#sound cadence studios

[toonabby]

Happy belated 31st birthday, Howard Wang!

[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.)

[senditcolton]

January Gloom

...you're like the sunshine in the lazy days of June

summary: You and Anthony have been friends for years. That long friendship means that you know each other probably better than anyone else. So that means that Anthony notices when you start to pull away. It also means that he will drop everything to help you. song inspo: January Gloom (Seasons Pt. 1) by All Time Low word count: 5.7k warnings: implied feminine reader, non-specific mental health struggles, minor reference to suicide, playful innuendo filled banter, and fluff! a/n: Finally getting back into the Wake Up Sunshine series with a super self-indulgent fic. Dividers within indicate a perspective shift.

Anthony’s hand connects with the wooden door of your apartment, knocking in gentle but rapid succession.

Again.

And you still aren’t answering.

That was reason enough for Anthony to realize that his concerns might have some level of truth to them. That he wasn’t overreacting. There had been a nagging feeling that something was wrong forming in the back of his mind for a few days now.

Even though he was busy – with both the continued efforts to meld with his new team and the end of the regular season – he wasn’t blind his best friend pulling away. It had started small; the circles under your eyes growing darker, which turned into absences from his games, which then turned into shorter and shorter text messages shared. It wasn’t until you didn’t respond to Washington’s playoff-clinching win that the quiet nag gave way to genuine fear.

From an outsider perspective, the lack of congratulations being the catalyst for Anthony standing outside your apartment might have seemed selfish; like he was upset that you weren’t giving him enough attention. But if those outsiders really knew the relationship you two shared, they’d understand. The two of you always celebrated each other’s accomplishments. It was one of the foundations of your friendship.

He was the biggest supporter at your college graduation back in New York. You screamed with joy over the phone when he told you he was traded to Washington, happy to share a city with your best friend since his departure from Long Island. That was why the radio silence from you led him here.

He knocks again, hoping that maybe this is the time you’ll answer. Fifth times the charm, right?

From the gap under the door, he can hear muffled voices on the other side, but none of them have your clear cadence – a sound Anthony memorized ages ago. Which meant the noise was most likely the TV. You never left the television on when you weren’t home so, you had to be in there. But there is still no response.

The nerves that had been steadily growing over the weeks finally reach their peak as Anthony reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keyring. He flips through the collection of metal until he finds the spare key you had given him for emergencies – something he’s had since he first stepped foot in DC. He holds the key between his fingers, hesitating for a moment, wondering if this situation really constituted as enough of an emergency to warrant entering your apartment without permission. But he rationalizes that this utter lack of communication – something he never experienced in the nine years of friendship you shared – was enough.

The key is inserted into the lock, the doorknob now turning with ease and Tito enters your studio apartment.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the space, your shades are closed tightly, blocking out the afternoon sun. The only solid light in the room came from the glow of the laptop screen perched on your nightstand. The voices that he had heard previously were indeed coming from the device, currently playing a series that he knew you had seen a thousand times. Once his eyes get used to the darkness, Anthony’s gaze rakes over the room, attempting to locate you. Waiting to see if you are indeed at home or if he was about to be the biggest idiot in the world. But his eyes finally land on your bed, noticing the texture of your hair peeking over the covers, and when he wanders over for a closer look, he notices the way your body rises and falls with your gentle breathing.

Anthony can’t stop the small smile that plays at his lips when his eyes find your face, nestled against your pillow. Your hair is disheveled, most likely tangled, some of the strands obscuring your features but apart from that you seemed fine. Anthony let that knowledge flow through him, relaxing his body.

You were okay.

You were, however, still asleep in bed at almost 2pm on a Wednesday, which caused a little bit of concern to linger in his body. Finally, Anthony’s eyes tear away from your sleeping form and return to glance around your apartment, fully taking in the space.

It was a disaster. Anthony knew that you were not a neat-freak by any means but this… it was worse than he had ever seen it. Dirty clothes piled on your couch and scattered around the floor, trash on multiple surfaces: your coffee table, your mantle, your bookshelf. Curiosity and worry continue to pull at him as he walks towards the kitchen and when he peeks inside, he sees your small trash overflowing, a pile of take-out bags sitting next to it, before his eyes connect with the sink and the counter next to it, filled with dirty dishes.

Tito can feel his eyebrows furrow, body turning to once again take in your sleeping form. You look peaceful, deep in slumber. Anthony’s gaze rakes over you, the rumpled sheets, and your nightstand. That’s when he spots the pill bottle. His heartrate increases as his hand reaches for the container, fearing the worse. The relief that he feels when he sees that it is just melatonin boosters is incomparable.

But the presence of sleep aids causes more questions to form in Anthony’s head. You were the type of person that could fall asleep anywhere, so much so that it became a recurring inside joke between the two of you. You never needed help sleeping so why did you need it now?

Anthony’s eyes dart around the room again, taking in the disarray.

You were in a bad place. He didn’t know why or what caused it. But that was what all the clues lead him to believe. You were going through something, something that caused you to disappear into your apartment, into your bed, into the reprieve of slumber.

You needed help. You’d never admit it, a personality trait Anthony noticed when your friendship first began, a trait that he instinctively knew could turn destructive. But he never thought it could lead to this.

You needed someone. You needed a friend.

And here he was.

Anthony sets down the bottle, his eyes glancing over you, a pang appearing in his heart at your distress. He wanted to take care of you. He would take care of you. It’s all he could do.

