#vmiuchi

[vmiuchi]

[vmiuchi]

Comfort movie forever.

The Crow

[othewinter]

Max Catstappen @vmiuchi

[vmiuchi]

[vmiuchi]

Ville Valo & Mikko "Mige" Paananen, 2001.

[vmiuchi]

He's fucking majestic.

[vmiuchi]

H.I.M. (His Infernal Majesty) Hamburg, Germany. 2003.

[vmiuchi]

Just found this masterpiece on X(Twitter) and I'm actually crying.

credit: @666WAYS2LOVE on X.

[vmiuchi]

Ville and Gender Neutral reader cigarette shotgunning?

SMOKE AND VELVET

Ville Valo x G.NEUTRALreader. One shot.

word count: 1296

The night outside Ville’s apartment was quiet—Helsinki draped in thick velvet shadows, city lights bleeding gold through the mist that hovered over the streets. From the window, you could barely make out the shape of the cathedral in the distance, its silhouette softened by the fog. The silence was comforting, the kind that only existed between two people who didn’t need to fill the air with words.

Inside, the air was warm, laced with incense and the familiar scent of old books, dried roses, and his cologne—the one that lingered in your clothes long after you left. The stereo hummed low in the background, something obscure and romantic, probably a vinyl you couldn’t pronounce.

Ville sat across from you on the velvet couch, one leg folded beneath him, cigarette pinched between long fingers. His hair fell in soft waves over his shoulders, dark and a little messy. He was wearing one of those deep v-neck shirts you always teased him about, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, silver rings glinting in the low light.

“You want some?” he asked, voice low, that familiar gravel coating each word. He didn’t wait for your answer—just turned slightly, holding the cigarette between two fingers and gesturing for you to lean in.

You already knew what he meant.

Shotgunning.

You slid closer, knees brushing, your eyes locked on his. There was something in his gaze—soft, knowing, a little playful.

He inhaled slow, lips wrapping around the filter like a secret, then tilted his head toward you. You met him halfway.

His hand cupped your cheek as he exhaled, the smoke passing from his mouth to yours in a slow, ghostlike stream. Your lips almost touched, just barely not, heat humming between you as you took it in—warm, rich, slightly bitter. You held it for a second before blowing it out slowly, watching it swirl in the lamp light like breath in winter.

Ville’s thumb lingered on your jaw, brushing idly. “Still the best way to smoke,” he murmured, his breath warm and laced with nicotine.

“Is it because I'm involved?” you replied, voice soft.

He smiled—not his usual smirk, but something small, private. His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a beat longer than necessary.

“Come closer,” he said. Not a command. An invitation.

You did.

He took another drag, slower this time, and leaned in again. Your faces were so close now you could feel each breath, each tiny shift. The smoke curled between you again like something alive, like it knew it didn’t belong anywhere else.

This time when you exhaled, Ville didn’t move back.

“You’re dangerous,” you said quietly.

He tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

His smile deepened. He leaned in, finally letting your lips meet, slow and lazy, tasting of tobacco and the kind of intimacy that can’t be rushed. His fingers slipped behind your neck, his grip dominant anchoring you to him, like the quiet of the night might steal you away if he wasn’t careful.

Outside, the city pulsed in its quiet rhythm. But here, in Ville’s apartment, time slowed—just cigarette smoke, soft music, and two people burning slow in the dark.

Your lips parted just enough for a breath—yours or his, you couldn’t tell. Ville lingered close, his forehead brushing yours, both of you caught in that strange, floating space after a kiss. The kind where neither of you wanted to move, just in case it broke whatever spell hung in the air.

“I like this,” you murmured. “The quiet. You.”

His hand dropped from your neck, fingertips drifting down your arm with a feather-light touch, like he didn’t want to let go completely.

“I know,” Ville whispered, the corner of his mouth quirking just a little. “I always feel like I’m about to wake up when you’re here.”

You leaned back a fraction, just enough to see his eyes. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

Your heart thudded once, hard, somewhere behind your ribs.

Neither of you said anything for a moment. The cigarette was burning out in the ashtray beside him, the soft crackle of the vinyl hissing like static in the background. He looked tired—but not in the way that meant he wanted to sleep. It was the kind of tired that said stay. Please. The kind that settled in his shoulders and behind his eyes, where too many songs and too many nights had lived.

“I don’t talk much about what matters,” Ville said suddenly. His voice was low, like a confession. “You probably noticed.”

You nodded, letting your hand slide over his. “You don’t have to. Not unless you want to.”

“I want to. But not with just anyone.”

You didn’t answer. You just laced your fingers through his.

For a long time, the two of you sat there like that—his hand in yours, legs touching, breath slow. The world outside carried on like it always did. But in that dimly lit living room, with smoke in the air and the sound of a forgotten record humming between songs, something real lived. Not fireworks. Not declarations. Just presence.

Ville let out a slow breath, finally leaning his head on your shoulder. His hair tickled your skin, and his voice was barely a whisper against your neck.

“Stay the night.”

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

Ville reached lazily for the half-smoked cigarette again, still glowing faint orange in the ashtray. He took a drag, eyes locked on you through the haze. No smirk this time. Just that unreadable look he gave when he was thinking too much and trying to pretend he wasn’t.

You leaned in before he even said anything.

He watched you, then exhaled—slow, deliberate—and leaned toward you again.

This time, the shotgunning was slower. The smoke passed from his mouth to yours like a secret. Warm, sweet with that musky sharpness. Your lips brushed just barely, the contact feather-light but impossible to ignore. His hand found your jaw again, thumb stroking lazily over your skin as if he couldn’t help it.

Your eyes fluttered half-closed as you took the smoke in, holding it just a second longer than before, letting it sit in your lungs like a memory you didn’t want to exhale.

But you did, slowly, letting it curl around your face as you pulled back—just a few centimeters.

Ville’s gaze didn’t move from your mouth.

“I think I like this too much,” you whispered, your voice quiet, a little hoarse.

He smiled, not smug, just soft. “That makes two of us.”

He took another drag. This time he didn’t even wait for the pass. He just leaned forward again, closing the small gap between you, letting the smoke drift into you as your mouths met fully now—lips warm and slow, open, tasting of tobacco and hunger and something else neither of you wanted to name.

Your hands found his sides, fingers curling into the thin fabric of his shirt. His body curved into yours without hesitation, like this had been waiting to happen all along.

The smoke lingered between your faces even as you kissed again, deeper now. Slower. Each drag became an excuse for another breathless, smoke-laced kiss, until the cigarette burned down to the filter and neither of you seemed to care.

By the time Ville pressed his forehead to yours again, your lips were tingling, your pulse thrumming under your skin.

“I think,” he said lowly, “we’re going to run out of cigarettes before I run out of excuses to kiss you.”

You grinned. “Then you’ll just have to come up with better ones.”

He didn’t argue.

He just lit another.

Of course you would.

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 5.

Just another normal and quiet day at the tattoo parlor you work at in the heart of Helsinki, Finland. Or so you thought ?

(SLIGHT NSFW WARNING)

It had been hours since their last message. The conversation—flirty and tense—had fizzled into silence sometime after midnight, leaving Y/N alone with her hoodie, her horror show looping on the TV, and her thoughts spiraling out of control.

By the time the vampire villain on screen bared his fangs for the hundredth time, she was half-asleep, curled under a throw blanket, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, phone silent beside her. Whiskers had claimed her feet as a bed.

At least until 4:03AM.

The first buzz didn’t even register. But the second—followed by the third, and then the obnoxiously loud ring of a phone call—had her bolting upright on the couch like she'd been shot.

The screen glowed with his name.

Ville (???)

Incoming Call.

She stared. Let it ring.

Then again.

And again.

“What the fuck…” she whispered, heart hammering in her chest. She fumbled to silence it. Whiskers hissed and launched off her lap, disappearing under the coffee table like the whole world had offended him.

The phone finally went quiet.

But then the texts started.

One after another. Rapid fire.

She hovered over the screen, breath caught somewhere in her throat. It wasn’t just anyone. It was him. At four in the damn morning.

And judging by the spelling in the preview bubbles?

Drunk.

Her stomach dropped and twisted at the same time. A car crash of anxiety and curiosity. Against her better judgment, she opened the thread.

Ville (???): babyyyy are you sleepinn

i know its late but guess what

bam brought whisky and now i’m in his fucking hotel and he’s trying to do a backflip off the couch but he’s SHIT at it

we’re bonding

i told him about u

he said u must be hot if i’m texting u instead of flirting with the bartender

and i said he’s RIGHT

because you are. u r so hot. i’m like dying

u shoud be here. you'd love him

he’s insane. like actual brain damage levels

but good energy

like a chaotic raccoon in a leather jacket

Y/N blinked at the screen, mouth open. Bam? She had no idea who that even was. Ville clearly thought this information was wildly important.

Her screen lit up with another buzz before she could even finish reading.

