#i want to know why you chose those colours! if you liked using that brush! if you're proud of that hand!!!!

[mishapen-dear]

STOP talking bad about your art!!! if you made a mistake don't point them out!! i will not draw and quarter you if you don't colour in the lines i am not a kindergarten teacher go ham!!!! go HAM! !!!!

#im seeing so many people posting their art with some self deprecating comment and NO!!!!!! #NO!!!!!!!!!! #if you make a mistake then maybe people won't notice but if you point them out then they WILL !!!!! #talk about the things you're proud of instead!! please!!!! #i want to know why you chose those colours! if you liked using that brush! if you're proud of that hand!!!! #if you have to say something about your art say something GOOD and that is a THREAT

[lathalea]

The White Raven 7/9

The next chapter of Thorin and Carra's story is here!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death/dragon sickness Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being a great, great, great beta reader and extra special thanks to Legolasbadass (again!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚

Khuzdul: Karkûnê - My Raveness 🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

The tint of Carra’s face closely matched the crispy white colour of the pillowcase beneath it, her silver-white hair scattered across it in disarray. Her eyes were closed, and Thorin held his breath for a heartbeat—before he noticed the slight movements of her chest. 

She was breathing. Still.

Sitting on a makeshift wheeled chair, which Nari, the disgruntled healer, procured from somewhere, Thorin leaned closer towards Carra, biting his lip in an attempt to ignore the pain his protesting body evoked. Another spell of dizziness washed over him again, and his body pleaded for mercy, but he pushed those sensations away. Perhaps Balin and Nari were right, and he should have stayed in bed, but at that moment, Thorin’s own discomfort felt insignificant.

His fingertips brushed against the softness of Carra’s hollow cheek. Her skin was cool under his touch, but warmth still lingered within.

“Carra… Karkûnê…“ he murmured. There was no response. Her eyelids did not flutter to show the iridescent depth of her gaze; her lips did not open to utter his name. She was here, beside him, yet completely out of his reach.

“How long has she been this way?” he asked.

“Since she was brought in here on the day of the battle, Your Majesty,” the healer responded and cast a worried glance at Balin. “Most of her injuries are minor, but she has yet to regain consciousness. We do not know why it takes so long but then again, she is not a Dwarf.”

Thorin thanked him with a nod, and his eyes returned to Carra. Her face and arms were marked with multiple bruises and scarrings—mementos of her confrontation with Azog. He closed his eyes, attempting to get rid of the tightness in his throat. At least a fortnight had passed since the battle ended, and her body seemed to refuse to heal at its regular pace. Throughout the years, he learned how quickly she regenerated; one or two nights should have been enough to cure most of it, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, this did not happen. But…

She was still breathing.

He took her slender hand in his. So soft. So fragile.

“I want my bed moved here,” he turned to the older dwarf, not letting go of her hand.

“Thorin?” Balin raised his eyebrows.

Nari’s stifled cough of surprise reached him at the same time. Thorin chose to ignore it.

“She needs me, Balin,” he looked at Carra’s hand. So delicate in his palm, like a folded wing of a sleeping fledgeling.

The older Dwarf pulled at his beard and cast a meaningful glance at Nari. It was enough to make the healer bow and leave the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Balin speak again. 

“I assume that you are aware of what message this is going to send, laddie.”

“What message…? I told you, Balin, she is my wife.” Thorin’s eyes wandered to Carra’s peaceful, unmoving face. With his left arm bound up, he had to gently free his right hand and reach into her hair. He let his fingers run through the silver-white strands until he uncovered the marriage braid he had pleated himself. “She watched over us on our way to reclaim Erebor. Now I shall watch over her.”

His mentor sat down on a nearby bench with a grunt, his gaze resting on Thorin’s hand, once again clasped with Carra’s. Thorin could almost feel its weight.

Balin sighed heavily, “There will be trouble with the lords when they hear of it.”

“I have never supported any of their plans of political alliances via marriage as you very well know,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Indeed. I still applaud you for how you handled the situation with Lord Yngví and managed to convince Fili to marry Lady Tarja. You killed two birds with one stone!” A shadow of a smile appeared on Balin's lips. “The Firebeards are our strongest allies, and if Mahal blesses the couple with a babe, it will rule over the whole Blue Mountains.”

“It was not a great feat. They were already in love with each other,” Thorin tilted his head.

“But you saw the opportunity and took it,” Balin’s smile grew slightly. “And now it seems I will be the one on the lookout for an opportunity to explain the current situation to the lords. And Dain…”

“She is my One, Balin.” The rasp of his own whisper sounded hollow in the silence of the stone chamber. He had said these words only once before and only to Carra. They were meant to be said not more than once in a lifetime, and it felt wrong to repeat them in this stuffy, dimly lit chamber and not under a star-studded sky with his Raveness in his arms.

His old friend remained silent for a long while. Silent and unmoving, like a stone statue. Thorin avoided looking into his face by turning his attention to Carra’s hand, which he still held. He felt the warmth of his own body seeping through her skin, but it remained cool despite his best efforts.

But she was still breathing. There was still hope, he reminded himself.

“How can it be? She is not a Child of Mahal.” Balin frowned. “She could not have been made from the same piece of stone as you.” “I do not know, Balin,” he shrugged and presented their joined hands to him. “But I do know this: she saved me. Twice. Once—at Rivendell. And the second time… Do you remember my feather, Balin? That is how I overcame the curse. In the darkest hour I took it in my hand. And so I recalled my One—and my true self.”

Thorin glanced at Carra’s face, but it remained unmoving; her eyes closed. 

“My blood sings in my veins whenever she is around. Even now.  It feels almost like when you sing to the stone and it sings back, showing you the hidden veins of ore in its depths.” His voice was but a whisper. “I shall not attempt to understand Mahal’s mysterious ways, but I am certain beyond doubt that she is my Other Half.”

His mentor pulled at his beard once again. “Let us only hope that this explanation will be enough for our people to accept her as their queen. Our kingdom is about to be rebuilt. We need unity, not dissent.”

“You told me once that I have done honourably by our people. That I had a choice… This is my choice. She is. If Carra cannot be accepted, so be it. We have never planned for our secret to see the light of the day and it can remain hidden,” Thorin admitted with conviction. After taking a brief look at her pale face, he addressed Balin once again. “And before you mention the issue of succession, we both know that I have already named Fili as my heir. The lords have no leverage here. I will do all in my power to unite the Seven Kingdoms again, but I will not be parted from Carra. That is my final word on the matter.”

Speaking of a future with Carra, regardless of the shape it would take, felt like a fresh waft of hope. She would wake up—and soon. And then they would keep meeting in hidden forest clearings, secluded valleys, and forgotten caverns, just like they had done for years.

Thorin never noticed when Balin stood up with a grunt. He barely felt his hand patting him on the shoulder.

“Very well, laddie. I will see what I can do about this matter. And now—allow me to leave you be. You have your wife to take care of.”

Thorin’s eyes met Balin’s in an instant. It was impossible to miss neither the softness of his gaze under those white bushy eyebrows nor the warmth in his smile.

“Balin, I…” he began, his voice faltering. Instead, he covered his mentor’s hand with his.

“I know, laddie, I know.” The old dwarf nodded. No other words were needed between them.

At that very moment, something brushed along the inside of Thorin’s palm, as if a butterfly opened its wings.

“Carra!” He brought her hand to his face, hoping to see the repeated motion of her little finger. Gently pressing his lips against the back of her hand, he breathed in the faint scent of snowdrops.

Her face was as expressionless and pale as before, but when Thorin was about to look away, Carra’s eyes darted about once or twice under her eyelids.

It took him one heartbeat to lean closer toward her; before he knew it, he gave her forehead a soft, lingering kiss. The pain and exhaustion he felt did not matter any longer. Everything besides Carra was of no consequence. His One was still there, and this knowledge imbued him with a new strength.

“Fight, Karkûnê. Do not give up,” Thorin whispered into her ear. “I am here, beside you. Do you hear me, amrâlimê?”

He pressed his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture they exchanged whenever they met. Her skin pleasantly cooled his burning hot forehead while Thorin whispered, “Come back to me, Wings of my heart.”

***

The butterfly circles above the rock basin. Its orange wings flutter gracefully a hairbreadth above the still surface of the water, yet its wings never touch it. Carra cannot seem to tear off her eyes from the afterimages of the spectacle she has witnessed a mere moment ago. More blurred shapes appear in the water, but they are distorted and barely recognizable, fading away quickly.

“Do you see now, Silver One?” The Weaver’s voice fills Carra’s ears. “There are countless possibilities for the thread to run through the loom.”

“But the taint is spreading in the pattern,” the white-haired man, the Water Bearer, says; his words sound hollow. “Everything withers in its wake.”

“There is still hope. Not everything is lost.” The Great Mother walks towards a nearby apple tree. Both its leaves and her gown shimmer in the sunlight. Something tells Carra to follow her creator, and so she does, her legs unsteady.

“Not everything? What about… ” The White Raven’s voice trembles. “Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

The Great Mother does not reply. Instead, she plucks a large, ripe apple from the tree and smells it with an approving hum.

“Curious creature.” The Water Bearer approaches them from ahead; Carra could have sworn he was behind them merely a moment ago. “Is it the silver dust in your wings speaking or your heart?”

Carra lowers her head—in shame or embarrassment? She does not know which one burns stronger.

She wants to seek redemption—to show that there is still a part of her that is worthy. In fact, she wishes to explain that her question was born solely out of her sense of duty, that her feelings are insignificant, but then her own faint whisper reaches her.

“I speak from my heart,” she says. Always my heart, she thinks.

The Water Bearer and the Green Lady exchange a boundless glance. An eternity seems to pass, as long as one blink of Carra’s eyes.

The Great Mother turns back to her and speaks; a shadow of a smile blooms on her lips, “Then you should already know the answer to this question, my child.”

“I do not understand, Great Mother.”

“Was it not you who alarmed us of the threat to his life?”

Carra recalls the very moment when the Pale Orc attacked Thorin and finds that she does not have the strength to speak. She simply nods as the sense of foreboding tightens its fingers around her throat.

“Your croak echoed so strongly across the tapestry that I almost lost several useful threads!” The Weaver’s voice seems to come from afar, but when Carra turns towards its source, she sees the Weaver standing only a few steps behind her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Carra says faintly. “It was not my intention to cause trouble.”

“Child, you did no such thing. You fulfilled your duty.” The Great Mother shakes her head gracefully, the apple still in her hand. “He is still among the living.”

Something hums in Carra’s ear, and the dread that has been gnawing at her mind finally leaves her; her legs fold beneath her, and she finds herself on the grass, supported by trembling arms. Her heart beats fast, as if after a long run.

Thorin lives. Thorin lives. Thorin lives.

“Thank you, Great Mother.” The world blurs before her, and she needs to wipe away the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You should be thanking yourself, dear child—it has come to pass through your sacrifice.” The Great Mother extends her hand, and Carra takes it tentatively, lifting herself from the ground on unsteady legs.

The Water Bearer steps towards them. His hands are empty. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.

“And so the line of Durin remains unbroken,” he says. “So does the pattern.” The Weaver’s elegant fingers move along a thick piece of thread. Its colour makes Carra think of the waters of the Long Lake at dawn. “I was almost certain that this thread would be lost to the tapestry forever.”

The three of them exchange a lengthy glance in silence, and Carra wishes she could understand its meaning.

“Forgive me, Great Mother.” Her throat constricts at her own boldness.” But who will watch over Thorin Oakenshield and his kin now that I am gone?”

“The mettle on this one!” The Water Bearer chuckles, but Carra can barely hear him. A strong gust of wind picks up suddenly, making the leaves rustle in the trees around them. As she looks up, the wind brings another sound with it. A low whisper that reverberates in her ears with longing.

“Carra… Please…”

“Thorin?” Her eyes search the beech grove ahead in hopes of seeing her son of Durin, but there are only tree trunks and shrubbery, and the rustling of leaves. Has she imagined hearing his voice?

“Is that…?” There is a hint of amusement in the Water Bearer’s voice. His white hair dances in the wind.

“That silver in her wings…” the Weaver adds, but before she can finish her sentence, another figure appears in the garden, as if out of nowhere. With a few measured strides, he approaches the Great Mother, who offers him the apple she picked before. He takes it, reverently kissing her on her hand. Even though the newcomer is taller than his companions, there seems to be something dwarven about him. Perhaps it is his robust figure or muscular arms, his long hair, brown as elm bark, or perhaps his thick, braided beard; Carra is not certain.

“Husband mine, it is good to see you here,” the Great Mother says.

“I would not have missed it for the world, my dearest.” The man’s voice is as deep as the deepest mines of Erebor.

The wind picks up again, and the rustling intensifies, but the Great Mother’s spouse remains unmoving; even his hair and garments remain still, as if carved out of stone.

“Karkûnê… Come back to me…”

Carra’s searching eyes frantically move from one tree to the next, from one patch of shrubbery to another, but he is not there.

“Thorin!” Helplessly she exclaims towards the sky. “Where are you?”

“You will not find him here, Winged One,” the Great Mother’s husband addresses her. “He is under his Mountain.”

“But I hear him as if he was here!” Carra does not dare to lift her eyes and look into his radiant face.

“The bond between you is as strong as mithril,” he explains.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she hears the Weaver’s voice.

“So it is mithril, not silver… What are you up to, Smith?” With her brow furrowed, the ethereal lady glances at her loom. “You are not hammering out a new pattern, are you?”