He leans in, pressing his lips against the crown of your head in a gentle kiss before he steps back, figuratively rolling up his sleeves before getting to work.

You are awoken by the sound of running water.

The initial instinct that moves through your body is to just bury yourself deeper in the sheets. Part of you nags that the sound could mean a leak in the kitchen or bathroom. Just your luck if it was. Another thing piled on top of literally everything else.

You’ve had rough patches before – you wouldn’t deny it. But this one… this one felt worse than all the others combined. Finances, career, friends, relationships. Every aspect of your life seemed as if it was imploding. Granted, you knew that you held the blame for some of those things – you shouldn’t have bought so much take-out, you should’ve been more proactive in finding a job you actually enjoyed, you shouldn’t have pulled away from your friends no matter how shitty you felt. But it was difficult.

You wanted to relax but how could you when the problems would still be there the next day? You wanted to clean and cook but how could you when every day you came home, your energy was completely drained?

It felt like a never-ending deluge of awfulness. And now, water was running somewhere in your apartment.

With a groan, you lift your body upright, hands pressing against your face as you prepare for the worst. But when your eyes open and your gaze darts around the space, the first thought that passes through your mind is that you must still be dreaming. Because your apartment – something that once looked like the wreckage of a tornado – looked… better.

It wasn’t perfect but the trash was gone, the pillows on your couch and knick-knacks on your shelves a little neater. And once your mind fully comes to, you can still hear water running but underneath the sound was the clink and clang of metal and ceramic.

Your gingerly remove yourself from the bed, your hands keeping a hold of one of your blankets. You wrap the fabric around your body for a sense of security as you gingerly walk through the threshold of your kitchen. Your eyes first notice the absence of trash once again before connecting with the tall frame of someone standing in front of your sink. The panic of a random man in your apartment never has a chance to fully sink in, recognizing the chocolate curls of your best friend Anthony with a quickness that could only be contributed to your long friendship. A sigh escapes you, thankful that some weirdo didn’t break into your house to clean… but it was still odd that Anthony was here.

You aren’t sure if he heard your soft sigh or if Tito just managed to sense your presence because his head turns to look behind him, his eyes meeting yours. You watch the small smile tug at his lips before his voice sounds out over the running faucet.

“Go back to sleep. I’m almost done.”

Your only response is a nod as you turn around. You aren’t sure if it’s just what your body automatically wanted to do or if you were in such a fugue state that you couldn’t help but comply or if you were actually still dreaming. Whatever it was, you do end up returning to your bed.

You don’t follow Anthony’s orders completely, however. Instead of burying yourself into your sheets and falling back asleep, you sit on top of the mattress, blanket still around your shoulders and eyes still glued to the kitchen entrance. Waiting for Tito to come back or waiting for this entire thing to dissipate, confirming that you were indeed dreaming.

Turns out the first possibility prevails, Anthony appearing in the doorway, wiping his hands on one of your towels. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge you sitting there bewildered. Instead, he walks straight to your closet, fishing out your overflowing laundry bag and lugging it over. He stands at the foot of your bed, hands fishing out bunches of clothes and placing them on the mattress.

“I was doing to do this first but I know you’re particular about your clothes so I decided to wait until you were awake so you could help,” he explains as cooly and as casually as if he were discussing the weather.

“Tito,” you say, your voice not as sharp as you wanted but perhaps the mere sound of it was enough for him to pause and look up at you. “What are you doing?”

The jovial grin tugs at his lips before he returns his attention to the pile of dirty clothes.

“I told you: we’re doing laundry. These don’t get dried, right?” he asks, holding up a pair of your leggings.

“Anthony,” you say again, using his actual name instead of his nickname, indicating both your confusion and your seriousness. “What is going on?”

“I was worried about you,” he replies with a shrug, as if it wasn’t a big deal but you can hear the genuine concern lacing his words. “Came in using the key you gave me just to check on you – sorry about that by the way – but then I saw this and figured you needed help. So, here I am helping.”

The flood of emotions that hit you was far too much and far too conflicting for you to fully register with the haze of sleep and the cloud of confusion still hanging over you.

You felt happy to see him after a long period of no contact. You felt guilty that you made him worry that much about you that he felt he had to check on you. You were peeved that he felt so comfortable waltzing into your apartment and rummaging through your things. You were grateful that he was willing to do all this for you. You were mortified that he was seeing you at such a low point.

Anthony doesn’t seem to notice the storm of warring emotions within you. Instead, he just continues to lift clothes out of your laundry basket – some of which you recognize had been laying on your sofa previously – until a practical mountain forms at the end of your bed. The sight of it makes another pang of shame surge through you, your body scooting forward as you reach out to grab Anthony’s wrist, temporarily halting his movements.

“You don’t have to,” you say, trying to keep your voice casual even though you can feel the heat flooding your cheeks. Anthony just playfully flicks your hand off him, his hands reburying themselves in the pile of laundry.

“Of course I do. What else are friends for?”

“Ugh, this is so embarrassing,” you mumble, your head finding a place in your upturned palms.

“Why?” Tito teases. “Do you have a little lacy number in here that you don’t want me seeing?”

His quip – a quintessential bedrock in the foundation of your friendship – makes you lift your head to connect your eyes back to his, a wry smile on your face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The bright smile that twists onto Anthony’s lips makes your heart soar, happy to see him so happy. Happy in yourself that you had managed to dig out a little playfulness from the abysmal black hole that had currently taken up residence in your life.

