before he managed to find his footing. However, she didn’t hesitate when she pulled her knife out once again, swiping once, twice in Tangerine’s direction. She was quick, skilled, but so was Tangerine, narrowly dodging her attacks before grabbing at her wrist again. They struggled against one another as she attempted to yank her arm free by pulling him closer to herself. Face to face she sneered at him, and Tangerine’s nostrils flared in response.

“Give it up sweetheart”. He said in a strained voice, veins on the side of his neck protruding as he pressed against her. He was stronger than her and he knew she knew. He just wondered when she’d make her first move.

“I guess you’re used to girls doing whatever you ask aren’t you?” Her voice was equally as strained, but the smirk that stretched across her lips suggested she was enjoying this.

“I don’t mind a little brat every now and then”. That smirk, those eyes. That devilish glare that sent a warm wave through him, nestling at the very core of his stomach. Was he really getting turned on by a woman trying to murder him? Yes. Yes he was. And the smile that grew on his own face proved so.

She suddenly roared out, lashing out every ounce of energy she had left to push against Tangerine. Using her momentum, she swung herself around in a circle, her leg coming up at the end and her foot connecting with Tangerine’s face with a disgusting ‘thud’.

Tangerine collided with the floor, groaning, and gripping at the side of his jaw. “You fuckin’ bitch”.

“Sorry handsome, I really tried to avoid the face”.

“That’s a fuckin’ lie love and we both know it”. He rubbed his jaw, propping himself up on his elbow. That’s when he realised in the struggle, she had dropped her knife and it was now only an arm’s reach away from him. She seemed to notice this too when her eyes widened. They both hurled for the blade, and she ended up missing it by an inch as Tangerine curled his fist around it and swung up blindly, having no time to aim.

He heard her exclaim and when he finally stood from the floor he saw her gripping at her arm, crimson liquid streaming from between her slender fingers. She stared at her arm for a moment, frowning when she lifted her fingers to witness a hefty cut with a steady stream of blood flowing from it.

“You just fuckin cut me! Bastard!”

“Why are you surprised by that!?”

“You--!” A loud bang and she was sent hurtling back as a splash of red sprayed from her left shoulder.

Tangerine cursed before turning around to see who the culprit was, hoping it was Lemon. The burning came on quick, followed by warm sensation of his blood beginning to pool at his thigh. “Fuckin’ bellend!” Tangerine aimed his pistol up and in a quick blur he managed to send a bullet right through the guard’s skull, his body thumping to the floor,

“Where the fuck did he come from?” He groaned out, his face contorting from the pain beginning to shoot up his leg as he limped his way back to the door. She had her back pressed up against the door now ripping at the end of her dress to make a makeshift bandage for her arm and now her shoulder.

“This was one of my favourite dresses too…fuck!”

As Tangerine sunk to the floor beside her, the pair both groaned in unison, heads pressed against the door. “Well this went tits up aye love?”

“Thanks to you Mr Bald-WIN”.

“Aye this is as much your fault as is mine!”

“Shut up”.

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, hissing as she applied pressure to the wound in her shoulder, blood steadily trickling down her arm.

“Listen…” He trailed on. “You only need him alive for access, right?”

She frowned but didn’t speak, her tired gaze settling on Tangerine as he spoke.

“How about you get your access and do whatever you need to do and I kill the bastard and we can all go on our merry little way?” Tangerine peered at his new mystery woman with a hopeful look even though he himself wasn’t too convinced of his new plan. Lemon for sure wouldn’t like it.

She didn’t speak for a moment longer, weighing her options, which weren’t exactly plentiful as the pair bled out on the lovely velvet carpet. That was going to be a bitch to get out later.

Look at Tangerine with hazed eyes she simply leaned forward until their foreheads touched, her warm breath fanning over his face as she spoke. “Do not fuck me over”.

Tangerine grinned and shook his head, his eyes boring into her own. “Wouldn’t dream of it sweetheart”. The way she looked at him was something else. Tangerine couldn’t help the grin on his face. This woman was something else, trouble for sure. But something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

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

“Lemon just get in the fucking car don’t ask questions. Take us to the Hollyvale Hotel”.

“Since when do we take on new partners in the middle of the job!?” Lemon exclaimed with annoyance as he helped his brother into the car, making sure to stay clear of his wounded leg.

“Hi handsome”. She grinned and winked at Lemon as she slipped into the car with grace and ease. Lemon paused for a moment, letting the compliment go straight to his head as he sat in the driver’s seat and started the car. “Alright maybe she isn’t so bad…”

“Just drive”. Tangerine groaned as he pressed his palm into his thigh. Lemon clicked his teeth and did just that. Drive. He sped off, sending loud screeches through the winter night air.

Lemon peered down at his writhing brother with concern knitted between wrinkled brows. “Fuck Tangerine…you alright mate?” He looked back up at the road, taking a hard swerve to the right.

“I’m fine…bullet went through”.