He gives out a short chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, Spinner. This pattern does not need any adjustments on my part.”

“Because you have already made them,” the Water Bearer interjects, once again standing by the rock basin, the silvery jug resting at its edge. When his all-knowing gaze meets hers, Carra wants to disappear.

“A pinch of mithril has never done any harm to anyone.” The Smith takes a step towards Carra. “Has it, Winged One?”

“My lord, I do not comprehend…” she speaks shakily. “I only wish to know if Thorin is going to be safe now.”

There is something benevolent in his expectant gaze. Is he smiling? He has heard her, surely, but he does not address her. Carra does not understand what is expected of her now. A glance passes between the Great Mother and the Weaver, but Carra remains oblivious to it, her attention caught by a new occurrence. The orange butterfly appears in front of her, its wings fluttering, and then it flies off to rest on the folds of the Great Mother’s robes, as if on a flowery meadow. Standing by her husband, she gives a shallow nod.

“So be it, Smith,” the Water Bearer says. 

Carra blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she stands by the rock basin once more. This time, the water is black and impenetrable, like the sky on a winter night. An image starts forming, but it feels like a mere shadow of the visions she has experienced before.

*** Thorin sits on a gilded stone bench on a high terrace carved out of the slope of the Mountain. A beautifully ornamented walking cane rests against the wall behind him. A thick fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, adorned with golden embroidery. His breath turns into mist in the cold air, and several stray snowflakes find their way to his hair, adorned with braids and golden cuffs. His sunken cheeks and pale skin are in stark contrast with the opulence that surrounds him. A guard passes by and salutes him, only to disappear in the bowels of the Mountain.

Time passes as Thorin gazes into the horizon. Although his left arm remains motionless—his left hand clothed in a glove—his right hand reaches under his tunic. Soon, his ringed fingers emerge, holding a silver-white feather. Thorin presses his lips against its tip and closes his eyes for a moment. He whispers something, but his words escape on the wind.

When an elderly Dwarf clad in burgundy robes approaches him, the feather is still in his hand.

“The delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived, Thorin,” the Dwarf says. “It is time.”“Time, Balin? It feels like mine has already passed,” Thorin replies.

“And yet they say it is time that heals all wounds,” Balin gestures towards the feather.

Thorin rises from the bench with a pained hiss, helping himself with the walking cane. There is a heavy limp in his walk, and as they enter the Mountain, his solemn voice echoes in the corridor.

“But will it heal mine?” ***

“Your Dwarf rules over his kingdom. There is peace and safety for him and his people,” The Green Lady speaks. “Why the tears, my child?” 

Carra brings her fingers to her cheek. It is wet.

“I failed him, Great Mother. He needs me. I should be by his side, not here!” With her vision blurred, she can barely see the four luminous silhouettes standing around her, the expressions on their faces unreadable.

“You are on the path to the Timeless Halls of your winged kin where the reward for your deeds awaits you. You have earned it, Carra.” The Great Mother’s voice is like a sturdy nest shielded from the elements, like a warm blanket on a stormy night.

“I cannot draw joy from such honours. Not when my mate—the one I love—suffers. I’d rather…” She stops, terrified by her own insolence. Nevertheless, Carra has had to speak out. The vision of the terrifying king on the throne of Erebor, cloaked in darkness and blood, has been haunting her since the moment she saw it in the water. But this image was not as horrifying as her sudden realisation. Thorin’s gaze in her most recent vision, bitter and devoid of hope, was disturbingly similar to the darkness in the dragon king’s eyes.

The Smith gives out a lengthy hum. It sounds like a rumble of a distant avalanche.

“What is it that you are saying, child?” The Great Mother stands before Carra now. 

“I do not have the right to ask, Great Mother, but there is no greater reward for me than seeing Thorin contented and at peace,” Carra explains, and there is no doubt nor fear in her voice now because she speaks for Thorin, not for herself, for the one she has been watching over since she can remember. “His past has been filled with hardships. And now he needs joy, not grief, to heal. I will do anything you ask of me, I will serve you for as long as you wish… Please, Great Mother, do not let the darkness consume him. Does he not deserve a long and happy life now?”

“You would relinquish your place in the Timeless Halls for the sake of this Dwarf?” The Weaver inquires. There are several threads in her hand, but Carra does not see their colours.

“For Thorin’s happiness, I would, my lady. As my last gift to him.” Carra swallows. She has just sentenced herself to oblivion, and yet it does not terrify her in the slightest. Only Thorin’s future matters to her, just like it always has.

“Shall we grant her this reward, husband?” The Great Mother turns to the Smith, who looks at a little pebble in his palm, and then tosses it up, catching it in a blink of an eye later.

“Your devotion reminds me of my own children, Winged One,” he declares. “Know that the path you chose is a path of no return. If you take it, the Timeless Halls will not welcome you. You will become like this stone. Stones do not have wings nor do they dream. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she speaks quietly. “This is the path I want to take.”

“Very well,” the Great Mother grants her a smile as warm as a spring day. In her open palm, a flower blooms. Its countless petals are orange, and it smells like fire.

“You have fulfilled your duty as the White Raven, dear child. We shall bestow upon you the reward you have chosen,” she offers Carra the flower in her outstretched hand. “Accept it, if that is truly your choice.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” She touches the flower with her trembling fingers. It feels hard, like a piece of stone. “Thank you, Great Smith…”

As Carra closes her hand over the silky petals, a curtain of darkness falls over her, and it is as if the air disappeared from her lungs. She cannot move; she cannot speak. This must be the end, she thinks, and in the cold stillness of oblivion, a familiar sound reaches her ears.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

The loom resumed its work.

🌟 Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 ... 🌟

💙💙💙 Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it! 💙💙💙

📜 Searching for more stories to read? Check out my masterlist!📜

Do you like my writing? Would you like to read more? Feel free to show your support by having a Ko-fi with me! Thank you 💙

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added/removed): @fizzyxcustard @shrimpsthings​ @dark-angel-is-back @sherala007 @anyaspidergirl-blog @jotink78 @rachel1959 @saltwater-in-the-afternoon @linasofia @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @legolasbadass @yourqueenunderthemountain @reblogunderthemountain @guardianofrivendell @elrawienthewhite @xmly-xo @mrsdurin @nelleedraws @beenovel @vee-vee-writes @mcchiberry  @dumbassunderthemountain @errruvande @laurfilijames @emrfangirl @s0ftd3m0n @lilith15000 @kami-chan1512  @ragsweas @enchantzz @aduialel @myselfandfantasy @thewhiteladyofrohan @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @blairsanne @fckmini @clumsy-wonderland @wormsmith @mailinsblogofstuff  @medusas-hairband @xxbyimm @knittastically @saucyminxbrainspill @quiall321 @frosticenow @glassgulls @evenstaredits @sotwk @theblackdeath87 @jaskierthelover

#thorin oakenshield #richard armitage #thorin #the hobbit #fanfic #thorin x oc #middle earth #tolkien #dwarves #ravens #aule #yavanna #silmarillion #vaire #irmo lorien #balin

[ray-jaykub]

Hi! How are you? Hope you are doing alright :)

I’d like to ask for those emojis headcsnons for tmnt (I’m really glad you are coming back into writing about it, I’ve always liked your stuff!! I’m sure your new pieces are going to be amazing as well)

🚫 aaaand 💫, if you don’t wanna do both, you can chose one of those prompts!

Thank you, welcome back and have a good night/day 💖

Thank you, I appreciate the love so much and I'm excited too! People have only really sent one shot type request and those take awhile. I'm hoping I can do headcanons while I'm trying to go about those so I am open to headcanon request! I've got like 4 one shots drafted :")

----------

🚫 - what's something genuinely weird about them? like, not something considered quirky yet cute- something genuinely weird that puts other people off at first

Leonardo: I don't know why but I see Leo as coming off as really having a certain way about doing things. If you decide to help with chores at the lair or if for some reason you're doing anything infront of Leo, he will go right behind you and redo it. You fold laundry? Every piece you put down Leo will pick up and redo it. He doesn't care if you see either, in fact he'll look you in the eyes when does it. April and Casey and especially Vern have had it done to them and his brothers deal with it everyday. Over time you get used to it and it's even a little nice. Your house starts to look neater

Raphael: When he hears the phrase "Make yourself at Home" he takes it serious. He gets comfortable really fast, especially if it's obvious you're no threat. Will raid your fridge and pantry, you will go poor from how much you gotta stock up. Maybe you don't mind and want him to be that comfortable but I know it would throw me off, especially if I barely know the guy. It's more frustrating then anything, especially when it's coming in and seeing he's got his feet on your coffee table snacking on the ooey gooey bar you were saving.

Donatello: A germa-phobe to the max, you will catch him sanitizing your kitchen counters and updating your filters. He will wash your sheets without asking and will give you a hard time on personal hygiene. "Did you wash your hands? How long? Did you use the little hand brush I got you?" Yes, he will update your cleaning cabinets and he doesn't even know your favourite colour (who does that?) If you have a pet he gets like a broken roomba and fixes it up to vacuum hair and other particles up around the house

Michelangelo: Very touchy and very in your face. Some people chalk it off as him being excitable and flirty but it can become too much and very overwhelming especially when you don't even know him. The touching can be off putting, he'll be walking by and touches your shoulder. Sitting on the couch and your legs are like squished together. He gets personal and quick. Not many people are like that, I know I'm not and most people aren't so it takes a special kind of person to handle him

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

💫 - what do they think is the most attractive feature they have? (This is gonna be so fucking biased, I'm sorry)

Leonardo: This sounds mean (cause it kinda is) but out of all four of the brothers Leo thinks he's got the more appealing face. Every now and then he'll be looking in the mirror and think 'Yeah, they got nothin on this'. He's terrible

Raphael: His eyes. It's really to the point and kinda the answer every insecure person gives but there's more to his reason. He believes he has bedroom eyes, that he can make his s/o melt (and he can). He stands by his answer

Donatello: He knows he's lean and tall and that alot of women like that so typically he'd say his legs but really he thinks his shoulders. They're the perfect size, perfect to grab 👀, and he has cute spots on them! What person wouldn't fall for those bad boys!

Michelangelo: He likes everything about himself but he understands he can only pick one and that'd have to be his thighs and waist. They're the perfect shape and feel. He'd even say his hands with all the cooking and nunchucking he does they're definitley worth praising

#Tmnt x reader #Teenage mutant ninja turtles x reader #Tmnt headcanons #Ray writes #tmnt 2014/16

[ali-annals]

