vmiuchi

[vmiuchi]

Type O Negative in the Russian press(sometime after Peter's death in 2010)

[vmiuchi]

Silent Hill Creature Commentary.

[vmiuchi]

Silent Hill 2 Remake(2024)

[vmiuchi]

PARKING LOT STARGAZING

Ryan Dunn x GenderNeutral reader one shot.

word count: 1293

(Happy late birthday Ryan. Miss this man)

The parking lot was nearly empty. A few overhead lights buzzed lazily, casting long shadows on the cracked asphalt. Ryan’s car idled in the farthest corner, angled half-crooked like he’d driven in with one hand on the wheel and a bag of fast food in the other — which, knowing him, he probably had.

You leaned against the hood, legs crossed, arms braced behind you. The metal was still warm from the short drive. It pressed against your palms as the last hints of sunlight bled out of the sky in streaks of copper and blue. The world felt quiet — the kind of silence that only came at the end of loud days.

Ryan climbed up beside you, the suspension creaking faintly under his weight. He let out a long breath and flopped back across the windshield like a ragdoll. “God. My spine is in eight pieces.”

You snorted. “Maybe don’t throw yourself down a hill in a shopping cart next time.”

He groaned dramatically. “That’s quitter talk.”

You shook your head, lips tugging into a smile. It had been a chaotic day — full of reckless energy, half-baked dares, and belly-laughter until your ribs hurt. But now, with the sky darkening and Ryan lying next to you in that peaceful sprawl, everything slowed down. Softened.

He cracked one eye open, peeking at you through his mess of sun-bleached hair.

“So,” he asked, voice low and playful, “on a scale from zero to holy shit, how much do you hate me for dragging you out here?”

You turned your head, squinting at him with faux annoyance. “Hmm. I’d say about a gentle what-the-fuck.”

A grin stretched across his face — lazy and pleased. “That’s it? Shit, you’re getting soft on me.”

You nudged his hip with your foot. “Please. You’re the one who begged me to come out here just so you could ‘show me a thing.’ What was that even supposed to mean?”

“This,” he said simply, and pointed up.

You followed his hand. The stars were starting to come out, faint and scattered across the indigo canvas. The first few were barely visible — shy little glimmers, like they weren’t sure if the night had officially started yet. One blinked above a telephone wire. Another hovered near the edge of a lazy-moving cloud.

You tilted your head back. “Okay. I’ll admit… this is nice.”

“Told you,” he said smugly. “I know my shit.”

Ryan’s arm slid behind your shoulders, not quite touching — just hovering there, like he wanted to be close without crowding you. That was the thing about him. People always thought he was wild, reckless, unfiltered. And sure, he was — but only when the cameras were rolling. Offscreen, in quiet parking lots and still moments, Ryan Dunn was all warmth and soft jokes and carefully offered silences.

You could sit with him for hours and say nothing, and it wouldn’t feel empty.

“You come here often?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

He nodded. “More than I admit. Used to be my hideout in high school. No one came this far out after dark. I’d park here, smoke too many cigarettes, stare at the sky, and pretend I wasn’t completely fucking lost.”

Your brow furrowed. “You felt lost?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t we all? I mean, I didn’t know what I wanted. I wasn’t good at much except crashing bikes and flipping off authority figures.”

You smiled gently. “You’ve made a whole career out of it.”

“Yeah,” he said with a half-laugh. “Go figure.”

There was a beat of silence. His fingers tapped idly against the hood — a quiet, rhythmic pattern. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. His face was turned up, the soft slope of his nose silhouetted against the deepening sky. His eyes were half-lidded, distant. Thoughtful.

“You still come here when you’re feeling lost?” you asked.

His gaze shifted to you. Something flickered there — not surprise, exactly, but maybe something close to vulnerability.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But lately… I’ve just wanted to share it. I dunno. Everything’s been so loud lately. The show, the stunts, the noise… I just wanted something quiet. With someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to be on all the time.”

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t make you feel like that?” you asked softly.

“No,” he said, like it was the easiest answer in the world. “You make it easy to just… be.”

The words sat between you, weightless and solid all at once. You turned to face him more fully, eyes searching his. He was watching you — really watching, in that way he sometimes did when he thought you weren’t looking.