“I told you Thomas was right”.

“Oh shut the fuck up!”

“Thomas is always right”. Her voice sounded from the back, prompting the brothers to look at her through the rear-view mirror in unison. Lemon’s expression surprised whereas Tangerine was all frowns.

“That he is! Ah…?” Lemon trailed off, rounding another corner.

“Call me Damsel”.

Tangerine scoffed at that. “Damsel my ass”.

“It’s ironic”.

“Figures”.

“Fuck you fruit boy”.

“I know you wish you could sweetheart”.

“Should’ve stabbed you when I had the chance”.

“You did have the chance. You lost”.

She rolled her eyes at that, deciding against argument. Tangerine noticed this and smiled proudly as his small win. It was almost sad that she didn’t continue the argument. He liked seeing her mad. He had just met her, tried to kill her, and he was already noting the things he liked about her.

The car then pulled into a new street, the overhead luminescence of “Hollyvale Hotel” fading as they drove into the underground parking.

“Here��.

[so-writing]

Winner, winner - Erik Johnson

1998

“I’m going to win the Stanley Cup when I grow up. I’m gonna raise it above my head and shout out loud that i’m a champion!”

Erik smiled hard as he waited for you to challenge his goals.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna run things. I’ll be somebody important and i’ll be in charge of a lot of people!”

His big smile pulled you in and had you shouting your goals just like he did.

“Yeah, yeah! We’re gonna do this!”

Haley, the woman in charge of taking care of the two of you for the evening, stepped in and turned the television off.

“Those are both big wishes, but I have no doubt you’ll both achieve your dreams. Right now though, it’s time for bed.”

-

2022

You couldn’t fucking believe it. The Colorado Avalanche were one game away from winning the Stanley Cup and, worse, you couldn’t be at the game because you had to work.

Owning a busy bar in the heart of Denver had an even share of perks and setbacks but this was undoubtedly the worst setback yet. You knew they were going to win, you were sure of it. Unfortunately, your bartending staff was either quitting or calling off and you couldn’t make the trip to Florida.

It hurt you, but you told Erik and he wasn’t bothered at all.

‘You’ve got to take care of your business,’ he’d said, ‘when I get my day with the cup your door will be the first one I knock on.’

‘Erik, you haven’t properly knocked on my door in over a decade, don’t let the Stanley Cup change that.’

The patrons at your bar erupted into cheer as you sat in your office counting down one of the closed tills.

What was going on that they were so amped up?

Oh shit, you remembered after a moment, the game.

Scrambling out of both your chair and your office, you entered the main bar to meet a rowdy bunch hooting and hollering and when you looked up at one of the screens, you saw Erik.

“Oh wait, we’re doing the picture! I gotta go!”

You couldn’t help but laugh as his lanky body skated quickly toward the group and iced everyone in his path as he dropped down next to Gabe.

You missed him so much and immediately regretted your choice to stay home and work instead of seeing your best friend in the world’s first Stanley Cup win.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I’m fucking kicking myself for not closing up and coming to Tampa.

You were pretty sure he wouldn’t respond until the next morning, if he did at all, but you felt like it was necessary to give him an apology. Erik had been there when you first opened the doors of your bar. He was there when the hype dwindled and you began to lose money, and when you found your second wind and things got better.

Now, you were living your best and the bar was absolutely killing it, thanks especially to the Avs that night, you’d be sure to send a congratulatory text to the boys you were close with.

-

“Good morning! I hope you slept well and I hope you’re not too bothered by the large metal trophy you’re waking up next to.”

You rubbed your sleepy eyes and ignored his voice, thinking you were probably dreaming, but when you rolled over and wrapped your arm around something cold and round, you jumped out of bed.

“What the fuck?”

You finally opened your eyes after a cup of coffee, three sugar and four creams, was set in front of you while your best friend kissed your cheek.

“Good morning, again.”

“Good morning,” you smiled at your best friend sitting across the table from you, and “good morning to you too,” you said to the hardware on the stool next to him.

“Today’s your day?”

“Yes! I’m really excited, I hope you are too, because you’re a big part of it!”

-

You had no idea Erik was going to park the Stanley Cup on the corner of the main bar but you weren’t too upset. Business was booming.

“Aren’t you glad I brought Erik to the Erika?”

“No, EJ, no way! The Erika is mine!”

“It is, yeah, I just wanted to solidify that.”

*

“You should name this place after me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Why not? I’m pretty cool, right?”

He was pretty cool, you knew it as well as he did. He was kind of handsome too, and maybe someone you could spend some time with but you were far too busy to entertain something like that.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I would never.”

*

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating downtown?”

“Probably, not interested in that though.”

Erik was as stubborn as he was tall, meaning he would never fucking give in regardless of how hard he was pushed by damn near anyone.

“Can we go upstairs?”

The bar was slammed and you knew you needed to stay on the main floor but Erik’s puppydog eyes pulled you in and you followed him up to the roof.

