#sound cadence studios

[toonabby]

Happy belated 31st birthday, Howard Wang!

[m1ssunderstanding]

People have probably already seen this because apparently it's been on YouTube for a week but I hadn't so here you go if you want! Spoilers (I guess) in the tags so for people that don't want to watch this sneak peak and ruin their movie experience, don't read my tags :)

[astrcmoni]

. ⏾ ⋆ dusk til dawn ⋆☼.

MASTERLIST

synopsis: after being invited to the met gala, you and billie are caught in between the spotlight and quiet intimacy of your growing relationship.

genre: fluff

pairing: fem!reader x billie eilish

wc: 6.05k

warnings: slight cussing, light alcohol consumption

authors note: so sad she’s not attending the met this year😓

moonlight streams through the open curtains, bathing the living room in a soft, silvery glow. the faint hum of a late-night talk show drifts through the air—it’s billie’s most recent appearance on jimmy fallon. your body sinks deeper into the couch, the plush cushions cradling you as your tired eyes follow the screen. the black throw blanket draped over you clings like a second skin, its soft, fuzzy fur wrapping you in a tender embrace. a candle flickers on the coffee table, its warm light spilling over the scattered remnants of your quiet evening alone—a half-empty mug of tea sits nearby, the once-hot liquid cooled to room temperature and forgotten on a coaster. next to it lies your book, a slender bookmark jutting out to hold your place. your phone, nestled beneath the blanket by your thigh, vibrates every few minutes with notifications you can’t bring yourself to check, the faint buzz a whisper against your skin.

the faint jangle of keys interrupts the silence, their metallic clink scraping softly against the door before the handle turns. the quiet, familiar click of the latch releasing echoes through the room, followed by the groan of the door as it swings open. the wind rushes in briefly, carrying the cool night air with it before the door closes, the hinges squeaking faintly as they settle back into place.

you glance over your shoulder, catching sight of billie as she steps inside. she pauses near the door, bending to kick off her shoes with a soft thud against the floor. her brown hair is gathered in a loose, low ponytail, strands framing her face in lazy curls. the oversized hoodie and baggy sweats she wears seem impossibly cozy, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of her day—errands, hours spent in her brother’s studio, and the residual energy of the spotlight still clinging faintly to her.

you turn your gaze back to the tv, watching her animated hands flit across the screen as she answers questions, the familiar cadence of her voice filling the room. the deep red roots of her hair peek through in the interview, a reminder of a look you dearly miss. behind you, the sound of her keys clattering onto the kitchen island mingles with the shuffle of papers, followed by her light footsteps as she crosses the room.

billie leans over the back of the couch, her presence warm and grounding. she presses a kiss to your temple, her lips soft and lingering, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the touch.

“you look nice and snug,” she murmurs, her voice low and comforting, like a melody meant only for you.

you nod, offering a soft “mhm” in response, the sound more exhale than word. the top of your head brushes against her face as she hovers near you, her warmth wrapping around you like an invisible blanket. leaning back slightly, you catch her lips in a gentle kiss, her skin soft and familiar against your own. the faint taste of mint from her gum cools your lips, the sensation spreading like a whisper of winter across your tongue.

when she pulls away, there’s a quiet, velvety pop, the delicate sound of connection breaking. her lips curve into a smile, the diamonds on her teeth catching the flicker of the candlelight, gleaming like scattered stars.

you reach up, cupping her face in your palm. your thumb brushes tender strokes along her cheek, the simple touch enough to make her nose wrinkle slightly. the sight draws a soft smile from you.

“hi, baby,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as though the words are meant to wrap around her soul and nowhere else.

“hi, mama,” she replies, the nickname slipping from her lips with practiced ease, her voice as smooth as silk. her breath fans lightly across your face, carrying a warmth that lingers.

your fingers drift upward, tangling softly in the loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck. her eyes flutter closed, savoring your touch, her lips parting slightly as a quiet sigh escapes her.

“long day?” you ask, your gaze tracing her face, taking in the freckles scattered across her skin like constellations.

“you have no idea,” she replies, her brows lifting briefly before relaxing again. “i feel like i just aged up twenty years.” her eyelids open slowly, revealing the piercing blue of her eyes, oceans of emotion that meet your own.

her attention shifts suddenly as something on the tv catches her ear—a sound or phrase that makes her stiffen slightly.

“ no, it never feels like that ever. no, i never am like, ‘yeah! got it.’ ”

she groans softly, her face scrunching in mild disgust as she catches sight of her past self on the screen. her body tenses briefly before she glances back at you, her lips forming a pout as she casts you a dramatic side-eye.

“why are you watching this?” she whines, her voice laced with playful exasperation.

“because i can,” you tease, raising your voice just enough to mimic her tone, your words dripping with faux defiance.

“whatever,” she mutters, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair.

you take the hand that rests on the back of her neck, pulling her down toward you. your lips meet hers in a flurry of light, playful pecks, the wet sound of smooches filling the space between laughter. her pout melts away, replaced by a grin that spreads slowly across her face, her joy as warm and luminous as the candlelight that dances across the room.

breaking the kiss, she moves toward the kitchen, collecting the stack of mail and packages piled near the edge of the counter. sliding onto the floor, she tucks her legs beneath the coffee table, her back resting against the couch as her head finds a place on your knee. the rug beneath her feet feels soft, a textured contrast to the cool air that lingers in the room. with a low sigh, she reaches back, loosening her ponytail, letting waves of chestnut brown cascade past her shoulders, strands curling softly down her back like ribbons unraveling. her fingers sift through the scattered envelopes, sorting the mundane from the meaningful, her nails lightly tapping on paper as she works.

“bills,” she mutters, sliding a pile toward you. her lips quirk in mock irritation as she meets your gaze.

you give her a pointed look, eyebrows arching. “oh, so now i handle all of these?”

she shrugs dramatically, the ghost of a grin tugging at her mouth. “you’re better at it.” her voice drips with faux innocence as she tosses her hair over her shoulder, sending you a playful, teasing glance.

you shake your head, suppressing a smile, and turn back to the tv. the faint hum of voices fills the room as youtube automatically queues another video. billie releases a quiet, relieved sigh as her face disappears from the screen, her shoulders visibly relaxing. still, her fingers work through the mail, opening envelopes, flipping through glossy magazines, and tossing aside collaboration offers. the rhythm of her movements is interrupted when her hands still over one particular envelope.

“what the hell…” she murmurs under her breath, her tone curious and tinged with intrigue. the envelope in her hands feels different—thicker, sturdier. its texture is slightly rough beneath her fingertips, like pressed parchment, its edges precise and clean. her name is written across the front in an elegant, flowing calligraphy, the ink embossed and raised just enough to be felt as her thumb brushes over it. flipping it over, her eyes fall to the wax seal on the back, a shimmering gold stamp pressed into intricate details, cool and smooth against her skin.

your attention shifts at the sudden change in her demeanor. leaning forward slightly, you watch as she carefully breaks the seal, the faint crackle of wax filling the silence. she pulls out a sheet of cardstock, cream-colored and sophisticated, the same delicate script flowing across its surface. her lips move as she reads, some words slipping into the air while others fall silent, her voice alternating between muted murmurs and audible whispers. the faintest smile spreads across her lips as her eyes trace the contents of the letter.

“what is it?” you ask, leaning toward her, curiosity blooming as you try to peer over her shoulder.

she tilts the letter slightly in your direction, her grin widening. “an invite to the met gala. they want me back this year.” her voice is soft, but there’s an edge of excitement to it as she hands you the envelope. “and they said i could bring a plus one.”

your fingers skim the paper, taking in the luxurious feel of it as your eyes scan the invitation. her words echo in your mind, but they blur momentarily as you try to read and process everything at once. once you lower the letter, you find her watching you, her expression open, hopeful, and maybe a little nervous.

“do you want me to come with you?” you ask, your voice matching the softness of hers.

her smile falters, only slightly, as she considers her words. “do you want me to want you to? i mean… this would be our first time going public, you know, as a couple. not just friends.”

the word couple lingers between you, warm and affirming, wrapping around the two of you like a quiet promise. it’s been nearly two years since your friendship evolved into something deeper, something sacred and tender. in that time, your relationship has become a sanctuary—a bubble free of prying eyes and the unrelenting pressure of public opinion. billie’s fame has always been a double-edged sword, and while the world knows you as her close friend, they’ve never suspected the truth of what lies between you. it’s been intentional, this secrecy, a deliberate choice to protect what you’ve built.

but now, the possibility of stepping into the spotlight together tugs at both of you—tempting, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once. the thought of shedding the secrecy, of calling each other “mine” without hesitation, feels like freedom. but so does the safety of what you already have.

billie’s shoulders slump slightly, her head dipping as she releases a soft breath. she picks at the fibers of the rug, a nervous habit you’ve noticed over the years, her fingers working absentmindedly as her thoughts whirl.

you reach down, brushing her hair behind her ear, your thumb grazing the edge of her temple. “i’ll go,” you whisper, your voice gentle but resolute.

her head snaps up at your words, her eyes wide with surprise and glistening with the beginnings of joy. “really?”

“yes, really. i’d love to be your date to the gala.” your fingers trail along her jaw, resting on her neck as your thumb rubs slow, soothing circles over her pulse point. her face lights up with a smile, the kind that makes her whole expression glow, and she leans into your touch, her earlier tension melting away like ice under the warmth of a flame.

“you have no idea how much that means to me,” she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of her gratitude and affection.