“I like being here with you,” you said, voice quiet. “Even if you did trick me into stargazing like we’re in a teenage indie movie.”

He let out a laugh, but there was something shy in it. “Hey, I warned you I was feeling weird tonight.”

“Sentimental weird?”

“Yeah. Sue me.”

You smiled. “No lawsuits. Yet.”

The wind kicked up slightly, brushing your hair across your cheek. Ryan reached over and tucked a strand behind your ear, his touch featherlight. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

He didn’t pull away.

“I like this version of you,” you said, leaning just the slightest bit into his palm.

“What version is that?”

“The one that doesn’t have to be loud to be seen.”

He blinked — slowly. His hand dropped from your face, but only to reach for your fingers. He slid his hand into yours, twining them together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Being quiet with you feels… safe,” he said.

You squeezed his hand gently. “It is.”

Another pause. Comfortable. Soft. The kind that makes you want to curl into it and stay there.

After a moment, Ryan cleared his throat. “Hey… can I tell you something and have you not run screaming?”

You raised a brow. “Try me.”

He licked his lips, suddenly serious. His thumb stroked your knuckle, like he was grounding himself.

“I'm in love with you in a way I wouldn't ever imagine,” he said, almost sheepish. “Like… not the explosive, firework-y kind. More like… the kind that builds slow. Quiet. But it’s there. Has been for a while now.”

The breath caught in your throat.

He looked at you then — fully. No teasing grin. No smirk to soften the blow. Just Ryan. Real, open, a little scared.

You swallowed past the lump rising in your chest. “Good.”

His brow furrowed. “Good?”

You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “Because I’m in love with you too.”

The look on his face was pure wonder.

“I was so fucking nervous saying that,” he muttered.

“You’re a professional idiot and that made you nervous?”

He laughed, a sound so full of relief it made your heart ache. “Yeah. Because you matter more than all the other stuff.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. He closed his eyes, and you did too, the warmth between you flickering to life like a quiet fire. When he kissed you, it was soft and unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

Because maybe, just maybe… he did.

When you pulled apart, he rested his head against yours and let out a breath.

“I’m really glad you came out here with me tonight,” he said.

You smiled. “Me too.”

You stayed like that for a while — fingers laced, bodies close, the stars stretching out endlessly above you. And for once, Ryan Dunn wasn’t trying to make anyone laugh. He wasn’t performing, wasn’t crashing, wasn’t burning.

He was just here.

With you.

And that was more than enough.

[vmiuchi]

Brandon Lee(1965-1993) as Eric Draven, The Crow(1994, published after his death during the film's production)

[vmiuchi]

can we get sub!bam being teased by a reader he has a crush on? also sweet bam is my weakness 👀

WRONG SIDE OF THE CAMCORDER

Sub!Bam Margera x Female reader one shot.

word count: 1594

Bam always had a camera.

And that camera? It saw everything.

The bruises, the blood, the dumbass stunts, the victory laps when someone took a skateboard to the shins or flipped off a roof into a kiddie pool. Bam didn’t just live in the lens—he fed off it. Attention, chaos, the screeching noise of boys with too much money and too few brain cells. It was his element.

Until you started showing up in frame.

You were new. Sort of. A friend of a friend. Maybe Raab dragged you in, maybe it was Dico. No one remembered. But one day you were just there, standing in Bam’s driveway with a slushie and a look on your face that said, you thought this was going to be dumber.

And God, he noticed.

You weren’t loud. You didn’t flinch when shit exploded. You didn’t try to one-up anyone.

You just... watched. Smiled sometimes. Laughed in a way that stuck in his teeth.

And then you started teasing him.

It wasn’t obvious. Not at first. You were good.

You didn’t flirt. You observed.

Bam would trip mid-sentence when you bit into your straw.

He’d get tongue-tied when your leg brushed his under the kitchen table.

You’d say his name in this slow, syrupy tone—“Bammm”—and it made something in his stomach do a stupid flip every time.

You never said anything cruel. But every word had teeth.

And Bam—cocky, chaotic Bam—loved it.

Even if he couldn’t admit it. Even if it made him act weird and fidgety and unlike himself.

You sat on the arm of the couch one afternoon, camera rolling across the room while the guys debated duct-taping Ehren to the back of a moving van. Bam was across from you, foot bouncing, fingers flicking at a lighter he wasn’t even using.