Ville (???): i wish u were here

id make u sit on my lap

and we wouldn’t even talk

id just have my hands under ur hoodie

on ur thighs

theyre soft, right? i KNOW they are

like velvet. i bet u wear those little skirts all the time and u KNOW what they do to me

Her blood went cold and hot at once.

Ville (???): u make me so fcking crazy

i don’t even care if i sound gross

i just want to kiss u til the world ends

is that dramatic?

it is but idc

ur hoodie’s probly too big

i wanna crawl under it with u

like a perverted little bat

come hide me in ur hoodie please

She slapped a hand over her mouth. What the hell.

The typing bubble came up again. She stared, frozen.

Ville (???): ur prob asleep huh

or maybe ur staring at ur screen again like earlier

bet ur overthinking every word i said

bet ur blushing. maybe squirming. maybe both

u shy little thing

why do u do this to me huh

why do u make me want to write u poetry n bite ur neck at the same time

Her heart was trying to escape her ribcage. She didn’t know how to reply. Every single part of her screamed don’t engage, this is a trap, he’s drunk, he’s gonna forget all of this in the morning—

And yet.

Her thumb hovered.

She typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Y/N: do you always drunk text people at 4am or am i just special

The response came instantly.

Ville (???): only u

swear on bam’s broken spine

which he might ACTUALLY break if he tries the backflip again

god

ur so mean

“just special”

ur the most special thing ive seen since the first time i saw batman returns

She snorted despite herself. That was… actually kind of adorable.

Another ping.

Ville (???): also

my hand would fit SO good on ur ass

sorry had to say it

i was holding a beer bottle and i thought “huh this feels about right”

ur gonna block me huh

A pause from her, longer this time.

Y/N: Not yet

She regretted it as soon as she hit send.

Ville (???): ohhohoho

NOT YET

oh we’re in dangerous territory now my sweet little vampire

ur letting me talk like this

ur letting me in

Y/N swallowed thickly. She wasn’t. Not really. She was just… frozen. Caught in a web spun with his stupid flirtations and velvet voice now somehow bleeding through text.

Y/N: i’m just half asleep, don’t get too excited

Ville (???): too late

already imagining u curled up in ur hoodie like a cursed princess

and i’d kiss u awake

but not on the mouth

id start lower

like ur collarbones

bite them a little

u’d whine i KNOW u would

do u whine baby?

u seem like u do

She stared at that one for way too long.

The horror show continued playing on mute in the background. A vampire stalked through a cemetery.

Fitting.

Y/N: Ville.

That was it. Just his name. A warning. A pulse.

Ville (???): mmm say it again

say it while u sit on my face

She audibly choked. Whiskers popped his head back out from under the table like even he was concerned now.

Ville (???): fuck

sorry

that was a lot huh

i’m drunk

but i’m honest

god ur gonna hate me in the morning

Y/N: i don’t hate you

The typing bubble paused. Then started again.

Ville (???): don’t lie to me sweetheart

u prob think i’m disgusting rn

Y/N: no, just a little insane maybe

Ville (???): i’ll take it

insanity is sexy

ur sexy

i’m gonna shut up now before i say something worse

Then a longer pause from his end, but still not long enough for Y/N to think he finally passed out.

Ville (???): unless u want me to keep going

cause i can

i got HOURS of filthy things to say to u

sweet things too

like how ur eyes haunted me all fucking day

and how i miss ur voice already

and how badly i wanna know what u look like first thing in the morning

Her fingers trembled.

She didn’t respond.

And yet—

Ville (???): still not blocking me

brave girl

or maybe u like it

do u like it?

She didn’t answer that either.

But she didn’t close the chat.

Didn’t delete the messages.

Didn’t block him.

Which, in Ville’s mind, said more than words ever could.

The conversation continued relentlessly as the early hours bled into the darkness, each buzz and ping an assault on her steady attempt to reclaim sleep. Y/N’s phone lay open on the bed, its screen a harsh beacon in the quiet room. Despite her hoodie pulled tightly around her, her body trembled with a cocktail of anxiety and reluctant anticipation. Every new message from Ville blurred the lines between threat and promise, between danger and desire.

Ville (???): I swear, every time I think about your voice, I feel like I could drown in it. Like, if I got close enough I’d forget the taste of all the whiskey I’ve downed tonight.

Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared at the screen, the text bathing her in its raw, drunken honesty. His tone seeming a little bit more serious now. She wanted to say something—to push back, to retreat—but her fingers hesitated over the keyboard.

Ville (???): And you know, I keep picturing you curled up, half-asleep, that hoodie hiding everything except those eyes. I can almost see you, even if you're just a blur in the dark.

A shudder rippled through her. Every word made her pulse quicken and her thoughts scatter. She forced herself to respond in a clipped tone, determined to sound casual despite the terror knotting in her stomach.

Y/N: I'm not interested in fantasizing right now.

The message sat there for a few long beats before Ville replied.

Ville (???): You say that, but your silence is loud. You're scared—of me, or of getting hurt again? I get it, love. I've seen the walls you hide behind, and I’m not here to break them... unless that's what you want.

The rawness in his words was magnetic and maddening. Her mind raced—could she trust someone who spoke so openly, who seemed to know exactly where her scars lay? The thought made her stomach churn. Yet part of her longed to be seen, even in that vulnerable state.

Y/N: I don't know what you want from me.

Her message was short, terse. Too short, she thought, as her thumb hovered, trembling above the send button.

Ville (???): I want to help you unlearn the fear. I want to kiss away the things that hurt—gently, slowly—until you forget that it ever hurt.

Another buzz. Her anxiety deepened; it was as if every syllable he sent was a push against the fragile barrier she'd built around herself.

Ville (???): But I also want to feel you. Like, really feel you. I want to trace every line on your skin, to see if I can map out all your pain and turn it into something beautiful.

A long pause followed. Silence that made her question whether she should even engage with this reckless vulnerability. Her fingers hovered again, too paralyzed to type, as her mind replayed every whispered confession, every insinuation of intimacy and danger.

Y/N: I’m scared… of getting hurt again.

That one word, so vulnerable and raw, seemed to break the dam. For a moment, she regretted having sent it, as if admitting that fear meant she was already lost. But as the seconds ticked by, she saw that his next message wasn’t mean or mocking—it was soft, almost tender.

Ville (???): I know, and I’m sorry. I can be so damn intense. I get that, and I won’t push unless you let me. I just—sometimes, I want to believe in something real, and you… you make me want to be more than just this drunken fool.

He paused again, leaving a space filled with honesty and uncertainty. The vulnerability in his words struck something deep within her—a part that had longed for honesty but was terrified of its consequences.

Ville (???): I promise I won't hurt you, Y/N. I don’t know if I can promise I'll be gentle with my words, but I'll try. I want to be the one who makes you feel safe, even when every instinct tells you not to open up.

A shudder followed his confession, and Y/N felt tears prick at her eyes. How could he be so unabashedly raw, mixing the erotica of his drunken fantasies with a confession of care? Part of her wanted to believe him; another part screamed to run. She stared at the screen as if it held all the answers to what she had been trying to escape.

Y/N: I'm not sure I want to believe that right now. I've been hurt too many times.

Her words were soft and barely there, laden with the weight of previous scars. The room felt smaller, the silence after her reply heavy with possibility and peril.

Ville (???): I get it. I really do.

I know trust doesn't come easy, and I'm not here to force it on you.

Maybe it's just me being stupid and drunk, but if you're scared, lean on me instead of running away.

I promise—I won't treat your heart like it's disposable.

His words were interwoven with fervor and concern, a twisted mixture of lust and longing, pain and promise. The vulnerability in his voice was more than he probably intended, yet it resonated with her own hidden desires, those she fought so hard to keep locked away beneath layers of doubt and self-protection.

Another buzz. More texts flooded in.

Ville (???): I keep thinking about that moment at the shop—how you looked away when I said my name, like you were already guarding yourself against something brilliant and dangerous.

I want to be brilliant for you, Y/N.

I want to prove I'm not just another guy who will leave you bleeding from love.

Her heart pounded erratically, each beat a question: Could she afford to believe in him? Would letting him in mean risking everything she had spent so long protecting?

She typed slowly, her response cautious, laden with the weight of her fear.

Y/N: I’m tired of feeling like I have to be protected. But I’m terrified that if I let anyone in, I’ll just be shattered all over again.

The message took a long breath to send, each word a struggle to articulate the very fragility that defined her nights. For a moment, silence reigned in the thread.

Then Ville’s response came, steadying, persistent.

Ville (???): I know, and I’m not here to make you feel more fragile.

I'm here because I believe you deserve to feel something more than this perpetual numbness.

I’m not just another storm passing by—I want to stand by you even when the thunder rages.

A pause, and then the flood resumed—words that were laced with the kind of passion that made her want to scream and cry simultaneously.

Ville (???): I want to make you forget how deep your scars are, if only for a moment.