“oh, i think i do,” you reply, your lips curving into a smile as your hand drifts to her shoulder, grounding her. and as the candlelight flickers around the room, casting both of you in its golden glow, you feel the quiet anticipation of what’s to come—a new chapter, written together, with the world finally watching.

a flush of pink rises to her stardusted cheeks at the mere thought of it. you as her date and her as yours, stepping into a night draped in elegance and glittering possibility. she glances back down at the rug, her fingers idly twisting the threads as if anchoring herself, trying to play off the sheepish smile threatening to bloom across her face. “okay, cool,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret.

and for the rest of the night, that’s all you two talk about, voices overlapping in excitement as you discuss the theme, the gowns, the energy of it all. you call up her network of famous friends, voices warm and lively through the receiver as they share their plans and hesitations, making the whole thing feel more real.

the months pass in a whirl, time unspooling like a ribbon caught in the wind. the living room becomes an evolving mosaic of fabric swatches, discarded sketches, tea-stained mugs, and the occasional half-eaten granola bar. laughter fills the air, bouncing off the walls like music as the two of you brainstorm designs late into the night. the chaos is oddly comforting, each small step pulling you closer to the vision.

planning starts the day billie opens the envelope, the seed of an idea taking root and sprouting almost instantly. you both dive headfirst into research, poring over past themes and iconic looks, your phones cluttered with saved images and bookmarked articles. you sketch your initial concepts with hesitant strokes, unsure at first but growing more confident as the vision sharpens. trial after trial leaves the floor littered with crumpled paper, but finally, after weeks of adjustments, you settle on a design that feels like you.

finding a designer is the next step, a meticulous search through portfolios until one name stands out: erdem moralıoğlu. his work feels like poetry stitched into fabric—textured, vibrant, and alive. you reach out, sending over your sketches and descriptions, and before long, you’re in contact.

the process is intense but rewarding—zoom calls where the two of you gesture wildly, emails where the fine details are ironed out, and even trips to london to stand in his atelier. the space feels sacred, each corner bursting with creativity. mannequins draped in shimmering silks and bold prints stand like statues, their presence almost reverent. fittings are delicate rituals, the fabric cool against your skin as billie sits nearby, watching you with a soft smile. the dresses, when finished, leave you breathless—dreams made tangible, their beauty spilling into the room like sunlight through stained glass.

as april folds into may, the days quicken their pace, each one disappearing as quickly as it arrives. in between fittings and final touches, billie navigates the chaos of awards season, her shelves filling with trophies that glitter in the evening light. you handle the rest—flights, hotels, stylists—ensuring every piece of the puzzle fits seamlessly into place.

then, suddenly, it’s may fifth, and the met gala is no longer a distant vision but an imminent reality.

the morning breaks softly, sunlight spilling through the hotel windows in golden streaks. you wake to the faint sound of the city outside, cars and footsteps blending into a gentle hum. billie stands by the window, her silhouette bathed in light, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. the scent of jasmine and hibiscus mingles with the crisp air. she turns when she hears you stir, her face soft and open, her eyes catching the light. “mornin’, gorgeous,” she says, her voice low and warm as she crosses the room to press a kiss to your forehead.

the day feels suspended in a surreal haze, a quiet thrill thrumming beneath every moment. the suite becomes a hive of activity as your stylist teams arrive, carrying racks of shoes, trays of jewelry, and endless brushes. curling irons hiss, the air fills with the faint aroma of hairspray and perfume, and the room vibrates with quiet focus. billie sits beside you, uncharacteristically still, her gaze flicking between her reflection and yours.

music hums softly in the background, a calming undercurrent to the chaos. your voice drifts above it, low and unhurried, as you hum along to the melody. the nail technician works with careful precision, the faint vibrations of the drill traveling through your fingertips, grounding you in the moment. billie glances over occasionally, a half-smile tugging at her lips as she watches you, her expression tinged with something tender.

outside, the city roars on, oblivious to the quiet symphony unfolding within the suite. for now, the world feels distant, and all that exists is this—the two of you, side by side, preparing to step into something new, something shared.

“nervous?” billie’s voice dances through the air, light and teasing, pulling your eyes from your nails to meet hers in the mirror. the softness in her voice is familiar, grounding, and her blue eyes hold a spark—like she can read you, even in this fleeting moment.

you turn instinctively, but before you can respond, her hand—warm, soft—cups your jaw, fingertips grazing your skin as she gently turns your head back toward the mirror. the contact is so gentle, so intimate, it catches you off guard. a soft ‘sorry’ spills from your lips, almost forgetting the makeup artist’s quiet presence. billie chuckles softly, her laugh the kind that stays with you, echoing in your chest.

“but no, not really,” you admit, the excitement more prominent now than any trace of nerves. “i’m just… excited. tonight is big, that’s all.”

billie nods in agreement, her touch warm against your knee, nails painted dark and mysterious, reflecting the quiet light of the room. “it’s huge,” she says, her words firm and certain. “and it’s ours. nobody can take that from us.” she gives your knee a reassuring squeeze, and you feel the weight of her promise in it.

as the final zippers are pulled and gowns settled into place, there’s a brief, timeless pause. standing before the mirror, you both take in the sight of each other—striking, elegant, everything you’ve worked for reflected back at you. billie steps behind you, wrapping her arm around your waist with a fluid motion, her fingertips brushing the curve of your side as she takes out her phone. soft clicks of the camera, the flash blinking briefly in the mirror, marking this moment in time.

you let your gaze linger on her for just a second—her eyes, a constellation of thoughts, her smile, quiet but knowing. “you look perfect,” you murmur, the words tasting like something real.

“so do you,” billie responds, her voice thick with something unspoken.

she hands you the overcoat—golden and rich—and you slip it on, the soft fabric flowing as you stand, both of you ready for the world to see. the black fabric envelops billie, hiding the brilliance beneath.

as you make your way to the car, your heart beats faster. the ride is silent, save for the hum of the limousine, a soft prelude to the storm of attention waiting for you both.

when the car stops at the metropolitan museum, the atmosphere shifts—like air before a thunderstorm. the doors open, and a flood of lights hits you both.

stepping out first, you feel the world pause. your gold overcoat sweeps behind you, the fabric an extension of the anticipation. billie follows close behind, her black coat almost a shadow, contrasting with the glint of her eyes.

hand in hand, you both walk the carpet, your steps synchronized as the crowd holds its breath. midway, you stop, the moment stretching out before you. you both unclip your coats in perfect harmony, the fabric falling away like a revelation.

the crowd erupts—camera flashes, whispers, gasps. billie’s gown, dark and starlit, catches the light, the midnight blue fabric swirling around her like it’s alive, and the detachable cape, embroidered with golden constellations, billows like the night sky itself. her hair is a wild thing, dark and free, but the diamond crescent moon above her brow gives her an ethereal edge.

your gown is sunlight personified. gold and soft as liquid dawn, the train fanning out like the rays of the morning sun. delicate metallic threads trace the path of light, and your gown seems to shimmer with the warmth of the sun. your overcoat falls away to reveal the intricate embroidery, the story of the night and the day meeting each other—your own private metaphor in the form of fabric.

the cameras can’t seem to capture it fast enough.

you and billie stand together, posing, your fingers brushing in the stillness. there’s a softness to the way she gazes at you, like she’s seeing something just for her, something the world can’t touch.

a photographer calls your names, desperate to immortalize the scene, and then the whispers start.

“is that her girlfriend?”

“they’ve been friends for years—are they… are they confirming it?”

“best looks of the night, no competition.”

billie reaches for you then, her hand slipping into yours as she places a soft kiss on the back of your knuckles. the warmth spreads through you, a smile curling at the corners of your mouth. her lips find the inside of your elbow next, the lightest of touches, just enough to send a thrill through you.

as you ascend the stairs to the museum, you’re stopped every few steps—interviews, compliments, requests for more photos. the whole night a whirlwind of attention. finally, billie grabs your hand, her fingers intertwined with yours, and leads you inside.

it’s like stepping into another world.

the museum is transformed, a mythical landscape of flowers and sculptures, the lighting soft and surreal. it’s dreamlike, this world you’ve entered, a place where time seems to stretch, where anything feels possible. you move through the space, sidestepping whispers and smiles, navigating conversations with designers, artists, and celebrities, all the while the eyes of the room on you.

someone pulls you aside—a fashion editor, wide-eyed. “you two didn’t just follow the theme,” she says, breathless. “you are the theme.”

through the exhibits, billie keeps a steady hand on your back. the painting of the sun and moon, its gold and blue hues so reminiscent of your gowns, catches her eye. “look, baby. that’s us,” she says, her voice warm and playful.

“oh, it most certainly is,” you reply, your hand sliding back to cup her chin. you pull her toward you, capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

the sound of a string quartet fills the air—dreamy, aching. billie takes your hand, her touch firm yet gentle, and leads you to the dance floor.

billie places your champagne flutes down onto a passing tray without a second thought. her fingers pull you closer, her eyes never leaving yours. and then, in the silence between the notes, she asks, her voice quiet, “may i have this dance?”

turning back around towards her, billie grabs your hand and pulls you closer, her fingers warm against yours. you glance around briefly, taking in the fluid movements of the other dancers—how their bodies seem to move as one, a seamless blur of grace and harmony. their steps are effortless, in sync with the music, and you find yourself questioning whether you’ll be able to match their elegance.

swiveling your head toward billie, you raise an eyebrow, uncertainty flickering in your gaze. “i’m not even going to lie… babe, i don’t know how to dance like this.” you sigh, the words coming out in a soft, unsure laugh.

rubbing the back of your hands with her thumbs, billie gives you a gentle smile, the kind that makes your chest feel lighter. “that’s okay, baby, just put your hands here.” she guides your arms around her neck, her touch soft but confident. her hands find your waist, steady and reassuring. “and follow my lead.”

she moves into a simple box step, her body light and fluid, as if dancing is second nature to her. you watch your feet, trying to stay in rhythm, afraid of stepping on her toes. you don’t, but you do misstep, your heel catching the floor awkwardly.

billie’s thumb brushes against your jawline, sending a spark of warmth through you. her index finger tilts your chin up, gently guiding your eyes back to hers. “just keep your eyes on me and let the music guide you,” she murmurs, her voice low and soothing, like a whispered secret meant only for you. “you got this, babe.” her smile is soft, knowing, and it melts any lingering nerves away.

you both glide across the floor, your movements synchronized, as if you’ve waltzed together countless times before. sure, there have been moments when you danced in the kitchen, but never like this—never this close, this connected, with the weight of her touch grounding you.

your fingers brush the soft hair at the nape of her neck, the small strands delicate beneath your touch. you try not to disrupt the neat style, but the temptation to run your fingers through it is too strong. your skirts brush against each other with every turn, the fabric whispering against the air, adding to the quiet symphony of the moment. the warmth between you both is undeniable, charged with an electric connection that doesn’t need words. billie’s gaze is all adoration, her eyes so full of it, it’s almost too much to bear. the intensity of her attention has you shyly glancing away, the heat of her stare igniting a flush on your cheeks.

billie draws you closer, pressing your bodies flush together, closing the distance until there’s no space left between you. “are you blushing?” she asks, her voice low and teasing, the words brushing against the shell of your ear. her breath sends a shiver down your spine, goosebumps rising in its wake.