from all the memories stored in my heart

Pairing: Timari

Rating: G

WC: 1.3k

A/N: Choose Your Own Ending Timari angst for @/the-coffee-fandom. "Don't forget who you belong to" was the prompt.

~~~~~~~~~

Tim blinked slowly, then jolted awake, used to going from 0 to 60 when he fell asleep working on a case.

The last thing he remembered wasn’t a case, though, it was-

“Marinette!” he called, looking around the cave…when had they moved from Marinette’s atelier to this spot?

Detective brain now fully engaged (though he would like some coffee or maybe a Monster), he scanned his surroundings carefully. 

The cave appeared to have been carved out of a cliff, and they weren’t in Kansas anymore (okay, Paris). It appeared that they were now much further east, likely around the mountain range the League of Assassins was in.

This wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the League’s usual Bat-nappings were, and the tapestries were too brightly coloured to be the League’s black and green, and the symbols embedded in them were like nothing he’d seen before, except for one place…Marinette’s sewing box, the one she never let him touch, even when he was closer to it than her and could hand her whatever sewing implement she needed.

What had his lovely innocent girlfriend been hiding from him?

The door in the wall opened and the woman in question stumbled in, looking the most frazzled he’d ever seen her (which was saying a lot, considering how busy she’d been during Fashion Week a couple months ago). The person who’d pushed her in muttered something like “your final grace” and looked kind of like a Tibetan monk, but definitely was not.

She smoothed her clothes, which were tattered and…were those scorch marks? And took a deep breath before approaching him.

“Tim, I am so, so sorry for this. I thought I had more time-I was so close to figuring out a way–” She broke herself off and leaned her hands heavily on his shoulders.

“I never wanted it to be like this, Tim. I only have a minute to say goodbye–”

“Mari, what is going on?” Tim put his hands on her shoulders to ground her. “Breathe, and tell me.”

She shook her head, loose hairs swinging limply. “I really loved you, and I am so sorry you were mixed up in all of this. I’m going to forget you now, and it’s up to you to choose if you want to forget me as well. It would be better if you did.” She choked back a sob and covered her mouth with her hand, turning away to face the monk(?) who had returned.

“Is there really no other way?”

“Don’t forget who you belong to, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You chose this life when you took up the Order’s markings.”

They escorted her firmly out the door, Marinette casting a long glance back at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

Tim muttered an excuse and sidestepped the woman standing outside the boutique, barely lifting his eyes from his phone as he typed a rough draft of a contract that needed to go out later.

“Excuse me.”

He rolled his eyes and turned around, prepared to give his secretary’s number or some cash after someone recognized him as Tim Drake-Wayne.

Tim paused, struck by the blue eyes and light freckles on the woman’s face. “May I help you?”

The woman paused, smiling a little self-consciously. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but…do you know me? You seem quite familiar, though I’m not sure why.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. I’ve been told I have one of those faces,” he grinned.

Her face fell a little. “Alright, thank you. Have a lucky day!” she turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Tim continued his path, finishing his draft and sending it off to his secretary to clean up. A strange interaction to be sure, but he’d had weirder–this was Gotham, after all.

Alternate Ending:

Marinette quickly strode away, brushing the tears that fell away. “Of course he doesn’t remember you, he chose to get his memories wiped. Why would he want to remember a lying, secretive, fake girlfriend he knew for a year, anyways?”

She looked back once again, catching the last sight of his back as he turned the corner, busily typing away. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

Alternate Alternate Ending:

Tim glanced back at Marinette and found her staring at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real,” she mouthed.

He startled. Those were the last words she had said to him before she erased her memories of anything not Order-related.

When the monk returned, he had given him a worn envelope, his name scrawled on it in Marinette’s font.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng requested I give this to you as her final goodbye.”

“What are you doing to her?” he asked, straining against what seemed to be magic bonds.

“What she signed up for when she took our Order’s oath. Her memories of anything not related to the Order, of which you are included, will be erased.

“As her final wish, she requested that we give you the choice to erase your memories or keep them, and to give you her letter.”

“I’d like to keep my memories, thanks.”

The bonds dissolved with a snap and he stretched eagerly, wondering if he could make a break for it and rescue Mari.

The monk left the room before he could make up his mind, and a glowing purple portal appeared in front of him.

He probably shouldn't step into said glowing [purple portal, but since when had he acted rationally? 

Tim stepped into the flowing purple portal and appeared back in Marinette’s atelier.

Once he flew home (he should really look into those glowing purple portals), he sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the letter.

Finally, he opened it and started reading.

“Dear Tim, 

If you’re reading this, it means I failed. I had to give up my memories. I’m sorry.

If you’re reading this, it also means you chose not to erase your memories of me. Why? Why did you choose not to forget me?

I suppose I owe you an explanation. I am part of the Order of Guardians, a group of magic users in charge of the Miraculous. I hope you remember what I told you about Ladybug and Chat Noir so I don’t have to re-explain everything.

I was Ladybug, and I became the Guardian of the Miraculous. Once Hawkmoth was defeated, the Order, which had mostly died out over the years, approached me and I agreed to stay Guardian. The kwami didn't need more upheaval after the past years of fighting Hawkmoth, and the newly-recovered ones needed time with the others out and about to recover from their trauma.

I was sworn in as the official Guardian and was given a grace period of five years to live my life before I joined in rejuvenating the Order and erased my memories of anything not-Order-related.

I chose to erase my memories when I was sworn in but requested the grace period to explore the world and see if life was worth not being Guardian with no Hawkmoth around.

Everything was fine until I met you, and then I started searching for a way to extend the time or undo that vow altogether. It appears I have run out of time, and I am sorry that we never got to fully explore our relationship with no secrets or deadlines between us.

I think we could have taken over the world;)

I wish you good luck with your life.

All my love, Marinette.”

Tim sighed and flopped on his back, resting his arm over his eyes.

Ah, Marinette. That explained a lot.

Good luck, Marinette.

Now he headed back to the woman on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you don’t know me? Why did you just say those words?”

She stared up at him wonderingly. “You remember?”

He smiled grimly. “Yes. The question is, why do  you  remember?”

#timari #DCxMLB #ali writes

[rainbowcarousels]

Pairing: Shelter verse Lestat/Armand if you're up for it! Mostly thinking of them in a family context but it's flexible enough 👀💖

Opener: "Daddy?" Aria asked, her little face as serious as six year old's possibly could be as she tugged at Lestat's red velvet sleeve. "Would you play dress up with me?"

It's about to be Father's Day here, so please enjoy Dadstat!

"Daddy?" Aria asked, her little face as serious as a six year old's possibly could be as she tugged at Lestat's red velvet sleeve. "Would you play dress up with me?" 

Of their three unexpected miracles – and it was almost enough to make someone believe in miracles that they were here at all – Aria had always been the least serious. As such, when she chose to commit, what could Lestat do but clamber onto her stage and let her run the show? She’d be a magnificent director or choreographer if she chose to be one day; her voice was loud and clear and oh so demanding.

For someone who came from two people who had struggled throughout their lives to know and understand what they wanted from them, Aria was highly opinionated and knew exactly what she wanted. It reminded him a little of Gabrielle, but he knew better than to speak that aloud. As appears common in modern family life, the ‘in-laws’ were a touchy subject in their home.

Their home.

The term never did really lose its vigour, regardless of how many times he said it.

"How come you don't wear a crown 'cause Princes usually have crowns," Aria asked, in the usual way of asking that was not so much a question as it was a statement that she expected elaboration on without specifically demanding it. "You might not be a real prince."

"I don't know if I am either," Lestat admitted.

There was no nobility anymore so he could hardly claim as such, but even if he could, why should he want to? It was only done to unite them as a people, to give an official title to his status as the core life force. Sometimes he wondered how much of that core could spread into the tiny creature pulling his hair with the brush in a way that felt almost too familiar for his liking. Given how small she tended to be, Aria - his little songbird - was about the right size now to match another little girl long gone.

The thought wrenched at his heart, so Lestat pushed it away. "Does it matter to you if I am?"

"I don't know," Aria admitted, hopping off and landing with a grace somehow afforded to such a small frame.

At this point, Lestat was itching to look in a mirror to get a look at himself but questioning the young girl's process seemed ill advised. A songbird, yes, but one with a temper and there were a number of things that could be used as projectiles in the room.

"As long as you're still in charge," she seemed to decide.

In the far corner of the room, Louis' snort was barely audible but they both caught it enough that later on, Louis said that he had no idea a glare could be inherited until that moment. 

It was a strange thought – he’d been mistaken for Claudia’s mortal father often enough, but Aria did not greatly resemble him in colouring. Her hair was red, her eyes too dark, but he fancied that she had his nose and his excellent fingers. It seems his fashion sense too, for neither sibling seemed to have any inclination towards dressing up without being cajoled. Avery was in so many ways the spit of Louis, easily scandalised by blowing raspberries or avoiding bedtime. More often than not, he could be found with books that seemed almost bigger than him and reading them with those ridiculous eyes.

What was it Daniel calls them? Oh yes, the Disney eyes. He has the Disney eyes, much like Armand does. Incredibly expressive. Devastating when sad or angry, or if you interrupted his routine too much. Aria, as her current foray into trying to cake him in enough powder that the centuries could roll back and put him on the stage proved, lived for interruptions to routine and instigated them often.

“Hold still!” Lestat was still, it was her growing hand that she couldn’t control and she was getting frustrated with it. Another way she reminded him of his little Claudia – a body that seemed to struggle to keep up with her mind.

Dutifully, Lestat apologised for moving. It would only upset her to make her thing she couldn’t do something.

There were some things that Lestat had never realised he’d longed for until it was gone – being a family with Louis and Claudia, he understood that he missed it, but more than that, he’d missed feeling like a father. Missed carrying Claudia’s little form up stairs, missed placing her ribbons just so or helping her with her shoes, missed her wide eyed excitement about the world because the worst of her pain took the light from her eyes. 

There is a certain paternal instinct that comes with being a maker, of course, but it wasn’t the same as watching Aria’s tongue dart out as she tried to draw exaggerated lips on him as she had with herself. It paled in comparison to slowly helping Avery learn to read as he’d wished his mother had done for him or even the sudden joy of his little enigma in Ania, who moved so quietly for a largely mortal creature, suddenly dropping out the ceiling and into his arms mid-conversation. It was different to make little lunchboxes knowing they would take them to school in the day where Lestat couldn’t follow them, though he longed to. 

The dress was a ridiculous number, something Armand had made for her when she became obsessed for a month with the Wizard of Oz and wished to look like the good witch within it. Those sleeves were bigger than her head! It was done in blue, though. The pink would have washed her out. This was what a  Princess looked like to her, he supposed. It was definitely Armand and his Disneyland pass to blame for it, but the light parade was mesmerising and the picture he had of Louis with Mickey ears made the experiences worth it.

“What do you call someone who is a Prince’s children?” Aria asked, searching through the press on glittering jewels to find just the right ones. The fake pearls won out, because she did have a semblance of taste.

“They’re also Princes and Princesses,” Lestat said. “Though they can be other things. Did someone tell you weren’t?”

Aria shook her head, almost sending the tight curls he’d worked so hard on spiralling back down. “No, everyone always says I’m such a princess.” There was little arguing against that. “Something is missing.”

“Accessorising is a key part of any clothing,” Lestat told her.

They needed jewellery. Bags. Handkerchiefs. This was a production and the devil was in the details. Everything had to look right and if Aria wasn’t happy, neither was he.

It was only when Louis shut down the idea of going to find something to pierce her ears with that Lestat realised quite how easily he’d been caught up in her world.

“You’re wrapped around her little finger,” Armand informed him, gently wiping off what could only be described as clownish makeup from Aria’s face. As if he didn’t commission her new wardrobes with every new obsession or instantly make plans to take her when she got it in her head to go somewhere. 

(The doll cafe had been a particularly harrowing experience. Their eyes followed you everywhere and Daniel had decided to play ventriloquist with his to a disturbing degree.)

“It goes by so quickly,” Lestat said quietly. “This time, this desire to be your world. You’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

The sad, knowing look Louis gave him almost broke his heart – at least until he was distracted by the screaming tantrum of an overtired little girl who did not want to get out of her dress to go to bed.

#fic: shelter #hekateinhell #answered #askbox fic #vc

[chemicalbakeryarts]

Well, this is new! Not sure if you guys know this over on Tumblr but I love to try new things! And uh.. this time, I would try something a bit more physical than usual!

This custom is of an oc of mine, Legendary Flare! Though I have not posted her to Tumblr, so uh…. If you want more information check out her DeviantArt post! (Semi-old art lol)

As a Skylanders fan, and someone who has tons of Skylanders oc's. I'm naturally going to want a toy of my Skylanders oc's! Toy customs have been something I've wanted to do for at least a few months.... I was thinking of doing a custom of Thorn on Knockout Terrafin and really want to make that. But it was just a "yeah that would be cool" with no serious intent of actually doing anything with those actions. Until less than a week ago I actually started taking this seriously, and I think it was around two weeks ago when I was having dinner with my Dad and asked if we could go shopping for art supplies for making a clay sculpture, and fortunately for me, he said yes! (I'll be applying for a job.... again in a few days so I'm hoping I won't need him for this kind of stuff in the future) I ended up drawing a reference photo for the pose I wanted to do, and the next day we headed out to Micheals. 40$ CAD down the drain I quickly got to work on making a clay figure of Legendary Flare, effectively turning what used to be my epic gamer man cave into an a mini-art studio. starting with removing Torch from her base using some pliers. And FUCK dude removing a Skylander from the base is difficult, it might be because of being weak as fuck and my slender hands but it is NOT easy.

But after that was dealt with I got to work on sculpting. Day one, I did her legs, day two I did the tail, day three I did the rest of the body, and day four I did the painting. And although getting her big legs to stay on the damn base wasn't easy, soon enough I got her on. The sculpting was incredibly fun around the end! Sure it was a bit difficult to make sure everything... you know, stuck. but It was a good time! And painting was soooo satisfying. I was literally squealing and going "oh my god" while finishing the paint job, it was amazing and I loved every second of it.

Now, time for the mistakes I made. (for context I used air dry clay, and although the paint doesn't matter here I used acrylics)

First, making everything stick together. I recommend making small holes and indents in places you want to stick parts into. like placing the arm on the torso? Make a small indent hole in the torso. Maybe this is an issue from me not using a wire armature for the figure but getting everything in place proved to be difficult. Her claws kept falling out because they were on the edge of the base. And also using a wet paintbrush to mold the clay together of course.

Second, smoothing everything out. Basically getting a wet paint brush and stroking the clays cracks. I didn't do this enough. Which you can't tell as much since the images were compressed but its a bit of an issue, less so since this character has scales, but again, its an issue.

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

Overall I would say sculpting is a super fun experience! Generally I just love trying new things with my art but this proved to be especially rewarding! And, uh... If anyones wondering why I chose Legendary Flare specifically. Its for three reasons. A: I don't care about Torch and Legendary Flare is my only fire element oc, B: She only has three colours so painting her would be pretty easy, and C: she isn't a main character or anything so if I mess up, it's not as bad as someone more well-known and pushed on my account.

I briefly considered making a video about my process on this (hell I even filmed Torch before I removed her) but later I decided not to film because I wasn't sure if the results would be good and since Legendary Flare, being a Legendary variant requires some context to explain why she's a variant anyways. I might make a video about a future custom tho idk.

Be sure to let me know your thoughts on me doing customs and if you want me to make more of them! I have a lot more clay and paint and I do not like to waste money!

(also what tags do people put toy customs in?)

#oc #skylanders #video games #skylanders oc #toy photography #custom #toy customization #sculptor #clay sculpting #anthro

[translations-dark-matter]

Living as an Extra in an Omegaverse novel

Chapter 68

Why is he so upset that he can't give me a gift?

The first thing that came to mind was a question.

It's understandable if you chose a gift as a way to win someone's favour. It was in that context that I gave Yoo Jin-ha a gift.