However, the joy is short-lived when your eyes dart back to the pile of dirty clothes – a reminder of just how bad it had gotten. And at the fact that Anthony was almost elbow deep in the mess.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just… this – it’s so… I don’t know. Embarrassing!” you attempt again, still not quite able to succinctly put your emotions into comprehensible words.

“Really?” Anthony asks, one of his eyebrows raising. “More embarrassing than the time you got food poisoning in Vancouver and I held back your hair as you puked your guts out at 2am? Or that one time your bikini bottoms got launched from your body when you failed at wakeboarding? Or the time, in Nashville when we went to that karaoke bar and - ”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you cut him off, a hand lifting to cover your face. In annoyance or embarrassment, you weren’t quite sure.

Anthony stops his rummaging for a moment, reaching out to grasp your hand, pulling it away so your eyes reconnect with his. You can see the care expressed so clearly on his face, his eyes soft and a gentle smile on his lips.

“Hey, it’s alright. We’ve both seen each other in much more embarrassing situations than this one, yeah?”

You nod your head in agreement, the memories of nine years of friendship flipping through your mind like an old film reel.

“I just want to help. That’s why I’m here,” Anthony continues, hand still holding yours. “But if you’d like me to leave, I’ll respect that.”

You let yourself sit with his offer. You allow all the emotions to run through you, trying to organize and catalogue them. There was still a hefty amount of guilt and chagrin that existed within you; at both yourself for letting it get this bad and for dragging Anthony into your disaster. But above all of that, there was a stronger sense of relief and appreciation. Relief at having someone who cared for you so deeply that they took the time to check on you. Appreciation that Anthony was here wanting to help you – that he wasn’t doing this out of some sense of obligation or anything like that.

This was just Anthony – your Anthony – proving to you yet again why you were best friends.

The soft squeeze of his calloused hand around yours, him patiently waiting for your answer, is the final nail in the coffin, your eyes darting up to meet his. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you playfully shrug your shoulders.

“I guess you can stay,” you mumble, the hint of a chirp in the words letting Anthony know you were being serious and not just resigning yourself to whatever fate he had planned. A grin appears on his face, giving your hand another squeeze before releasing his hold on you, turning his attention back to the laundry piled between the two of you.

“Awesome. Now help me organize this stuff.”

You roll your eyes at his playful demand before helping him sort your clothes into two piles of ‘can go in the dryer’ and ‘has to air dry.’ It goes quickly with two pairs of hands helping sort through the mess. Anthony shoos you off as soon as the laundry is sorted, saying he found your detergent when he was looking for your dish soap. You let him lug the clothes back into the kitchen where your machine was located and you finally find the strength to unfurl yourself from the bed.

You arms lift over your head, stretching your body as you fully observe your apartment. Anthony did a damn good job. Some of your knick-knacks were a little askew and the blankets thrown over your couch were haphazardly folded but it looked miles better than it did before. It truly felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

The sound of your washer rumbling to life draws your attention back to the kitchen doorway, seeing Anthony step back into your main room.

“Alright, now that that’s started, you can… I don’t know. Sleep some more if you want? Take a shower? Help me clean some more?”

“What else do you have left to do?” you question, looking around. He already did the heavy lifting with the dishes and laundry. Plus, the trash was taken out and surfaces were picked up.

“Thought about wiping down your counters and tables. Changing your sheets if you aren’t using them anymore. Stuff like that.”

“Tito,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” Anthony replies, shrugging off your dismissal.

“Do you even know how to use a bottle of Clorox?”

The tease comes easily from your lips and makes Anthony laugh, his eyes playfully rolling at your insinuation.

“I haven’t lived like a bachelor for seven years without learning how to do basic cleaning tasks, you know?”

“Whatever you say, Tito,” you hum, another chuckle coming from your best friend. You take a deep breath, your hand lifting to comb through your hair. The movement is halted by your fingers catching tangles, a small grimace crossing your face at both that and the oily feeling of buildup that had now transferred from your strands to your fingers.

“Now that I think about it, I really do need a shower.” You turn to face Anthony, your head cocked to the side in an expression of resignation. “You know where the cleaner and rags are?”

“Same place as your detergent.”

“And replacement sheets?”

“Top shelf of your closet.”

You nod your head, turning to walk to the bathroom before you are halted by Tito’s voice ringing out.

“I’ll take everything off your body.”

Your body spins back to face him, your eyebrows furrowed even as the playful grin twists your lips.

“I’m flattered Tito but I don’t think we have that kind of friendship.”

The confusion passes over Anthony’s expression and you can practically see the gears turning as he processes your response and recalls his previous words. The potential innuendo hits him suddenly, his cheeks flushing making you let out a cackle – the first genuine unfiltered laugh that had escaped you in what felt like ages.

“I meant for the laundry. Like, you can throw them out here before you get in the shower so I can add them to the next load,” he mumbles, the embarrassment still clearly flowing through his body. You just let out another soft chuckle before resuming your path towards the bathroom.

“If you wanted to see me naked that bad, Tito, you should just ask,” you call out to him, closing the bathroom door before he has a chance to respond.

It takes for the sound of the shower starting to snap Anthony out of whatever trance he found himself stuck in. He was still 100% embarrassed about the way he phrased his previous words, the innuendo being entirely unintentional. But there was another glimmer of something underneath all that.

A flash of hope brought on by your departing words.

Part of him was ready to chide the voice of his boyish crush surging forward, saying that you were just joking – a similar joke he made about the possibility of lingerie in your hamper. But that logical reasoning would fall on deaf ears. He told himself that so many times, every time your playful banter tiptoed over the line into something potentially more.