“shut up, please and thank you.” you whisper, a playful retort slipping from your lips as you bite the inside of your cheek, desperately trying to suppress the smile that’s already tugging at the corners of your mouth. billie laughs—a soft, steady chuckle—and you feel it deep in your chest. she presses a gentle kiss to your temple, the warmth of it lingering long after.

but before you can respond, a figure approaches—sharp black suit, a man who billie seems to recognize. he taps her shoulder, his voice cutting through the quiet rhythm of the dance. “so sorry to interrupt,” he says, his tone apologetic but firm. “billie, could i borrow you for a moment? it’s about the exhibit’s partnership.”

billie glances at you, her brow furrowing slightly, a trace of reluctance crossing her features. “i’ll be right back, okay?” she says, her voice soft but tinged with something almost apologetic.

you nod, giving her a reassuring smile, though there’s a flicker of disappointment that you try to hide. “go. i’ll be fine, promise.”

her lips brush against yours in one last chaste kiss, tender and lingering. her hand hovers for a moment on your right cheek, the warmth of her touch searing even through the space that begins to grow between you. then, she’s pulled away, disappearing into the sea of guests, her silhouette swallowed by the crowd. you step back, the connection between you suddenly lost, and the vastness of the room feels overwhelming. the music, once so close, now seems distant, and the energy in the air feels too heavy. the laughter, the chatter—it all blends together into a distant hum. you need a moment of solitude, a space to breathe, to recalibrate.

you slip away from the center of the floor, seeking out a quiet corner, where the noise fades into a soft blur. the weight of the evening settles on your shoulders, and for the first time tonight, you feel untethered.

grabbing another slender flute of champagne from a wandering waiter’s tray, you lift it to your lips, hoping the cool liquid might ease the heat that’s been bubbling inside you since you stepped into the room. the soft murmur of chatter and the rhythmic clink of glasses fade into the background, as if the world around you has softened and quieted, leaving only the sensation of the glass in your hand. you tilt it back, letting the golden liquid slip over your tongue, the bubbles dancing lightly against your taste buds before you tilt your head further, draining the glass in one smooth motion.

the bubbles sting your throat as they travel down, sharp and fleeting, but you don’t flinch. you welcome the coolness, feeling it settle in your chest, a brief reprieve from the heat radiating from your cheeks and the warmth that still lingers in the pit of your stomach. you lower the empty flute with a soft clink against the table, your fingers lingering on the stem for a moment, as if to steady yourself. exhaling sharply, you glance around the room, your eyes skimming the crowd, deliberately avoiding the spot where billie stands. your heart beats faster, a flutter of nerves taking over, and you fight the shy grin that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

after a moment, you slip away, retreating from the crowded space, the noise and clamor of the gala fading as you wander through the museum. you pass beneath gilded archways and quiet galleries, the sharp contrast between the noise of the event and the hush of the galleries almost surreal. you find yourself outside in the garden, the night air welcoming in its stillness.

the difference is immediate—the hum of the gala swallowed by the soft chorus of crickets and the gentle murmur of the night breeze. you step onto the balcony, your gaze lifting to the sky. the moon hangs high above, its silvery glow casting everything in its path with an almost ethereal, dreamlike light. you place your hands on the cool stone of the banister, fingers trailing over its smooth surface as you tilt your head back, letting the crisp night air wash over you, calming the frantic thoughts swirling in your mind.

you descend the steps, the gentle rustle of your skirts against the stone floor barely audible. the garden sprawls before you, an oasis of serenity in the midst of the city’s heartbeat. you walk slowly, brushing your fingers against the lush greenery, feeling the varying textures beneath your fingertips—soft petals, the sharp edge of leaves, the smoothness of bark. the mingling scents of flowers and the faint trace of city air surround you, a comforting blend that grounds you in the moment, offering a strange sense of peace you didn’t know you needed.

you finally take a seat on a stone bench, the cool surface beneath you a contrast to the heat still lingering in your skin. you close your eyes, letting the quiet settle over you, and the weight of the evening fall away. the night is still and gentle, and for a moment, it feels like the world has paused just for you.

then, you hear it—the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. it’s familiar, a sound you know without needing to look. you turn to see billie standing at the edge of the garden, her silhouette framed by the soft moonlight. her hands are tucked into the pockets of her gown, and the light catches the shimmer of her dress, making her appear almost otherworldly, like she belongs to this tranquil, ethereal setting.

“thought i’d find you here,” she says, her voice a smooth blend of warmth and curiosity.

you offer her a small smile as she steps closer, the cool air between you giving way to the quiet intimacy of the moment. her gaze locks with yours, and she continues, her words soft but laced with a tenderness that makes your heart skip. “you looked lost,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of something unspoken. “or maybe i was the one who felt lost without you.”

the distance between you closes, and for a moment, the world feels still again. it’s just you and billie, the moonlight, and the quiet hum of the night. everything else seems so far away.

you smile, patting the spot beside you on the bench. “come join me, moonchild,” you joke, your voice light and playful, the warmth of the moment settling around you both.

billie chuckles softly, her eyes flickering to the bench before she gracefully takes a seat. she doesn’t speak at first, just tilts her head back, letting the moonlight bathe her face as she admires the sky alongside you. the silence stretches out between you, but it’s comfortable, enveloping you in a shared quiet that feels as natural as breathing.

“they don’t tell you how overwhelming it all is, do they?” you murmur, breaking the stillness, your voice soft and contemplative.

“not really,” billie admits, her gaze drifting from the stars back to you. “i mean, i’ve been to big events before, but this… tonight felt different.”

“oh? why?”

“because of you,” she says, turning to meet your eyes. her gaze is steady and soft, and there’s a vulnerability in her expression, as if she’s revealing a piece of herself she doesn’t show often. “i’ve been to a million carpets, smiled for a million cameras. but having you by my side tonight… it made it feel real. like i wasn’t just performing for the world. i was sharing something real with them—for once.”

her words hang in the air, catching you off guard, and you look down at your hands, the shyness that had briefly faded creeping back into your chest. “i didn’t know if i was ready for all this,” you admit, the vulnerability in your voice almost as raw as her confession. “but walking into that room with you… i don’t think i’ve ever felt more sure of anything in my life.”

billie reaches for your hand, her gloves now off, and her fingers are cool against yours, the simple touch grounding you in the moment. “i never want you to doubt this—us. whether we’re in front of the world or hiding out on your couch, i’m all in.”

you lean your head against her shoulder, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest like a promise. “me too,” you whisper, the sincerity in your voice matching the tenderness in her touch.

for a while, you sit like that, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the world outside seeming distant and irrelevant. the moon watches over you, casting its silver light across the two of you, a silent witness to the love you’ve nurtured in private and are now ready to share with the world. in its glow, everything else feels secondary, as if this space—this garden—is the only place that matters.

eventually, billie speaks, her voice low and teasing, breaking the spell. “you know, this might be my favorite part of the night. sorry to the met gala.”

you laugh softly, the sound light and free. “mine too. but don’t let anna wintour hear you say that.”

billie grins, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, her lips lingering for a moment. “our secret.”

the garden remains quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the museum’s walls. billie’s hand is warm in yours, a steady comfort as you sit together on the stone bench. the night air wraps around you both like a blanket, the cool breeze carrying the faintest scent of jasmine and earth. the moonlight catches in billie’s blue eyes, making them shimmer like stars, and she watches you with an intensity that feels both familiar and new.

after a moment, she breaks the silence, her voice soft but carrying a note of mischief. “do you want to leave?”

you blink, taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “leave? the met?”

billie shrugs, a small, playful smile curling at her lips. “yeah. i mean, we’ve already done the whole thing—walked the carpet, mingled, got our pictures taken. we even danced. i think we’ve hit all the marks.” she pauses, her thumb gently brushing against your hand, her touch sending a shiver through you. “but honestly? i’d rather just be with you. away from all… this.”

the suggestion lingers in the air, heavy with possibility, and you don’t have to think twice. “god, yes,” you say with a laugh, turning to her fully, your eyes bright. “let’s get out of here.”

billie’s grin widens, and she stands, her hand reaching for yours as she pulls you up with her. “best decision we’ve made all night.”

hand in hand, you walk back toward the museum’s exit, leaving the lights, the glamour, and the cameras behind. the night feels different now—more yours than ever before. the world can wait.

astrc’s tags: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns @47lake @vijaxx @natbelovasblog ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Female Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x FReader.

CW: P in V sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(See male reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me.

(Fem Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - an exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to her knees by the Radio Demon himself. She's got a mouthwatering pair of tits, a luscious ass, and a swollen little clit that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is her tight little cunt."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"She's soaked, practically drowning in her own juices. And the sounds she makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling cunt spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you! You're a mess. Your makeup's smeared, your hair's a tangled mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking beautiful, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Princess. I'm going to flood your cunt with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those tits... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, cunt clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinners surrender. Her body convulsing, her voice screaming out in ecstasy as I claim her yet again. And now, I'm now painting her insides with my seed, branding her as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Darling. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Sweetheart. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his semen trickling from your sated cunt as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

[veephoenix]

the last song | n.s.

With the new album finally completed and a new song dropping in a couple of days, Noah takes his girl to the studio, hoping to show her around without the chaos of past recording days, and maybe, he can get that last song he's been dreaming of.

one shot ✨ | noah sebastian x fem.reader word count: 2.3k tags: established relationship, fluff, fluffy sexual content (it's not too explicit), reader has a slight kink for noah's silver chain (who doesn't, let's be honest), no trigger warnings, just noah being in love and being loved back.

The studio is finally empty. 

After weeks of relentless work and dedication, days blurring into nights, headaches, frustration, last-minute changes, and ups and downs not only in the sounddeck, but also in the mood of the whole team, the album was finally ready, and in a matter of days, new music would fill spaces beyond the studio’s confines.  

         Noah steps aside to let her in. She is enveloped in the grandeur of the space. Never before had she been in a recording studio, and its magnitude overwhelms her. The expanse stretches out before her, a labyrinth of hallways leading into rooms of creativity. There are framed records adorning the walls, a testament to the artistry that thrives within these walls. This feels like the type of place Noah would call home. Too bad she hasn’t fully realized yet that his home is her,no matter how many hours he’s spent away from her locked in this very right place. 

         While she is fascinated by the array of instruments, cables, and other things she doesn’t know the name of, it’s Noah himself who captivates her the most. His joy is palpable as he gives gently explanations about the use of each room, each instrument. His enthusiasm is infectious. He’s so eager to share his world with her. 

         This is one of the reasons why she’s so in love with him. 

         His passion. 

         And she is lucky enough that he’s equally passionate about music as he is about her. 

         Taking her hand, he leads her from one room to another, continuing his explanations and sharing curiosities about this and that, mentioning the guys, the places where each one usually sits while they review the recordings, the Starbucks cups that pile up in the corner of a table when they’ve been locked in there for twelve hours and start to suffer the effects of not seeing the sunlight or hearing the sounds of the outside world, anecdotes that ignite her laughter, a sound that makes Noah’s heart flutter. 