But now I was a little confused.

Isn’t this a bit excessive?

"It's not like he's making up some lame excuse..."

He just went crazy because he wanted to give it to me. So, he said those things.

"What if I reject it?"

"You should think carefully about that."

Shin Tae-oh pointed to the coat with his eyes.

"If you reject this, there's no one else to wear it. I threw away the receipt."

"If you just give me the card, I can go and get a refund. I go there often and get along well with the staff. They'll probably do it for me."

"A refund... is that possible?"

"Yes."

"But what if they change all the staff there?"

"Even so, it's still possible."

Among the items Shin Tae-oh had purchased over the years, there were a few that were quite hefty for me to handle. Every time that happened, I would go to a familiar staff member and ask for a refund.

"It's definitely possible."

It was when Se-hyeon was about to take the coat.

"What about my feelings?"

"...."

Se-hyeon looked at Shin Tae-oh while holding the coat. Coincidentally, Shin Tae-oh also turned his gaze, and their eyes met.

"My feelings can't be refunded."

Se-hyeon raised his arm. Shin Tae-oh, who had spoken with a serious expression, felt a slight pang.

Seeing the faint sadness in Shin Tae-oh's eyes, which had sent shivers down his spine, Se-hyeon realized what he had done.

He knew it all along.

Every time Shin Tae-oh had casually brushed off the rejections of his gifts, Se-hyeon knew that it wasn't something insignificant. Yet, Se-hyeon had hurt him despite knowing that Tae-oh wanted to do something nice for him.

Se-hyeon avoided looking at the coat. It was ironic how he kept recalling the past, but his thoughts kept wandering. When Yoo Jin-ha rejected a gift, Se-hyeon took care of the situation. If Shin Tae-oh asked Se-hyeon to keep it and use it, he would use it, but if not, he would go through the refund process.

This time, since the gift had come to him, he didn't think he would handle it... but...

"Boss."

In the heavy atmosphere, Se-hyeon called out to Shin Tae-oh. He looked into Shin Tae-oh's eyes, which were now directed at him. If they were full of resentment before, now there was a sense of resignation.

"Thank you."

Se-hyeon accepted the coat and immediately put it on right there. He ignored the wind gently rustling his hair and the sunlight warming his entire body.

From the moment Se-hyeon saw it, he noticed that it was the same coat I had looked at last time. He had liked it quite a bit, but the price had prevented him from considering buying it. However, now that he put it on, it was indeed...

"It's lightweight and warm."

It was lighter and had a softer texture compared to the other coats I usually wore. The cashmere material was said to be good, but it looked even better in person.

It hadn't been long since he put it on, but it felt like his body was already heating up. It stood out with its bright grey colour, but it was also beautiful in that regard.

"It suits you well."

"Thank you."

He even carefully removed the brand label and put it in his pocket. Se-hyeon, thinking that he had shown his gratitude by accepting the gift, composed his expression.

Now it was his turn to receive what he wanted.

"I also want to give you a gift. That's the condition for me accepting this coat."

"A gift?"

Shin Tae-oh asked curiously and caressed his tie.

“I got this last time.”

He wears that tie every time he mentions it. When is a day when you don’t wear it?

"I know. And I also know that this coat is incredibly expensive."

"You shouldn't include the price in the gift. It becomes burdensome between the giver and receiver."

Se-hyeon smiled outwardly at Shin Tae-oh's instructive tone but internally felt a sense of disbelief.

So, the reason he casually bought expensive gifts and gave them was because of this.

"I know. I also know that if I try to keep up with you, my two legs will tear apart."

In my circumstances, I can't even keep up with Shin Tae-oh's footsteps.

"So, I'll give it to you after 12 months."

"Um... Well, even if it's a year, it feels strange for some reason."

"If you agree to receive it at that time, then I'll accept it as well."

Setting aside Shin Tae-oh's hesitant reaction, Se-hyeon brought out a blank piece of paper.

"I would appreciate it if you could write something here. I want to promise that my words to you, Boss, are not just empty words."

"You're more proactive than me?"

"If possible, I would like to use this as a written agreement for the repayment I mentioned earlier."

As Shin Tae-oh held a pen, ready to write anything, he paused.

“This is my repayment for the favour of moving my father to a better hospital room.”

“Isn’t that a separate issue?”

“Since you didn’t write them separately, I’m going to write them down all at once. “If the boss writes it down, I will document it.”

When I thought that it would be a good idea to end all financial relationships at this point, Shin Tae-oh nodded while wondering how he should accept it.

"How should I write it?"

"Please write that you won't give gifts worth more than a million won from now on."

"Am I writing a contract right now?"

Shin Tae-oh let go of the pen on the paper, expressing his dissatisfaction, and Se-hyeon had plenty to say as well.

"The VIP room and the coat are more than enough. I feel burdened too."

"It's natural to feel burdened when considering the price. Besides, I didn't just give you such things..."

"I appreciated the powdered grain. Anyway, please write that you won't give them anymore."

Se-hyeon tapped the paper as if he had no intention of compromising.

“You're not writing a contract to repay me, you're saying you're going to tighten my leash. Should I write it like that?”

[TL note: “tighten leash” coz now he can't spend a lot of money on Se-hyeon's gifts.]

"Yes, by writing this, you're doing a good deed for your future spouse."

"...Spouse?"

"Saving money frugally is a significant advantage."

As Se-hyeon gently persuaded, Shin Tae-oh obediently continued writing. Observing him writing almost everything, Se-hyeon revealed his inner thoughts.

"Gifts should not be a burden to the other person."

"..."

"Gifts should make both the giver and the receiver happy. Please think of it in that sense."

Se-hyeon took the paper and inserted it between empty files. With this, he prevented Shin Tae-oh from bringing up various things.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment inside, Se-hyeon bit his lip to hide it and turned away.

‘How can I persuade that fireball?’

I won't let it go. Taenyang.

Ignoring Shin Tae-oh's gaze fixed on his back, Se-hyeon left the office and placed the tablet on the desk. He had prepared the approval files to be delivered personally and went to find Lee Jin-ho. Inside the room, noticing that I was wearing a coat, Lee Jin-ho's gaze was fixed on the coat.

"I'll be out for a moment."

"What's the matter?"

Seeing Lee Jin-ho, who seemed to be checking if something serious had happened, I shook my head. It was nothing serious.

"I'm going to withdraw my 12-month fixed deposit."

And also to test the performance of the coat I received from Shin Tae-oh.

***

Ha Min-hyuk saw Ha Jin-seong, who was present during the handover process. Ever since he told him to hand over the project, Ha Jin-seong had not rushed or pressured him in any way, patiently waiting for Min-hyuk's decision.

It was an indifferent reaction as if it didn't matter even if Min-hyuk didn't hand over.

He was the stepbrother who always caused trouble outside and was disliked. Min-hyuk had been concerned and on edge, wondering if Ha Jin-seong would try to take over the company's shares and kick him out at the first opportunity, but now he seemed so docile...

"The world has become quiet."

For the first time in my life, peace has found its way to me.

People must live this kind of life, right? To live a comfortable life without constantly being on guard, to meet people without worry. Ha Min-hyuk, who has experienced such a life recently, felt a strange sense of greed.

I wanted to pursue this peaceful moment further. I wanted to spend ordinary days working during the day and going on dates with Jin-ha in the evening.

To do that...

"If you haven't made a decision yet, get up."

Ha Jin-seong spoke in a tired voice, checking if there were any lingering concerns about the project. He seemed somewhat drained, with his usually sensitive temperament noticeably softened.

"What if I don't hand it over?"

"Then it's your problem for being foolishly stubborn."

"What if I do?"

Upon Ha Min-hyuk's casual question, Ha Jin-seong fell silent. His expression twisted, and his mind seemed to be in turmoil.

"What do you hope to gain from this?"

"If you're going to talk nonsense, just leave."

Ha Jin-seong turned his chair, raising his hand, deliberately avoiding showing his face to Ha Min-hyuk.

"Whether this project succeeds or not doesn't matter. But what's the reason you insist on taking it?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Ha Jin-seong retorted with an irritated expression.

"Because I think you already know."

Ha Min-hyuk knew the impact it would have on Ha Jin-seong if he handed this over to him.

Both men cared about Ahn Se-hyeon. One person seemed to be expressing it openly without the need to hide their feelings, while the other person still seemed to be unaware of it completely...

Who should I support in this situation?

Shin Tae-oh? Ha Jin-seong?

Even if I excluded my own feelings, it was inevitable for me to lean more towards Shin Tae-oh. After all, Shin Tae-oh was a much better man than the devious Ha Jin-seong.

If that was the case, it would be beneficial for Shin Tae-oh if Ha Jin-seong didn't hover around Ahn Se-hyeon.

Ha Min-hyuk organized his thoughts and spoke up.

"I'll hand it over."

Giving Ha Jin-seong a chance to stay away from Ahn Se-hyeon's surroundings.

Ha Min-hyuk signed the document, putting his name on it. With this, the project was handed over to Ha Jin-seong.

The reason for giving Ha Jin-seong an opportunity, even though I considered Shin Tae-oh to be better, wasn't anything significant.

"It will lead to a quicker decision."

Perhaps Ahn Se-hyeon could completely change the situation.

Prev / Next

[designdeets]

Final Project Commentary

Welcome to the documentation of my final project:) 

Disclaimer: Some parts were taken from the forum pitch because my thought process was the same, BUT of course, I reflected more on it in this blog. Thanks for understanding hehe

LOGO IDEATION/CREATIVE PROCESS:

I've never really thought much about my name until what my JC teacher told me during my graduation ceremony. He said "I like how your name is the same whether it is read forwards or backwards. It tells me that no matter where you're going in life, you're still Hannah,". His words left a deep impression and changed how I viewed myself and the way I'm living. 

This sparked an inspiration for the final project, and I knew from the start I wanted to embark on a self-identity brand style guide project. Another reason I went for self-identity is because I wanted to discover more about myself through this project and present myself as authentically as possible. I wanted to know more about myself- who I am, what I stand for and the kind of person I aspire to be. Before embarking on the project, I dug deep within myself and thought about what values and identity my brand should embody. 

Logo

I had an excruciatingly long and rough time crafting my logo because it's basically the face of a brand and one of the first things that comes to mind when thinking about the brand.

First, I determined the message I wanted to communicate visually through the logo, which is that life is a blank canvas and you are the artist. I value personal growth and to me, self-discovery is a lifelong process. Life, thus, is art in progress. Through my brand, I hope to inspire people to enjoy and trust the process, stay true to themselves and live life on their own terms.

The logo is a condensed version of my name and the line inside the "H" represents an "A", while the x-height of "H' represents the "N'. The logo takes the form of handwritten calligraphy which gives the brand a comforting and familiar feel- kind of like a personalised diary/reflection of my life. The paint splatter captures the essence of painting; a messy process but the end product is still a work of art regardless.

I also made the guidelines clearer by indicating which parts can be left out (paint splatter), which versions to use in which situation and exclusion zone.

Colour

As an introvert, I tend to more reserved around new people and only show my true colours around my close friends and family. So I avoided colours that are loud and vibrant. I'm more drawn to muted, soft colours and pastels, such as lilac, baby blue and baby pink (my favourite colour). 

For my brand, I chose pink, which emanates a youthful and feminine aura , while the dark reddish-pink creates a bold contrast - an encapsulation of my personality.  For my logo to stand out even more, I opted for neutral colours to complement- a creamy white and pale brown. To tie my brand's narrative even more together, the colours are displayed on a painting palette.

Typography

Influenced by the artistry of calligraphy, I chose this as a primary typeface because it captures the flair and sophistication of using a brush pen. A script typeface makes it feel like a personal diary and a reflection of my self-discovery journey; as mentioned earlier. The font is medium so that it stands out when used as headers or titles. As for secondary typeface I went for Basic Sans; a simple and clean sans-serif typeface to complement the elaborate calligraphy. It also has a modern, minimalistic feel which I like. 

Post-forum discussion, I added more details by explaining why I chose those fonts and where/when to use it. I felt that it makes my brand feel more understood and transparent to people.

Name Card

For the name card, I kept it minimal by only including the logo, my name and contact details while still making sure to keep the essence of my brand through the brush strokes and splatters of paint. I also spiced it up by including some mockups to show how the cards would look like in real life. 

Abigail mentioned that the paint splatters slightly because they were distracting from the contact details. Iffah suggested changing the colour of the text to black instead to make it more prominent, but I decided to keep the colour and adjust the paint splatter instead. I didn’t want to ruin the “aesthetic” of the card by suddenly putting black text. Even with the reddish pink colour, the text was readable. The paint was the problem, so I made changes to that.

Resume

Keeping the basic attributes of a resume, I injected my brand's voice by playing around with the layout design, colours and visual elements. With the paintbrush and my profile photo being framed on a wooden canvas, it further bolsters my brand's identity. The quote "Art in progress" next to my profile photo also conveys the message that the process is more valuable than the result. These touches highlighting my identity have personalised my resume, while still retaining its purpose of attracting employers to hire me.

Dionne suggested I move the quote to below my photo instead of at the side, and I thought that was more reasonable. Others may not spot the quote easily, because it was kinda out of place. 

As a whole, general comments I got from the class was that the left part looked too squeezy compared to the right side. One suggestion was to reduce the size of my photo to make room for text, which is what I did next. Also to make it look more neat and less cluttered, I increased the line spacing for education and experience. I also made changes to the skills and divided it into 2: software and soft skills. This was so I could play around with the spacing more to achieve a balanced look. 

I was also reminded to avoid orphans and thus made further changes to the text. I was satisfied with the end resume because the text was much more aligned , flows better and easier to read.

Wrapping up

In a nutshell, I am pretty satisfied with my brand style guide! I am super grateful to have the chance to do up this brand guide project, because not only have I delved deeper into myself, the entire process from start to finish was eye-opening and FUN. Feedback from Merlin and my classmates were valuable and had helped me scrutinise my work more critically as a (rookie) designer. 

I don't know how good my guide is compared to my other talented friends, but nevertheless I am proud of how it turned out (and how far I came). If you told me at the beginning of the semester that this was my work, I'd definitely not believe it lol. I remember freaking out at the start because I was new to Adobe and was highkey struggling. I still am though, just that I am better now haha.

[writer-akihiko]

Hello! Can I ask a headcanon between dorm leaders with S/o that somehow getting hypnotized by their stalker (ex: like the sea witch hypnotize prince erik). I want to see how they gonna save her. Thank you~ Have a nice day/night!

Dorm Leaders + Hypnotised!MC

I took inspo from your sea witch and Prince Erik example, so there's the notion of a marriage proposal between you and the dorm leader

Warning: Yandere tones, Poisoning, Mentions of Torture but not explicit

One day, on the day of your awaited date, your lover stood there and wondered why you were late. He had prepared everything for this day because today, he held a box containing a singular ring, as you had described it as the way most people in your world proposed marriage.

What he didn't expect was for his lover to look at him with utter fear as he opened your room door...

Malleus Draconia

He didn't comprehend that you were hypnotised, since he was focused on the fact that you were crying at him in fear, muttering about a monster arriving

He doesn't know what to do, he gets on his knees, begging you to look at him

He's quick to get angry at your reluctance, forcing you to look up at him

It was then he noticed a difference of your eye colour. It was a shade duller than its original colour... Which he gathered were traces of hypnotism magic

His anger vanished, reserving it for the caster of the spell

It didn't take him long to dissipate the magic. He was a powerful magician after all

However, his methods rendered you tired and sleepy. He caught you, holding your much smaller body against his own as his eyes softened at your sleeping form

"Lilia, call for Vice Dorm Leader Viper," He said, cradling you against his chest. He pressed his lips on your forehead, wishing well dreams to you. "The caster is one of his students. No doubt, the caster learned from Viper to get to YN..."

"Bring him to me alive. He'll burn for his crimes."

Riddle Rosehearts

He's immediately angry at the situation, which doesn't help your fear

Trey snaps him out of his rage, but it was futile once you yelled "Stay away from me!" To Riddle. He'd be lying if his heart didn't break a little

You were in hysterics, and Riddle had no choice but to use his magic on you. Even if wasn't sealing away any magic, it would restrain you enough for him to inspect you

Riddle's magic prowess wasn't enough to identify the exact magic, but he told Trey to take notes of anyone could use controlling magic

Seeing that you weren't hostile around Ace and Deuce, you were left in their care

On the other hand... Cater and Trey found the caster. With Riddle's unique magic, it broke the spell

Riddle was more than angry at the caster, but your safety was first. He had to deal with the caster in a more... secretive way

"YN, oh YN..." He held you close, although he kept you in the hug since he didn't want you to see his tears. "You're back..."

"The person who did this to you will face punishment for breaking my rules..."

Kalim Al-Asim

He panics at first, but then he turns to Jamil, begging him to take a look at you since something was clearly wrong with you