I want to fill the silence with my whispers and gentle touches that don’t hurt, but heal.

I want to know every secret you keep locked away behind that hoodie and those quiet eyes.

Her anxiety surged once again, a tidal wave threatening to pull her under. The thought of getting hurt again loomed large, dark and relentless. She could feel her inner walls trembling, slowly beginning to crumble under the weight of his obsessive declarations.

Y/N: I’m scared, Ville. Scared that if I let you in, I’ll end up broken all over again. I’m so tired of the pain.

Another long pause. The cursor blinked, impatient, then his response came—so gentle it almost felt like a caress.

Ville (???): I promise I won't be the one to add to your pain.

I promise I won’t be the storm that shatters you.

I just need a chance to show you I can be something different.

Something that holds you instead of breaking you.

His text was raw, dripping with a desperate tenderness that made her pulse quicken despite her fear. Every word was an invitation—and a risk.

Ville (???): If you ever feel like you can’t face the world alone, just remember I’m here.

I’m just a text away, ready to be the light in your darkest hours—even if I’m a little twisted right now.

Her hand trembled so badly she nearly dropped the phone again. In that moment, her heart wavered on the edge of a choice: to close the door on him, as she always had, or to risk a small, uncertain opening to let his chaotic warmth seep in.

Y/N: I don’t know if I can risk it, Ville...

She hit send before she could revise, a single, painful admission of her fear.

The phone remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Then, as if compelled by the raw vulnerability in her last words, Ville typed back:

Ville (???): Then let’s take it slow.

I won’t push if you don’t want me to.

I just... want you to know that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

Even if my words are fucked up at 4AM, even if I’m drinking with Bam and acting like a lunatic.

I’ll be here when the sun rises, when you’re ready to decide whether to let someone in or not.

Another message, soft and urgent:

Ville (???): I care about you in a way that scares me more than my own demons.

And I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe—not just from me, but from the world that’s hurt you before.

Y/N’s eyes watered as she read his words, a mixture of fear and longing swirling within her. Despite all the chaos, despite the threat of more heartache, a part of her felt that maybe—just maybe—he could be different. That maybe he could be the one who wouldn’t let her fall apart.

She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she pressed the phone to her chest, feeling the warmth of its glow merge with her own beating heart. The noise of the world outside faded. All that existed were his words, his confessions—a tangle of kink, tenderness, desire, and promise.

Her phone vibrated one final time before the conversation fell silent again.

Ville (???): Goodnight, Y/N. Sleep tight.

I’ll be here when you wake.

The screen went dark once more. Y/N sat for long minutes in the quiet darkness, hoodie still pulled up around her head, heart pounding with a mix of terror and what might be hope. Outside, the night pressed on, and inside, her thoughts raced in chaotic loops, balancing on the precipice between past hurts and a fragile, new possibility.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to let sleep eventually overtake her—willing herself to trust that maybe, tomorrow might be kinder. And somewhere deep inside, despite the lingering fear, a tiny spark of courage kindled: maybe she could let someone in, even if just a little. Even if it meant risking the pain all over again.

And as her breathing deepened into uncertain sleep, her final thought was of Ville's promise—a promise that, no matter how fucked up the night might become, he wouldn’t let her disappear completely into the fog of past heartaches.

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 6.

Just another normal and quiet day at the tattoo parlor you work at in the heart of Helsinki, Finland. Or so you thought ?

Y/N woke to sunlight bleeding in through the blinds, a dull headache thrumming behind her eyes. Whiskers was back, curled stubbornly against her hip, vibrating with soft, sleepy purrs. Her phone sat on the coffee table where she’d dropped it sometime after Ville’s last message.

She stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding against her ribs.

Maybe it had all been a dream.

Maybe he was gone—sober, horrified by his own honesty, pretending it never happened.

She picked up the phone.

No new messages.

No missed calls.

The silence felt like a bruise blooming across her chest.

Dragging herself up from the couch, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, she padded to the kitchen in bare feet. Poured herself coffee with shaking hands. Burned her tongue because she was too impatient to wait for it to cool.

Another glance at the phone. Still nothing.

Don’t be dramatic, she told herself. You knew he was drunk. You knew it didn’t mean anything.

But it had meant something.

At least to her.

She tucked herself into the corner of the kitchen counter, one knee pulled up, coffee cradled against her chest, staring blankly at nothing. Her mind kept replaying the words he sent: I want to be brilliant for you. I want to be the light in your darkest hours.

No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Not like that. Not when they had nothing to gain. And sure, maybe whiskey had loosened his tongue. Maybe morning would bring a hundred regrets.

But somewhere deep in her gut, she didn’t think it would.

The phone buzzed once—violent against the silence—and she nearly dropped her coffee.

She fumbled for it, pulse spiking.

Ville (???): Morning, sweetheart.

Still mean it.

Still here.

Didn’t dream you.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. Her heart folded in on itself.

And she realized something.

Maybe she was still terrified.

Maybe she didn’t believe in fairy tales.

Maybe trusting him was the stupidest thing she could ever do.

But she wanted to try.

She set the coffee down, thumb flying over the keyboard before her brain could catch up.

Y/N: Good morning, Ville.

I didn’t dream you either.

There was a pause—heavy, electric.

Then another buzz.

Ville (???): I’m outside.

Her pulse tripped.

That wasn’t possible.

He didn’t know where she lived.

Unless—

Her heart stuttered.

No. He wouldn’t have—

She yanked the curtains back just enough to peer out into the street. Nothing. Just the normal pre-dawn quiet. A parked car. A jogger in a neon windbreaker. The glow of a streetlamp washing the sidewalk in dull gold.

No sign of him.

Her phone buzzed again.

Ville (???): Kidding. Would love to see you panicking because you never told me your address.

Kind of.

I wish I was. I wish I knew where you were so I could bring you coffee and sit outside your door like a sad Victorian poet until you opened it.

But I don’t.

So instead I’m sitting in the hotel bathtub drinking lukewarm tea and wishing I had the nerve to ask.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. A mix of relief and something else. Disappointment?

Her fingers hovered.

Y/N: You scared the shit out of me.

Ville (???): I scare myself sometimes.

But I meant what I said.

All of it.

I want to see you. Not just in pixels. Not just in half-asleep texts.

There was a long pause. She could feel him holding his breath through the phone.

Then:

Ville (???): Not now. Not today.

But someday.

Can I hope for that?

Y/N stared at the message. Her breath caught in her throat. A thousand fears buzzed at the edge of her mind—but somewhere under all of it, something warm flickered.

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Y/N: Someday.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Ville (???): Then I’ll wait for someday.

Even if it kills me.

She closed her eyes, heart hammering, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t from fear—but from the terrifying possibility that she might actually be letting someone in.

He sat in the hotel bathtub, fully clothed, cradling a mug of now-cold tea like it was a lifeline. The porcelain was freezing against his back, but he didn’t care. His phone glowed in his hand, her last message still open:

Good morning, Ville. I didn’t dream you either.

He breathed out slowly, chest aching like he’d run a mile in the wrong direction.

He hadn’t meant to send that I’m outside message. Not really. It just…slipped out. One of a hundred things his half-sober, still-stupid heart wanted to say.

Truth was, he wanted to be outside her door. He wanted to knock once, maybe twice, and have her open it in that oversized hoodie, sleepy-eyed and skeptical, the cat tangled around her ankles. He wanted to say something that didn’t sound like a pick-up line. He wanted to be someone she didn’t flinch away from.

Instead, he was here. In a hotel bathtub. Alone, but not.

Because she hadn’t blocked him.

Because she’d said someday.

He turned the phone over in his hands. It still buzzed with phantom adrenaline, like it remembered all the shit he’d spilled into it the night before. He winced thinking about it—the dirty, desperate things. The soft things too.

She hadn’t shut the door on any of it.

He didn’t know what the hell that meant.

Maybe she was just kind.

Or maybe—

Maybe she wanted to believe he wasn’t just another fire waiting to burn her down.

He set the mug down, leaned his head back against the tiles, and closed his eyes.

"Someday," he whispered.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough to keep breathing for.

Still, doubt gnawed at him.

He'd fucked up so many good things by being too much, too fast, too raw. Women who’d once called him poetry now called him damage. He didn’t blame them. Not entirely. He was exhausting even to himself. There were nights he hated the sound of his own voice, hated how easily it wrapped itself around pretty words and made them sharp.

But this felt different.

With her, he hadn’t wanted to impress. He’d wanted to be known.

And maybe that was worse. Maybe that was the real risk: that she had seen him—chaotic, craving, open to the bone—and hadn’t run.

Yet.

He wondered what she was doing now. If her hands still trembled when she held her mug. If she read his words again, like he read hers, dissecting every line for meaning and mercy.

He wanted to know what her room smelled like. If her books had cracked spines. If her cat liked strangers. If she smiled different when no one was looking.

He wanted things.