         She asks him about the new music, she pleads to hear at least one song, a piece, ten seconds. Nearly begs him. She knows she just has to utter the word “please” and Noah will give her anything she wants. This evening, she wants to hear the melodic cascade of his voice, get lost in the way Noah turns words into dreamy melodies. It’s not enough to hear him speak; she wants to hear him weave words into a song; she wants to drown in the melodies he has put into lyrics that speak of her, of the moments when they are stripped of all mundanity, of clothes and fear, when they are alone, skin to skin, and when all that can be heard is only the rhythm of their beating hearts and the symphony of their shared passion. 

         He insists he can’t. He wants it to be a surprise. He has hopes that when she listens to the album, one or two songs will get her on her knees, while others will lead her to beg him to fuck her to the cadence of those. 

         Embedded within the lyrics of the new songs are a few confessions, but there’s a time for those to reach her ears, and it’s not tonight. 

         He silences his phone and sets it aside while she occupies herself by tinkering with the buttons on the soundboard. A few minutes later, Noah sneaks up behind her, enveloping her in his warm and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her white t-shirt.  

         “There’s actually... one last song missing,” he murmurs against the fragrant scent of her hair.  

         “One last song?” She asks, her curiosity piqued. She begins to turn round, but Noah holds her in place. He rests his head on her shoulder, and with a trail of his fingers along the curve of her stomach, he elicits a subtle shiver that she tries to ignore. “I thought you said the album was complete, that you had finished...”

“Not quite yet,” he replies, planting a ghostly kiss on her earlobe. 

         She can sense the cool, minty breath against her neck, and it sends a shiver down her spine. He has been indulging in a mint candy, and her mind wanders to the tantalizing thought of having his mouth between her legs at this moment. The idea of that refreshing sensation sends a rush of desire coursing through her veins, and she can’t help but wonder if it would be enough to push her over the edge. 

         She smells of jasmine and the promise of spring. He wants to inhale her, breathe her in.  

         Concerned, she wriggles in his embrace until she can face him, stepping back a few paces as she speaks. She wants him to take her seriously.

         “I didn’t know, Noah. I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me here if you were still in the middle of—”

         With a single step, he reaches her again, his smile widening at her endearing bewilderment. He captures her lips in a kiss, stealing her breath away. The taste of the candy is still on his lips, and his fresh breath enters her mouth as their lips part.

         It’s in the way their mouths fit together that she finds reassurance that they’re perfect for each other. She knows she’s found the boy of her dreams, and the mere thought of being apart from him feels unbearable. She doesn’t know how she will survive next time he goes away on tour. For now, she will live in the way his tender kisses have a way of evolving into passionate bites that ignite a delightful flutter in her stomach. 

         “You’re adorable,” he says over her lips. 

         For a moment, she feels dizzy. Then, with a determined frown, she grabs a handful of Noah’s black hoodie, attempting to appear assertive, though to Noah, she resembles nothing more than an adorable kitten.  

         “You told me the album was complete, that you would only bring me here once the work was done and this was empty so that you could let me explore and touch things and…”

         “And record the last song,” Noah interjects calmly, looking into her eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

         Her brow furrows even deeper, her head tilting slightly to the side as Noah’s gaze traces the contours of her face, his eyes filled with admiration for every freckle, that little ever so tiny scar earned in a childhood adventure, the faint blush spreading through her cheeks.  

         “Noah, I don’t understand.”

         “Let me show you…”

         With her skin already responding to the anticipation, Noah’s hands find their way under her t-shirt, caressing the skin of her sides. It’s always just one touch and she’s already putty in his hands. She can’t help it; the man has that effect on her, that power over her. She would give him the world if she could because no one ever makes her feel as cherished as he does.  

         So, when he gently lifts her t-shirt, after worshipping her with light, seductive kisses along her neck and jawline, she allows him to undress her. His lips touch her shoulder, his tongue tracing a slow path until it finds the pulsing vein of her neck. A sharp intake of breath escapes her lips as he tenderly sucks at her skin, his fingers expertly finding their way beneath her skirt and underwear, eliciting a low, sweet moan from deep within her.  

         It’s the first of many moans to come.  

         Noah smiles against her flushed skin. His cock twitches. His heartbeat races.  

         The music is playing now. 

         He showers her with kisses, his hand cradling the side of her face as he traces a line with his finger from between her legs, through the valley of her breasts, up to her clavicle. 

         Growing impatient, she tugs at his hoodie, and sensing her urgency, he assists her in removing it. Underneath, Noah wears a black tank top, and her eyes immediately gravitate to the silver chain adorning his neck, previously hidden by the hoodie. With a heated spark in her eyes, she hesitates for a moment before seizing the chain and pulling Noah down to her awaiting mouth. 

         With one hand clutching his chain and the other sliding to the back of his head, she revels in the sensation of his soft hair sliding between her fingers. He emanates the intoxicating scent of masculine perfume and tastes like pure adrenaline—a potent combination that renders him utterly irresistible. He’s as addictive as a man can get. He’s tall, muscular, handsome, and fucking sweet. 

         And best of all, he is hers.  

         Noah scoops her up, intending to place her atop the sound deck. It would be a great place to fuck her on, but he quickly realizes it wouldn’t be comfortable at all, and he doesn’t want her to get hurt. 

         He pivots towards the couch—a place where he had envisioned her countless times before… Sitting there with pen and paper, crafting songs about her, he had often pictured her naked form, her eyes shimmering with anticipation, beckoning him to find his place between her legs, to envelop her with his body, to fill her up with every inch of him.

          With care, he lays her down on the couch, positioning one knee on the cushions to remain close to her, determined to prolong their kiss for as long as possible. He doesn’t think he can breathe without her nearby. 

         She is never shy when it comes to showing how much she wants him, how much she needs him. She’s unapologetically about her desperate desire, and that’s something that drives him to the brink of madness. Her eagerness only serves to make her so fucking attractive that he thinks he could eat her up. He’s consumed by that need, to bite and taste her in a surge of primal instinct, yet he manages to maintain a sweet and seductive demeanor. She brings out both the beast and the tender lover in him, and somehow, it’s a harmonious blend that feels inexplicably beautiful. 

         With each touch, nibble, and kiss, her passionate responses start escaping from her lips, wet with lust for him. Their clothes disappear in a matter of minutes, and as Noah finds himself —and his skilled tongue— nestled between her legs, savoring her essence, and impregnating her with his fresh minty breath, the symphony of his name being carried through long feminine moans fill the studio walls in ways he could never have imagined. 

         But it’s when he’s buried deep inside her that the music truly comes alive. 

         Together, they create a melody of ecstasy, Noah playing her body like a virtuoso, eliciting the perfect notes and sounds with each touch, kiss, thrust. She’s a tangled delicious mess beneath him, but every whimper and sigh and plea for more is a testament to her trust and love for him, a hymn sung in the throes of passion. 

         Occasionally, a primal growl escapes him, the beast within yearning to be unleashed, but she, the angel, the muse,keeps him grounded, wrapped in her wings, guiding him along the lines of their shared musical score. 

         As their bodies glisten with sweat, the tempo of their lovemaking begins to slow, descending from its crescendo, their ragged breaths filling the remaining spaces of their song. She smiles against his cheek, nuzzling her nose against his skin. She holds him close, unwilling to let go just yet. Unwilling to ever let go. 

         “So?” She murmurs, teasingly playing with her teeth on Noah’s earlobe.

          He squirms in an attempt to escape her, but her teeth follow him, leaving him with no choice but to retaliate by biting her shoulder and descending to capture on of her nipples in his mouth, coaxing one new sound from her lips. 

         “So?” he repeats, mumbling between clenched teeth, his tongue teasing her hardened nipple. 

         “Did you record the song?” she asks playfully, gesturing with her eyes towards the sound deck. 

         “No. No, I didn’t,” he admits with a laugh, feeling himself softening inside of her. 

         “Oh, well…” she licks her lips, pretending to think of what to do now. The weight of Noah feels so nice on top of her that it would be enough to just keep on holding him. “What are we going to do about it?” she continues. “Any idea?”

         She does have an idea. 

         Her cheeky tone catches him off guard, and this time, it’s him who frowns as he gazes up at her. His chest and stomach press against hers, and with each laborious breath she takes, he feels the rhythmic rise and fall of her body beneath him. He considers moving, but before he can act, she wraps her leg around his, anchoring him in place.

         She bites her lip, tempting him to do the same; to lower his head and kiss her and bite her and leave her breathless. 

         A second later, she reaches down towards her bag on the carpeted floor beside the couch and retrieves her phone, unlocks it, and opens the voice recording app. 

         “Maybe we should try again, don’t you think? And perhaps we should try to be… a bit louder?”

         His eyes darken. 

         “Think you can do that?” she asks him, a devilish smile painted on her face. 

         “I can definitely make you sing louder,” he growls, feeling himself hardening once more while still inside of her. His home. 

         She has a way of provoking him that never fails to get him hard anywhere, anytime, in no time. 

         “Do I… press play now?” Her fingertip hovers over the screen. 

         Noah responds by pulling a few inches out and thrusting hard into her, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization against the worn fabric of the sofa they are laid on. She lets out a scream as her fingertip presses the play button. The phone falls with a thud on the floor. 

         And with that, they’re making music once again. 

         One last song. 

         One more time. 

         Louder. 

[tokiwarcube]

I always wondered what the boys would think if their s/o was in a band (the genre is up to you) and they have the same position in the band as the boys. This has been a thought that won’t leave me alone, help me!!

P.s I love your writings for these 5 silly men !! :)

Aww, thank you so much!! I absolutely fell in love with this prompt -- and I had an absolute blast writing it! Now I will Also be thinking about this forever, haha. Enjoy! <3

(Implied NS/FW warning for Pickles' section!)

Nathan Explosion

My simple, multi-platinum krillionaire rockstar — for as much as he daydreams about what life would have been like if he got to live like a regular jack-off, it’s just not the path for him. So dating another famous lead vocalist? Right up his alley.

He actually likes it more than he thought — it’s nice to bounce lyrics off of you, and vice versa. Toying with pitch, cadence, and intonation, all the different vocal techniques without judgement of sounding silly… Your halls are always alive with the sound of music… even if the subject is about death and murder, it’s its own form of magic.