When you called him scary and a monster, he was in denial, muttering about how you were sick, and just needed rest

He wasn't rational about it, trying to figure out why you were sick through normal medicine but it wasn't working

He was desperate, causing you to run away from him. Under your hypnotism, you ended up in the arms of your stalker

Jamil was quick to report your disappearance, and Kalim did not wait for a single second to rescue you

Kalim's connections made it easy to find a person that was able to undo the spell on you, although you had to undergo intense recovery as well

Kalim rubbed your tired hand, marvelling at the fact that you accepted his proposal. It was a desperate one, not as he imagined but happy tears fell at your sentiment. "YN... you don't have to apologise for the mean things you said. I know it's not you..."

"The culprit will be punished severely! He harmed the future bride of the Al-Asim family after all!"

Azul Ashengrotto

He knew it was the influence of magic when Jade reported the oddity to him. He knew, and yet...

It hurt. It hurt when you said those hurtful words to him. In his heart, he forgave you but he was focused on saving his future wife

Times like this, he was glad he chose to invest in those magical orbs that spied on you in secret

Floyd was a winning key. The caster was no match for him, although Floyd had to be lightly told off to not immediately kill on-site

Once the caster was brought, it was a matter of getting the teachers to remove the spell. Azul, for as much as he wanted to do it himself, wanted you to be safe. It was better to be safe than sorry

Oh, the joy he had having to punish the caster since the student was also part of the Octavinelle dorm...

You were well-rested, although you were still comforting your soon-to-be husband Azul as he still cries over your well-being. "YN... You're safe and that's all that matters..."

"That student is already suffering at the hands of the twins anyway... So don't concern yourself with him."

Idia Shroud

Initially, Idia thought you stood him up. If it weren't for Ortho, he wouldn't have searched for you

He wished he didn't, because the words you said stung. He kept his tears in though. It wasn't your fault nor the right time

He knew what was going on. He didn't have the latest technology spying on you for nothing

He had ignored those devices since he was so nervous about his proposal, but he wished he hadn't

Even though Idia wasn't the strongest magic user, he knew his way around magicians, particularly his influence around the other stronger students like Malleus

The spell was removed, and you were safe. Idia ignored any further punishments to the caster, since it was a later problem...

Idia held his breath as you got up, steadying yourself from your recovery. "YN... I'm sorry that I wasn't fast enough... Thank you for trusting me..."

"Oh? The caster? He's burning in the River Styx. Where people like him belong..."

Leona Kingscholar

He never planned this to happen! The one thing he puts effort into and it's ruined by some lowlife!

He doesn't care about the insults you say. It filters out. He's used to it. Somehow... your insults linger a little longer than the ones from others...

He doesn't deal with you. He needs to find the person who did this and he needs to find them NOW

If it means turning them to sand, so be it. He wanted you back, no. He needed you back

With Jack's sense of smell, it doesn't take long for him to command the entire beastmen gang under him to find the caster

The caster ends up in his claws, primed for him to rip him to shreds... The spell reversal was quick, and Leona held you close to him. It was tempting to slip the ring he got onto your finger...

He kept the ring next to you, as well as a photo of you both. Once you woke up, he'd say all he meant to say that night. "YN... I'm gonna have to leave your side for a while."

"There's prey I have to hunt."

Vil Schoenheit

He felt like screaming and pulling his hair out when he found you in such a state. No... No, he, as a queen, must keep his composure

He turned away before any of those hurtful words reached his ears. He couldn't bear it if he heard such things from you

He called for Rook immediately, trusting his abilities to trace back your doings before the spell took place

Vil, on the other hand, took up his magic pen to conjure up a poison much more lethal than the one he submitted to become the dorm leader...

Epel, he had to admit, had the intimidation that caused the caster to reverse his spell. Vil spent time pampering you, even when you were recovering... It was as if he was your Prince curing you from the evil curse of the apple...

He brushed away your hair, pouring you a new cup of tea. You were quite weary after the whole ordeal, but you couldn't stop looking at the twinkling ring on your finger. "I'm glad it suits your taste, my sweet potato..."

"If I'm not mistaken, that rotten stalker should be rotting... on the outside too, with that new poison I made..."

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland scenario #twst scenarios #twst dorm leaders #twst azul #twst idia #twst kalim #twst leona #twst vil #twst imagines #twst malleus #twst riddle #azul ashengrotto #idia shroud #kalim al asim #leona kingscholar x reader #vil schoenheit #malleus draconia #riddle rosehearts

[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​

#btswritingcafe #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #taehyung x reader #bts #taehyung x you #taehyung au #bts au #taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung scenario #taehyung imagine #android taehyung #robot taehyung #look you know the drill by now: I don't know how to tag effectively #taehyung fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #dbh is so good guys. I love connor. like. an alarming amount.

[skzfelixity]

Ok random request but um could write something for Han Seojun where he is dating his s/o (who has like waist length hair) and she shows up at school one day with like short shoulder length hair and with a different color. I just got a hair makeover like my hair came to my butt and I decided to cut it and dye it the color I wanted for a while (pastel pink) and like everyone has been telling me I look so different so this CUTE Seojun idea popped up in my head-💀

This idea was so cute and I had fun writing it!!! ALSO YOUR HAIR MUST BE SO COOL! I am sure you look great<3 I hope you enjoy reading it!💖

New Hair | Han Seojun [True Beauty]

Seojun x Fem!Reader (ft. Taehoon, Sooah, Chorong & Juyoung)

Summary: Seojun reacts to your new hair.

Warnings: none

You looked at yourself in the mirror one last time before leaving your house. You didn’t tell anyone about your new hair, you wanted it to be a surprise. You couldn’t wait to see everyone’s reaction, especially your boyfriend’s. Seojun usually picked you up and walked you to school every morning but this time you told him not to. It got him a little suspicious since you didn’t explain why but he chose not to question you, maybe you needed a little space or something.

You had cut your long hair and also dyed it pastel pink, it was undoubtedly a big change. You weren’t sure if Seojun would like it, you never talked about this kind of matter. You didn’t need to worry, this boy supported you in everything you did anyway. However, he has his likes and dislikes when it comes to appearance and you wanted his honest opinion on your new look.

As you were walking through the school’s gate, you could feel everyone staring at you. They threw nice comments about your hair and how beautiful you looked, some waving at you and giving you a thumbs up. You expected the attention, you were kinda popular in school after all. You smiled at them, grateful for their kindness.

“Is that a new girl?” Someone from behind you asked, you just knew this voice belonged to Taehoon.

“That’s Y/N, idiot! Look at her backpack!”

You laughed at the familiar couple playfully fighting with each other. “Hi Sooah, Hi Taehoon!” You turned around to greet them with a bright smile. Sooah gasped and ran to you, leaving Taehoon behind. “Y/N, you look amazing!” She gave you a hug while jumping up and down, obviously happy about your change. You giggled and patted her head to make her stop jumping, “Thank you Sooah.”

“I almost didn’t recognise you!” Taehoon added, “You look beautiful as always.”

Before you got the chance to thank him, Sooah smacked the back of his neck. Her jealousy was too much sometimes. You decided to let them be and with a look of support to Taehoon, you left to find Seojun. Butterflies started growing in your stomach as the time to reveal your hair to him was approaching. Everyone gave positive reactions, you didn’t expect nothing different from your boyfriend but you still had doubts.

As you were going up the stairs, you bumped into Chorong. He was too busy eating his breakfast bars to notice his surroundings. “Y/N?” He narrowed his eyes to take a better look at you. You nodded at him, chuckling at the sight of six chocolate bars in his hands. “Nice change! You look cooler now!”

“Thank you!” You were overjoyed to receive all these compliments today, nevertheless you waited for a certain boy’s opinion. “Have you seen Seojun?”

“He’s in your classroom, probably sleeping on his desk,” he shrugged, taking a bite out of his bar. You headed to the classroom, heart beating faster at every step. Would he like you the same or view you differently after seeing your new hair? Pushing those thoughts aside, you entered the classroom.

Seojun’s had his head down on the desk, eyes closed while facing the window. You stood on his right side, admiring his facial features. You were definitely lucky to have him. You tapped his shoulder in order to wake him up, “Seojun.”

He lifted his head up at the sound of his name being called. He opened his eyes for a second and went back to his previous position, “I have a girlfriend, sorry.”

Assuming by his comment that he only saw the pink colour of your hair, you giggled. At least you found out that he was loyal, not that you didn’t know already. “Seojun, it’s me. Y/N!”

He jerked up and looked at you, his eyes and mouth wide open. He thought that you were so beautiful, he could get a nosebleed. You nervously waved at him, he seemed way too shocked. “You look amazing! This colour really suits you!”

You smiled at him, relieved that he liked it as much as you. Maybe even more because he is a simp. “Now you won’t have that much trouble brushing them,” he reminded you one of the perks of having shorter hair, which in fact was really beneficial. “So you like it?”

“Of course I do!” He ran his fingers through your hair, admiring the colour. No one knew that he actually adored pink and he loved it even more on you. “Should I dye it pastel pink too? So we can match.”

You liked the idea but still you wouldn’t want him to dye his hair just because of you, “Your natural colour is fine, don’t say nonsense!” You both laughed, Seojun was so whipped for you and he never failed to show it.

“Oh shet! My eyes! A goddess!”

Your laughter got interrupted by Juyoung, who hit his head on one of his friends’ back because he was looking at you. Seojun immediately covered you with his body, using his hands to hide your hair. “Mine!” He stuck his tongue out at the younger boy, who rolled his eyes and left. Seojun was known to be overprotective of you, even though he had no reason to be. You weren’t going anywhere any time soon, you’re both stuck with each other.

“You know what? Let’s go, I want to show you off!” He grabbed your hand and started dragging you in the hallway. He wanted the other students to see what he had pulled. He was so proud of you and so in love with you, he wanted to shout it to the whole world.

“Class is about to start, Jun!” You placed your free hand on his grip, stopping him from walking any farther. He sighed at his plan getting ruined, “We’ll walk through the school during breaks.”

You didn’t have a choice, not that you minded though. It was one of his ways of showing his love for you. You kissed his cheek and agreed. If the stares of people got too much for you, he would take you somewhere quiet. You were sure of it, one of his priorities was making you comfortable.

You had to deal with his staring during periods, throwing winks and hearts at you from time to time. Thankfully, he didn’t get caught by the teachers, he is a sneaky one. He loves you regardless of your appearance but he thought you looked really breathtaking with your new hair length and colour.

#true beauty #seojun x reader #han seojun x reader #han seojun #seojun imagine #seojun imagines #seojun scenario #seojun scenarios #seojun #hwang inyeop #hwang in yeop #inyeop

[heyyyharry]

Deja Vu (part 2 of 'Drivers License')

(inspired by deja vu by Olivia Rodrigo)

Word count: 2.5k

Read part 1 here

.

.

.

“What the fuck is this?”

Harry flinched as his girlfriend shoved the phone at him. He’d just got out of the shower, hair still dripping wet, but it wasn’t so out of the ordinary that she would start a fight first thing in the morning.

He sighed and gently pushed her phone away from his face. “Baby, if it’s another rumour about me cheating on you...I was with you this whole week!”

“No.” She lifted the phone up to his face again. “That girl just released another song about you.”

Even though Harry didn’t let it show, whenever he heard about Y/N, his heart would always skip a beat. He couldn’t remember exactly when the last time they’d spoken was, but he knew in his last message to her, he’d congratulated her on that new song about him. She’d never replied, and he’d taken it as the answer — they could never go back to the way it was.

It had broken his heart to listen to ‘drivers license’. Y/N had never been the kind of person to be vocal about her feelings. Or maybe she’d expressed it through actions instead of words, and he had been too nonchalant to see? He hadn’t meant to break her heart and leave her in the dust. After all, she used to be his best friend.

“Y/N’s a songwriter. She writes about her own experience the same way I do. Maybe that song is not even about me, babe,” he calmly told his girlfriend, who was standing in front of him with fresh tears in her eyes. He hated to see her cry, and he hated that this wasn’t the first time she’d done it because of him. He tried to reach for her but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“Listen to the song.”

“Baby.”

“Listen to the song,” his girlfriend repeated without looking at him. “Why are you so afraid?”

“I’m not.”

“Then listen to it and tell me it’s not about you, and that she’s not throwing shades at me. I’m so tired of this girl telling the world about how horrible we are as if you had even dated her in the first place—”

“Fine,” Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes pinched shut. He hated that when his girlfriend got mad, she would get so mean for no reason, and the last thing he wanted to hear right now was her insulting Y/N. He knew Y/N. She had always been respectful to his new relationship. However, he wasn’t in the position to tell his girlfriend how to feel about this situation. He knew it was all his fault, so he stayed quiet, took the phone from his girlfriend and sat down on the edge of the bed. His girlfriend stood with her back against the wall facing him, waiting for him to play the song so she could see his reaction to it.

“Go on,” she told him, her voice emotionless.

Harry looked at the song on Spotify. It was titled deja vu. He took a deep breath and one last look at his girlfriend before finding enough courage to press play.

Y/N’s previous song about him had been blasted in every shop he’d visited, all the time when he was filming, every time he was in the car, and now, the moment he heard her voice again, it really did feel like deja vu.

Car rides down Malibu

Strawberry ice cream

One spoon for two…

.

.

.

“Are we there yet?”

“No, stop being so impatient! Just keep on driving!” Y/N said and looked out of the window on the passenger side. The sun was going down, and the horizon was gradually turning the colour of an egg yolk. It was their last day in Miami. They had been filming for every day that week, and this was the only day they could spend just for themselves.

Harry stole a glance at Y/N and saw that she’d finished half the strawberry ice cream while bobbing her head to the song Uptown Girl on the radio. He frowned, making her laugh when she noticed.

“Open your mouth,” she said and fed him a spoon of ice cream.

“Ahh, brain freeze!”

“But it’s good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” Harry licked his lips. The face he made got Y/N laughing harder.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at a secluded beach. Y/N had found this place when she traveled to this city alone two summers ago and almost got lost.

Together, she and Harry carried their picnic things through a palm forest, and by the time they saw the ocean, the moon had made a fading presence on the pink Miami sky.

Y/N picked up her shoes and ran towards the waves, letting it chase her back into Harry’s arms and nearly knocking him over. Their laughter echoed in the wind as their shadows stretched out long and lanky on the empty beach. In that very moment, it felt to Harry as if they were the only people in this world, and he had a sense of peace that he might never be able to experience again.

“You don’t get to see this in the city,” Y/N said dreamily as she pulled Harry’s jacket tighter around herself. It was dark now, and the sky above them was full of stars. They sat shoulder to shoulder on a picnic blanket, listening to the whispers of the ocean and the wind. Harry used Y/N’s jacket as a blanket because it was too small for him to put on. They’d laughed for five minutes straight when she told him he looked like that monkey from Aladdin and took plenty of photos just to prove the point.

“I don’t want to leave tomorrow,” he said, still looking at the sky.

“Me neither,” Y/N sighed, her shoulder brushing his. There was a pause, and he could feel her eyes on him, so he turned and saw her looking. “When I get home,” she said with a small smile that made her eyes sparkle, “I’ll learn to drive, and when we come to Miami next time, I can drive you to this beach.”

“I’d love that,” Harry said, then made her pink-promise him.

.

.

.

“They went to Miami last week.”

Y/N blinked. The beach and starry sky disappeared in a second, and she found herself once again standing in the fitting room with her stylist and best friend.

“What?” her best friend marched over to where she stood in front of the full-length mirror.

Her stylist was holding the phone up to show her the article. “Here. Harry took that actress to Miami last week.”

“Don’t show her these!” Y/N’s best friend grabbed the phone and put it on the vanity desk as she gestured to the stylist. “You do your work. Enough chit-chatting.”

“I took him there,” Y/N said. She didn’t even recognise her own voice at first because she was too in shock. She didn’t think Harry would do something like that. But let’s be honest -- how much did she really know about him?

It had been a few months since his last text to her, which she had ignored, and now her song had been overplayed, and nobody cared about the drama anymore. The whole world had moved on, and she had, too. Or so she’d thought. Now, seeing these pictures of him and his girlfriend on that Miami beach made Y/N feel betrayed.

“Asshole,” her best friend said and grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t worry baby. You’re prettier.”

Y/N worked up a smile and opened her mouth to say that she was fine, but then she heard someone call her name and turn around. They weren’t calling for her. Just a name similar to hers that had become an inside joke between her and her friends.