Not just the heavy, hungry wanting that came easy at 4AM. But the quiet kind. The kind that unfolded in silence. The kind that asked for nothing but time.

He rubbed his hand over his face. He looked like hell. Probably smelled like it too. But for once, he didn’t care.

If she could see him right now—bare, unfiltered, still waiting for a message that might not come back—would she still want to know him?

He didn’t know.

But he wanted to find out.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The bathroom door flew open with a crash.

"DUDE, are you dead in here?" Bam's voice echoed off the tiles like a shotgun blast. "Tell me you didn’t pass out texting again. That’s, like, the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever seen."

Ville groaned without opening his eyes. "Go away."

Bam ignored that, naturally. He was already halfway into the room, a bottle of something cheap in one hand and a granola bar in the other. "You look like a vampire who just got dumped."

"I didn’t get dumped."

"Oh shit, so it’s worse. You’re, like, in love."

Ville opened one eye and glared at him. "I will drown you in this tub."

"You’d have to move first. And you look like a corpse with commitment issues. Come on, man, you’re scaring the maids."

Bam flopped down on the edge of the tub, nearly sloshing Ville's cold tea. "So what’s her name again? Mysterious Tattoo Girl?"

"Y/N."

"Right. The one you wrote drunk poetry for."

"It wasn't drunk poetry," Ville muttered. "It was... honest."

"Same thing. Listen, if she didn’t block you after all that last night? She’s either into you or needs to reevaluate her standards."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Bam. Truly."

Bam grinned and took a bite of his granola bar. "I’m just saying, maybe shower, eat something, stop moping in porcelain hell, and then figure out how to not screw this up."

Ville leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "She said 'someday.'"

"Then don’t be a dick and turn someday into never."

Ville looked at his phone again.

The screen was dark.

But his chest felt a little less hollow.

Bam was right.

He had time.

And maybe—if he didn’t fuck it up too badly—he had a chance too.

Bam stood up, stretching with a dramatic groan. "Alright, tragic prince, I’m going to find breakfast. You want eggs or are you just gonna sit there and brood until the water turns into emotional soup?"

"Toast," Ville said quietly, running a hand through his hair.

"Toast," Bam repeated with mock gravity. "A bold request. Very rockstar of you."

He paused in the doorway, half-turned. "Seriously though. Don’t let this be one of those things you regret because you couldn’t figure out how to get out of your own head. If she said 'someday,' she meant it. Don’t make her wait forever."

Ville nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.

The door shut behind Bam, mercifully quiet this time.

Ville stared at his reflection in the silver faucet across from him.

He still looked like a mess.

But maybe that was okay.

Maybe he didn’t need to be perfect.

Just honest.

Just real.

He picked up his phone, opened their chat again.

The cursor blinked in the empty message box.

He typed.

Still here. Still thinking about you.

Then deleted it.

He’d wait.

But when the time came, he’d be ready to say it out loud.

All of it.

Later, when Bam had returned with a bag of questionably warm breakfast burritos and three different kinds of bottled juice—"because hydration is punk rock," he'd claimed—Ville sat on the edge of the bed, finally dressed, finally moving.

The bathroom was behind him. The echo of his vulnerability still lingered in the cold tile.

"You gonna text her again?" Bam asked through a mouthful of egg and regret.

Ville nodded slowly, unwrapping his own burrito. "Eventually."

"You’re pacing yourself? Jesus, who are you?"

Ville smiled faintly. "Someone trying not to screw it up."

Bam chuckled, tossed a juice bottle at him. "Good. Because if you mess this up, I’m adopting her."

Ville caught the juice. "She’d eat you alive."

"Probably," Bam said proudly. "But I’d die a legend."

Ville leaned back against the headboard, toast untouched in his lap, thumb hovering over his phone again.

Still no new messages.

Still the chat open. Still that last word—someday—glowing in his memory like a distant lighthouse.

He didn’t need to rush it.

But he’d be damned if he let it drift away.

He turned to Bam. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Does it involve fire?"

"No."

"Disappointing. Go on."

Ville exhaled. "Help me be less of a coward."

Bam stared at him. Then he grinned, slow and dangerous. "Oh, that, I can do."

And Ville knew—ready or not—he wasn’t going to be stuck in this hotel room much longer.

[vmiuchi]

can u write a vv smut please 🥺 just something really tense, like maybe reader didn’t necessarily like him but she eases up on him and it eventually turns into something?

BREAKING POINT

Ville Valo x Female Reader. One shot.

word count: 1,322

(NSFW warning)

Backstage was absolute pandemonium. Amps everywhere, cables like snakes trying to trip you, folks yelling in every accent imaginable—honestly, if sweat had a flavor, this air would taste like old cigarettes and sheer panic. You’re standing outside those flimsy plywood dressing rooms, arms clamped across your chest, jaw basically carved from stone. Ville Valo’s hidden back there somewhere and, not gonna lie, you’re a millimeter from busting in Kool-Aid Man style.

Of course, he’s done it again.

Minutes ago, during HIM’s last set, Ville had to open his mouth, drop that grin that says “I know exactly what I’m doing,” and let it rip: “Shoutout to the backstage crew who just love running their mouths—even if they couldn’t play an E chord.” He doesn’t just drop the joke and move along. No, his eyes scan over, slow as hell, right to where you’re rooted, looking painfully visible.

The whole crowd eats it up. You can literally feel the rage bubbling up behind your eyeballs. Ville’s been messing with you since the moment you joined this tour, and tonight? Oh, he hauled your misery out front for everyone to see. Real crowd-pleaser, that one. You’re not laughing.

Day one, you clocked his type. Too slick, too at-ease, charisma dial turned up to “please just stop.” He glides around like he’s blessed the earth with his presence. That sly grin? You want to rip it off—or maybe do something a whole lot messier. Haven’t decided which urge wins yet.

And the way he flirts? Downright criminal. He stares a second too long, always teetering on that thin ledge between mocking and seducing you. You keep telling yourself it’s all pointless games—that you’re immune—but, yeah, well, your body’s got other ideas.

You storm in, not bothering to knock.

He’s dripping sweat, shirtless, black jeans hanging precariously low. Tattoos stretch old-school across that pale chest. He’s dabbing himself off, unfazed, looking like he just stepped out of a forbidden Calvin Klein ad.

He turns his head, lazy as you please. “If it isn’t my favorite critic.”

You shoot daggers. “What the hell was that stunt on stage, Valo?”

He grins, slings the towel aside. “You’ll have to remind me. I’ve been busy being worshipped.”

You kick the door closed with your boot. “Cut the bullshit. Was that shit about me?”

He just shrugs, mouth twitching at the corner. “Well, if the Doc Martens fit—”

You get up in his face, sweat prickling beneath your collar. “You think you’re the only one sweating blood for this band? Just ‘cuz I’m not the one crooning under the spotlights doesn’t mean I don’t exist.”

His gaze is straight-up rude at this point—slow, obvious, crawling all over you before finally landing back at your face. “Oh, believe me. You exist.”

You’re halfway through your next bark when he cuts you off, and your frustration finally boils over. You shove him, maybe harder than you mean.

He grabs your wrist without missing a beat.

Your body goes still—heart hammering, blood roaring in your ears. That hold is wild: not rough exactly, just certain. Like he owns every single inch of this room, including you.

“Let go,” you snarl.

His eyes gleam, dark and amused. “Make me.”

Yeah, that’s it. Something in the air just snaps.

You lunge, grab his chest, crush your mouth onto his—no hesitation, no gentle second thoughts. It’s a collision, not a kiss: hot, messy, angry as hell. All those months of useless banter and something way more dangerous just finally blow up.

He’s got hands everywhere, clutching fistfuls of your shirt, his fingernails raking your skin—grabbing your ass like he’s making a statement. You yank that silver chain, dragging him down and practically devouring him, both of you sucking in air like you’re drowning.

Suddenly you’re spun like a record, body smacked up against the vanity. Shit’s knocking over—a bottle falls, something clatters, but it’s all background noise now.

“That what you wanted?” he rasps, voice pure gravel against your neck.

You barely manage, “Shut up.”

He sinks teeth into your shoulder, just on the edge of not-quite-painful. Your body’s so into it you barely recognize yourself—fingers clawing at him, nails making lines down his spine. He lets out this absolutely filthy sound, way too pleased with himself.

At some point, your jeans are halfway down and you’re just rolling with it, panties snapped off with his teeth (show-off), soft kisses trailing up your thigh, everything getting fuzzier at the edges.

“I thought you hated me,” he smirks into your skin.

You pant, “I do.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

He stands, smooth as anything, whips a condom from his pocket like he read your mind. You snatch it, rip it open, and—yep, he’s already hard—slide it onto him yourself. The weight of him in your hand twists everything inside you tighter.

“Just get on with it,” you snap.

He grins, cocky as ever, then… well, he doesn’t make you wait.