“The Erika is my favorite bar in the world, and not just because you named it after me.. kind of. It’s my favorite bar in the world because you own it, because this was your goal. You are living your dream right now and I couldn’t be happier.”

“You’re living yours too, and i’ve gotta say, yours is way cooler than mine.”

“Winning the cup has always been one of my dreams, but it isn’t the one i’ve really been wanting.”

“Sorry, what? You’ve wanted to be a champion for as long as I can remember?”

“You’re right, i’ve always wanted to win a cup. I’ve also always wanted you.”

“Erik,” your stomach floated up into your throat as butterflies danced on your skin, “please don’t play with me.”

“I only want to play with you in the house we’re going to buy with the kid we’re going to have and the two german shepherds we’re going to get.”

“Hey, hey, don’t get ahead of yourself buddy, two german shepherds is a lot of dog. Can we work up to the kid after we get the dogs fully trained?”

“We’ll see, you know how I feel about dogs. By the way, are you down to get married?”

[blizzardrush]

    The Tattered Blackbird was one of many pubs in Kensington, yet as it came into view, Polya Dragunova's heart wedged itself in her throat. She cut across a gap in traffic and maneuvered past the businesspeople finished with work and waiting out rush hour milling on the sidewalk outside. The interior was worse, a veritable sardine can of twentysomething professionals reluctant to return to flats they shared with half a dozen of their peers. White collar gaggles blocked the typical pub decor from sight and a chorus of weekly gripes drowned the news on the TV over the bar. Polya didn't care about any of it. All that mattered to her was the man taking an entire booth to himself in the corner, sipping a pint like nothing was wrong.

    Her brother.

    Polya bowled her purse into the seat across from him hard enough to hit the wall with a heavy thud, and threw herself down right after. "Make it quick."

    Sergei Dragunov steeled himself in the bottom of his glass. This was never going to be painless, but she needn't start swinging right off the bat. Fine. Very well. He could do quick. He tossed a yellow envelope onto the table, trying to ignore how his sister flinched.

    She stared at it for a moment, then tore it open. The card inside was black, bordered in gold stars, YOU DID IT! printed under a paper mortarboard. Within were four salmon pink notes -- two hundred British pounds. She picked them up, watched their watermarks appear and hide in the light.

    "What the fuck is this," she said.

    Here we go, Sergei thought.

    "No, really, what the fuck is this." Polya's features darkened to an apocalyptic scowl. "Is this a bribe? Are you fucking bribing me to talk to you? You could rob a fucking bank for me and I still wouldn't give you the time of day, you fucking fascist!"

    Her volume was steadily rising. Dragunov could feel perplexed looks pointed toward their table.

    She kept going. "I don't want your blood money. I don't want you in my life. I feel fucking stupid for even looking at your text. My graduation was really nice, you know? Going out with normal people, people who aren't war criminals. But then you drop out of the blue and my whole fucking week is ruined."

    Sergei rubbed his brow, eyes squeezed shut, his other hand clutching his elbow. He had hoped otherwise, but couldn't deny the truth: this was a terrible mistake.

    She was on her feet now, face livid, tossing the pounds at him. "No contact means no contact. How fucking dumb do you have to be to not get that?" Her voice was a bitter screech, every word a needle. "You're a drone. An ant. Disgusting. All you do is destroy -- innocent lives, my peace of mind, Mom's heart--"

    "ENOUGH!"

    The shout ripped from Dragunov's soul like a malfunctioning rocket, propelling him onto his feet and his fists onto the table. His throat immediately protested, nicotine-scented phlegm knotting in his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. What little air he could reach was spent on muddy, racking coughs until he was bent double, hacking black mucus into his palm.

    A few pub patrons inched toward him, unsure about the situation but unwilling to watch him suffer. Sergei waved them off. Through blurred vision and blood pounding in his ears, he saw all eyes on him and Polya, stunned yet still trembling with rage.

    It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was protecting his home -- protecting her -- the only way he knew how, skimming money he could have easily spent on anything else for months to wish her the best. For someone who had spent four years mastering artistic expression, she refused to see an olive branch.

    A long, loud tone blared from the TV. Breaking news. The general gaze turned toward the screen. Murmurs went up, hands clasped over mouths, cheeks drained of color.

    Across an ocean, a city burned, and a demon proclaimed the end of the world.

    Polya glanced between the broadcast and her brother. A curious paradox: he was right there, and so was the rest of the pub, yet seemed separated by lightyears. The thing on the television, the warning crawl about falling satellite debris, on the other hand, was as close as a dangling guillotine blade. And as her worldview sat on the chopping block, more than anything else, she felt very, very alone.

    She looked for Sergei. The front door slammed, and he was gone.

                                                          - - -

    The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.

    The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slimmer dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.

    Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.

    The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.

    A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.

    "Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.

    Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.

    Pale fingers trailed over his throat.

    Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A heartbeat he did not have.

    He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?

    Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.

    CRUN--

                    -

                        --nch.

    Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.

    Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.

    Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.

    He couldn't help but chuckle.

    It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company -- mindful not to crush his bones. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.

    Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?

    He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.

    The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.

    Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.

    As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.

    Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."

    Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.

    Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.

    Jackboots thundered closer.

    His words like beetles in her ear: "Start talking."

[sunivaa]

Dressed my sim-self in a dress and came to you to talk a little.

Now everyone is discussing EA, early access, some creators talked about how they were negatively affected by the perception of creating CC as work and other things. I am very sorry that people feel bad and I am glad that they are better now, I hope it will be like that.

In this text, I want to talk about myself and why I am glad that EA allowed early access. For me, creating CC is probably the most favorite thing, despite the fact that I have hardly played the Sims for quite some time. Just sit, spin meshes, add new spins. I use EA meshes, edit them and add new twists to create something unique in this game, some hairstyles have almost nothing left of the mesh of course, but that's not the point. I am very passionate about this business and the fact that I can monetize it somehow is very important. I live with my mother, so far I have neither the ability nor the need to live on my own. I don't get much from my patrons, but it's enough for me to buy medicine that I have to take constantly, buy clothes, cat food, food, and financially help my mom and the people who are currently suffering from the war in my country more , than I am, because I am lucky to live in a relatively safe place. It's important to me to get paid for creating CC, because if I didn't get paid, I would have to go to work. It wouldn't be a tragedy, of course, I would find something where I don't have to die to get pennies, but then I wouldn't be able to do what I really enjoy - making CC. That doesn't mean I'm doing it "just for the money". This means that people who like my CCs allow me to pursue my hobby without the fear that I won't have the funds for what I need.

I am infinitely grateful to everyone who supports me financially or just with kind words. I really like the hair I'm creating now. I like ANY post where I see my CCs. If the closed sunivaa.iva account suddenly likes you on Instagram, then I saw my CC on you and I am happy like a child.

I am glad that the people who support me financially receive thanks from me in the form of early access. It is important to me that I feel that I am not just "living on donations", but that I am giving something for which people are willing to pay a little. It wouldn't be a tragedy for me if I had to remove early access, but I'm glad that for now, I won't have to and my patrons will be able to receive such thanks from me. I feel obliged to you, I'm ashamed that I still can't fix bugs in old hairstyles, or reduce the number of polygons in them. I can do it, but I don't have enough strength and desire for it, I want to create something new. I wouldn't mind at all if someone else does this and posts these hairstyles for themselves! I'm not suggesting this, just saying that you can do whatever you want with all my CCs. I don't care who does what with them. I am happy because I can do what I like.

I hope that one day I will still have the inspiration to fix my old hairstyles, and make that heart belt as an accessory, finish a new blog, I remember everything, but I can't force myself, I don't want to break myself. I hope you are not mad at me for this.

I love myself. I love you. Thank you for allowing me to do what I love. I could write a lot more, but I think someone is already tired of reading

/I do not know English well. It is easier in simple answers, but with such large texts I use a translator, so I apologize if there are any mistakes that I did not notice. I still haven't learned English 👉🏻👈🏻

I will finish the new hair (the one on the screen) and publish it within a day Colored spinning wheels are not my authorship, you can download them here

[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​

[myherowritings]

PART 5. THE INHERENT EROTICISM OF BUTTONING SOMEONE’S CLOTHES

SUMMARY. Todoroki Shouto was a wealthy, young CEO who inherited his father’s enterprise. You were a barista at a local cafe who wouldn’t mind some extra cash. One day, Shouto came in during an early morning shift and tipped you such a large sum of money, you were certain it had to have been an accident. To your surprise and complete pleasure: It was not.

PAIRING. ceo!todoroki shouto x barista!reader

WORD COUNT. 3.0k

GENRE. ceo/barista au, fluff, eventual smut

WARNINGS. sexual tension !! and umm sexual frustration ;p, not explicit but prob rated 16+, just read the title of this chapter BAHAHA

A/N. sorry this is coming a little later than planned ! :( but i hope the dressing room scene can make up for it u.u tysm for reading and for all the feedback! enjoy :3 xx sof

SERIES MASTERLIST

© myherowritings — all rights reserved. reposting, modifying, copying, or translating of any kind is not allowed. do not read my writing as asmr. do not plagiarize.

What were you supposed to wear to a shopping date? you asked yourself. Not that today was a date or anything. Though maybe you sort of wished it were… 

The Naruhata Charity Gala was in a little over a week and Shouto would be coming over to pick you up in less than one hour and you still sat in your room with nothing but a towel on feeling more and more hopeless. 

It was a strange dilemma. He met you in your work apron wearing an unflattering work shirt and work pants. And when you met up over the weekend previously, you never paid too much mind on what you would wear. In fact, you were positive he wouldn’t even care how you looked. So why was it such a big deal to you now? 

Probably because of your recent admission of your growing feelings towards him, you thought crossly. 