The moment she locked eyes with Harry’s girlfriend, her heart seemed to stop as she held her breath, her lips thinned as if to hold back a scream. She didn’t know the girl personally and had never run into her before today. How unfortunate that they had to be in the same room after Y/N had seen those Miami pics.

“What is she doing here?” Y/N’s best friend asked the stylist the question Y/N was too afraid to ask.

“Fitting for an event, I guess,” the stylist said.

Y/N told them to just ignore the others and mind their own business. The sooner they got the measurements, the faster she could leave. Or she could leave right now and come back another day, but that would make it look like the other girl’s presence was bothering her. They were both actresses, and so they would have to run into each other at some point. She must be professional about it. This was normal. Just act normal.

“He’s so unique,” Harry’s girlfriend said while laughing with her team. Y/N didn’t mean to overhear the conversation, but apparently, the girl was making sure that Y/N heard her loud and clear. “We were watching reruns of Glee last night, and he even sang to me and told me he loved me inbetween the chorus and the verse. Don’t touch the jacket! It’s Harry’s and it’s Gucci. We exchange jackets sometimes. Isn’t that adorable?”

“Show off,” Y/N’s best friend scoffed while shaking her head.

Y/N didn’t say anything. In her mind, she agreed with her best friend for a second and immediately felt that she was being petty so she forced herself to just be nonchalant about it.

She could not. She could not ignore the fact that she’d been replaced as if she didn’t matter. Harry was doing all the things he used to do with her with his new girl. Even taken her to that Miami beach. Their place.

Y/N bit her lip and tried to hold back the half-formed tears in her eyes as the stylist went on talking about the fabric. She chose a random one just to get this over with.

“I hope that fucker gets deja vu.”

“What?” Y/N blinked at her best friend, who gave a mean shrug as she glared at the girl.

“He’s probably thinking of you while doing all that shit with her.”

Y/N pondered over it. Over and over. Even after the girlfriend’s laughter had faded down the hallway, and Y/N was also packing up to leave the studio. Her best friend’s words stayed with her as she got into the car and watched the street of London pass by her window.

That night, when she was alone in her living room with her piano. She sat down and started playing a few experimental chords. Then, she cried. Her tears blurred the handwritten lyrics on her notebook as she tried again.

“I have this idea,” she told her manager on the phone before sending the recording. It was three in the morning.

“Oh my god,” her manager exclaimed, sounding much more enthusiastic than he had when picking up her call. “This song...is so gonna win a Grammy!”

.

.

.

Y/N’s song had won a Grammy.

They had talked about it for so long. Harry had encouraged her to pursue a singing career, because she’d started out as an actress but was blessed with the most beautiful voice he had ever heard.

Ironic, wasn’t it? Now he was sitting at the front row and looking up at her as she received the award from an artist she looked up to, for the song written about him. She smiled at the crowd as the light shone on her and everyone was cheering because she deserved this. She said her thanks and expressed her gratitude to her family, her teams and her fans. She didn’t say his name. He hadn’t hoped that she would, because he knew there was no way his name would come with a positive message. So he was kind of glad she hadn’t mentioned him.

His girlfriend squeezed his arm as if she knew what he was thinking of. He smiled at his girlfriend. A smile of reassurance. They had put it behind them and promised to try again after all the fights about the song they were playing right now. Nothing would change after tonight. Because there was nothing Harry could change.

He caught Y/N’s eyes for one brief moment as she ascended the stage. Although he was sure he loved his girlfriend, there was something about that look that made him sad. Would he be happier to come here with Y/N tonight instead of his girlfriend? He wouldn’t know, because that would never happen. He didn’t even know if she still resented him, or if she was still the same person he remembered. A lot could change in a day let alone many months. And it was scary to think someone you used to know so much had become a complete stranger. The opposite of love wasn’t hate. It was indifference. And Harry felt it deeply as Y/N never paid him a second glance.

At the after-party, he worked up the courage to approach her when he found her standing alone texting on her phone.

“Hi. How are you?” he said.

Y/N looked at him as if she couldn’t understand English. If she ignored him and walked away, this would be the most humiliating moment of his life.

But no. She pressed her lips into a gentle smile and said, “I’m good. How are you?”

“Good.” He nodded, wanting to shake her hand, but his fingers stayed glued together behind his back. “Congratulations on your win.”

“Thank you.” She picked up the glass of wine on the table beside them, and Harry knew he’d lost his chance of shaking her hand tonight. “Did you like the song?”

“Yeah. It was good,” he said, finding it difficult to hold eye contact with her. There was something new about her that unsettled him, and he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For speaking out about it.”

“Oh.” Y/N showed no emotion as she shrugged. “It’s alright. I only said the truth. The song was fictional, and I don’t want anyone to get hate for it.”

They both knew it wasn’t true, and he couldn’t tell her that his girlfriend had almost broken up with him for it. Even if he had told her that, he didn’t think Y/N would care. She didn’t look like the Y/N he knew anymore. Suddenly, he recalled that night on the beach, when she was still looking at him with feelings.

“Look, Y/N, I—”

Before he got a chance to form a proper thought for what he was going to say, his girlfriend, who was obviously drunk, shouted from somewhere behind him. “Babe, Jeff’s wearing a tiny jacket! He looks more like the monkey than you!”

Harry looked at Y/N. She held his gaze. The corners of her red lips quirked as she raised her glass. “Deja vu?”

Just like that, she left him standing there all by himself.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles one shots #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #deja vu #drivers license #olivia rodrigo

[akaashisbabygirl]

camboy part two

authors note: hehe i decided to leave you all on a cliffhanger once again. if you haven’t read part one i suggest you do so! i think my tags are working again so hopefully this can be seen in tags!! i’m sorry that i took forever to post this, i’ve been really busy :( now, if you would like a part three let me know!

words: 1840

pairings: camboy!akaashi x female!reader

warnings: NSFW, male vibrator use, female and male masturbation, mentions of sex toys, reader gets sad, akaashi gets sad, kinda angsty, leaves you on a cliffhanger

part one 

“so...” akaashi’s voice spoke into the microphone sitting on the desk, “thank you all for your suggestions. i’m going to be taking them into consideration for my next video.”

he quickly turned off the microphone, stopping everything he was doing to check out the list of items people had suggested for him to use in his next stream.

a harness, blindfold, handcuffs?? he didn’t know how much that would work. he’d have to find a way to restrain himself without having to call someone else to do it for him. that would be tricky. some viewers even suggested he used some sex toys such as a vibrator because they wanted to see what akaashi would look like squirming and overstimulated. or some even suggested that he were to edge himself, not letting himself cum just yet. cat ears, a harness? the things people were suggesting to him made him really interested to see just how far they wanted him to go. maid outfit? he chuckled.

it would’ve been next to impossible for akaashi to hide all the clothing items from you, his roommate, the one person he has definite feelings for. he couldn’t just keep some women outfits in his closet - you would believe he has a girlfriend who you didn’t know about. and if you felt the same way about him, you would be upset with the fact that he never told you about being in a relationship.

he shivered to these thoughts. which is why akaashi kept the idea of just getting the simple items - cat ears, harness, a skirt, sex toys etc. at least he wouldn’t need to try and hide them from you.

if you had found akaashi’s secret sex toy stash on accident - he knew you would probably just brush it off, considering you know him and his hormones, and knowing he wasn’t taken by anyone, there really wasn’t anyone to fuck.

you see, akaashi isn’t the type of person who is interested in one night stands. yes, he had lost his virginity before his ex girlfriend, which he regrets very much. but now, akaashi was a grown man. he was out there looking for a relationship that he wanted to last for a long time, a relationship where he can properly love the person for more than just the sex.

a relationship that he wanted to build with you.

he left his room quickly as he heard the door shut, signalling that you were back home. he was excited to see you, yet, he hid his excitement from you.

“can you help me?” you asked, pouting softly. akaashi chuckled, grabbing some of the heavy bags from your hands, setting them down on the kitchen bench.

a soft pink blush spread across your face. he was so big compared to you, and you liked it. you felt so small next to akaashi, so tiny and adorable. and you know he liked that too - akaashi feels that he can be able to protect you because you’re smaller than him, but that’s just how he feels.

the next day, akaashi was out early to leave for work. the apartment felt cold and empty when you had woken up to the painful sight of the sun shining too brightly into your eyes. it would be one of those days which you had gotten used to overtime, where you would spend all day at home on your own, waiting for akaashi to walk back in through those doors once more. you waited, and waited, thinking of things to do could seem to make time move faster than it had previously.

by noon, you were sitting on your bed, laptop in your lap as you scrolled through your work, submitting it to your manager before he yelled at you. you sighed softly, in desperate need for a break. that’s when the idea popped into your head, to check if he had uploaded. seeing that he had, you smiled greatly. a smile of relief had sprouted over your soft cheeks. you slipped your sweatpants down, watching how the man sat on the screen, his cock already hard and noticeable in his boxers.

you almost drooled at the sight of his cock. it was pretty. if that was even a proper way to describe it. you watched as the man took his erect cock from his boxers, thinking about how it would fit inside of you. he was bigger than what you had seen and taken before, but he was the only man who made you drool to the thought of what it would be like inside of you. how your cunt would feel sucking him in, how he’d hit those spots inside of you that you could barely reach with your own fingers. you’d let him fuck you over and over again until you’d become dumb and unable to think properly, drooling all over the white bedsheets of your bed.

soft fingers rubbed your clit, tracing around your folds before finally slipping a finger into your wet hole. a hand clamped over your mouth quickly to try and surpass your moans as your hips bucked up for more friction. you chased after that one feeling that made you lose control every time, the feeling that had your legs shaking and eyes rolling to the back of your head. moans slipped forcefully from your lips, a wave of pleasure spreading quickly throughout your body from the feeling of your fingertips desperately trying to reach that one spot inside of you which always sent you over the edge. 

however, what you didn’t know was that akaashi was in the apartment. his jaw had dropped quickly while hearing a moan slip from your lips. without having to look into a mirror to see his painful expression, akaashi could tell a tear had fallen down his cheek. he felt as if he was tied down to the ground by some invisible shackles, keeping him in place, forcing him to accept the reality that he did not want to accept. he didn’t want to stand there and listen to some guy fuck you, he didn’t want to hear you moan for that man, praise them and give them all your attention. selfishly, akaashi wished it were him. 

slowly, akaashi made his way out of the apartment, locking the door behind him. he rushed to bokuto’s, planning to send you a message saying that he would be at work late. it was only because he was too scared to see you right now, akaashi was too afraid to see you. he didn’t want to see your fucked out expression. he didn’t want to see the man or whoever was making you feel this good. 

and so he left. 

when akaashi arrived home that night, he acted as if nothing had happened - and so did you. it made akaashi mad, knowing that he had clearly heard something going on in your bedroom earlier that day, but he didn’t want to sound like a jealous idiot and bring it up. which is why he chose to keep his feelings to himself as he sat beside you, watching the stupid rom com on the tv. he hated the fact that he felt as if his feelings were twisted into a tight knot that he couldn’t untie. there was so much love for you filling his heart that he could’ve sworn that at any minute his own heart would combust from the anxiety which danced around his mind. 

akaashi knew that he needed to get a new video out, his fans were growing desperate and he was needing the money. he waited patiently until you had left the house, before locking the door to his room, changing up his setting to the camboy’s room. 

time passed and quickly moans were spilling from his lips, his hips bucking up as his hands grasped desperately into the bedsheets. he chose today to incorporate a toy, a vibrator specifically, yet, he didn’t know that this much pleasure would spread through his body. he blushed from how he was moaning, he was so desperate, so subby even. he felt dirty, overstimulated from the way the toy was making him feel. his eyes rolled to the back of his head as another orgasm washed over him, his fucked out body falling to the sheets after taking the small toy away from his length. 

he waited until his body filled with some energy before he got up from his spot on the bed, moving to turn his camera off. he quickly changed his sheets, accidentally forgetting to put his skirt away, before passing out underneath the sheets of his bed.

you smiled, seeing akaashi in his bed fast asleep. you could tell he was in a deep slumber from the way he clung to his bedsheets, not even moving a muscle. you adored the sleeping boy. 

“he must’ve worked himself too hard today” you thought, knowing that akaashi never falls asleep unless he’s exhausted.

how you wished that you could go over to him and kiss his forehead, telling him to sleep well, or even that you could get into bed, wrapping your arms around him and falling asleep with his back to your chest. there’s so much you wanted to do, but akaashi wasn’t your boyfriend, so it wasn’t going to happen. 

you grabbed your washing form the bathroom, a pale blue skirt catching your eye in the process. this wasn’t your skirt. who’s was it? your eyes widened and your jaw dropped, almost swearing that tears began to bombard your eyes as your mind came to realisation.

akaashi has a girlfriend.

you left the skirt there, pretending as if you had never seen it. however, the thoughts of akaashi being with someone else made you feel sick. soon enough, you were also curled up under the sheets of your bed. 

days had passed, yet the thought of akaashi having a girlfriend didn’t leave your mind. you wondered what she was like. how pretty is she? how tall is she? what is her hair colour? what’s her style? or in general; what does she look like? you couldn’t find a part of your mind that wasn’t thinking about this as you made your way back to the apartment. you felt sick, almost anxious even being there. you felt scared, scared that you would run into the girl who had crushed your dreams of being with akaashi.

opening the front door to the apartment, you heard a loud cry coming from akaashi’s room. his door was slightly spread open, screams and moans coming from there. you didn’t care about the moans, why was akaashi screaming? rushing to his room, you shoved the door open.

but what you saw wasn’t what you expected.

“akaashi...” you noticed the familiar set up to the way the cam boy has. the bed, the walls, even the pretty skirts, some of the toys he’s brought out before sitting on the bed beside him, “what are you doing?” 

© all content belongs to akaashisbabygirl 2021, do not repost or change

#haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu writing #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #haikyū!! #haikyuu smut #akaashi smut #akaashi x reader #akaashi x y/n #akaashi x you #nsfw—🎟

[ali-annals]

from all the memories stored in my heart

For @/the-coffee-fandom | Prompt: “Don’t forget who you belong to,” but SFC (Safe for Coffee)

Pairing: Timari

Rating: G

WC: 1.3k

A/N: This was supposed to be a one-sprint drabble but then Plot snuck in and I spent a lot more sprints finishing it:) Not beta’d.

Tim blinked slowly, then jolted awake, used to going from 0 to 60 when he fell asleep working on a case.

The last thing he remembered wasn’t a case, though, it was-

“Marinette!” he called, looking around the cave…when had they moved from Marinette’s atelier to this spot?

Detective brain now fully engaged (though he would like some coffee or maybe a Monster), he scanned his surroundings carefully. 

The cave appeared to have been carved out of a cliff, and they weren’t in Kansas anymore (okay, Paris). It appeared that they were now much further east, likely around the mountain range the League of Assassins was in.

This wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the League’s usual Bat-nappings were, and the tapestries were too brightly coloured to be the League’s black and green, and the symbols embedded in them were like nothing he’d seen before, except for one place…Marinette’s sewing box, the one she never let him touch, even when he was closer to it than her and could hand her whatever sewing implement she needed.

What had his lovely innocent girlfriend been hiding from him?

The door in the wall opened and the woman in question stumbled in, looking the most frazzled he’d ever seen her (which was saying a lot, considering how busy she’d been during Fashion Week a couple months ago). The person who’d pushed her in muttered something like “your final grace” and looked kind of like a Tibetan monk, but definitely was not.

She smoothed her clothes, which were tattered and…were those scorch marks? And took a deep breath before approaching him.

“Tim, I am so, so sorry for this. I thought I had more time-I was so close to figuring out a way–” she broke herself off and leaned her hands heavily on his shoulders.

“I never wanted it to be like this, Tim. I only have a minute to say goodbye–”

“Mari, what is going on?” Tim put his hands on her shoulders to ground her. “Breathe, and tell me.”

She shook her head, loose hairs swinging limply. “I really loved you, and I am so sorry you were mixed up in all of this. I’m going to forget you now, and it’s up to you to choose if you want to forget me as well. It would be better if you did.” She choked back a sob and covered her mouth with her hand, turning away to face the monk(?) who had returned.

“Is there really no other way?”

“Don’t forget who you belong to, Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You chose this life when you took up the Order’s markings.”

They escorted her firmly out the door, Marinette casting a long glance back at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