But singing at home and singing in concert are two very, very different beasts. He wasn’t prepared for how intense you could be on stage, with the band to back you up. Your confidence as you stride, growling so mean he can feel it in his blood before perking back up to bounce away? All of your little stunts? Half of him is taking notes for their next show, and half of him is utterly starstruck. Your eyes dart over to him every now and again, smiling when you notice his wide eyes. His breath hitches when you throw a little wave to him in response, and he can’t help the breathless “holy shit” that falls from his lips.

You’re not as popular as Dethklok, but you couldn’t tell that from inside the venue walls — with how easily you command the crowd, he’s certain you were a siren in a past life. Or now. You could tell everyone in this room to jump off a bridge, and they would, he’s certain of it.

That would make a good song, actually…

Pickles the Drummer

Pickles has a pretty sizable repertoire of instrument proficiency — bass, guitar, keys… a brief stint with an alto sax, as a bit… and currently, drums. He’s got a soft spot in his heart for all of it, each instrument representing a specific era of his life, but he’s found himself enjoying the drums the most. It’s strong, supportive — every song needs a beat! It takes a specific personality to play drums well, and it’s one that he both embodies within himself, and covets when in others.

This is all to say — he finds it very hot that you play drums.

And as a man who appreciates a nice set of legs, he very much likes the effects drumming has on your calves. Your calves might be sore after a long practice session, but that’s nothing compared to the bites he’ll leave later in the night.

He also loves to watch you play — sweat rolling down the column of your throat as you raise your hands above your head for another well-timed strike, lost in the rhythm… Woof.

You’ve kind of gotta beat him back with a stick while on tour if you ever want to go out for drinks after a show — if he had it his way, he’d be spending the post-concert glow in the hotel, letting you know just how much he liked your performance.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

Anyone looking in would assume this would be a point of competition, but he actually really loves having someone he can talk technical with! Despite being in Dethklok, he doesn’t really get to talk guitar often — Toki, Murderface, and Pickles can play, sure, but the former two don’t give a fuck about technique, and Pickles just doesn’t care about it enough to chat about it outside of the studio.

He loves hearing about all of the little musical decisions you’ve contributed to in each song — don’t think he didn’t catch the time signature change there. Just a single bar, why? Or this section here, that was a reprise of the first song in the album — how are they connected? He catches all the little details, and he wants to know all about them. In this same vein, he’s also great to bounce ideas off of when you’re in a rut… but be careful! His ideas are damn-good, and at this rate, he might just need a spot in the writer’s credits.

It’s very fun to just sit down and jam with him, passing the melody back and forth as your improvised tune grows. He calls it practice — and in a sense, it is — but really, he just likes playing with you.

He pushes to have your tours alternate with Dethklok’s so he can be at all of your shows, and vice versa — you have his full attention during your solos, and he’s not above slapping the boys to get them to shuts up so he can hear you in all of your glory.

He’s pretty stationary on stage — such is the downside of working with a bunch of uncoordinated dumbasses. (He is not exempt from this.) But if you have the agility and focus to bounce around on stage while playing? Oh, he didn’t think he could fall in love any further. He didn’t think he was capable of being starstruck, but you’ve proven him wrong tenfold. He’ll happily brave a couple thousand rabid fans for the pit experience — sorry to all the people stuck behind his towering self, but being backstage is nothing compared to barrier. The flashing lights, choking fog and towering flames only make you look more beautiful than ever, and he can’t help but reach out to you when you waggle your fingers at the crowd.

Personally offended if you don’t throw him at least one pick on tour. He does not care that he is 1.) Dating you, and 2.) Has limitless access to your stash. It’s the principle.

You wear each other’s picks on necklaces <3

Toki Wartooth

You play rhythm too? Wowee! You’re so good, though — how are you not playing solos?

He is completely gobsmacked by the fact that not only are you not the lead guitarist, but that you don’t care to be, either. I mean, he has Skwisgaar to compete against — and as loathe as he is to say it, it’s a pretty fucking high bar to surpass. But you? You could easily play lead! You just don’t want to? What?

He doesn’t really get it, but he writes it off as just you being humble. Beyond that, your similarity doesn’t really play too big of a role in your shared lives! But when concert season rolls around, he’s insistent about hanging out at barrier, just so he can see what it’s like to be at one of your shows. And then, then, that’s when he gets it.

You never seem to stand still, bouncing this way and that, playing in ways he never even thought possible. You don’t need to play solos to wow the crowd — hell, he’s been practically raised by the most popular band in the world, but with you in front of him now, he feels like just another one of your adoring fans itching at the chance to even be seen. Nobody cheers louder than Toki, and he’s insistent on going to each and every one of your shows.

After show from here on out he’ll interlock hands with you, congratulating you on yet another show well-done. He traces the callouses on your fingertips, heart swelling with giddiness at dating such a badass guitarist.

William Murderface

Finally, someone else who appreciates a good bass line. A band is nothing without the bass, especially metal, and it’s nice to talk to someone else who understands that. Especially after being AJFA’d out off all their most recent albums.

Playing bass is a very thankless job — you have to support the entire band, giving them structure and direction without any of the thanks that the rhythm guitar or the drums get. The most, and I mean the most that he gets, is a solo at the end of the show. Which is fun, but you know… it’s very much a job that you take because you love the big picture, not the details.

That’s his point of view, anyways. Because the second he sees you in-show, his whole world gets flipped on his head.

You have a very confident poise on stage — unshakeable, much like the deep notes that you pluck from the instrument. And yet, you command attention from the crowd effortlessly. It’s like you were made for this — all long strides and sneaky smiles as you move around on stage. And despite the eccentricity of your fellow bandmates — a very energetic show, he’s noticed — you still draw a sizable amount of attention from the packed arena, and man does he wish he was in the pit right now so he could get that sly little smile head-on. And huh, maybe bass can be fun, after all.

He loves to brag about you, and will do so at any opportunity.

After seeing your prowess on stage, he starts practicing a bit outside of concert season… and then more, and more, until he finally feels ready enough to fight to get the bass turned up in the next Dethalbum. Thanksch, babe.

[patricia-taxxon]

would you ever consider going deeper into microtonal music (i mean, deeper than 24 equal divisions of the octave)? although i can't in good conscience recommend the major wiki as a learning material, there's a really charming youtube series introducing 19edo/19tet by the user HEHEHE I AM A SUPAHSTAR SAGA. it might not be exciting to a more poppy and/or sound design focused sensibility, but i think it's a topic worth exploring for anyone who likes music and recreational math

probably not. I'm theoretically minded, and I find a lot of modern western microtonal music to be really unmotivated on that front, if I move in that direction it'll be out of a drive to find new cadences and the like rather than just making the notes sound watery. maybe there's a universe where I go deep into lattices, too.

either that, or i delve into some other culture's classical music and incorporate that. get a west african kora player in the studio and tune all my synths to match, that'd be fun.

[sir-adamus]

https://www.tumblr.com/sir-adamus/742157593903054848/lmao-jelloapocalypse-getting-industry-blacklisted

Uh, what happened exactly?

i'm getting this news peripherally through twitter so obviously i'm wary of the full details (especially because the people being loudest about this are the anti-localisation crowd who are eating up any ammunition they can for their deranged culture war), but my understanding of the gist of the situation is this

Blaber gets contracted to work on a localisation for an anime (that i believe is known for having a regional dialect used in it primarily) by discotek media. he has made several blog posts and public comments making it very clear he despises the material, broadcast his utter contempt for the creator of the series (seems to be a recurring thing with this guy) and boasted about how he got to do whatever he wanted with it and how the changes he made in the localisation were all way better writing than the original

this has obviously pissed a lot of people off for many reasons (some legitimate, some very much not from the weird nerds fighting their culture war), and discotek have issued a statement about their disappointment in his lack of professional behaviour and won't be working with him in future

it seems they were working with sound cadence studio on this one (which is a studio that is also outsourced for rwb/y - most if not all the professional voice actors that have been on the show were contracted through them, and that would've included Blaber), so this bullshit may have lasting repercussions on contract work of any kind with anime because he's a smarmy, arrogant idiot who can't keep his fucking mouth shut

[answer2jeff]

Life Imitates Art —Carmen Berzatto.

PART 1/2.

warnings: fluff. painter!reader x roommate!carmen. unestablished relationships. clunky overly detailed writing. carmy being concerned. angsty. mutual pinning. (reader is lowkey mentally unstable like Carmen. i can't write 100% healthy relationships i'm sorry!!!)

a/n: sorry i disappeared and didn't write for weeks and decided to randomly drop this!

You needed inspiration.

With your last three pieces bought out from the French art gallery, L'art de L'amour, you hadn't touched your easel in days. Your brushes had gone dry, the paint clumping and staining every bristle. The lack of desire to make art felt like you hadn't seen the sun in 10 years.

You'd been ignoring this dreadful feeling with sleep.

Long day at the studio, the space filled with no one but younger, starving artists who wanted to admire your work for creative flow—but never wanting to know the real meaning behind every brush stroke, or why you used oil paints for specific pieces? Sleep.

The days fell shorter, the nights falling longer.

Even your roommate, a micromanager of his career, noticed.

It surprised you, possibly more than it should've. When you first moved into this apartment, you had every doubt in the world sharing a space would be enjoyable. For a while, you weren't sure if you could call yourselves "friends." Then again, living with a complete stranger—a man, no less, seemed impractical. But after a month or two, it was refreshing in a way. Carmen always cleaned up after himself, and was never opposed to splitting chores. There was no need to set specific boundaries. You felt respected, cared for. Every minute not overpowered by either of your desires to create were mostly spent with each other. It kept you sane.

You woke up to the sound of Carmen walking into the kitchen, cursing under his breath when he struggled to shut the door of your apartment behind him. Reluctantly, you dragged yourself out of bed, only to find that your bedroom door was wide open. You must've gone straight to bed after spending the entire evening trying and expectedly failing at "cleaning" up the apartment so Carmen wouldn't come home to a mess.

Bare feet pattered against the floorboards, the palm of your hand pressing into your tired eyes. You stretched your arms out, your t-shirt, who you weren't sure if it was yours or Carmen's, lifting up and showing just a sliver of your stomach over your grey sweatpants. The sunlight leaking through the windows blinded you.

"Oh, hey. You're up." A warm, welcoming voice greeted you, followed by the fridge being closed shut after restocking it with the necessities he picked up from Whole Foods.

You blinked to see Carmen hovered over the kitchen counter, clad in a navy-blue crewneck and gold chain dangling from his pale neck. His hands pried at a familiar brown wrapper. Blueberry muffins.

"Hey, yourself," you slurred, barely able to keep your eyes open as you hoisted yourself up onto the marble surface. You gazed down at him, grinning at his messy blonde curls.