It was stupid really; falling for his best friend. He knew that. The biggest cliché found in every Hallmark movie and BookTok romance. But it was easy. You made it easy.

It wasn’t just your looks – although he would have to be blind to not notice how attractive you were. But it was all the little parts of you, parts that he got to see and discover and grew to love in the multiple years you’ve known each other. If anything, your long-term friendship contributed to his feelings for you developing from platonic to romantic. A friendship that lasted nine year, two countries, and multiple cities didn’t just happen without both work and natural chemistry. Hell, he knows married couples that had been through less than you and him have.

He never acted on these feelings though. It was harder when you were both living in Long Island and he saw you almost every day but when he was traded to Vancouver, the distance helped him keep a hold of his emotions.

He did think about confessing to you the night he left, though. If it blew up in his face and he ruined the friendship you shared by doing something stupid, it would be easy to leave it all behind and get over it. Couldn’t get further away than an entirely different coast.

He didn’t do it, however, and now with hindsight, he’s glad he didn’t. Your friendship spanned both time and space. And his crush on you never diminished. Every time you visited him or vice-versa, those feelings resurged with the strength of a thousand suns. Turns out distance really did make the heart grow fonder.

And when he got the news that he was traded again but this time to the city you called home, it felt like fate. Much like it felt like the universe’s hand that kept both of you single this long; like some higher power was conspiring for the two of you to get together.

Anthony shakes his head, fully snapping himself out of his reverie. It was just a silly crush. Would he ever get over it? Who knew? But he told himself long ago to just let things progress naturally. If it was meant to happen, then it would happen.

He had to believe in that. It was the only logic that kept him sane.

So, instead of continuing to wallow in his feelings, he turns back to the kitchen, fishing out the multi-colored rags and Clorox bottle from underneath your sink before turning his attention to the still dirty marble countertop.

This shouldn’t take him that long: he only had the kitchen, coffee table, mantle, nightstand, and bookshelf to do. And when the laundry currently tumbling in the washer had finished, he would hang those out to dry and start another load before he stripped and made your bed with fresh sheets.

That’s what friends did for each other.

That’s what he would do for you.

Because he cares about you.

Because he loves you.

The shower was much needed. You had felt your body relax as soon as the steam filled the room and stepping into the warm water just multiplied that feeling. You took your time, slowly pampering yourself after a multitude of quick in-and-out showers you had forced yourself to take to maintain a base sense of hygiene. The conditioner in your hair felt heavenly and the subtle vanilla of your body wash helped the entire experience feel luxurious even though you weren’t adding any major steps to your routine.

You had even managed to find the energy to go through your entire skincare routine and deep clean your teeth. Standing in front of your sink, your body clad in your fluffy bathrobe and your hair still damp, you allow yourself the opportunity to take a deep breath.

The mere fact that you were able to slow down, to take a moment to enjoy this reprieve in the shitshow that currently your life was a blessing. Part of you knew all your problems weren’t instantly solved by a shower and a clean apartment. But it helped. It definitely helped.

And you had Anthony to thank for that.

You owed him. Big time. Hell, in nine years of friendship, you were probably indebted to him already but this… this was different. He didn’t have to do what he did.

He didn’t have to come over to check on you. He didn’t have to stay. He didn’t have to spend his time and energy helping dig you out of your sadness when he could’ve been doing much more exciting and productive things. But he did. He chose to.

That part. The fact that this was his choice… that meant so much to you.

You stretch again before grabbing the fresh pair of pajamas that Anthony had brought to you while you had been applying lotion to your face. The soft, still somewhat warm cotton against your now clean skin increased your happiness and you hang your robe back up before pushing out into your living room.

The smell of lemon and linen greet your nose as your step from the tile to the hardwood, your eyes perusing the space. It didn’t look much different but your nose tells you that Anthony did indeed keep his word about cleaning the surfaces and you can see the color of new sheets stretched across your bed. The man in question was currently perched on your couch, hunched over and scrolling through his phone, your laundry hamper sitting next to him.

His attention lifts as soon as you clear your throat, shooting you a grin.

“Feel better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

“Of course. Clothes are on your drying rack and I just put your old sheets in the dryer,” Anthony explains, vaguely gesturing to the wall behind him that separated your kitchen from the main room.

“Awesome. What’s with the hamper?”

“Oh, I didn’t really know what to do with your other clothes. I found your pajamas but I didn’t know what was hung or folded or anything else like that,” he tells you, a hand raising to scratch the back of his neck – a telltale sign of his nerves.

“No problem,” you reply with a hum, silencing any of his anxiety before grabbing your hamper and dumping the clean clothes onto the newly made bed. “I can put these away.”

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“Tito, you’ve already helped so much. I’ve got the energy now, thanks to you, so let me do this while you finally relax,” you laugh. “Besides, I have a whole system that I know you would just mess up.”

“Figures you have a system for clean clothes as well as dirty ones,” Anthony quips, to which you reply by throwing a coupled pair of socks in his direction. He catches the fabric with ease – damn his hockey reflexes – and places the bundle on the coffee table. “Fine, then I’ll order pizza. You want your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you work, Anthony only interrupting your flow with little quips and comments that you return with ease. The relaxed atmosphere coupled with the bliss that natural came when you hung out with Anthony lifted your spirits indescribably higher. He was like a breath of fresh air, the sunlight in the lazy days of June. He was just what you needed after feeling like you were trapped in the gloomiest Mondays of a never-ending January.