Holy hell. He fills you in one sharp, hard thrust—knocking the air right out of your lungs, almost tipping you headfirst into the chaos all over again. He’s relentless, pace wild, grunting, groaning, every thrust shoving you a half-inch more into oblivion.

“Still mad, or what?” he pants, breath salty-hot in your ear.

You bite back, “I’m gonna murder you.”

He slides a rough palm up to your throat—just enough pressure to make your skin tingle—kisses you like he’s starving, teeth clacking, tongue wild.

“Say it,” he growls.

You shake your head, stubborn.

He slams deeper, everything crashing together, and you crack—voice wrecked: “Ville.”

He bites your lip, pulls your head back by the hair, and suddenly the whole world’s disappeared, just skin and sweat and heat and the ragged sound of your breaths. The mirror’s rattling. Someone’s probably pounding on the door, but right now, you wouldn’t care if the building caught fire. Everything feels raw and dirty and maybe just a little bit perfect.

You fumbled down, nerves shot to hell, but he swatted your hand away—nah, too slow, let him handle it.

"Move. I got it," he muttered.

And, damn, did he ever. Fingers found your clit, just right, circles that made your knees want to buckle. All the while, he kept thrusting, deep and relentless, like he knew exactly how you wanted it—maybe he did. Your thighs started shaking, almost embarrassing if you had the capacity to care.

“Come for me,” he growled, voice rough enough to scrape your insides.

Did you? Well, hell yeah, you did—cried his name, your whole body tight, squeezing around him. He lost it a few heartbeats later, teeth digging into your shoulder, muffling the kind of sound that’d get you both kicked out if the whole damn hotel wasn’t already noisy.

You collapsed onto the vanity, a puddle with legs. He pulled out—gentle, surprisingly, for a guy who just ruined you—and tossed the condom in the trash, like it was just another Tuesday.

Silence dropped heavy between you, air thick with sweat and something else—maybe regret, maybe just reality biting your ass. Both of you stared at yourselves in the streaky mirror, still panting, half-dressed and ridiculously flushed.

He spun you toward him, hands big and weirdly soft on your jaw, thumb dragging lazy across your lower lip. Voice low, softer, a hint of nervous in there if you listened close: “Gonna bolt?”

You raised an eyebrow, let your mouth curl up. “What, you tired of me already?”

He snorted, like—please—and kissed you, slower this time, just lips and heat. No rush, just… whatever the hell this was.

You shoved your jeans back on, wiped your mouth ‘cause, honestly, who wants to walk out with sex lips? He watched, still half-naked, not even pretending to play it cool.

He finally broke the silence, smirking. “You good now?”

You shot him a glare that screamed bite me. “Shut up.”

But your feet wouldn’t move. Not yet.

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 4.

Just another normal and quiet day at the tattoo parlor you work at in the heart of Helsinki, Finland. Or so you thought ?

The vinyl slipped from its paper bag and onto her coffee table with a gentle thunk. "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me" stared up at her like a dare.

Y/N sank into her worn-out couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her palms, heart still somewhere between her ribs and the clouds. Whiskers jumped up beside her and settled immediately, purring like a little motor engine as he nudged his head into her side.

She scratched behind his ears with one hand. The other?

Still faintly smudged with Ville’s number.

She hadn’t washed it off. Not yet.

She told herself it was because she forgot. Lied to herself that it was just ink, nothing important. But every time her eyes flicked down, her stomach did this dumb little somersault.

"Desperately," he’d said.

She groaned and flopped her head back onto the cushions.

Whiskers chirped.

“I know,” she muttered to him. “He’s probably not even serious. Guys like him never are. Especially not with girls like me.”

Whiskers blinked, unimpressed.

She stared at the ceiling.

Ville Valo was famous. Beautiful. Dangerous in that magnetic, velvet-voiced way. And she'd spent the whole walk back to the shop clutching a record he said reminded him of her. That had to mean something, right?

Or maybe she was just… reading too far into it.

"Don’t make me beg, Kultani."

Her fingers twitched toward her phone on the coffee table. She hesitated. Reached for it. Pulled back.

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” she muttered.

Whiskers meowed, then promptly sneezed.

“Helpful,” she added dryly.

Her thumb hovered over the screen as she typed his number into her contacts.

Ville (???)

That’s what she named it. Because she couldn’t bring herself to just type Ville Valo like it was casual. Like he was some guy who showed up on Tinder with a decent selfie and a dog.

She stared at the message bar for what felt like an hour.

Then, finally, quietly, she typed:

Y/N: Hey, it's Y/N from the tattoo shop. Just wanted to say thank your for the record.

She stared at it. Deleted it. Re-typed it. Paused. Then hit send before she could overthink it again.

The phone dropped onto the couch beside her like it was burning.

Whiskers headbutted her side again and gave her a pointed look, like finally.

Y/N buried her face in the cat’s fur.

“God, I’m gonna regret this,” she mumbled.

But part of her hoped she wouldn’t.

Twelve minutes.

It has been twelve fucking minutes.

Y/N glanced at the screen again. Nothing. No reply. No “typing…” bubble. Just her message, hanging in the void like an awkward whisper in a crowded room. She refreshed the screen once. Twice. Still nothing.

Whiskers had fallen asleep beside her, utterly unbothered, while she sat like a statue in the dim living room, phone clutched in her fingers like it might explode if she let go.

“What the hell was I thinking?” she muttered into the silence. “He probably gives records to girls every other day. Maybe I misread everything. Maybe he—”

Ping.

Her soul levitated.

She nearly fumbled the phone as the screen lit up.

Ville (???): Kultani. I was just about to call you dramatic for waiting this long to text me.

But then I imagined you starring at your phone for ten minutes in a panic and.. well, now I'm smiling like an idiot.

Y/N slapped a hand over her face, groaning. “God, he knows.”

Whiskers shifted in his sleep.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She typed something, deleted it, typed again.

Y/N: I wasn't panicking. Just.. cautiously terrified.

Ville (???): Charming.

You should know, I checked the clock and you waited exactly 4 hours and 53 minutes after I gave you my number. That's impressive. I expected a full day of torture.

Her lips twitched, betraying her. She was still a little annoyed he hadn’t replied right away. But now that he had, she couldn’t stop reading the message over and over. Already drowning too deep into him.

Y/N: Well, I was trying not to seem desperate.

Even though you gave ma a whole The Cure album and then vanished into the fog like a Victorian ghost.

Ville (???): You noticed the fog? God, you really are poetic. It was a whole dramatic exit planned just for you. I even had an internal monologue.

She laughed—actually laughed, aloud, startling Whiskers.

Ville (???): You're not regretting it yet, are you?

Texting me, I mean.

She hesitated.

Was she?

Y/N looked around her quiet little apartment. The cat. The soft hum of her fridge. The emptiness that had become normal.

And then she looked down at the screen again. At him.

Y/N: No. Not yet at least.

There was a pause. A longer one this time.

Her heartbeat started climbing again, nerves buzzing.

Then:

Ville (???): Good,

Because I was hoping you might let me see you again. Without needing an excuse this time.

Her heart beating against her ribs as if someone was hitting her with a hammer. Her cheeks flushed with the familiar feeling, of something.. unreadable, unrecognizable and yet it pulled her closer to him. She couldn't run away even if she wanted to. Her mind was telling her to, that she would get hurt again just but her heart couldn't bear it.

Y/N starred at her phone frozen for a few minutes thinking about an response and then heard a sudden ding.

Ville (???): Did my charm overwhelm you rakas? Or did you pass out.

She put her phone down screen down beside her on the bed. Her cat now demanding attention rubbing against her arm. It wasn't anything new that Ville was teasing her, but the thought of being involved in the rockstar world which he was in was just scary.

Another ding.

Ville (???): Is my princess okay or should her prince charming come to the rescue?

If you want me to, Y/N. Trust me, I will.

She sighed at his not unusual teasing. It was even worse over text, like he thought she's only on the other side of the screen and that he wouldn't be seeing her again. Which he mentioned he will do.

After a while of trying to collect her thought she finally prepared herself to answer him.

Y/N: Are you harassing every tattoo artist which decides to put up with your bullshit?

Not even a second later the typing bubble appeared.

Ville (???): Only the interesting one's, kisu.

Another fucking nickname, great.

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 3.

Just another normal and quiet day at the tattoo parlor you work at in the heart of Helsinki, Finland. Or so you thought ?

The small kitchenette in the back of the shop wasn’t much—just an ancient coffeemaker, a chipped mug collection, and a shelf with mismatched tea bags—but it served its purpose.

Y/N moved through the space quietly, her fingers a little unsteady and trembling as she poured water into the machine. She wasn’t sure what rattled her more: Ville Valo standing in the front of the shop like some tall, gothic omen—or the fact that he was still here, not making excuses to leave.

He hadn’t asked for anything flashy. No tattoos. No photos. No favors.

Just coffee. Something simple, yet it made her nervous.

She glanced back toward the doorway. From this angle, she could see part of him—his boots stretched out lazily in front of the worn waiting room sofa, one arm draped across the back, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the leather. Like he owned the place.