In your defense, it wasn’t like it was your fault! Right? Seeing someone everyday… Wanting to see someone everyday… Texting regularly about the most random things, having the most banal objects you saw throughout the day remind you of something Shouto did or said… With all those occurrences it would’ve been practically impossible to not start crushing on him! 

Time passed as you stared at your ceiling blankly. If you kept this up, he was bound to show up in your house and find you half-naked. (Now that you mentioned it, that didn’t sound like the worst idea. But it wasn’t something you’d randomly spring upon someone.)

“Get up, Y/N!” you scolded yourself, rolling off your bed and heading towards your closet. 

In the end, you ended up settling for another variation of your usual go-to outfit and called it a day. It happened to be perfect timing since, by the time you finished getting ready, you got a new message on your phone. 

Shouto: Parked in front of your place

Shouto: Sorry I’m a little early. You can take your time getting ready :)

Y/N: it’s okay i’m ready now!! 

After hitting send, you put your shoes on, gathering your belongings you wanted to bring with you, and headed out the door. Excited to hang out with Shouto again, you walked with a skip in your step down the path until you reached his car. 

“Hi!” You waved through his half-opened, tinted window. To no one’s surprise, his car was a sleek black color with dark, tinted windows, and gold details along the sides. If it didn’t look so oddly sexy you would’ve laughed at how cutely dorky he was for matching his car with his credit card. “This is one hot car.”

He turned his head to the side when you entered the passenger’s seat. “Should I turn the AC higher?” 

“Huh— Oh!” You stifled a giggle when you processed the pun he made. “You’re funny, Shouto.” 

He only looked a little confused. “Thank you.” 

The interior of his car was no less—for lack of better term—sexy than the outside. Leather seats, a large screen for the radio and carplay, and the dashboard and side doors lit up a nice blue color. 

“Pretty!” you complimented, poking at the colorful light.

“Want to pick a color?” 

Your eyes widened. “It can change colors?!” 

Shouto nodded.

“Can it be pink?” you asked intently. 

“Light pink or hot pink?”

“Light.”

He swiftly obliged and with a hit of a touchscreen button, the interior lighting changed from blue to pastel pink. 

“Green!”

It turned green.

“Orange!”

Cue the orange. 

“Purple?” 

Purple. 

Once you were thoroughly satisfied with Shouto showing you the whole color selection (you were almost embarrassed to admit it kept you entertained for a good ten minutes), you settled on a bright turquoise that reminded you of the color of his left eye. 

“Ooh, this color! My favorite,” you said simply, giving him a wide smile. 

A faint blush dusted his cheeks as he developed a sudden interest in adjusting his rearview mirror. “Hm.”

Shouto drove the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, occasionally asking how your week was outside of work and what type of outfit you wanted to wear so he could have a better idea on where to take you. 

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asked when he hit the next stoplight, one hand holding the wheel and the other resting comfortably on the gear shift. 

His hands looked nice and slender and soft to the touch. Pretty hands, you thought but shook yourself out of it because you could go down a rabbit hole of examining his hands and going into detail about them. 

You remembered the single, measly granola bar you had due to your rush getting ready. “I didn’t really eat yet, no. Did you?”

He shook his head and pulled into a food plaza with lots of stores to choose from. The two of you agreed on a noodle restaurant that apparently had some of the best cold soba (once you learned it was his favorite food, you wanted to be able to have some with him and today was the perfect opportunity to do just that) and promptly headed to the location. 

In the shop, a waiter sat the two of you down at a dimly lit booth with the perfect amount of ambience that if someone were to casually look over, they might even mistake this outing as a date. 

You grinned at the thought. 

“Excited for the soba?” asked Shouto, examining the smile on your face thoughtfully. 

That’s not why you were smiling, but it was close enough. “Mhm. And the udon. You can never go wrong with noodles!” 

Yes, you got both udon and soba. But in your defense, where else would the fun in life be if not in sugary sweets and carbs? 

As the two of you waited for your main dishes, you ate some fish cakes and edamame while talking about the ways in which capitalism could be dismantled. Rather sexy of him, if you did say so yourself. 

Before you knew it, you were done with your meal and headed back into his car to go fancy-people shopping. On the remainder of the ride, you asked yourself what color you should pick that would match well with both you and Shouto. After all, nothing said a cute couple who totally liked each other going on a totally real date to a gala like color-coordinated outfits, right?

He parked in front of a street of buildings with a dark glass reaching from ceiling to floor with security guards at the door. Just standing near it made you feel fancy. 

“This is a place my sister told me she liked,” he said, leading you to the store front with his hand on the small of your back to guide you. “I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”

You tried your best not to pay too much attention to the warmth you felt both on your back and your stomach from the fuzzy feelings that spread. 

“Hello, welcome!” the both of you were greeted as you walked through the doors. The interior of the store was lined with designer dresses, some long, some short, and all incredibly stunning. There were only a few other patrons in the store, but all of them looked so elegant as they tried on their dresses. “It’s so lovely to see you again Mr. Todoroki.”