You managed to completely put your clothes away right as Anthony came back from picking up the pizza from the cute little shop down the block. He even had the foresight to grab paper plates and napkins so the two of you didn’t immediately dirty a pair of dishes.

You and Anthony come to settle on opposite ends of the couch, a blanket thrown over both your legs and pizza in your hands, the two of you eating in silence. Eventually, Anthony finally clears his throat, wiping his hands off on a napkin before fixing his blue eyes on you.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He didn’t have to elaborate what ‘it’ was. You’d be an idiot to pretend like you hadn’t seen the concern and question hanging over him ever since you woke up, even though he hid it well. You respond with a sigh before putting your own plate down on the coffee table.

“I’m not sure what to say,” you confess, the statement being as close to the truth as you could get. “It was just one thing after the other, all of them effecting each other until it became too much, y’know?”

The silence falls again as you sigh. Some of your problems still weren’t solved; your job still sucked; you didn’t suddenly inherit a million dollars. But this was a start. You look back to Anthony, his own eyes distant as if he was going through the past weeks, wondering if he could’ve done something different. You reach your leg out, nudging his thigh with your foot, bringing his attention back to you.

“I’m sorry for not telling you. Making you worry.”

Anthony’s first reply is a gentle shake of his head, those eyes softening with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“No need to apologize. I’m kind of glad you didn’t.”

Your brows furrow, not fully understanding his logic, leaving Anthony to explain it to you.

“Would I have liked for you to tell me? Yeah, of course. But you could’ve just as easily lied to me and then I might have never known something was wrong. I wouldn’t have known you needed help.”

“You don’t have to rescue me, Tito. I’m not some damsel in distress.”

“I know. But I’ll always be here if you need me. That’s what friends are for.”

You smile, his genuine words continuing to melt your heart. How you managed to survive before Anthony Beauvillier came into your life, you’ll never know. You were insanely thankful that the two of you were once again in the same city. A wicked smile appears on your face and you can see Anthony’s eyebrows quirk in a question as he takes in your change of expression, even though a similar smile appears on his lips.

“Yeah,” you say in response to his statement. “That is until you get traded again.”

The teasing lilt of your voice makes it obvious that you were poking fun at him, something that Anthony reads with an ease and responds to immediately, his hands lifting to his chest to press against his heart like you actually wounded him.

“Ouch,” he says, the sarcastic whine falling from his lips making you laugh.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re probably right. But hey,” you continue, nudging him with your foot again. “Congrats on making it to the playoffs with your brand-new team!”

“Thanks. We all know they never could’ve made it without me.”

“Oh, of course.”

“You have a guaranteed ticket to the first game,” he tells you, those beautiful blue eyes sparkling at you, the sight of which makes you smile soften, your next words holding a stronger sense of sincerity.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Anthony just grins again before the two of you focus back on the pizza in front of you. When you were done, the leftovers wrapped in foil and placed in the fridge, Anthony lays down on the couch with you snuggled into his side as he turns on a generic romantic comedy to fill the now evenings quiet. About halfway through the movie, you look up to him, your eyes taking in his strong side profile, letting your heart swell with affection and appreciation for the man next to you. He must feel the weight of your stare, his eyes turning to connect with your gaze, a silent question painted on his face.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the low-lamplight of the room. “Again. For doing all this for me.”

You just watch a gentle smile wash across Anthony’s face, the genuine expression of utmost care and… love he was directing to you making a small part of your heart – one you had kept under lock and key – flutter. Anthony doesn’t speak immediately, instead choosing to lean his head down and press a soft kiss onto your forehead. The action causes you to melt further into him, your body moving impossibly closer to his warmth. Your sunlight, your joy, your Anthony.

It isn’t until the two of you a proficiently tangled in each other does Anthony’s voice finally fill the space.

“Always.”

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[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.”

[nicnak20]

Grotesquerie Interview:

*During an interview with Nicholas and Yn, the interviewer begins asking very weird questions towards Nicholas and Yn's sex scene and makes inappropriate comments about Yn.*

The air in the studio was thick with anticipation, a familiar hum that Nicholas and Yn had grown accustomed to in the whirlwind promotional tour for “Grotesquerie”. The set was minimalistic, two plush armchairs facing a sleek, modern desk, behind which sat the interviewer, Mr. Harrison. He was a man of medium build with a neatly trimmed beard and a smile that seemed practiced but not quite genuine.

Nicholas, with his dark brown hair neatly styled and his warm brown eyes radiating genuine cheerfulness, settled into his armchair, offering a polite smile to Mr. Harrison. Beside him, Yn mirrored his composure, her gentle smile illuminating her face, her eyes reflecting the same warmth and kindness that seemed to emanate from her very being. They were a picture of professional charm, ready to engage in what they anticipated to be another routine interview about their critically acclaimed, albeit disturbing, new show.

Mr. Harrison began with the usual pleasantries, his tone initially professional and even flattering. “Nicholas, Yn, welcome. ‘Grotesquerie’ is the show everyone is talking about. The performances are… intense, to say the least.” He chuckled, the sound a little too forced. “Let’s start with the basics. What drew you both to this project?”

Nicholas, ever the articulate and thoughtful one, began, “For me, it was the script. The premise itself is unsettling, yes, but beneath the surface, it explores very human anxieties and vulnerabilities.” He spoke with his characteristic gentle cadence, each word carefully chosen, reflecting his smart and understanding nature.