And somehow, it didn’t feel like he didn’t belong.

The machine gurgled softly behind her. She fidgeted with the sleeves of her hoodie, pulling them down past her knuckles.

Why is he here? Why did he come to see her again? Her thoughts whispered.

She hadn’t done anything special during the tattoo session. She was polite, professional, maybe a bit awkward—okay, a lot awkward—but she didn’t flirt, didn’t laugh too much, didn’t try to catch his attention.

And yet here he was. Again.

When the coffee finished brewing, she grabbed two mismatched mugs—one plain black, one with a faded skull print—and poured them slowly, trying not to spill.

“Do you take sugar or—”

“Black. No sugar, sweetheart.” his voice drifted in from the other room, but it's still enough to send shivers down her spine.

She brought both mugs out, the warmth of the ceramic grounding her as she stepped back into the front. Ville was exactly where she left him, sprawled out like a lazy cat, watching her like she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.

She handed him the mug without a word and sat across from him in the old armchair opposite the couch. Her own mug trembled slightly in her hands, and she tried to hide it by curling her fingers tighter around the sides.

“So..” she finally said, after a long, dragging and awkard silence. “You just.. wandered in.”

Ville took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving hers over the rim of the mug. “You make it sound like I’m stalking you.”

“Well, you did show up unannounced with no appointment.”

“Touché.” He tilted his head slightly, smirk curling again. “Maybe I just liked the view.”

Y/N’s stomach turned over, heart skipping before she could catch it, turning her gaze onto him for a second. He was always watching. She fought to keep her face neutral, but her ears burned with the heat of his words.

“I’m not.. exactly interesting to watch,” she muttered.

Ville leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, coffee still in hand. “You say that, but I think you underestimate how captivating quiet people can be.”

Her throat tightened.

Nobody ever said things like that to her. Nobody noticed the way she stayed out of the spotlight. They usually saw her as cold or closed-off. Invisible. But somehow, Ville didn’t seem to be fooled by any of it.

She didn’t know what to say, so she looked down into her mug, watching the steam curl upward into her face.

“I didn’t think you were the type to.. remember people like me,” she said softly. “I figured you’d forget my name before the stencil dried.”

Ville’s voice was softer now, velvet with an edge. “I don’t forget people who look at me like you did.”

She looked up sharply.

He held her gaze, expression unreadable. “Like I wasn’t just some asshole on a stage.”

She swallowed hard. “That’s not what I thought.”

“I know.” His smirk faded into something quieter. “That’s why I remembered.”

The air between them grew heavy, the quiet kind that wasn’t awkward, but meaningful. Unspoken. Intimate.

Y/N set her mug down and rubbed her palms against her thighs, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest. This wasn’t what she expected when she woke up this morning. She didn’t expect him.

“I’m.. just not good with people,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Way quieter than she expected it to come out.

Ville gave a low hum. “That makes two of us.”

She looked up at him again, surprised. He was famous. Loved. Worshipped in some circles. How could he not be good with people?

He saw the question in her eyes before she even asked it.

“It’s easy to be charming when it’s a performance,” he said. “A lot harder when someone actually sees you.”

The words hit her harder than she expected.

And in that moment, sitting across from the gothic rock god of her teenage dreams, she didn’t feel like prey.

She felt seen.

Ville had barely finished his coffee when he stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his coat and glancing toward the window like he had something mischievous brewing behind those long lashes.

“You like music, kulta?” he asked casually, turning his gaze back to her.

Y/N blinked at the sudden question. “I—yeah. Of course.”

He grinned, eyes lighting up in that devil-may-care way she recognized from old interviews. “Good. Come with me.”

She hesitated. “Come.. with you where?”

“A record shop,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “There's one I like a few blocks from here. Not too crowded. Smells like dust and heartbreak.”

Y/N stared at him. “Why?”

Ville smirked, already pulling his coat tighter as he moved toward the door. “Because you look like you need rescuing from that sketchpad. And I need someone to make fun of my taste in records.”

“I wasn’t planning on—”

“Don’t overthink it, kaunokainen. Just walk next to me and pretend I’m charming.”

And just like that, he stepped out into the street.

Y/N hesitated only a second longer before grabbing her jacket and following, heart thudding so loud it drowned out the Helsinki drizzle. She kept her pace small, matching his longer strides with her own quiet steps. Close enough to feel the warmth of him through the rainy air, but not close enough to brush against his coat.

The walk was quiet at first. Rain tapping softly against the pavement. Ville’s cigarette lit halfway through the stroll, held between elegant fingers adorned with silver. He walked like he had nowhere to be, like the whole city belonged to him.

And maybe, in a way, it did.

“You always this silent, sweetheart?” he asked suddenly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

Y/N huffed. “I just don’t see a reason to fill the air with small talk.”

Ville chuckled. “Good. I hate small talk. But I do like the sound of your voice. Kind of reminds me of a song I forgot I liked.”

She felt her face heat up, eyes darting to the sidewalk like it could save her.

“Teasing already?” she muttered.

“Oh, muru, I haven’t even started.”

The record shop was tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a tiny bar with fogged-up windows. The sign above the door simply read Needle & Bone in faded gold paint. Ville pushed the door open with his shoulder, holding it for her without saying anything.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old vinyl, incense, and rain-soaked leather jackets. Rows of shelves stretched into the dim interior, stacked high with records—some new, most old, all lovingly arranged in soft chaos.

Ville made a beeline toward the back, weaving through the aisles like he knew them by heart. Y/N followed cautiously, eyes scanning the spines of albums she didn’t recognize and some she loved a little too quietly.

“You’ve got that look again,” Ville said, glancing over his shoulder.

“What look?”

“The one where you pretend you’re not impressed by anything, but your eyes are screaming.”

She narrowed them at him. “I’m not pretending.”

He leaned back against a shelf, one hand casually reaching up to pull a record at random. “Oh, come on. I bet you’ve got a stack of vinyl at home you’d die if anyone touched.”

“I don’t—”

Ville flipped the record around to show her. It was a weathered copy of "Blessed Be" by The 69 Eyes.

“Tell me this isn’t secretly in your top ten,” he said, grinning.

She scoffed. “That’s such a cliché pick.”

“But it is in your top ten,” he said confidently.

She rolled her eyes and turned down the next aisle, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

Ville followed, of course. Like a shadow soaked in whiskey and sarcasm.

“You ever get embarrassed buying music?” he asked casually, running his fingers along a row of worn sleeves. “Like.. owning something ironically?”

Y/N shrugged. “Maybe. Why?”

Ville pulled out a pristine ABBA record and held it up like it was a guilty confession. “I own this and I regret nothing.”

She stared.

“Seriously?”

“Don’t act surprised, darling. I’m Finnish. It’s in my blood.”

She laughed. Genuinely. Quiet and soft, but real.

He grinned like he’d just won something.

“Ah, there it is,” he said. “Was starting to think I’d have to break into interpretive dance to get that smile.”

“You’d scare the shop owner.”

“He’s blind in one eye. It adds mystery.”

Y/N shook her head, walking further into the aisles to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Ville was infuriating—cocky and unpredictable—but she couldn’t deny it. She liked the way he looked at her like she was worth teasing. Worth noticing.

Like maybe, for once, she wasn’t just someone blending into the background.

Maybe she was the reason someone showed up.

And the strangest part?

She didn’t want to run from it.

Not yet.

The small bell above the shop door jingled again as someone else wandered in, but Y/N barely noticed. Ville was thumbing through a bin of records with a look of quiet focus, his lips curled ever so slightly at the corners. He looked almost delicate in the dusty light of the shop—if not for the cigarette still tucked behind his ear and the scent of cologne lingering around him like a ghost.

Y/N stood awkwardly near a rack of soundtracks, tracing her finger across a cracked "Blade Runner" sleeve, pretending she wasn’t watching him.

“Found something,” Ville said finally.

Y/N turned. He held up a crimson-colored album with a kind of reverence. The cover was moody and surreal, and the title on the top saying "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me" by The Cure.

She blinked. “That's... a really good album.”

Ville nodded, but his eyes weren’t on the cover—they were on her.

“It’s not just good,” he said softly. “It’s you.”

A lump formed in her throat.

He stepped closer, holding the record out like it was something fragile and sacred. “It's messy, dramatic, sometimes playful… but honest. Romantic in the saddest way. And every song feels like it’s bleeding and blooming at the same time.”

Y/N couldn’t speak. Her fingers hovered over the album, hesitant to take it.

Ville smirked at her hesitation but said nothing. Just let her reach for it at her own pace.

“Why are you giving it to me?” she asked, finally taking the vinyl.

Ville tilted his head, eyes dark with something unreadable. “Because I want to. And because if I see you listening to Just Like Heaven while sketching in your hoodie, I might actually combust.”

Her face flushed, throat dry.

“That’s.. really specific.”