“You always this twitchy, Margera?” you asked, not even looking up from your phone.

He blinked. “What?”

“You keep playing with that lighter like it owes you money.”

Bam forced a laugh, tossing it onto the coffee table like it burned him. “Just thinkin’, that’s all.”

You finally looked up. And shit, when your eyes landed on him it felt like gravity flipped sideways.

“About what?”

He shrugged. “Ideas. Stunts. You know.”

You smirked. “Sure.”

One word. So simple. So smug.

And that smirk. It curled like a question mark—like you knew damn well he was full of shit.

The thing was: Bam couldn’t think when you were around. Not clearly. Not without his head drifting to places it shouldn’t. To how your laugh snagged on the ends of words. To how you leaned just a little too close when you passed him the remote. To that night on the halfpipe when you slid up beside him, sneakers dangling, asking if he was always this dramatic or just trying to impress you.

He’d laughed too hard, voice cracking, and said “both.” You’d snorted. But your knee stayed touching his for longer than necessary.

The worst part? The others noticed.

“Yo, Bam,” Knoxville had grinned once, nudging him in the ribs. “You trying to keep your cool or what? You look like you’re trying not to pop a boner every time she says your name.”

Bam nearly choked on his soda.

He denied it. Of course.

Laughed too loud. Faked offense. Told them they were full of shit.

But inside, he knew.

They weren’t wrong.

One night, you crashed at Castle Bam after an especially stupid shoot. Preston had somehow ended up in the lake. Dunn was passed out in the garage. You were curled up on the couch in one of Bam’s oversized hoodies—his favorite hoodie, stolen from his bedroom without asking—and watching him scroll through footage on the camcorder.

“You ever record yourself?” you asked, tone feather-light.

Bam blinked. “What?”

“You know. Like, really record yourself. Not a stunt. Just… you.”

He paused. “Why would I do that?”

You shrugged, shifting closer. “You’re always behind the camera. Thought maybe you wanted to see what you looked like when you’re not bleeding.”

He laughed. “That sounds lame as shit.”

“I dunno,” you said, teasing. “I think you’d look cute.”

Bam went rigid.

Heart up in his throat.

Mouth suddenly dry.

Cute?

You’d called him cute?

“You think I’m—” he fumbled, ears going red.

You grinned, leaning in so close he could smell your shampoo. “I think you hate being called cute.”

“I don’t—”

“You do. You don't wanna be that, right? Tattoos, loud mouth…” you dragged your finger down the sleeve of his hoodie, slow as molasses. “But you blush too easy, Bammie. Gives you away.”

He was going to die.

He was going to melt into the couch and die.

“You’re messing with me,” he muttered, voice cracking like a pubescent kid’s.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “Maybe I like seeing you squirm.”

And you did see it—the way his knee bounced harder, the way his fingers clenched on the camcorder like it could anchor him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or run away.

You didn’t push it.

You never did.

That was the worst part.

You always left it right on the edge.

Just enough to drive him crazy.

Just enough to make him dream about you later, alone in his room, fists clenched in his sheets, whispering your name like a secret.

He wasn’t used to not having control.

With a board under his feet, with a prank on his tongue, with chaos in his hands—Bam owned the moment. He was the storm. The ringleader. The boy-king of destruction. He could flip a shopping cart into traffic and walk away laughing. He could pull off a stunt that left everyone bleeding and somehow still be the coolest guy in the room.

But not around you.

Around you, Bam became... weird. Clumsy. Soft.

And it wasn’t just that he had a crush—it was that you seemed to know.

And worse—you were playing with it.

And God, he let you.

He wanted you to.

Even now, on that worn-out couch that smelled faintly like Doritos and smoke, he was staring at the edge of your jaw like it might give him answers. The hoodie you wore was his—faded black with the pocket half-torn—and you stretched in it like you were trying to kill him. The hem rode up your thighs when you shifted to get more comfortable, and Bam, like a fucking idiot, looked.

Of course he did.

And you caught him looking.

Didn’t say anything at first. Just arched an eyebrow and sipped from your drink with maddening nonchalance.

“Y’know,” you said casually, eyes still fixed on the TV screen, “I should start charging you.”

Bam blinked. “Charging me?”

“For how much you stare. It’s basically a service now.”