Shouto nodded subtly. “Hello. This is Y/N, my date to the gala who’ll need your assistance today.”

“Hi!” you chimed in at his cue. “Nice to meet you.” 

The worker smiled and made her way over to you. “And you as well. I’m Masuda and I’ll do my best to make sure you leave the store satisfied with your purchase! Did you have a particular style or perhaps color in mind?”

“Umm,” you said sheepishly, looking around the wide variety of clothings and unsure where to start. “I’m not too sure. It’s my first time going to one of these things so maybe something comfortable, but also still...fancy?” You scratched the back of your neck. “Does that even exist?”

“Of course— Just have to find something that feels comfortable to you.” She told you to hold on one moment as she disappear into the rows of fabric. 

As Masuda collected some starter dresses for you to try on, a customer walked by with bags of clothes in her hands, her gaze lingering on Shouto, though neither of you paid her much mind. 

“In this setting, you look almost fit to be a sugar daddy,” you said jokingly, looking around in awe at the sophisticated yet lavish dresses. “You take all your sugar babies here?”

“Only the ones I really like,” he teased back. His voice was deadpan but there was the telltale hints of a smirk on his face to let you know he was only messing with you.

The door chimed to signal that a customer left and by then Masuda had returned with bundles of fabric draped on her arm. She led you away in a hurry and you hesitantly looked back at Shouto who followed in a safe distance. Seeing your moment of panic, he gave you an encouraging smile that somehow was enough to ease a significant fraction of your nerves. This may be new and confusing territory, but at least he was here to help you through it. 

Masuda set a dressing room up for you—it was one of those rooms in the middle of the store with curtains that reached the ceiling and mirrors all around—and placed a bunch of outfits she thought would suit your taste. It reminded you of when a bride would go wedding dress shopping with their family. When you had enough outfits for the first round, she told Shouto to sit down on a leather seat in front of your dressing room while he waited for you to try the different dresses on. 

In a way, it felt oddly intimate: Shouto sitting just a few feet in front of you as you undressed, only separated by the veil of a curtain. Would he offer to help button the back of your dress up, fingers brushing against your bare skin? The thought made you feel almost hot inside as you changed out of your street clothes and into the first dress. 

Unfortunately for you, this dress had no such difficult buttons to reach. 

“How’s it look?” you asked shyly as you emerged from the dressing room. 

The dress was pretty and didn’t feel uncomfortable to walk in, but there wasn’t any sort of attachment you felt towards it. In other words, it was simply...meh. 

Shouto looked up from his phone to take in the sight of you. He smiled. “You look amazing as always.” 

“You think so?” You spun around and curtseyed jokingly and he chuckled. “I don’t think it’s bad, but I’m not sure if it’s the right one.” 

“We’ll be here until you find the right one you want, then. Take your time, Y/N.” 

His voice was normally on the deeper side, but it sounded even more sensual and gravelly at this very moment. You felt goosebumps on your arms and it wasn’t just because of the sleeveless dress you currently had on. 

“T-Thanks, Shouto,” you murmured, turning around and walking back into the changing room to hide the look on your face. You didn’t even know what kind of look you had on your face, but you knew it was one that might give too much away. 

It wasn’t fair that he had to be so sweet and caring and thoughtful and handsome and rich… Most guys you met barely fit into one of those criteria, let alone all five. (Sure, the last two weren’t necessary in your opinion, but you couldn’t deny they were a nice bonus.) It was too bad you had no clue how he felt about you. 

There were moments where he felt flirty and teasing, like maybe he viewed you in a more-than-friends way. But other times he was so polite and proper and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being nice because that’s simply the sort of person he was to everyone. 

While you were trying to sort through all your thoughts, you completely forgot to change into a new dress the whole time you were in here. 

You saw a shadow at the floor of the curtain before a voice said, “Y/N? Are you okay in there?” 

Jumping at the sound, you scurried to put the next dress on, a blue one with almost translucent fabric and a delicate neckline. Judging from the proximity of Shouto’s voice and the shadow of his shoes, he was right next to you as you changed. 

“I’m okay!” you managed, hoping you didn’t sound as wobbly as you felt. You held the dress closed at the back, fumbling with the fastens. “I just, ah, needed help buttoning this one up.” 

A light ruffle on the curtain then a pause. “Should I...come in and help?” 

Your eyes widened, not expecting him to actually offer to button it up like you fantasized earlier. You fully thought he might called the worker to aide you just so he wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable. (Not that he would’ve. At all.) 

“I apologize,” he said somewhat tensely after you didn’t respond. “That was indecent of me—”

“No, no!” you said profusely, poking your head out of the curtain while holding the fabric at the front of your dress to your chest. You tilted your chin to meet his gaze with a determined one of your own. “I’d love your help, Shouto.” 

With a dusting of pink coloring his cheeks, he nodded and entered your dressing room. “This dress is a nice color on you.” His voice was loud against the silence. 