Carmen smiled back, blue eyes admiring the sight of you: half asleep, your voice raspy while still having that airy cadence, your hair messier than it was the last time he willingly saw you—which he couldn't totally remember. He came home to the sight of your bedroom dimly lit by your bedside lamp.

"It's noon," he muttered, glancing from his phone on the counter, and back to you.

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. You've been sleeping a lot lately," he kept his stare on you as he opened the cabinet beside you, reminding you to 'watch your head' as he grabbed a ceramic plate.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Your mind wandered to your exhibit. The thought of never having the ability to create such extraordinary work terrified you. So much that you hadn't even tried. It was almost embarrassing: Carmen seeing you like this. Rid of the one thing you convinced yourself you knew how to do.

"Not really."

You wanted to laugh. Maybe he just didn't get it.

If you could make even the painfully mundane into something more, than maybe you were more than just existing. Carmen was actually astounded by you and your work, even with the lack of knowledge in other art forms. Culinary was his calling, but for you? Oh, how he tried to grasp every concept you conveyed in your creative works. All in attempt to comprehend every thought in that pretty little head of yours.

Maybe he didn't understand as much as he wished, but maybe he didn't have to totally 'get it' to get you. Carmen found it hard to read people, their feelings, their true intentions, his whole life. But for once, he had confidence in his intoxicating marvel for everything you did. Even the way you covered your mouth when you laughed around everyone except him, or the way you styled your hair

"Well, it was for the sake of art," you smiled, extending your hand out to accept the plate that held the beautifully baked blueberry muffin. "Thanks for these, by the way."

"Pleasure. And I was actually gonna ask you about that. The—the art. Your art." Carmen joined you on the counter, his feet dangling beside yours. Your shoulders bumped past each other, a laugh coming from the both of you.

"Yeah? What about it?" You bit into your muffin, your gaze never leaving his.

"Well, I uh—I kinda wanted to visit your exhibit, y'know? Get to see it in its full form. I would've asked sooner but—"

"Yeah, yeah, it's okay. I know. Um—that'd be great. That's really nice of you, Carm."

A part of you wondered why he wanted to see it. But it wasn't all too surprising. Carmen took every chance he got to see your studio—even taking the initiative to drive you home from it on late nights, where you'd be endlessly analyzing your works even hours after Carmen would leave what was now, The Bear.

"Nah, I mean, I've just seen all that y'do and it's—" Carmen shrugged, struggling to find the right words to express his admiration without changing the atmosphere, "really cool. It's you, y'know?" His bottom lip was barred by his teeth and he looked into you for an answer.

You wished you could understand how the complexities of a kitchen; how it could clutch Carmen's attention to the point of no return, but you were happy for him. He was making something more of "mom and dads piece of shit," as he called it.

You never thought it was anything short of fucking awesome. He had all of this experience, drive, passion. Carmen felt more real, more rawly human to you than anything. Or anyone you'd met before.

He changed you. You were softer, calmer.

And still, you worried for him, dragging him out of the ever all consuming anxiety. Sometimes this was through watching X-file reruns on the couch. And every night, you'd move a little closer. By now, he'd keep an arm around you as your eyes became heavy and the room stirred with darkness and comfortable silence. He prayed to whatever ruled above him that you wouldn't notice, simultaneously wishing you'd want him to hold you gently like this. Even grocery store trips, something so simple, felt this way—which you missed out on this morning. You'd stand on the edge of the cart, your hands supporting your weight as Carmen pushed the handle with both hands, eyes scanning the isle for whatever obscure ingredient he needed for the dinner he planned on making you that night.

Every time he looked away, you stared. His beautifully carved nose, the way he bit the inside of his cheek and furrowed his blonde eyebrows when he tried to focus on making a decision. You were afraid, in a weird, animalistic way. You hadn't stopped yourself from relying on him. What if loving him this way made him pull away–or worse, you? You had to admit, having something this painfully simple in your life that made up for the chaos, was a little hard to accept.

It took everything in you to pretend you didn't notice him cleaning up the bathroom you shared whenever either of you left your belongings lying around. You wanted to convince yourself it was because he didn't want to come off as a slob, or influence you to be one yourself. But it always felt more like he was looking after you. Nothing that belonged to you would ever be misplaced again. Not with Carmen around.

You took pride in the little things. Your shoes placed next to each other near the front door, your toothbrushes leaning against each other with corresponding colored clips to cover their bristles. This was good. Change was good.

[ashleyfilm]

Seeing Clearly - Chapter. 10 Patrol

Hi Everyone! Couldn't wait a day longer to give you this next chapter. :)

Chapter Warnings: cursing, angst, talk of body image, smut, violence, blood, - Minors - DNI

Characters: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!OC Plus Size Reader

Chapter Summary: You and Joel go out on patrol, he helps you feel good again. 3K

Thank you to @saradika-graphics for the book line divider. :)

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7 Ch 8 Ch 9

Chapter 10. Patrol

The next morning you find yourself walking outside the walls of Jackson with Joel Miller. How the hell did this happen? Oh yeah, you asked to be put on patrol, and he said only if it’s with him. Good lord. After the events of last night, you don’t really feel like talking which suits him just fine, you’re sure. But the longer you walk you realize he doesn’t feel as cold as usual. He walks close to you; tells you where you’re going and what’s next. You feel his eyes on you, checking on you. Maybe this is just high-alert Joel, no time to ice you out when your lives are at stake. Okay, fine. You’ll take this over asshole Joel any day.

You make your way to a safe house where you’re to check in and drop off supplies for emergencies when anyone might be stuck out here or finds themselves on their own. It’s basically a studio-sized log cabin. Just a couch, fireplace, bed and kitchen all in one room and a small bathroom. It’s fortified and locked up with padlocks that need codes to open them. Those codes get changed regularly and are only known on a need-to-know basis. If you don’t go on patrol, you don’t know them. Joel and you are to hunker down there for a few hours to keep watch see if there’s any traffic in the area, raiders, clickers or otherwise. You’ve got a walkie which is turned on to a certain channel for emergencies only and so-far, not a peep.

After about an hour keeping watch and feeling like Joel has been sneaking glances at you every other fucking second, you finally speak. “Joel, what the fuck?” He frowns furrows his brow and says, “What?” Right back to you. “Joel, you keep looking at me, what is it?” He sighs, classic fucking Joel. “Look, Ash, you’ve been quiet all day, usually I can’t get you to shut the fuck up.” You scoff and that turns into a breathy laugh, Joel looks at you with a small smirk. “Oh, Joel, you miss the sound of my voice? Is it just too quiet for you,” you say with a sing-song cadence as you walk towards him. Joel rolls his eyes and looks down at you as you approach with a sideways smile, “Let’s not go that far. Just want to make sure you’re alright.” Your breath hitches as he touches your arm and his deep chocolate eyes look into yours and you realize what he’s talking about. “Oh, you mean last night. Yeah, that was… uncool.” You say as you push your hands into your pockets and look away from him.

But then Joel grabs your chin in his fingers so softly, you didn’t know he was capable of being that soft and lightly urges you to look up at him again. “No, that last night, that was bullshit. I mean it. That boy wouldn’t know what do with a woman if he had the chance. He only said that shit because you put him in his place, which he deserved, and he was embarrassed in front of his dumbass buddies.” Joel moves his hand from your chin to your cheek and even though he looks full of anger, none of it is at you and you can’t feel an ounce of it in his touch. Only comfort, only warmth, only genuine care. “You’re right, Joel. And I’ve dealt with it before. It’s something I’m used to, and I don’t let it get to me but there were so many people there last night. I’m not used to having an audience and it just broke me down a little. But I promise, I’m fine. A little bruised but I’ve handled a fuck ton worse.”

Joel, even more angry now, walks over to the window and looks out. “Goddammit, but you shouldn’t have to be used to something like that. It’s fucking bullshit. No one should have the right to talk about your body but you.” You smile and walk over to him. Joel Miller’s a fucking feminist. Will wonders never cease with this man? As you get closer, he continues turning to look at you, “And if ever you allow anyone else to, they should be fucking worshipping you.” You stop dead in your tracks and Joel looks at you like he never has before, with so much want and desire you’re almost scared. He continues, eyes almost black now, “I heard you the other night after we talked at your place. Made the prettiest sounds I’ve ever heard. Were you thinkin’ about me, Darlin’?” Your eyes start to tear but you just blink them back, never taking your eyes off his. “It’s okay, I think about you, too. Know I shouldn’t… but I can’t help myself. Can’t get you outta my head.”

“Joel…” you whisper so quietly. “S’okay, honey, it’s just me.” Joel sits on the couch and motions for you to sit next to him. Without a thought, you obey. Sitting to his left, you wait to hear what’s next. “You wanna show me, huh? Show me what you did to yourself to make those sounds. Need to hear ‘em again.” You nod, saying nothing. “Okay, go on then, show me.” You hurriedly start to unbutton your jeans and unzip, when Joel says softly, “Slower.” Again, you immediately obey. Slowly pulling at your zipper and making room by pushing your jeans down your thighs a bit and pulling your underwear to the side revealing your already wet folds. Swollen and ready. Joel takes your glasses off and sets them on the table next to him. You hesitate and Joel senses it, “Touch her. She wants it, I can tell.” And your fingers start to caress your sensitive pussy. Slipping through your folds, gathering your slick and moving it around to coat everything in your arousal. You bite your lip to contain a whimper. “There she is. You sound so pretty, you know that?” Joel slurs into your ear and goosebumps breakout all over your neck as you close your eyes. “I think she wants a finger inside, don’t you? Why don’t you give her what she wants,” he says so close this time that your head falls to the side into his nose, and he inhales the scent of your hair.

With Joel’s instruction you take your middle finger and push it inside your entrance with a small gasp. “There you go, oh, good girl. That feels so good, huh? Go on, you can tell me.” With another gasp you whisper, “Yes, Joel. So good.” “Shh, I know.” He says as he pets your hair and runs his right hand down your left arm to your hand that’s splayed on the couch next to your thigh. He takes your hand in his and brings it up to your breast, squeezing it with your hand, using your fingers to pull at the budded nipple through your thin shirt and bra. Once he’s satisfied that you’ll carry on that way on your own he takes his hand and moves it down to where you’re touching yourself. “Can I help? I don’t think your small finger is going to be enough for her.” You nod, whimpering and moaning, your eyes fluttering open and then closed again. You’ve never felt this much pleasure in your life. Where the hell did he come from?