~~~

Tim muttered an excuse and sidestepped the woman standing outside the boutique, barely lifting his eyes from his phone as he typed a rough draft of a contract that needed to go out later.

“Excuse me.”

He rolled his eyes and turned around, prepared to give his secretary’s number or some cash after someone recognized him as Tim Drake-Wayne.

Tim paused, struck by the blue eyes and light freckles on the woman’s face. “May I help you?”

The woman paused, smiling a little self-consciously. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but…do you know me? You seem quite familiar, though I’m not sure why.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t, I’m sorry. I’ve been told I have one of those faces,” he grinned.

Her face fell a little. “Alright, thank you. Have a lucky day!” she turned and headed in the opposite direction.

Tim continued his path, finishing his draft and sending it off to his secretary to clean up. A strange interaction to be sure, but he’d had weirder–this was Gotham, after all.

Alternate Ending:

Marinette quickly strode away, brushing the tears that fell away. “Of course he doesn’t remember you, he chose to get his memories wiped. Why would he want to remember a lying, secretive, fake girlfriend he knew for a year, anyways?”

She looked back once again, catching the last sight of his back as he turned the corner, busily typing away. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real.”

Alternate Alternate Ending:

Tim glanced back at Marinette and found her staring at him. “I’m sorry. I promise it was real,” she mouthed.

He startled. Those were the last words she had said to him, before she erased her memories of anything not Order-related.

When the monk returned, he had given him a worn envelope, his name scrawled on it in Marinette’s font.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng requested I give this to you as her final goodbye.”

“What are you doing to her?” he asked, straining against what seemed to be magic bonds.

“What she signed up for when she took our Order’s oath. Her memories of anything not related to the Order, of which you are included, will be erased.

“As her final wish, she requested that we give you the choice to erase your memories or keep them, and to give you her letter.”

“I’d like to keep my memories, thanks.”

The bonds dissolved with a snap and he stretched eagerly, wondering if he could make a break for it and rescue Mari.

The monk left the room before he could make up his mind, and a glowing purple portal appeared in front of him.

He probably shouldn't step into said glowing [purple portal, but since when had he acted rationally? 

Tim stepped into  the flowing purple portal and appeared back in Marinette’s atelier.

Once he flew home (he should really look into those glowing purple portals), he sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the letter.

Finally he opened it and started reading.

“Dear Tim, 

If you’re reading this, it means I failed. I had to give up my memories.  I’m sorry.

If you’re reading this, it also means you chose not to erase your memories of me. Why? Why did you choose not to forget me?

I suppose I owe you an explanation. I am part of the Order of Guardians, a group of magic users in charge of the Miraculous. I hope you remember what I told you of Ladybug and Chat Noir so I don’t have to re-explain everything.

I was Ladybug, and I became the Guardian of the Miraculous. Once Hawkmoth was defeated, the Order, which had mostly died out over the years, approached me and I agreed to stay Guardian. The kwami didn;t need more upheaval after the past years of fighting Haekymoth, and the newly-recovered ones needed time with the others out and about to recover from their trauma.

I was sworn in as the official Guardian and was given a grace period of five years to live my life before I joined in rejuvenating the Order and erased my memories of anything not-Order-related.

I chose to erase my memories when I was sworn in, but requested the grace period to explore the world and see if life was worth not being Guardian with no Hawkmoth around.

Everything was fine until I met you, and then I started searching for a way to extend the time or undo that vow altogether. It appears I have run out of time, and I am sorry that we never got to fully explore our relationship with no secrets or deadlines between us.

I think we could have taken over the world;)

I wish you good luck with your life.

All my love, Marinette”

Tim sighed and flopped on his back, resting his arm over his eyes.

Ah, Marinette. That explained a lot.

Good luck, Marinette.

Now he headed back to the woman on the sidewalk. “Are you sure you don’t know me? Why did you just say those words?”

She stared up at him wonderingly. “You remember?”