Shouto ran his hand down the length of your spine and then up to unfold the column of buttons on your dress that curved inwards at your movement, his knuckles grazing against your skin like lightning striking water. You jolted at the sudden feeling but he didn’t remove his touch when he felt it.

“Sorry.” His voice was low, almost like a whisper. “Was just getting the buttons out.”

“N-No worries!”

His fingers began working on the bottom-most button at your lower back as he applied a steady pressure on the base of your spine to control the motion. Shouto slowly began his way up, fingertips cold to the touch. But you knew that wasn’t the only reason you felt yourself shiver. As he fastened the dainty buttons with immense concentration (much more concentration than was actually needed to fasten buttons, you were sure), you felt the heat of his breath tickling the back of your neck. You almost couldn’t keep yourself from arching your back in a mixture of anticipation and delight at his constant touch. 

When he finished the last button, Shouto let one hand rest on your hip, grasping the fabric between his fingertips to examine its silken texture. Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped back and bumped into his chest, but he was already there to steady you. 

With his arm on your waist and your back leaning against his chest, you made eye contact through the mirror in front of you. You weren’t sure if the pounding you felt was from your heart or his or a combination of both. 

There was something almost erotic about holding each others’ gaze in the mirror after Shouto just helped you dress, the two of you still not letting the other go despite the task being complete. 

“The dress… You look gorgeous,” he said, not taking his eyes off you for one moment. 

You nodded slowly. It did look amazing on you. And it was breathable and soft. (Plus, Shouto liked it, which made you happier than you’d care to admit.) “The only downside would be I need help getting into it.”

“We could get ready together so it’s no issue.” 

“I’d...also need help getting out of it.” 

You held your breath as his eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly in a way that made you curve your back before you remembered you were flush against Shouto and he could feel even the most subtle of movements coming from your body. But by the time you stopped yourself, it was too late. He already felt it and you wanted more.

His voice was hoarse. “I could help you with that too.”

Instead of beginning to unbutton the dress like part of you thought he would, he surprised you by spinning you around to face him, your shoulder blades pressed against the cool glass of the mirror and your palms lingering on the muscles of his warm chest. The contrast of the cold glass and Shouto’s body heat left a shiver down your spine.

“And how do you plan to help take off my dress when you can’t even see the buttons?” you said challengingly, a smirk on your face despite knowing full well your body was showcasing just how affected you were by this situation. By Shouto.

He tilted his head to the side in response to your daring tone, hands swiftly finding their way to your back and unbuttoning the top five buttons. It wasn’t enough to completely expose your breasts, but it was enough to loosen the fabric at the neckline in a way that made you gasp. 

“Seems doable to me,” he commented. 

You tugged him down slightly by the collar of his shirt. “I don’t quite believe you. Maybe you should prove it.” 

A guttural noise sounded from the back of his throat as he cupped your jaw and leaned in closer. You inched forward, eager to meet his lips. But before they could touch, a knock came from the wall next to the curtain, causing the two of you to freeze in your spots, bodies pressed against each other in an intimate flush.

“Hello, Y/N?” said Masuda cheerfully, blissfully ignorant about what was about to happen in a public dressing room in the middle of the store. “How are the dresses coming along? Did you like any?”

“Ah, actually…” you trailed off, exchanging frustrated but amused glances with Shouto. “I think we’ll take this one.”

a/n: so...mirror sex/sex in a dressing room as a bonus chapter? u.u why yes of course. i’m one step ahead; did u even have to ask? LMAO and hm i wonder if y/n’s fEeLiNGs~ are reciprocated skfkfkdg ALSO THEY WERE SO CLOSE TO KISSING BUT DIDN’T I CRY hopefully the wait will be worth it ;3

what to expect in the next part:

GALA TIMEEEE

yes y/n finally gets the fancy candy they so desired

we get to see shouto’s sexy penthouse

shouto says eat the rich >:c

[devoutlywished]

the sun bleached flies tell us about the sun bleached flies

“Sun bleached flies sitting in the windowsill” <— insect motif right off the bat. flies are prey to spiders and harry views himself as a victim of spider-man. “sun bleached” on the windowsill implies they’ve been there a long time.

“Waiting for the day they escape” <— the flies are already dead and decayed but still dream of escape. harry’s fate is already sealed from the moment he appeared on screen, and yet he still has hope of escaping the cycle.

“They talk all about that money and how their babies are always changing” <— the people around harry are only interested in money. meanwhile harry, peter and mj, who are just teenagers, are going through life-changing events as they grow up.

“While they're breathing in the poison of the paint” <— according to mother this line is a reference to lead poisoning from lead paint. this type of poisoning is invisible and silent and only felt after living around it for an extended period of time. outsiders cannot see that the inhabitants of a house with lead paint are being poisoned, just like outsiders cannot see that harry’s father is abusing him, or that harry’s mental illness and trauma are slowly destroying him.