With that, Joel joins your middle finger with his own, much thicker and longer than yours, and the feeling is exquisite. Slowly he moves your hands out and back in making sure to push your palm against your clit as he does. The third time he pushes back in hard and fast making you both moan together. Both your heads rub together, until he pulls away just to watch. “Oh baby, she’s taking us so well. I want you to look,” he says but you can’t seem to move or think. He uses his other hand to hold the back of your neck and position so you can see what he’s watching, just beyond your stomach, you can see both your hands and then both your fingers appear when he pulls back, covered in your slick, then disappear back inside you. “I can tell she’s close baby, you feel her squeezing us?” You look up at him now and he looks right at you. “I’ve got you, faster now.” And he pushes your fingers in and keeps them there, curling your finger with his harder and faster now, more and more pressure. “It’s okay, let go for me, give me what I want, give me your come, come for me, you deserve it. I wanna hear it, I wanna feel it, I wanna see it, please. Look at me,” he commands, and you do and just then your orgasm hits you like a speeding train, “Oh god, Joel, I’m coming, oh god. Ungghhh, Joel.” Your pussy clenches you and Joel’s fingers so tight and spills your juices all over them. Joel stills your fingers inside you as you come back to life, whispering in your ear, “Good girl. Did so good f’me. I’m so proud of you.”

He takes your hand in his after you recover a bit more and takes his finger and puts it to your mouth, you take it in instantly, tasting yourself on him and he surprises you by taking your finger into his own mouth, “I need a taste too,” he says. And as soon as his tongue touches your finger, he makes the deepest moan you’ve ever heard, and you think you could come again just from hearing that. “Fuck, you taste so good, knew you would.” And he leans closer to your mouth, removing his finger and yours licking his lips and looking at your mouth, and you know he’s going to kiss you, something you’ve been missing every moment since that first kiss that morning in your bed at his house.

Skkkrch. “Joel!” The walkie comes to life. “Joel! You need to get back here now.” Maria’s voice comes through the walkie. Joel closes his eyes, his hand still holding yours when he whispers, “Fuck.” Then he’s up responding to the call. “Copy. On our way.” The silence is loud. You start to pull your pants back up and gather your things. “We gotta, I don’t know, we gotta get back,” Joel says with concern for Jackson evident on his face. “Of course, let’s go,” you say as you touch his arm. “Wait,” he says looking around, grabbing your glasses and instead of handing them to you, he unfolds them and places them back on your face gently, and smiles and you think this might be the moment, the moment you fall for Joel fucking Miller.

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

As you and Joel enter the gates of Jackson you run into Ellie, who looks panicked. Joel runs straight to her, holding her face, “What is it babygirl? What’s wrong?” Ellie, blinks back tears of relief seeing Joel and squeaks out, “It’s Tommy, he’s okay but he got jumped, he’s home with Maria you need to come there with me now.” Before you can speak Joel grabs your hand in his and pulls you along to Maria and Tommy’s place. When you walk in, Maria is icing Tommy’s busted lip, while he sits at the kitchen table holding another tea towel wrapped in ice on his eye. His arm is also in a sling. Joel stops dead in his tracks, but Tommy speaks first with a bit of a lisp from his injuries, “S’alright Joel, I’m fine, jus’ busted up. Reminds me of the times you picked me up in jail after a bar fight. I’ll survive.”

You squeeze Joel’s hand in reassurance, and he looks at you like he forgot you were with him but gives you a small, relieved smile. He lets go to sit next to Tommy and look at his injuries more closely. Maria motions for you to walk into the next room. “Maria, who did this?” you ask quietly. “It was Ryan,” she says equally as quiet. “Last night, Tommy dealt with Ryan after what he said to you, gave him some shit shoveling duty and extra work as a punishment for his behavior, he didn’t take kindly to it.” As she speaks, you’re filled with a blinding rage. You try to keep your composure and listen. “He snuck up on Tommy and sucker punched him, once Tommy was down, it wasn’t a fair fight. Look, we need to deal with this without Joel, he’ll go too far, we both know that.” Finally, with a measured tone you say, “Where is he? I won’t say anything to Joel, but I’d like to talk to Ryan myself,” Maria looks skeptical. “Are you sure you want to do that? He’s in the holding cell downtown.” You answer almost too quickly, “No problem. I’ll be back by in a bit, tell Tommy I’m sorry.” Before Maria can tell you that this isn’t your fault, you’ve snuck out the door.

Jackson’s holding cells are there to keep people after incidences of violence, theft, or other crimes, while the town decides what to do with them. Whether they are punished or expelled from Jackson altogether. As you walk towards the building where Ryan is being held, your heart hammers in your chest and something you spoke to Joel about less than a week ago comes back into your mind. “I’ve done terrible things.” And you had meant it. After you broke free from your shackles in the raiders camp you were trapped in, you found and hurt every single man you came across in that camp. You used whatever you had on you. At first, it was your teeth, then your fingers and nails. Your thick strong thighs broke a man’s neck. And even when they begged, even when they were the younger men, who were “just doing what they were told”, you didn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. After two years of being beaten, raped, tortured, mentally and verbally abused, you wanted to take control, you wanted to harm.

Ryan sitting there, locked in a cage, with a chair, his arms in handcuffs at his back. Some prisoner. You never had a chair. He didn’t seem to have a scratch on him, just a busted knuckle on his right hand. He hurt Tommy. Tommy was Joel’s brother, Maria’s husband, and your friend. He was family to you, and someone hurt him. That’s enough. A few people were standing watch. A couple of young women, Amy and Beck, who you’ve seen around town, regulars on patrol, and a slightly older man that was with Ryan at the table that night at the Bison. The one who smacked him when Ryan said those hateful things about you. “Bill,” he offers, nodded at you knowingly. “Could I have a moment with him?” The man instructs the women to take a break. He opens the cell for you and says quietly, “I’m here if you need but I won’t hear a thing.” You’re thankful for that.

Ryan looks up at you and laughs, “Come to kiss and makeup sweetheart.” You walk over and you can see the fear in his eyes when he gets a good look at you. Leaning in, you grab his pinkie and breaking it in one snap. “Ugh fuck, get off me bitch, Bill you see this?!” Bill stands there completely silent, and you finally speak. “You think he’s gonna help you, Ryan? He’s not gonna do shit. You got your little feelings hurt and you took it out on Tommy, well…Tommy’s my family. You hurt him, which means I can hurt you, the only difference is, I’m a lot more creative than you. You want to know all the ways a man can feel pain? How long a man can survive after a vein is opened? We can test that if you like. They didn’t want Joel to know it was you who did that to Tommy, they’re worried about what he might do to you, but they weren’t worried about me. They should have been.” In that moment you took one hand and racked your nails down the side of his face, tearing into his soft flesh, drawing a scream and blood from his face. Then you moved your mouth to his ear, speaking softly. “You’re going to leave Jackson, and in a few days, I’ll come looking so you better get as far away as you can. Go fast little boy, really fast or who knows what kind of thing I’ll get up to.” And you take a bite out of Ryan’s right ear as he screams again, and you spit it back into his face wiping the blood off your mouth on his shoulder.

Bill stands by as you leave, locks up and asks you to send the women back in. When you turn the corner wiping the blood off your glasses, Ellie is standing there looking absolutely mesmerized. Shit. “Ellie, you didn’t see anything or hear anything and we’re not speaking of this again,” you say as you keep walking past her. Outside you gesture to Amy and Beck and they walk back in, Ellie runs up to your side. She’s grinning like a little psycho and you speak again, “Ellie, stop, that wasn’t good or aspirational, you need to chill.” Ellie finally speaks, “That was fucking awesome, and he deserved it. I didn’t hear everything you said but shit, that dude was scared out of his mind, so it must have been good.” You look at Ellie and say plainly, “It was nothing, he was weak, anything would scare him. Don’t tell Joel. Or anyone for that matter.” Before you get too far, Ryan is begging to be let out of the gates, being guided by Bill. And you trust that you won’t have to deal with Ryan ever again.

Taglist: Taglist: @somedayheaven @guelyury @elegantduckturtle @indiegirlunited @cheekychaos28 @ghostofzion @harriedandharassed @missladym1981 @littlemisspascal

[toonabby]

Happy double birthdays to Lizzy "Princess Rizu" Hofe (31) and Anthony Sardinha (32)!

[amayaonly1]

Verses Unwritten: A Rap Odyssey

Eminem x Rapper!OC

Verse 8

About: The studio pulses with high-octane energy as creativity and tension collide. As Genji delivers verses that cut to the core, she not only claims her space but also pushes Eminem to confront emotions he's long kept buried. The resulting collaboration is electric, setting the stage for a track that could redefine everything, including the dynamics between them.

"Verses Unwritten: A Rap Odyssey" Chapter List: Verse 1 | Verse 2 | Verse 3 | Verse 4 | Verse 5 | Verse 6 | Verse 7 | Verse 8 | Verse 9| Verse 10 | Verse 11 | Verse 12 | Verse 13 | Verse 14 | Verse 15 | Verse 16 | Verse 17 | Verse 18 | Verse 19 | Verse 20 | Verse 21 | Verse 22

Disclaimer: This work is a work of fiction, and any involvement of the character Genji is purely fictional and not representative of any real person.

The studio was buzzing with the kind of energy that was almost tangible. Dre and Snoop lounged near the console, their postures relaxed but their focus razor-sharp. Porter had just sauntered in, the timing too perfect to be coincidental. All were set up, ready to catch the vibe. It was all about the flow right now. No interruptions. Just music.

Inside the recording booth, Genji adjusted the headphones snugly over her ears, her hands steady as she positioned herself before the mic. Her gaze focused as she was ready to dive into her verses.

"Alright, let's take it from the top," Dre's voice carried across the room, calm but commanding.

The track kicked in, the beat heavy and relentless. Each thud of the bassline reverberated in the chest like a heartbeat. Synths distorted the air, bending it, while hi-hats skittered, marking time like a countdown. The room fell silent, every ear attuned to the rhythm.

Genji took a deep breath, nodding as if to sync her breath with the beat. And then she dove in, her voice slicing through the sonic chaos:

傷ついた夢、消えない記憶 (Kizutsuita yume, kienai kioku) (Dreams that are broken, memories don't fade) 孤独の中で進む軌跡 (Kodoku no naka de susumu kiseki) (Walking through the loneliness, the path I made) Breakin' through the static、音を裂く (Breakin' through the static, oto wo saku) (Breakin' through the static, tearing through the sound) 闇の中でも光は描く (Yami no naka demo hikari wa egaku) (Even in the dark, the light will come around)

Each word hit with precision, the cadence sharp and deliberate. Her bilingual flow danced effortlessly, weaving between languages and emotions. It wasn't just a verse; it was an unravelling of her soul, raw and unfiltered.