His ears went hot. “I wasn’t staring..”

“Oh, right.” You turned your head slowly, grinning. “You were just analyzing the fabric quality of your own hoodie riding up my thighs?”

Bam looked like someone had smacked him in the back of the head with a frying pan. He blinked. Flushed. Stammered. Then muttered something about needing another beer and practically bolted toward the kitchen.

You followed.

Of course you did.

He fumbled with the fridge door, fingers not working right, trying to focus on beer labels and not on the soft pad of your footsteps behind him.

“You’re cute when you run away,” you said from the doorway.

“I’m not—running—”

“You are,” you grinned. “It’s okay. I think it’s charming.”

He made a strangled sound. Closed the fridge door too hard.

You stepped in. Real slow. Arms folded, eyes twinkling like you knew exactly what you were doing—and, of course, you did. You always did.

“You really gonna keep pretending you don’t want me to tease you?” you asked.

He looked at you. Really looked. His chest rising too fast, palms sweaty.

“I just... don’t know why,” he said, voice low, words cracking like dry leaves.

“Why what?”

“Why you do it.”

You tilted your head. “What, tease you?”

He nodded. Looked down. Fidgeted with the label on his beer.

There was a pause.

Then you took a single step forward.

“Because you let me,” you said gently. “And because you’re fun when you squirm.”

“I’m not fun,” he said. “I’m a fuckin’ mess.”

“You’re my mess,” you replied, so soft it made his pulse stutter.

He looked up.

You weren’t smiling this time. You were just looking at him, earnest and dangerous all at once. And he swore the floor tilted under his feet.

The silence stretched.

Then, without thinking, Bam said, “What if I want more than just that?”

It came out too fast. Too raw.

Your eyes softened. Not in pity. Something else.

“Then stop hiding behind the camera,” you said.

He froze.

You stepped up, took the beer from his hand, set it on the counter. Then, with impossible slowness, you reached for the camcorder slung around his neck and clicked it off.

“No more lens,” you whispered. “Just you. Just me.”

Bam swallowed hard.

He wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t falling off a roof. He wasn’t screaming at Knoxville with a firecracker in his ass.

But his heart was pounding harder than it ever had on film.

And you? You just smiled. Stepped away. Left him there in his kitchen, reeling.

You always left just enough.

Just enough to keep him coming back.

Just enough to keep him burning.

Just enough to make him wonder how long it would take before he finally asked you to stop teasing—

—or never stop again.

[vmiuchi]

Probably no one cares but I am very much alive and well,

thank you all who praised my works through the request box, really appreciated but I've been on a writers block so I couldn't make up anything new alog with a new idea for a Ville fanfiction which made me unmotivated to continue Ink And Temptation but Ididn't forget about it, I will still update it, but on a slower pace and catch up on requests. <3

[vmiuchi]

NEW VV APPEARANCE. (17/05/2025)

[vmiuchi]

Ville Hermani Valo's left arm sleeve tattoo.

[vmiuchi]

hiii can you do an amab reader who’s also a musician and uh. gets freaky with Ville Valo on tour. yeah. uh. thank you so much

WHERE THE MUSIC STAYS.

Ville Valo x Male Reader one shot.

word count: 1625

(NSFW warning)

The nights on tour blurred together in a haze of neon lights, cigarette smoke, and the low hum of amplifiers cooling after long sets. The venues were never the same—some were tight, intimate clubs with walls soaked in decades of sound, others cavernous theaters echoing with thunderous applause. But one constant remained: the electric pulse of live music, and the quiet gravity of Ville Valo.

He was more than just the frontman of HIM—he was mythic. Watching him command the stage night after night was like watching some dusky creature made of velvet and smoke unfold itself for the moonlight. His voice—low, aching, rich with sin and salvation—wrapped around each lyric like a prayer and a confession. Even when the house lights cut and the encore echoed out, Ville’s presence didn’t fade. It lingered in the air like incense, heavy and intoxicating.

You weren’t new to the scene. You’d played your share of dive bars and midnight sets, earned your fans, and carried your weight as the tour’s opening act. Still, being part of this tour felt like stepping into another world. One where poetry bled through distortion pedals and eye contact could say more than lyrics.