Yn nodded in agreement, her voice soft yet confident. “What resonated with me was the complexity of my character, Anya. She’s dealing with so much trauma, and trying to find her footing in a world that constantly feels… off-kilter. It was a challenge, but a rewarding one.” Her eyes were earnest, reflecting her devotion to her craft and the depth of her understanding of her character.

The initial questions were standard fare – about the genre, the themes of the show, the challenges of portraying such dark roles. Mr. Harrison navigated these topics with a surface-level professionalism, his smile widening and dimming as per the script of interview etiquette. But there was a subtle shift in his demeanor when he steered the conversation towards a particularly sensitive aspect of the show – the much-talked-about sex scene between their characters.

“Now,” Mr. Harrison leaned forward, his smile becoming a touch too knowing, a glint appearing in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “The scene in episode four… the intimacy scene. It’s… quite something.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, a suggestive undertone creeping into his voice. “Nicholas, for you, as an actor, how do you approach something like that? It must be… awkward?”

Nicholas, though internally he felt a slight prickle of discomfort at the question’s implicit insinuation, maintained his cheerful composure. “Like any scene, really. It’s about understanding the context, the emotional arc of the characters in that moment, and working closely with the director and your scene partner to ensure it serves the story. Awkward is the last thing you want it to be. You aim for authenticity, for truth.”

Mr. Harrison chuckled again, a sound that now grated slightly. “Truth, yes, of course. But there’s also… the physical aspect, isn’t there? Yn,” he turned his full attention to her, the jovial tone sharpening into something… else. “For you, being in such a… vulnerable scene, with Nicholas… how did that feel? Was it… uncomfortable?”

Yn’s smile faltered for the first time, a flicker of unease passing over her usually warm features. She chose her words carefully, her patient nature coming to the forefront. “It’s always a delicate process. But we had an intimacy coordinator on set who was fantastic. She ensured everyone felt safe and respected. And Nicholas was incredibly professional and supportive, as was the entire crew.” She subtly emphasized ‘professional and supportive’, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

But Mr. Harrison was not to be deterred. He seemed to have found a vein he wanted to mine. “Professional, yes, I’m sure. But on a personal level, Yn, being that… exposed, in front of cameras, with Nicholas…” He let the sentence trail off, his eyes lingering on her a beat too long, his smile now decidedly lecherous. “There must be a level of… personal investment, wouldn’t you say? Especially with someone as… kind and charming as Nicholas.”

The shift was palpable. The atmosphere in the studio, which had started as cautiously optimistic, had turned distinctly sour. Nicholas felt a knot of anger tightening in his chest, a protective instinct rising within him. He glanced at Yn, whose smile had completely vanished, her expression now a careful mask of polite discomfort. He could see the subtle clench of her jaw, the slight tension in her shoulders. This wasn't just awkward; it was crossing a line.

“Mr. Harrison,” Nicholas’s voice, though still calm and gentle, now carried a steely undertone that hadn’t been there before. “I think Yn has eloquently described the professional nature of our work and the supportive environment created on set. Perhaps we could move on to discussing other aspects of the show?”

Mr. Harrison ignored Nicholas completely, his attention fixed solely on Yn. “But Yn, come on, be honest. It’s acting, yes, but you’re still human. There has to be some… chemistry, some spark, to make a scene like that believable, right? Did you find yourself… drawn to Nicholas, perhaps?” He punctuated the question with a wink, making it excruciatingly clear that he was no longer talking about acting, but about something far more personal and inappropriate.

A flush crept up Yn’s neck, her eyes widening slightly in disbelief and a growing sense of violation. She opened her mouth to speak, to somehow deflect or politely refuse to answer, but words seemed to fail her. The doting, devoted core of her nature, usually so freely given, now felt exposed and vulnerable under the weight of Mr. Harrison’s crude insinuations.

Before Yn could find her voice, Nicholas intervened, his patience, usually so boundless, finally snapping. His warm brown eyes, though still kind, now held a cold, resolute fire. “Mr. Harrison,” his voice was low and firm, cutting through the uncomfortable silence, “I think this line of questioning is not only unprofessional, but frankly, it’s becoming incredibly disrespectful.”

Mr. Harrison seemed taken aback by the sudden shift in Nicholas’s demeanor. His smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “Disrespectful? I’m just asking honest questions. People want to know these things. It’s part of the… allure of the show.”

“No, Mr. Harrison,” Nicholas stated, his voice rising slightly but remaining controlled. “People want to know about the show, about the story, about the characters. They don’t need to know – and frankly, they have absolutely no right to know – about the personal feelings or experiences of the actors involved, especially when framed in such a suggestive and frankly, lewd manner. Yn and I are here to talk about ‘Grotesquerie’, not to be subjected to your inappropriate fantasies disguised as interview questions.”

The studio fell utterly silent. Mr. Harrison’s face had gone from annoyed to a mottled red. He sputtered, attempting to regain control. “Now look here, I’m just doing my job…”

Nicholas stood up, his movements fluid and decisive. He turned to Yn, offering her a gentle, reassuring smile. “Yn, are you alright?” His voice was soft, filled with genuine concern.

Yn, visibly shaken but grateful for Nicholas’s intervention, nodded mutely. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “Thank you, Nicholas.”

Nicholas turned back to Mr. Harrison, his gaze unwavering. “Mr. Harrison,” his tone was now devoid of all warmth, replaced by a firm, professional finality. “This interview is over. We will not be subjected to this kind of behavior. We expect a professional and respectful environment, and you have failed to provide that. We’ll be leaving now.”