“I’m a very visual man, rakas.”

He moved past her, slowly making his way toward the register. Y/N stayed frozen in place for a second before following, her boots quiet against the creaky floorboards.

“You really didn’t have to buy it,” she murmured as he handed a few crumpled euro bills to the cashier, still holding that faint smile.

Ville turned to her as they stepped outside into the cool Helsinki air. The city was quieter now, the clouds tinged with twilight.

“I know,” he said, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “But I wanted you to leave here with something you didn’t expect.”

Y/N stared down at the record clutched to her chest, her fingers tightening just slightly around the edges.

She didn’t expect this. She didn’t expect him. She didn't belong in a world with him, the rockstar life definitely wasn't for someone like her. Even if it was just hanging out. So why was he paying attention to her that much?

And yet, here he was—teasing her, gifting her a vinyl, slowly peeling back the layers she thought no one could get past.

Maybe.. just maybe.. she didn’t want him to stop.

The sky had darkened into a soft, steely blue by the time Ville and Y/N stepped out of the record shop, the rain having eased into a gentle mist. The streets of Helsinki shimmered beneath the glow of scattered streetlights, reflections rippling in puddles like some moody oil painting.

Ville lit a cigarette without asking, holding it between his lips as they started walking. His pace was slower now, like he wasn’t in any hurry. Like he was soaking in every second.

Y/N held the vinyl close to her chest, clutching it as though it might vanish if she let it go. Her thoughts were still tangled in the moment back in the shop—the way Ville had looked at her, how certain he was when he said it reminded him of her.

She didn’t want to admit how warm that made her feel.

“I should probably get back,” she said after a stretch of silence. “Chris is gonna think I ditched work completely.”

Ville glanced at her sideways. “Wouldn’t blame you. That parlor looked like it could swallow someone whole.”

She smirked. “I like the quiet.”

“Of course you do,” he murmured. “You seem like the kind of girl who needs silence to think… and music when thinking hurts too much.”

Y/N blinked up at him. That was… painfully accurate.

They rounded the corner, the familiar buzz of the tattoo shop’s neon sign coming into view through the fog. Her heart started to sink, like she didn’t want the walk to end just yet. Her mind was telling her to go and forget about it but her heart wouldn't let it go.

Ville didn’t seem like he was ready either. His voice dropped a little softer when he spoke again.

“I’m glad I came in today.”

Y/N tilted her head. “To the shop?”

He gave a soft huff of amusement, pulling the cigarette from his lips and flicking the ash to the side.

“No, sweetheart,” he said. “I mean here. With you.”

The words hit her like the first chord of her favorite song—unexpected but familiar.

She paused in front of the tattoo shop door, awkwardly shifting her weight. “Ville…”

He leaned slightly toward her, voice velvet and low. “Before you disappear behind that door like a ghost, mind if I ask you something a little bold?”

Y/N hesitated, lips parting but no words coming out. Only giving him a nod as a response.

Ville pulled a pen—of course it was black—from the inner pocket of his coat and plucked her wrist gently from her side. His fingers were cool, the rings biting into her skin in the most deliberate way as he scribbled something on her arm.

When she looked down, it was a phone number written in that messy, charming handwriting—loops and sharp angles all over the place. Below it, he added a small heartagram.

“I’d rather not wait until I need a tattoo I don’t want,” he said. “So… maybe you’ll text me?”

Y/N stared at her arm, then back up at him. “You want me to text you?”

Ville leaned close enough for her to smell the mix of tobacco, cologne, and rain clinging to his coat.

“Desperately.”

Her breath caught. His words hitting her way harder than they should.

And then, just as quickly, he stepped back with a wink. “Don’t make me beg, kultani. I’m tragically good at it.”

Before she could muster a response, he was already walking backward down the sidewalk, still facing her with that maddening grin.

“Tell Chris I said hi!” he called.

Y/N stood frozen in the doorway of the tattoo shop, heart pounding and the number still fresh on her skin.

Goddamn it.

She was in trouble.

The door clicked shut behind her, the sudden quiet of the shop wrapping around her like a weighted blanket. The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound greeting her, and she was grateful—she didn’t think she could handle conversation just yet.

She exhaled, long and slow, leaning her back against the door for a moment as her eyes flicked down to her arm. The number was still there, slightly smudged where the ink had touched the cuff of her sleeve. The little heartagram beneath it seemed to pulse with meaning, like it was mocking her just a little.

You’re not supposed to let people in again.

You promised yourself.

But there he was. Ville Valo. Frontman of H.I.M. Smelling like smoke and rain and giving her a The Cure record like it was the most natural thing in the world. And worse, he looked at her like he’d known her longer than a single day.

Her heart was pounding so hard it made her feel sick.

Y/N peeled off her coat and dropped it on the back of her chair before moving to her station. Her fingers went through the familiar routine of wiping down the counter, putting tools back in their place—anything to ground herself in reality.

But every time she blinked, she saw his eyes. The curve of his smirk. The way he’d said, “I’m glad I came in today.”

She sat down on the stool and pulled the record onto her lap, fingers tracing the glossy edge of the cover. "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me". The Cure.

What kind of man gives that to someone on a first meeting? Ville, obviously.

Chris poked his head out from the back room just then, raising an eyebrow. “Back already?”

Y/N jumped slightly. “Yeah. Just—walked around a little. Got some air.”

He nodded slowly, glancing at the vinyl in her hands before giving her a look. “Was your ‘air’ named Ville Valo, by any chance?”

Her face went hot. “I—what? No. I mean, maybe.”

Chris let out a laugh and disappeared back into the office.

Y/N groaned under her breath and buried her face in her hands.

She hadn’t even texted him yet.

And somehow, she already felt like she was in too deep.

[vmiuchi]

YOU'RE LUCKY YOU'RE CUTE

Bam Margera (early 2000s) x FEM Reader Oneshot.

word count: 1118

You should’ve known better than to show up at Bam’s house wearing white Converse.

Not even ten minutes after stepping into the Margera residence—Castle Bam, as he liked to call it—you got caught in the crossfire of a prank that involved a leaf blower, whipped cream, and Novak being an idiot.

“Are you serious right now?!” you shouted, half-laughing, half-annoyed, as your shoes were completely coated in sticky foam. Novak was doubled over, practically crying from laughter, while Dunn filmed the whole thing with a handheld camera.

“You’re the one who walked into my war zone lookin’ like a Gap ad,” Bam shouted from the kitchen doorway, a slice of pizza hanging out of his mouth. “You shoulda known better, sweetheart.”

He sauntered over, taking a bite of the pizza with that smug-ass grin of his, and you had to fight the urge to throw your shoe at him.

“I came here because you said it would be chill today,” you reminded him.

“I said chill-ish. There’s a difference.”

Before you could roll your eyes too hard, Bam was already reaching over to wipe whipped cream off your cheek with his thumb. His touch was gentle for someone who just thirty seconds ago had cackled at your downfall. You glanced up, your eyes meeting his for just a second longer than you expected.

And then he smeared the whipped cream across your forehead and bolted.

“Oh, it’s on, Margera!”

You were chasing him across the backyard before you even thought it through. Bam grabbed the garden hose on his sprint past the half-pipe and turned it on with a dramatic twist, aiming straight at your chest.

You shrieked and dodged behind a tree, already soaked and laughing despite yourself. Wet grass squelched beneath your sneakers as you tried to escape, but Bam was persistent—cornering you like a playful wolf, hose in hand.

“I surrender!” you yelled between breathless laughs, holding your hands up.

He finally let the stream of water drop to the ground, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. His hair was wild and sticking to his face, his shirt soaked and clinging to his torso. There was something chaotic and beautiful about him when he laughed like that—something free.

“You look like a drowned rat,” you said, crossing your arms over your soaked chest.

“So do you,” he countered, letting his eyes shamelessly rake over your now-transparent white tee. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Eyes up here, Margera.”

“No promises,” he smirked. “You’re cute when you’re pissed off.”

“You’re only still alive because you’re cute,” you shot back.

That earned a laugh out of him, but there was something else in his expression now—something a little softer, less performative. It flickered in his eyes like static on a TV screen. He dropped the hose and stepped closer, his voice quieter now.

“C’mon. You’re soaked. Lemme show you something.”

And with that, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you inside, leading you through the chaos of the house—Ryan still lighting something on fire in the sink, Raab giggling over the sound of broken glass—and up the stairs to his room.

Bam’s room was its own version of organized chaos. Posters and flyers covered every inch of the walls. CDs and tapes were stacked in messy towers. Skateboards leaned against his closet, and a trail of Vans led from the door to his bed. The scent of cigarette smoke, cologne, and something sweet—cherry soda, maybe—hung in the air.

He let go of your wrist and dropped to his knees by the bed, shoving his arm underneath.

“You hiding bodies under there?” you asked, arms crossed as you tried to wring out the ends of your shirt.

“No, just footage and maybe a few broken bones,” he muttered.