Your interactions with Ville were brief at first—passing nods in corridors, the occasional comment about your set. There was something about the way he looked at you, though—like he saw something you hadn’t revealed yet. Not lust exactly, but interest. A slow, unfolding curiosity.

It started in the wings, after your second show together. You were still catching your breath, towel slung around your shoulders, when Ville brushed past. He didn’t stop, but he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, “You play like you’ve already lived a thousand lives.”

You turned, watching him disappear down the hall, heart thudding against your ribs like a bass drum.

From then on, it was small things. A lighter flicked open and offered when your hands were full. A cigarette passed between fingers that lingered a second too long. Long looks across backstage green rooms thick with chatter, where it felt like only he could see you.

Tonight’s venue was tucked inside a crumbling brick building, all peeling posters and concrete charm. You’d just come off stage—sweat still slick on your spine, your fingers buzzing from the last chord—when you caught sight of him. Ville stood under a flickering light near the back hallway, shadows cradling his frame like a secret.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, lips curved in that half-smile he wore like a mask. Something in your chest stirred—curiosity, desire, a tension you hadn’t quite let yourself name.

You glanced around. The hallway was empty, the post-show chaos muffled behind thick doors.

He tilted his head slightly, an invitation written in silence.

You followed.

The hallway narrowed into a quieter stretch behind the stage, away from crew banter and clattering equipment. The walls were stained with age and stories, old setlists and graffiti etched into plaster. Ville led you without a word, each step measured, deliberate. You followed, pulse skipping like a misfired snare.

He stopped outside a door marked with a crooked star and turned the handle with a fluid grace. The room was dimly lit, one old lamp casting warm amber across a battered sofa, a low table littered with empty water bottles, crumpled lyric sheets, and a half-burned candle. The faint scent of sandalwood and sweat hung in the air—intimate, like a memory.

Ville stepped inside and turned, finally facing you fully.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, voice low and calm, but unmistakably real. “But you… I’ve been watching.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The look you gave him said enough—an invitation, quiet but sure.

He stepped closer, the distance between you closing inch by inch. His presence filled the space, almost tangible. His eyes—dark, rimmed in soft kohl—held you in place. Everything slowed.

“You play like your heart’s always on fire,” he murmured, his voice brushing your skin. “And yet you don’t burn.”

You exhaled, the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding catching in your throat. “Maybe I’m just waiting for someone to light the match.”

The moment broke like tension on a drawn string. Ville moved, slow but certain, reaching up to cup the back of your neck. His fingers were cool, calloused, but gentle. He leaned in, letting his lips hover just above yours—close enough for breath to mingle, not close enough to satisfy.

“Do you want this?” he asked, barely more than a whisper. The dominance was subtle, wrapped in velvet. It wasn’t a question of power. It was about permission—about making sure this moment was exactly what it needed to be.

“Yes,” you breathed.

That was all it took.

His mouth met yours with patient intensity. The kiss was soft at first, exploratory. Ville tasted of mint and smoke, like secrets told in shadows. His hand tightened at your nape, angling your head as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. You parted for him without hesitation.

The kiss deepened, slow and sensual, full of unspoken promises. His other hand slid up beneath your shirt, fingertips dancing across the bare skin of your side, mapping the contours like a song he was learning by heart.

He pressed forward, guiding you gently until your back hit the door. The cool wood met your spine as his body pressed against yours—slender, strong, commanding without force.

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the second night,” he whispered against your mouth. “You looked like temptation in leather and noise.”

You smiled into the kiss, breathless. “And you looked like the reason temptation was invented.”

He laughed—low, rich, appreciative. Then his mouth was on your neck, kissing, tasting. His lips moved with deliberate reverence, tracing a line down your throat while his hands moved lower, slipping beneath your shirt to tug it upward.

“Let me,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours again.

You lifted your arms, and he stripped the shirt away in a single motion, casting it aside like something sacred. His hands slid down your chest, palms warm and possessive.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a truth beyond debate.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, claiming.

Ville kissed like he sang—slow, aching, with a kind of hunger that never rushed. His lips moved over yours deliberately, tongue teasing, exploring, claiming. His hands were confident, sliding beneath your shirt to explore your skin with reverent ease.

When he pulled back to look at you, his voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you whispered, breath hitching.