Without waiting for a response, Nicholas gently took Yn’s arm, offering her his warmth and support. He helped her to her feet, guiding her away from the desk and out of the studio. Mr. Harrison watched them go, his face a mask of stunned disbelief and simmering anger.

Once they were out of the studio and in the relative calm of the hallway, Nicholas turned to Yn, his eyes filled with doting affection and concern. “Are you really okay, Yn? He was completely out of line.”

Yn leaned slightly into Nicholas’s comforting presence, her shoulders slumping a little as the tension began to drain away. “I am now,” she said softly, her voice gaining strength. “Thank you, Nicholas. You were… amazing. I didn’t know what to say.”

Nicholas’s gentle hand squeezed her arm reassuringly. “You didn’t have to say anything. He was the one who was wrong. And you handled it with such grace, even when he was being… disgusting.” He paused, his voice turning warmer, infused with genuine admiration. “You are incredibly strong, Yn. And kind, and sweet, and everything good.”

Yn managed a small, genuine smile, the warmth returning to her eyes. “And you,” she said, looking up at him, “you are the most protective, understanding, and wonderful person I know, Nicholas. Thank you for shutting that down. I felt… incredibly uncomfortable.”

Nicholas’s affectionate gaze held hers. “You never have to feel uncomfortable around me, Yn. Or anyone, for that matter. Especially not during a professional interview. Let’s just… forget about him. He’s not worth another thought.”

As they walked away from the studio, the tension of the interview slowly dissipating, a quiet understanding settled between them. The incident had been ugly, a stark reminder of the inappropriate and invasive behavior that sometimes lurked beneath the surface of the entertainment industry.

But it had also served as a powerful testament to their characters – Nicholas’s unwavering protectiveness and Yn’s quiet strength, and the deep, respectful bond they shared, both on and off screen.

[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.

[toonabby]

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

[tosomeonessomeone]

Minas and love.

Brazil series.

words・4.7k /pairings・Chanbin x Male reader / genres・fluff, angst / warnings・ mdi, smut.

The van rumbled along the dirt road, kicking up dust that glowed like powdered gold in the late afternoon sun. Changbin leaned his head against the window, watching the sprawling urban chaos of São Paulo fade into a tapestry of emerald hills and cobalt sky. Three hours into the countryside, the world had softened—no more honking cars or flashing cameras, just the rhythmic sway of coffee plants and banana trees bowing in the breeze. When the van finally halted, he stepped out, his stiff muscles protesting, and inhaled deeply. The air here was different—thick with the earthy sweetness of soil after rain, mingling with woodsmoke from a distant farmhouse chimney.

A chorus of cattle bells clanked lazily in the valley below, answered by the whisper of wind combing through acres of cornfields. The farm sprawled before him like a postcard: terracotta-roofed barns, sun-bleached fences, and a riot of pink bougainvillea spilling over a stone well. At the gate stood Ana, the farm’s matriarch, her figure sturdy and reassuring as the ancient mango tree shading the courtyard. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, framing a face etched with laugh lines that deepened as she offered him a chipped clay mug of *cafézinho*. The coffee was scalding, bitter, and perfect, its steam curling into the crisp air.  

“*Bem-vindo à Fazenda Esperança,*” she said, her voice a raspy melody. “Hope Farm. Where tired souls find rest… and hungry ones feast.” Her eyes twinkled as she nodded toward the farmhouse, where the scent of garlic and wood-fired bread wafted through an open window. “My grandson’s been cooking since dawn. *Vamos*—you’ll need your strength to keep up with him.”  

Changbin hesitated, the weight of his exhaustion suddenly sharp against the quiet hum of the farm. But Ana’s hand, calloused and warm, patted his shoulder, and he felt something unclench in his chest. In the distance, a rooster crowed, and for the first time in months, he laughed—not for cameras or crowds, but because the air tasted like freedom, and the horizon stretched endless, and here, in this forgotten corner of Minas Gerais, he could finally breathe.  

The screen door creaked open, its hinges singing a familiar tune, and there you stood—Ana’s grandson, backlit by the honeyed glow of the farmhouse kitchen. Your rolled-up sleeves revealed sun-kissed forearms dusted with flour, and your apron, splattered with remnants of crimson *goiabada* jam, hung loosely over faded jeans. At 22, you carried the quiet confidence of someone who’d spent years kneading dough at dawn and chasing stray calves through the mist. The scent of wood-fired bread trailed behind you, warm and yeasty, as you tilted your head toward Changbin.  

“Hungry?” you asked, your English softened by the lilting cadence of a *mineiro* accent. Behind you, a cast-iron skillet sizzled with garlic and *linguiça*, its smoky aroma weaving through the air. Changbin’s gaze flickered from your flour-streaked hands to the mischief in your eyes—a look Ana often called *arteirinho*, “little rascal.” His English was hesitant, but your grin needed no translation.  

He followed you inside, boots scuffing against the worn wooden floorboards. The kitchen hummed with life: jars of *pimenta dedo-de-moça* peppers lined the windowsill, and a battered radio crackled with *sertanejo* music. You tossed him a striped dish towel. “First rule of Minas,” you said, nodding to the dough resting on the table, “we work before we eat.”  

Changbin hesitated, eyeing the sticky mound of *pão de queijo* dough. “I’m better at eating than… this,” he admitted, flexing his producer’s hands—calloused from studio work, not farm labor. You laughed, a rich, unfiltered sound that startled the tabby cat napping by the hearth. “Relax, *guloso*,” you teased, using the Portuguese term for “greedy eater.” “Even city boys can learn.”  