He smiled grimly. “Yes. The question is, why do you remember?”

~~~~~~~~

Why does Mari remember? I don’t know, you tell me.

#timari #ali writes #fic #DCxMLB

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Summary: You realize you've made a mistake of selling a part of your body to a certain Witcher and his Mage, Yennefer, in return for a lumpsum of coins.

And now, you cannot back out. Instead, you're drowning knee deep into your developing feelings for Geralt of Rivia who belongs to her.

Warnings: Will have 18+ content, and will not follow the storyline, I know that Witchers are sterile but forced pregnancy.

[My Masterlist]

A/N- You can also find this fic on my AO3 by the same name, my account name is @slutforcavill.

Pt. 1

You stared at the happy couple, jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach. You felt deflated, hurt and angry, but this was how it was. You were just a vessel, for the Witcher, and his lover, the Mage, Yennefer of Vengerberg. You kept watching them, from the corner of your eye, yet you kept a safe distance, lest either of them saw the tears spurting down your cheeks at the sight of them, laughing together— though technically she laughed, and he just grunted, but you could see the not so hidden amusement in his eyes.

It hurt, nonetheless—

If a month back, you knew this is what you would be feeling; one month down the line; you wouldn't have landed yourself into this mess of a situation, just for a pouch full of coin. You would have steered clear from a certain white haired man, eyes bright and somber like the shining sun, perhaps even brighter, and his woman, one of the most powerful mages you had come across.

If only, someone had warned you before—

It didn't help; the fact that you were already struggling to feed yourself, have three meals a day worth grain at your shack, that you called a home [back at Redania].

It all started when one day, Yennefer of Vengerberg, as she introduced herself, ended up at your doorstep, asking for your help, in return for a massive pouch full of coin.

Coin enough to last you for almost two years—

You found yourself lost in thoughts— when a month back, you were tending to your sheep, rearing enough wool so you could knit yourself a blanket warm enough to last the Winters. You didn't know where she came from; it was only later you found out that she was a mage, and she could use portals to go anywhere in the world. What you didn't understand then, and could not understand till date was why they chose you.

Maybe the Mage could feed on your desperation— knowing how badly you were looking for a steady job so the coin could keep flowing. And then, there was a fact that you were a virgin— not yet ruined by any man, and this was exactly what she was looking for.

"Can I help you?" You asked the woman, eyeing her from the corner of your eyes, your eyesight trailing over her richly clothed form. She looked divine and exotic, draped in rich princely colours, red and gold.

She looked right at you, her lips curling into a devious smile. She nodded to herself, although satisfied, and took her own sweet time to finally respond, "You can help me. And I can help you. I heard from the villagers that you are looking for work. Isn't that right?"

You nodded, placing the wool into a basket.

"Well then, I'm here to offer you a job."

A job she did offer, only you didn't know what to think of it. She sat there by a chair next to your fireplace [ that so obviously needed more wood ] , her left leg elegantly draped over her right leg, her posture poised and regal, her eyes scanning your face as it contorted into a series of emotions— shock, numbness, anger, hope.

The job that she so generously offered to you was the job of a vessel. What she wanted of you was your womb, a vessel that she could use to grow her child.

Hers and Geralt of Rivia's child—a spawn that was to be created of her magic.

Neither Geralt, nor Yennefer were fertile. They couldn't conceive, biologically, but magically, this was possible. Yennefer told you everything— how she could finally become a mother, a yearning she had buried into the pit of her heart ever since she had buried the little princess, Queen Kalis' daughter, into the sand that day.

It wasn't until she met the white haired man, and an attraction flared, did her desperation for a babe began strumming into her heart. And she passed on this desire of hers to her lover, like a contagious disease until the two of them wanted nothing more than to bring a babbling young half Witcher half Mage into the world.

Her spell, although, could fertilize the Witcher's seed, turning him potent for this once, however, it wasn't enough to turn her own barren womb into a vessel that could carry their child. They needed a woman, a human— untouched— so Geralt could ruin her, and she could give them what they desired.

Yennefer also knew that no woman would agree to this, unless she offered something of value.

It was easy for you to agree.

Neither did you have a family, nor a lover. Besides, an opportunity had walked up to your door yourself, and you couldn't push it away.

But now, a month later, you regretted it.

When you saw them together, and it felt like your heart was being sliced through, slowly— torturing and burning you from the inside.

“Behold, what a fine view you have here, don’t they look beautiful together?” Jaskier was the first one to have decided to intrude into your private space, so suddenly, you were forced to pull your gaze away from the two of them, and crane your neck to your side so you could subtly wipe your tears away.

“Define beauty, Jaskier.” You grumbled under your breath your words barely audible, and you felt the Bard sit down next to you, his arm now brushing against yours as he swallowed a mouthful of ale before turning his head towards you.

“Like.. my songs? Although, they’re much beautiful than those two over there,” he almost began, but you cut him off abruptly, pushing yourself up to your feet, looking down at him.

“Can we not talk about this, Jas’? I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like what, [Y/N]? Sit in a corner and cry a river like you were doing a few seconds back? Don’t think the bard a dumb brute, I see things.”

Your lips parted in surprise. He had caught you. You sheepishly blinked, running your hand absentmindedly through your hair, shaking your head as you denied it, “What is that supposed to mean?”

He sighed, but didn't make an attempt to stand up. Instead, you watched him sit back, trying to get more comfortable as a smile broke out against his lips, "If I were you, I'd tell him how I really feel. Now I know you've got competition, a pretty fierce one, might I add, but what's the fun if you get everything handed to you in a silver platter, and you don't have to work for it?"

"Jas—"

You had barely begun speaking when a fight broke out in the tavern, between two men that you didn't know, right across from where you were seated, and Jaskier's attention was flung away. You watched, in exasperation, as he began cheering all of a sudden, and Geralt, a few tables away, clenched his fists and pursed his lips in annoyance, leaning and whispering something into her ears.

You watched as the beautiful mage slowly rose from her place, and fixed her gaze on you until she was on her way to where you were.

"How are you feeling, little pet?" She raised an eyebrow, and you bit your lip, almost too hard, the taste of metal strong against your taste buds. Oh, how you fought the urge to bark at her and send her back to her beloved, who had his eyes, unmoving, on the two of you.

"Fine." You muttered, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at her.

You didn't understand why you hated this woman.

No, you did— but you didn't want to acknowledge it— it was because of a certain white haired man, who still had his gaze stilled on you, and you couldn't help but feel like your insides were on fire aching for his touch. You wondered how one look from him was enough to weaken your resolve, what would you do if the man ever brushed his hand against you, or even breathed in a close proximity as the Mage was now in?

Stop thinking about this, [Y/N]. He isn't yours to think of.

"Come on, it's time we keep moving, can't afford to waste two hours as the Sun's already up."

You blinked, cursing yourself for feeling so flustered but what could you do? This was the first time you had heard the Witcher say more words than the occasional hums and grunts directed towards you.

You and Yennefer began walking out of the tavern, Jaskier following the two of you, while Geralt was ahead of the two of you, as you began continuing your journey to the Great Mount in Aedirn, a journey you had been on with them now for over thirty days.

For once, you couldn't stop your racing heart from thinking of what was going to happen between you and the White haired man once you reached this Mount.

#geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher x y/n #the witcher #the witcher x reader #henry cavill #henry cavill x y/n

[honeyabyss]

A humans mortality (Lucifer x Mc)

Summary: Mc suddenly realizes their own mortality and it scares them, but Lucifer is there to comfort and reassure. (This was a request by @number-0-iz, hope you like it!)

Warnings: some random demons threatens you, implied anxiety attack

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

It had been a while since the day you arrived in Devildom. By now it felt almost like a second home, demons weren't that different from humans at most times.

Sure they still were supernatural beings who are more than capable of snapping you in half without any effort at all, but you always brushed all these small differences away.

Don't think about them! It had been your very first rule to be established for yourself at the start of the exchange year, to help and get more comfortable around these non-human beings. At one point the bad feelings slipped into the back of your mind, only once in a while emerging from it's deep sleep, for example when one of the brothers snapped yet again. But it didn't scare you anymore! You made friends among the demons, something you would have never thought for possible just one year ago, but here you are!

That doesn't mean though that all demons have accepted you...You were after all still a lowly human, just living under the protection of the demon lords. Some of those of lower ranking found it unbelievable. What did you do to make those mighty demons like you?

Some demons gossiped loudly in RADs hallways even when you passed them, some chose to envy you from the shadows, while others, more bolder maybe also less intelligent ones, tried to threaten you, to make you stay away from the beloved yet equally feared brothers. But as they never truly tried anything, due to one of your protectors being around you all the time, you ignored the comments.

It was late in the afternoon and Mammon had ditched you, it wasn't really planned, but someone he was indebted to had recognized him and started chasing him. You had tried to keep up with them, but they were too fast.

Not wanting Mammon to get into trouble for leaving you behind, you made your way back to the House of Lamentation.

The streets were bustling with demons of all kinds, shopping, going home, meeting and talking with others; it felt just like a normal day in a human realm city.

Though most of them were friendly to you, you didn't want to test your luck and briskly walked through the crowded streets, trying to avoid bumping into anyone.

Unfortunately that was deemed to be impossible and so you accidentally walked into a tall demon you didn't recognize, but instantly had a queasy feeling upon seeing his face.

The demon scowled at you, brushing some invisible dirt off the places you touched him.

A meekly muttered apology came from your mouth. You hadn't meant to cause trouble and definitely not to one that looked so dangerous.

The demon didn't respond at first he just stared at you. As you tried to sidestep around the demon, he moved with you, blocking your way forward.

"Where do you think you're going? Trying to escape? You didn't actually think I'd let you run off, right?"

You didn't answer, didn't even know what would be the best to respond now. All you could think of was that he hopefully wouldn't notice how your heart raced in fear.

"All alone today? None of the brothers are accompanying you? Have they finally realised how worthless you are? Maybe I should do them a favour and get rid of you for the sake of all of us?"

Your eyes were wide open, adrenaline pumping through your veins and your instinct told you to run, to run now, to run fast and to run far in hopes of escape, but your mind told you otherwise, you were no match to a fully grown demon, not even to a small one, running wouldn't help you.

You had always known that demons were demons, that there were distinct differences between your races, yet you pushed them away, for the sake of the exchange year you braved your way through the daily stress in hell, forgetting a small but important fact: you were very much still just a mortal.

Your own heartbeat resonated in your ears, blocking every other sound out, your hands felt clammy with the cold sweat of fear and your eyes didn't seem to be able to focus on anything. You were in absolute shock, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation.

The demon wraps his hand tightly around your wrist, but before he can start pulling you away another hand interferes, freeing you from your captor's bruising grip.

Lucifer is standing between you and the demon looking furious, he is yelling at the startled lower ranking demon in front of him, but you can't make out what he is saying as you're still in your stupor.

Your mind is still racing over time when Lucifer is starting to gently guide you back home. No words are said, and if he did, you didn't notice too caught up in your thoughts.

"I could have died...", you whisper after what feels like an hour later.

"But you're not. You're safe now. I won't let anything like that ever happen again to you.", Lucifer answers having heard your whispering. His hand is still holding yours so gently as if it were going to shatter at any moment.

Your head turns slowly towards him, only now you realize that you were sitting on the sofa in his room, when you had made it here you couldn't really remember. Everything seemed to be a blur.

With the knowledge of finally being at a safe place, your body decides to break down. Tears start to stream down your face and your whole body shakes with every sob. Lucifer's arms wrap around you, holding you firmly, yet not painful, against his chest, one of his hands continuously stroking over your head to comfort you.

Your hands grip the material of his shirt so tight that your knuckles turn white as you sob in the comfort of his arms.

"I-I could have died...I don't want to! I'm scared!", the more you think about it the more scared you get, and speaking it out loud doesn't help calm you down either. Your breathing is getting short and erratic, transporting only enough air into your lungs to stay conscious. The cold feeling of fear keeps spreading throughout your body, trying to consume you completely, only stopping at Lucifer's words.

"Don't be scared...I'm here with you. Let's calm down first before you hyperventilate...", his voice is low and soothing, slowly helping you to normalize your breathing yet a few sobs are still coming through every now and then.

"I'm not going to pretend I know how terrifying the thought of dying is...demons usually don't have to worry about that after all, but I experienced how much it hurts to lose a person, so I might know at least a bit more than others....Death...is inevitable for human beings. You may have a short life, but I believe you also get to spend the most beautiful ones."

You silently listen to him still wrapped up in his warm hug while you hide your tearstained face in his chest.

"The life of a demon can become quite lonely and boring sometimes, after all, living for multiple millennials is a long time, maybe even too long...A thing I enjoy today, might become the most boring thing in the next centuries. Trying to find new stuff to enjoy can be hard and you become unmotivated and sometimes demons even become numb to all joy...If it weren't for my troublesome brothers...it might have already happened to me as well", he lets out a small chuckle before continuing, "anyway, what I mean to tell you is that though your life is short, humans live their life to the fullest, getting to enjoy many different things, never having to worry about something becoming less entertaining in the next century. While humans live in the now, demons tend to forget this and either dwell in memories of the past or the worries of the future. A flower's beauty comes from their inevitability of wilting, because the short time of their lives when they blossom is also the part where they are loved the most! Maybe that is why humans have to die, their colours are too vibrant and beautiful to exist forever."

While attempting at comforting you, he was probably the most open and vulnerable he had ever been, but he didn't seem to mind, as long as it helped you he was happy.

"But your life isn't over yet, not even close to the end...I promise to protect you until your very last breath. And when the time comes to say goodbye to this world I'll be with you holding your hand, making sure you're okay. And afterwards, even when centuries have gone by, I will never forget you, you will live on in my memories forever. I promise you!"

#obey me lucifer #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me luci x reader #obey me oneshot #oneshot #comfort