He stripped you slowly, eyes never leaving yours as each layer came off. When he knelt before you, the vulnerability of being bare under his gaze hit hard—but there was no judgment. Only admiration. He undressed next, peeling off his shirt, then his jeans, until there was nothing between you.

His body pressed into yours, skin against skin, warmth shared in the hush of that backstage room. He kissed down your neck, your chest, his hands guiding your thighs apart. There was no rush—only rhythm. His fingers prepared you with slow, careful motions, his mouth murmuring praise close to your ear.

When he finally pushed inside, the stretch drew a soft gasp from your lips. Ville paused, kissing you gently, letting you breathe through the burn. Then he moved—deep, unhurried thrusts that built gradually, each one lighting you up from the inside out.

“You take me so well,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “So fucking perfect.”

You clung to him, heat curling tight in your belly, tension mounting with every motion. Ville held your hand as you came undone, his name slipping from your lips. He followed moments later with a soft groan, holding you close, breath trembling against your neck.

For a long moment, all was still.

Then his arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you against his chest. He kissed your temple and whispered, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The room had gone still, save for the low hum of some forgotten amp in the distance and the soft rustle of breath between two bodies. Ville’s arms circled you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking slow, absentminded lines across your spine. Your cheek rested against his chest, where the steady beat of his heart echoed like the end of a song you didn’t want to stop.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Outside the room, the world buzzed with post-show chaos—voices, movement, the clatter of packing gear—but in here, it was just him and you. His skin was warm, his breath slow. He felt like sanctuary.

You shifted slightly, just enough to look up at him. Ville’s eyes met yours, soft and unreadable in the dim light.

“Is this going to get weird now?” you asked, not flippant, but not afraid either.

A slow smile curled at his lips, tired and real.

“Only if we pretend it meant nothing.”

You let that settle in your chest. It didn’t feel like a one-time thing. Not with the way his fingers still brushed your back like you might vanish. Not with the way his lips pressed against your hair, careful and slow.

He looked at you again, his gaze steady.

“You have a light in you,” he said quietly. “Most people don’t even know they carry something worth burning for. You do.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you kissed him instead—just once, soft and full of something that hadn’t quite become love, but could.

And in that quiet, candlelit room, the tour still waiting beyond the door, something settled between you. Not just heat. Not just music.

Something lasting.

[vmiuchi]

Linde giving reader guitar lessons and things get smutty

BENEATH THE STRINGS.

Mikko "Linde" Lindström x Female Reader. One shot.

word count: 1289

(NSFW warning)

The studio had that smell—dust, old wood, maybe some faded cigarette smoke clinging to the walls like a memory someone forgot to wipe clean. It wasn’t sterile. It wasn’t even clean. But it felt like a place where music didn’t just echo—it stuck around. Like every note ever played there was still floating in the corners.

You shifted your guitar strap and glanced up at the wall clock. Five minutes past. You tapped your fingers against your thigh, caught in a restless mix of nerves and frustration. When you signed up for private guitar lessons in Helsinki, you were picturing some gray-haired session musician. Someone no-nonsense, maybe a little cranky. Not him.

The door squeaked open.

“Sorry I’m late,” came a voice—easy, unbothered.

Mikko "Linde" Lindström walked in like he belonged to the room. Like maybe he was part of the room. He carried a black guitar case, slung casually over one shoulder, and wore the kind of layered black outfit that made him look like a walking shadow. His hair was pulled back, but a few strands had escaped to frame the sharp lines of his face. Rings glinted on his fingers—almost too many—but somehow, they suited him.

You tried not to stare. He either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Probably used to it.

“You ready to play?” he asked, already pulling his guitar from its case, his movements smooth and practiced.

You gave a small nod, trying to keep your face neutral. “Yeah. Think so.”

He gestured to the spot next to him. You sat, the strap biting into your shoulder.

The lesson started off straightforward. Chords. Finger positioning. Posture. Stuff you expected. But the air between those instructions—that’s where the strange current lived. Whenever his fingers brushed yours, just briefly to adjust your grip, something lit up under your skin. Not dramatic. Just...electric. And the way he leaned in close to explain something, his voice low and rough, wrapped in a Finnish accent—god, it hooked into your chest.

“You’re too stiff,” he said at one point, stepping behind you. “Loosen up. Let the music move through you.”