“What I wouldn't give to be in Church this Sunday” <— i don’t really see harry as religious, but church can be a universal sanctuary, a place people run to when they’re alone because they seek guidance and a sense of community. harry is completely alone and wishes he could be surrounded by people who love him. we actually do see him in church at the end of sm2, at mj’s wedding, and he does look rather happy.

“Listening to the choir, so heartfelt, all singing

God loves you, but not enough to save you” <— ohhhh my favorite ethel cain lyric of all time. it doesn’t matter how much harry’s friends may care about him or, if we’re to break the fourth wall, how much the writers may care about him. it’s always his fate to die because he’s not important enough to live.

“So, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself” <— after his father dies, harry is left to fend for himself at a young age. he’s suddenly thrust into a world he knows little about and is expected to just take over oscorp despite being only around 19-21. “baby girl” is inherently patronizing too: the people addressing ethel in the song are treating her like a child who they doubt can take care of herself.

“So I said fine, 'cause that's how my daddy raised me” <— ethel and harry are both victims of their fathers abuse and yet still love them and take pride in the way they were raised, despite how their fathers may have hurt them.

“If they strike once then you just hit 'em twice as hard” <— norman and ethel’s father both encourage their child to respond to violence with violence and stand up for themself and take control.

“But in the end, if I bend under the weight that they gave me

Then this heart would break and fall as twice as far” <— harry and ethel both feel they’re too weak to survive on their own, in the dangerous world of adulthood, without their fathers. “the weight that they gave me” brings to mind the responsibilities harry has been left with, and he worries he’ll be too weak to handle them and will break and fall.

“We all know how it goes

The more it hurts, the less it shows” <— pain isn’t new and everyone has experienced it. despite harry’s pain he still goes on with running oscorp and at least at first attempts to maintain his friendships with peter and mj. in sm2 he can be almost too cheery and friendly and excited (like the scene where he introduces peter to otto) because his happiness is very forced and he’s covering up how miserable he is.

“But I still feel like they all know” <— everyone around harry knows something he doesn’t and he can sense that he’s being kept out of the loop.

“And that's why I can never go back home” <— harry can never go back to his life before his fathers death and can’t just live a normal life with his friends. he also couldn’t return in NWH and reunite with his father and friend and perhaps get a second chance like all the other villains did for arguably the same reason ethel can’t go back home: because of the reprehensible actions of a predatory man. ethel is killed by an evil man and harry is played by one and both these men prevent them from having a happy ending.

“And I spent my life watching it go by from the sidelines” <— harry has been a side character in his own life for so long. he’s the second choice to everyone and is repeatedly forgotten and pushed aside.

“And God, I've tried, but I think it's about time I put up a fight” <— harry realizes he finally has to stand up for himself and fight back against the tragic circumstances he’s in rather than succumb to his fate.

“But I don't mind 'cause that's how my daddy raised me” <— same as before. harry prides himself on how his father raised him and thinks the violence and aggression he encouraged in him is comparable to strength.

“If they strike once then you just hit 'em twice as hard” <— harry tries repeatedly to kill peter but is doomed to repeatedly fail.

“But I always knew that in the end no one was coming to save me” <— despite his best efforts, harry knows he was doomed from the start. there is no way out of the trap. spider-man “saves” people, but not harry, not in the end. after he’s stabbed by venom and is lying there dying, mj offers to get help and he rejects it, asking her instead to stay with him. peter tells him he’ll get through this and harry says no because he’s accepted that his fate is to die.

“So I just prayed and I keep praying and praying and praying” <— praying is sometimes all one can do when they’re stuck in seemingly inescapable tragic circumstances, even if you’re not usually religious.

“If it's meant to be then it will be” <— harry’s descent into villainy and eventual death are “meant to be” in every universe. it doesn’t matter how we adapt the story, there is only one ending and harry can’t change that.

“So I met him there and told him I believe” <— harry decides to help peter against sandman and venom and accepts that peter didn’t kill his father.

“Singing if it's meant to be then it'll be

I forgive it all as it comes back to me” <— harry forgives peter as he dies. he accepts that his eventual demise is partly his own fault because he didn’t make the effort to get out of his downward spiral. at the end of his life he realizes he always had a choice, but by this point, it’s too late.

“I'm still praying for that house in Nebraska

By the highway, out on the edge of town

Dancing with the window open” <— the only thing harry really wants is to be with his friends again, to return to when things were easy. he misses something as simple as hanging out at peter’s house in queens or dancing in the kitchen with mj.

“I can't let go when something's broken” <— harry can never let go of the belief that his father is a good person who truly loves him and refuses to acknowledge how broken their relationship was.

“It's all I know and it's all I wanna know” <— harry doesn’t know any kind of life except the one he was given, and the only relationship with a parental figure he’s ever known is his abusive father. however harry doesn’t want to be made aware of his reality, that his father was evil and abused him, because it’s easier to live with the lie that norman loved him.