縛られた声、自由を求め (Shibarareta koe, jiyuu wo motome) (Voices restrained, I'm reaching for the free) 胸の奥深く、炎を染め (Mune no oku fukaku, honoo wo some) (Deep inside my heart, flames guiding me) Shadowと戦い、己を守る (Shadow to tatakai, onore wo mamoru) (Battling the shadows, guarding who I am) 鏡割れても、未来を作る (Kagami warete mo, mirai wo tsukuru) (Mirror cracks, but still I take my stand)

Eminem leaned back on the studio sofa, arms crossed as his eyes locked on her. He didn't move, barely breathed. He wasn't just hearing her; he was absorbing every syllable. Her words wrapped around the beat, building momentum like a wave cresting toward the shore. Her voice surged, carrying an edge of vulnerability masked by strength. Every line felt personal, the kind of truth you only shared when you knew the room would listen. And everyone listened.

愛した分だけ傷を負う (Aishita bun dake kizu wo ou) (The more I loved, the more wounds I bear) この手の中、何を守ろう？ (Kono te no naka, nani wo mamorou?) (What do I protect with these hands, laid bare?) Shadows dictate？ No way, I'll fight 未来を刻む、強くshine bright (Mirai o kizamu, tsuyoku shine bright) (Etching my tomorrow, shining so bright)

His gaze flickered to the others in the room. Dre nodded subtly, his approval clear. Snoop leaned in, a smirk tugging at his lips. But then his focus snapped back to Genji. It wasn't just her technical skill that impressed him; that was undeniable. No, it was something else. It was the way she owned the moment, how she poured everything she had into it. The intensity in her eyes mirrored what he hadn't seen in a long time, what he hadn't realised he missed.

There was an undeniable pull in the way she commanded attention, not just from the room, but from him. Why was he feeling like this? He had worked with countless artists and had this kind of chemistry before, but not like this. Not with her.

火の中歩き、燃え上がる声 (Hi no naka aruki, moeagaru koe) (Walking through the flames, my voice won't cease) 鼓動が導く、明日への扉 (Kodou ga michibiku, ashita e no tobira) (Heartbeat guiding me to the door of peace) No saboteur inside, 自分を越える (No saboteur inside, jibun wo koeru) (No saboteur inside will hold me back) 灰の中から種を植える (Hai no naka kara tane wo ueru) (Rising from the ashes, planting seeds where it's black)

Eminem shifted, resting his elbows on his knees. He felt the strange pull deep in his chest. This wasn't just about music anymore, was it? There was something about her that he couldn't ignore no matter how hard he tried.

He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the beat, but it lingered, gnawing at him. It wasn't just her talent. It wasn't just the fire in her voice. It was the way she was there, present in a way that made everything else seem insignificant. He hadn't felt this alive in a session in years. And that scared the hell out of him.

燃え尽きてもまだ炎がある (Moetsukite mo mada honoo ga aru) (Even if I burn out, the fire still remains) 傷跡の中で強さが光る (Kizuato no naka de tsuyosa ga hikaru) (Scars within my soul turn to strength in my veins) I'm on fire, 消せやしない (I'm on fire, kese ya shinai) (I'm on fire, you can't put me out) 闇を照らして響くmy life (Yami wo terashite hibiku my life) (Lighting up the dark, hear my life shout)

The track faded, leaving a thick silence in its wake.

"That was hard," Porter's voice broke the silence, his voice cutting through the tension.

Genji stepped out of the booth, her smile faint but triumphant. Her gaze met Eminem's for a brief moment, an unspoken acknowledgement passing between them.

"Aight, my turn," he said, pushing off the couch. He adjusted his cap, his jaw set. He wasn't about to let himself get distracted. Not now.

Inside the booth, the headphones felt heavier than usual. The mic loomed before him, a familiar adversary. He cracked his knuckles, stealing a quick glance toward Genji. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence strangely felt different. The energy she had brought to the session lingered like an electric charge, and it wasn't just the music. It was her.

The beat dropped again, snapping him back into focus. The energy from her verses still pounded in his chest, leaving a thick, charged air in the studio. His grip on his notepad tightened as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. His mind was split — half on the bars, half on her.

Her verses had shaken him, and it wasn't just because of her technical skill. No, it was the way her words seemed to cut straight through him, tapping into something he'd buried deep inside. It was like she saw him, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

He rapped through the first verse, his words jagged and sharp:

I'm a ghost in the booth, yeah, I haunt this mic, Turned my trauma into tracks, now I'm locked in a fight. Every grin's a grenade, every laugh's a knife, Every line's another layer of my messed-up life.

He spat the lines like a confession, each word sharper than the last. His flow was relentless, matching the chaotic churn inside his head. The flow was sharp and urgent; he couldn't stop now. The intensity she'd brought out in him had left him no choice but to spill his own truth.

Pushin' people off, yeah, I'm buildin' a moat, Keepin' my distance so I don't slit my own throat. A paradox breathin', rage in my veins, But inside, I'm just beggin' for the calm to remain.

As he rapped, his mind raced. Every line felt personal now, deeper than just the music. His gaze flickered again toward Genji, catching her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn't just another artist. She was different. And that made him uneasy.

He tried to ignore it. He tried to focus on the mic, on the track; but his thoughts kept drifting back to her. The way her presence had seeped into his chest. The way she made him feel alive.

I shove you away 'cause I'm savin' myself, But I'm dyin' inside while I'm screamin' for help. Buried the truth deep beneath the facade, The saboteur's a voice that keeps me at odds.

Every bar hit harder, his delivery like a barrage meant to drown out the thoughts creeping into his mind. This was supposed to be about the track, but her presence was messing with his head. Her talent, her energy; it was magnetic. He hated how much he liked it.

I'm tired of the fight, yo, I'm sick of the loop, The fire's burnin' out, but I'm still in the soup. If the shadows creep up, I'll carve out my lane, Every scar's just a roadmap drawn in my pain.

The session had become something more than music. It was personal now. Every word felt like a window into his head, and he knew she was catching glimpses.

What was he doing? This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to let anyone in, not like this. He had built walls and learned to keep his distance. Mixing business and emotion was a recipe for disaster. He knew that.

Risin' from the rubble, yeah, I'm lit like a fuse, Every demon I've faced just sharpens my views. You can't douse this flame, it's scorchin' the night, I'm the phoenix in the dark, burnin' loud and bright.

The track ended, the silence almost deafening. Dre leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. "This one's it," he said simply.

Snoop chuckled, nudging him. "Told ya this was gonna be fire."

Genji smiled, her eyes meeting Eminem's as he stepped out of the booth. She looked at him, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips, but there was something more to it. Something that made him second-guess his next move. He wasn't sure what he was feeling anymore, but he knew one thing for sure: if he let this go any further, it could change everything.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice low. "We just made something big."

Deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

[artist-issues]

Hi, not to sound like a creep but I was trying to find this one reply to ask about the Chosen series because I remembered something and I wanted to see if you're the one who said it. But then I couldn't find it. Stumbled into this one post where you said your least favorite medium is anime and I'm quite curious about that now. I don't generally have an issue when people say they don't like anime, as a whole, but I try to understand why. Of course even if you just said "I just don't like it" then I could respect that too, since I can not push it.

I think it's like a language I don't speak. Even the English-dubbed versions. In anime, it's not made by people in my culture, for my culture. So, I don't understand it very well. I don't understand why everyone's screaming. I absolutely don't understand the character designs. I don't understand the use of blushing. I don't understand the humor or the drama. I don't understand why one interaction can take several "episodes," and the dialogue is unrealistic the entire time. People don't talk like that. And it would be one thing if people talked in an unrelatable cadence once, as part of the "style" of a film or show, but it's across the board for every anime I've seen.

There's nothing wrong with that, per se. Like I said, it's just made for a different culture, one I'm not in. And that's fine. Could I learn it? Could I engross myself in it until I feel what the media is trying to make me feel and get what they're trying to say?

Yeah. I could.

But most often, it doesn't feel worth it. It doesn't feel like the anime I've seen is really trying to point to a significant truth or remind people of goodness and beauty, so much as it is pointless entertainment.

Otherwise, why is there so much gratuitous cleavage? Whats with the emphasis on violence violence violence? Plus cursing? Why are all of the "attractive" characters a little-girl stereotype or a sexy femme fatale stereotype? And what's with the feminine looking dude characters? Why does one fight take six episodes? Why does one "romance" last an entire show but consist of nothing except gasps and blushes?

Not a fan.

I have seen one or two anime that clearly have a point. They're Studio Ghibli, though.

And again, I'm not saying anime's have no point in general. I'm saying I'd have to understand the culture to get the point, but the culture itself seems to be based around values that I don't find valuable. And a lot of those "values" if I'm reading them right are the ones our Western culture is starting to push down throats more and more, and I don't like those, either, so there you go.

I also find it odd that so many young Western men are drawn to anime. I don't think it's an awesome thing. All the anime I've ever seen: Demonslayer, Naruto, etc. doesn't have anything particularly good for them in it. There's a ton of violence, of egos getting slung around, yelling, and terribly long gratuitous brain-numbing pacing, along with sensual gasping and drama-for-drama's sake. And I know my young male friends are no more Japanese or understanding of Japanese culture than I am. So what are they getting out of it? They can't ever tell me.

Maybe you can?

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Male Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x MReader

CW: P in A sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(see Female Reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me

(Masc Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - this exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to his knees by the Radio Demon himself. He's got a mouthwatering pair of pecs, legs utterly divine and a swollen delectable cock that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is his tight little arse."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"He's soaked, practically drowning in his own precum. And the sounds he makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling, needy swollen hole spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you, Sweet thing. You're a mess. Your hair's a mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking gorgeous, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Darling. I'm going to flood your arse with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those nipples... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, arse clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure, ropes of cum coating your chest as you spasm.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinner's surrender. His body convulsing, his voice crying out in ecstasy as I claim him yet again. And now, I'm painting his insides with my seed, branding him as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Dearest. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, cock and bals twitching.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Dear. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his cum trickling from your sated body as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)

[burst-of-brilliance]

Hi! It's me again! So a bit of an update. Sound Cadence Studios, the place where not only Lovely Complex was done but also Epithet Erased has made a statement regarding Jello's screw up.

So they didn't say they are blacklisting Jello... but they didn't say they are NOT blacklisting him. So there is a real chance Jello screwed over the future of Epithet Erased.