His hands settled gently on your shoulders, coaxing them down. The pressure was firm, but not invasive. Grounding. You exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumped.

“Better,” he said quietly, and didn’t step back right away.

Lesson two was different. More fluid. He asked you questions—what bands you liked, what made you want to play. You answered, maybe more than you should’ve. He listened. Really listened. Then told you about the first time he ever performed, how his hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the guitar. You laughed, and he laughed too, and suddenly it didn’t feel like student and teacher anymore. Just two people, talking music.

By the third lesson, the air between you had changed.

You didn’t leave right after. On purpose.

Neither of you moved when the hour ended. Instead, he sank into the worn-out couch against the wall, guitar still in hand. He started playing something slow and familiar—not a song you knew, exactly, but it felt like you should. You sat beside him, not touching, but close enough that the heat of him reached you.

“That yours?” you asked.

He shrugged, barely smiling. “Old one. Never released. Maybe it still deserves a shot.”

“Play it again.”

He did. You watched his hands. His fingers moved like they were telling a story—fluid, confident, quiet. You were mesmerized.

“You pick things up fast,” he said eventually. “Most people chase perfect. You just listen.”

Your mouth felt dry. “You’re...easy to listen to.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And set the guitar aside.

“What are you really here for?” he asked. Not accusing. Just curious. But your stomach flipped.

You didn’t answer with words. Just stood, heart in your throat, and stepped into the space between you. He looked up, breath shallow, but didn’t move away. When you leaned in, he met you halfway.

The kiss started slow. Careful. Like both of you were checking to make sure it was okay. When his hand found your waist and pulled you closer, you melted into it, your fingers threading through his hair. He kissed like someone who’d been thinking about it for a while.

He stood without breaking contact, guiding you gently until your back hit the wall. His body pressed against yours, warm and solid. You gasped into his mouth, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. He pulled it off in one motion, and there he was—tattooed, lean, marked by time and experience.

Your hands moved over him. Slowly. Exploring. He shivered.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. “Yeah. Really sure.”

He kissed you again, slower now. Like a song that builds instead of bursts. When he undressed you, it was with care, pausing to kiss each new inch of skin like he was discovering something sacred. It wasn’t rushed. It was warm and a little wild and a lot real.

The couch creaked when he laid you down. He hovered above for a second, just watching you. Like he was saving the image.

When he moved inside you, it was patient. Measured. A rhythm all its own. His hand cupped your cheek while his body pressed deeper against yours, breath mingling, skin sliding, every movement deliberate. He watched your face closely, reacting to each gasp and whimper, like you were the melody and he was learning it one note at a time.

His pace quickened as your hips met his, a wordless harmony building between you. He whispered to you between kisses—fragments of your name, things that didn’t need translating. Your legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him even closer, grounding yourself in the weight and warmth of him.

His mouth traveled, leaving kisses on your neck, your shoulder, your chest—pausing just long enough to make your heart race harder. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning one of your hands above your head, the other hand cradling your waist as he thrust deeper, the rhythm turning urgent and full.

You arched beneath him, riding the edge of something that felt too big to name. The pressure built slowly, then all at once—waves crashing into waves. You cried out, your body trembling with release. He groaned your name against your neck, following seconds later, his grip tightening as if holding himself together through you.

After, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting, flushed, limbs tangled. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of an amp in the background. His hand found yours again, fingers linking naturally.

Later, wrapped in a blanket, skin still buzzing, you lay tangled together. He traced lazy shapes on your back.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He kissed your temple. “Didn’t want to rush it.”

“You didn’t,” you murmured.

The amp in the corner buzzed softly. A few guitar picks had scattered onto the floor, like punctuation marks no one planned. The whole room felt different now. Like it had recorded what just happened.

“Next lesson’s gonna be weird,” you joked.

He chuckled. “We might need a bigger couch.”

You glanced at him. “So this wasn’t just...spur-of-the-moment?”

His gaze sobered. “Not unless you want it to be.”

You reached for his hand. Linked your fingers.

“I’ll be back next week.”

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Don’t forget your guitar. Or the strap.”

You smirked. “I’ll bring extra picks.”

He grinned. “Smart student.”

You left eventually, walking together into the cool Helsinki night, soda cans in hand, silence between you—but this time, it felt like something. Not an ending.