After a minute of digging, he surfaced with a scratched-up DV tape. He didn’t hand it to you, just held it like it meant something. Like it was fragile.

“I filmed something for you,” he said.

You blinked. “For me?”

“Yeah. Like… remember that day we went to Love Park? You were laughing like a goddamn maniac and kept falling off your board. I dunno. I liked it. So I filmed some stuff. It’s mostly you. Some of the other guys crash the party halfway through, so it’s a little derailed. Novak fell off the roof.”

You stared at him. Bam Margera, self-proclaimed chaos gremlin, had filmed you like some lovesick teenager?

“You… actually did that?"

Bam rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Bam.”

He finally met your gaze, eyes flicking up under dark lashes. “You might be in love with me after you see it.”

Your heart stuttered. He always said shit like that—cocky, ridiculous, over-the-top—but this time it felt different. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t a joke.

“I already kinda am,” you said, voice soft.

His lips parted slightly, like that wasn’t the answer he expected. For a moment, he was quiet. Still.

Then that familiar smirk curled back onto his lips, and he stepped closer, hands bracketing your waist.

“Well, shit,” he murmured. “Guess my plan worked.”

You didn’t have time to respond before his lips pressed to yours—slow and tasting faintly of sugar and salt and whatever chaos made up Bam Margera. His hands slid up the sides of your damp shirt, thumbs brushing bare skin at your hips, but it wasn’t rushed. It was real.

You kissed him back like maybe this moment had been building for months, through every prank, every skate session, every late-night call. Like maybe, beneath all the noise, there was something quiet and good between you.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

“I’m still mad about my shoes,” you whispered.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he promised. “Black this time. Way more you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were flushed.

He flopped back on the bed, tugging you down with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You landed half on his chest, your hand resting over the heartagram on his shirt.

Below you, the rest of the house was chaos. Screaming, explosions, music, someone yelling about setting off fireworks inside.

But up here, with Bam’s arm around you and your heart beating loud in your chest, it felt still.

Real.

Soft.

“You really like me, huh?” he asked, glancing down at you with a crooked smile.

“I must’ve hit my head.”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “You’re just smart enough to fall for a legend.”

You snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “But I’m your idiot.”

[vmiuchi]

bam nsfw one shot where he’s super awkward and needy ? 👀

CLINGY WHEN I'M SOBER, WORSE WHEN I'M YOURS

Bam Margera x FEMALEreader. One shot.

word count: 1280

(NSFW WARNING)

He’s already breathless before you’ve touched him properly.

Perched at the edge of your bed, Bam looks like he’s about to crawl out of his skin—knees bouncing, hands twitchy, mouth parted like he’s mid-confession. He keeps stealing glances at you like he’s scared you’ll vanish or laugh at how fucked he is over this.

Over you.

"You don’t know what you do to me,” he mutters, voice cracking. “It’s like—I see you and my brain just—just goes. Like I’m fucking fourteen again, begging for attention.”

You don’t answer. You just stare, letting him stew in it. Watching him squirm is a kind of power you never expected to enjoy, but with Bam—it’s different. He’s a wreck in your hands and he knows it, likes it, even if he tries to act otherwise.

His eyes flick up to meet yours again, glassy and desperate. “Say something,” he pleads. “Or do something. Just—don’t leave me hanging like this.”

You step forward, slow and deliberate. His breath hitches when you reach out, fingers sliding beneath his chin to tilt his head up. He looks up at you like you hung the damn moon.

“You’re not very patient, are you?”

“Not with you,” he admits, almost too fast. “Not when I feel like I’m gonna fucking explode if you don’t—god, I don’t even know what I want. Just—touch me. Yell at me. Use me. Something.”

You arch a brow. “Use you?”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t mean it like—no, wait. I did. I meant it. Fuck. Just—do something. Please.”

You push him back gently, and he falls without resistance, sprawled across the bed like he’s been waiting all day for you to take control. Maybe he has.

He’s already half-hard under his jeans, and the second you crawl onto the bed, hovering above him, his hands shoot up—grabbing at your hips like a lifeline.

“Do you want this, Bam?” you murmur, voice low.

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he whispers, like it hurts to admit. “And it scares the shit out of me.”

You straddle him, grinding slowly against the bulge in his jeans. He groans—sharp and raw—eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to hang on by a thread.

“Then stop being a smartass,” you say. “And let me ruin you.”

He whimpers. Whimpers. Bam fucking Margera, the same guy who’ll body slam into grocery carts for fun, just whimpered underneath you.

“I’ll do anything,” he gasps. “You want me on my knees again? I’ll do it. I don’t care. I’ll beg. I’ll crawl. Just—fuck—I don’t want to be anywhere but here.”

You slide off him just enough to get his jeans open. He lifts his hips without being told, needy and twitchy and desperate to please. You don’t even need to guide him—he’s already rutting up against your hand like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

"You ever shut up?" you tease.

“No,” he says, lips brushing against your neck. “Not unless you make me.”

He moans again as you stroke him, the sound so high and broken it’s almost embarrassing. You glance down—he’s red-faced, hair a mess, eyes wet. A total disaster.

“You’re falling apart, Bam.”

“Only for you,” he chokes out. “Fucking only you.”

You don’t stop. You won’t. Not until he’s begging.

You slow your strokes, just to watch the frustration twist across his face. His hips try to chase you, but you pin them down, straddling his thighs. That makes him whine. Not moan, not groan—whine. His fingers twitch at your waist like he's fighting the urge to pull you down and take control, but he won’t. Not unless you let him.

"You’re not gonna let me come, are you?" he pants.

You tilt your head. "Do you deserve to?"

His mouth drops open—outrage, need, desperation all crashing into each other in one look. “I drove here shaking, thinking about your fucking voice in my head. I’ve been pacing in my kitchen for an hour thinking about your thighs. I’ve had this fantasy of you sitting on my face playing on repeat like some cursed VHS.”

You hum, pretending to consider it. “And?”

“And I jerked off in my car outside your apartment like a fucking high schooler,” he spits, flushed and wide-eyed. “So no. I probably don’t deserve it. But I want it so fucking bad it hurts.”

You lean down over him slowly, letting your lips brush his ear. “You want to be good for me so bad it makes you stupid, huh?”

He groans, back arching, and when you reach between his legs again, his body twitches.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasps. “Yes. I’m pathetic for you, I know.”

You stroke him harder now, faster, and he claws at the sheets, voice cracking with every breath.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—please, fuck, I’ll be good, I swear, just don’t—please.”

He’s unraveling. The cocky mask is gone. He’s not Bam the performer anymore. He’s just Bam—loud, needy, aching, and yours.

You slow down again right before he tips over the edge.

“No—no, no—” he whimpers, hands gripping your thighs now, frantic. “Don’t do that, please—don’t leave me like this—please.”

You smirk down at him. “You begged so pretty just now. Should I reward you for that?”

He nods wildly, desperate.

“I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of mercy,” you whisper, just to watch the devastation bloom behind his eyes.

He whimpers again—so softly you almost miss it—and rests his forehead against your chest.

“I’d let you do anything,” he breathes. “I mean it. Anything you want. I don’t care how fucked up it is, I’d—fuck—just want you.”

You guide him inside you then, slow, tight, and relentless—and Bam shatters.

His hands fly to your hips, eyes rolling back as he arches into you with a cry that borders on a sob. He looks almost frightened by the relief, like it’s too much, too fast, after holding back so long.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “Oh my God. You feel like—like you own me.”

You move slowly, grinding down in smooth, cruel waves. He’s clinging to you now, nails digging into your back like he needs the contact or he’ll slip through the bed.

"You were saying something earlier about flipping me over," you murmur. “Still feeling cocky?”

He lets out a hoarse laugh that dissolves into a choked moan. “You ruined me. I can’t even think right now.”

You smile, pleased. “Good.”

You ride him until his voice is wrecked, until he’s whispering your name like a prayer. His thighs tremble beneath you, his jaw slack, and the second you clench around him, his whole body jolts.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m coming, I can’t—!”

He comes hard, gasping your name like it’s the only word he knows. His arms lock around you, breath hitched, and the sound he makes when he finally lets go is so desperate, so raw, it knocks the wind out of you.

You hold him through it, kissing his temple, feeling his body shake under your touch.

Then—after a long moment—he speaks again, barely audible:

“…Don’t make me go home.”

You blink, still straddling him. “What?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just hides his face against your chest and exhales shakily. “I don’t wanna leave. I don’t wanna wake up without you.”

Your hand finds his hair, stroking gently. His whole body sags like he’s melting into you.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Stay as long as you want.”

His arms tighten around you.

“I mean it,” he mumbles. “I’ll make breakfast. I’ll clean your apartment. I’ll fold your laundry if you let me stay.”

You laugh softly. “Clingy when you’re sober…”

“…Worse when I’m yours,” he finishes, voice cracked and sweet.

And you let him stay.