A beginning. And yeah... it sounded a lot like music.

[vmiuchi]

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

BREAKING POINT

Ville Valo x Female Reader. One shot.

word count: 1,322

(NSFW warning)

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

Of course, he’s done it again.

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

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

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

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

You storm in, not bothering to knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grabs your wrist without missing a beat.

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

“Let go,” you snarl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You barely manage, “Shut up.”

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

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

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

You pant, “I do.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.”

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

“Just get on with it,” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it,” he growls.

You shake your head, stubborn.

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

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

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

"Move. I got it," he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your feet wouldn’t move. Not yet.

[vmiuchi]

probably no one cares but I put my one shots and updated INK AND TEMPTATION on Archive Of Our Own. My profile.

[vmiuchi]

VMIUCHI'S MASTERLIST.

FANFICTION(S)

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

ONE SHOTS

Ville Valo

Smoke And Velvet.

Breaking Point.

Where The Music Stays.

Johnny Knoxville

Stay still, sugar.

Heat Of The Dare.

Bam Margera

You're Lucky You're Cute.

Clingy When I'm Sober, Worse When I'm Yours.

Wrong Side Of The Camcorder.

Chris Pontius

Behind The Glass.

MIKKO "LINDE" LINDSTRÖM

No One Has To Know.

Beneath The Strings.

RYAN DUNN

Parking Lot Stargazing.

[vmiuchi]

Ville and Gender Neutral reader cigarette shotgunning?

SMOKE AND VELVET

Ville Valo x G.NEUTRALreader. One shot.

word count: 1296

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

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

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

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

You already knew what he meant.

Shotgunning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did.

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

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

“You’re dangerous,” you said quietly.

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

“I didn’t say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay the night.”

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

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

You leaned in before he even said anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t argue.

He just lit another.

Of course you would.

[vmiuchi]

Ville Valo & Mikko "Mige" Paananen, 2001.

[vmiuchi]

INK AND TEMPTATION

Chapter 6.

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

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

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

Maybe it had all been a dream.

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

She picked up the phone.

No new messages.

No missed calls.

The silence felt like a bruise blooming across her chest.

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

Another glance at the phone. Still nothing.

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

But it had meant something.

At least to her.

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

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

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

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

She fumbled for it, pulse spiking.

Ville (???): Morning, sweetheart.

Still mean it.

Still here.

Didn’t dream you.

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

And she realized something.

Maybe she was still terrified.

Maybe she didn’t believe in fairy tales.

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

But she wanted to try.

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

Y/N: Good morning, Ville.

I didn’t dream you either.

There was a pause—heavy, electric.

Then another buzz.

Ville (???): I’m outside.

Her pulse tripped.

That wasn’t possible.

He didn’t know where she lived.

Unless—

Her heart stuttered.

No. He wouldn’t have—

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

No sign of him.

Her phone buzzed again.

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

Kind of.

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

But I don’t.

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

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

Her fingers hovered.

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

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

But I meant what I said.

All of it.

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

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

Then:

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

But someday.

Can I hope for that?

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

She typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Y/N: Someday.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

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

Even if it kills me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because she hadn’t blocked him.

Because she’d said someday.

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

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

He didn’t know what the hell that meant.

Maybe she was just kind.

Or maybe—

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

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

"Someday," he whispered.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough to keep breathing for.

Still, doubt gnawed at him.

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

But this felt different.

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

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

Yet.

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

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

He wanted things.

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

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

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

He didn’t know.

But he wanted to find out.

And maybe that was enough.

For now.

The bathroom door flew open with a crash.

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

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

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

"I didn’t get dumped."

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ville looked at his phone again.

The screen was dark.

But his chest felt a little less hollow.

Bam was right.

He had time.

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

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

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

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

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

Ville nodded. He didn’t trust his voice.

The door shut behind Bam, mercifully quiet this time.

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

He still looked like a mess.

But maybe that was okay.

Maybe he didn’t need to be perfect.

Just honest.

Just real.

He picked up his phone, opened their chat again.

The cursor blinked in the empty message box.

He typed.

Still here. Still thinking about you.

Then deleted it.

He’d wait.

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

All of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still no new messages.

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

He didn’t need to rush it.

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

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

"Does it involve fire?"

"No."

"Disappointing. Go on."

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

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

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