Together, you shaped the dough into rough balls, your fingers brushing occasionally as you demonstrated the flick-of-the-wrist technique perfected by generations of *mineiras*. “These aren’t just snacks,” you explained, dusting tapioca flour over the tray. “They’re stories. My *vó* Ana used to trade them for medicine during droughts.” Changbin’s brow furrowed as he concentrated, tongue peeking between his teeth, and you bit back a smile. His first attempt looked more like a squashed tomato than a bread roll.  

“Perfect,” you declared, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now they’ve got soul.”  

When the golden *pães* emerged from the oven, Changbin bit into one and groaned, eyes slipping shut. “Dawn,” he blurted, then flushed at his own swearing. You barked a laugh, tossing a crumpled napkin at him. “Careful, *idol*,” you smirked. “Next, I’ll teach you to swear properly in Portuguese.”    

The first rays of sun spilled over the horizon, gilding the dew-kissed fields as you dragged Changbin from his guesthouse cot. “Sunrise is the best teacher,” you insisted, ignoring his groggy protests. The kitchen still smelled of last night’s wood fire, embers glowing faintly in the hearth. You tossed him an apron stained with decades of splattered batter and handed him a bowl of tapioca flour, its texture like silk beneath his city-soft fingers.  

“*Olha,*” you murmured, guiding his hands into the dough—a sticky, elastic mass of cheese, eggs, and memories. Your grandmother’s *tigela de madeira*, its grooves worn smooth from generations of kneading, held the mixture like a sacred relic. “When the mines dried up, *mineiros* survived on this,” you said, shaping a lump into a sphere with fluid, almost reverent motions. “No gold in the hills? No problem. We had *queijo*.”  

Changbin’s brow furrowed as he wrestled the dough, his version bulging unevenly. “Looks like a *ddakji*,” he grimaced, referencing the Korean paper disks he’d played with as a boy. You snorted, flicking flour at him. “Better,” you said. “Yours has *saudade*.” He blinked, unfamiliar with the Portuguese word for longing, but the way your thumb smoothed a crack in his dough told him enough.  

As the bread baked, you shared stories of the *fazenda*’s past—the drought years when Ana traded *pão de queijo* for seeds, the winters when neighbors gathered around this very hearth, their laughter mingling with the scent of caramelizing cheese. Changbin listened, elbow-deep in flour, his watch abandoned on the windowsill. Time here didn’t click forward in minutes; it rose and fell like dough.  

When the first batch emerged, golden and blistered, you split one open. Steam curled into the dawn light, revealing a molten core of *queijo Minas*. Changbin bit into it and froze, eyes widening. “*Hyung*,” he breathed, instinctively reaching for the Korean honorific as if flavor transcended language. You grinned, licking cheese from your thumb. “See? Imperfect dough, perfect taste.”  

He reached for another, but you swatted his hand. “Ah-ah! *Primeiro o trabalho, depois o prazer.* First work, then pleasure.” You nudged a second bowl toward him, your pinky brushing his wrist. “Now, make one for my *vó*. And don’t embarrass me.”  

The rooster hadn’t even crowed when you shook Changbin awake, moonlight still clinging to the edges of the sky. “You’ll thank me later,” you whispered, tossing him a borrowed flannel shirt still warm from the hearth. He stumbled after you, half-asleep, to the barn where your *mangalarga marchador* horse, Junco, stood saddled and stamping impatiently. The gelding’s coat gleamed like polished mahogany in the predawn gloom, breath curling in silver plumes.  

“You’re joking,” Changbin croaked, eyeing the horse’s height. You swung onto the saddle with practiced ease and reached down, palm upturned. “Trust me?” The challenge in your grin was brighter than the fading stars. He hesitated, then took your hand—calluses against calluses—and let you haul him up behind you. Junco snorted, adjusting to the weight, and you clicked your tongue. “*Vai, boy.* Show off a little.”  

The horse surged forward, and Changbin’s arms instinctively locked around your waist, his chest pressing against your back. You were smaller than he’d realized—the crown of your head barely reaching his chin—but steady as a sapling in the wind. The rhythm of Junco’s gait blurred into the cadence of your laughter as you guided him past coffee fields and through stands of buriti palms, their fronds whispering secrets. Changbin’s grip tightened when you urged Junco into a trot, your hair whipping back to brush his cheek, smelling of smoke and cinnamon.  

“Relax,” you called over your shoulder, voice warm with mischief. “You’ll strangle me before we reach the river.”  

He loosened his arms—just slightly—but didn’t let go.  

--  

When Junco finally halted, the sun had risen, filtering through the trees in honeyed shafts. Before you sprawled a river so clear it mirrored the sky, its surface dappled with leaves floating like tiny emerald boats. A waterfall cascaded from mossy rocks, its song a liquid hymn that drowned out the world beyond.  

“My secret” you said softly, sliding off the horse. When Changbin didn’t move, you glanced back to find him wide-eyed, lips parted. Taking in the dragonflies skimming the water, the toucans yodeling from kapok trees.  

You shrugged, tying Junco to a branch. “When the farm feels too loud.” Kneeling, you scooped water into your hands and drank. “Try it. Better than any idol’s bottled stuff.”  

Changbin crouched beside you, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The water was colder than he expected, jolting him fully awake. He splashed his face, droplets catching sunlight as they fell, and gasped. “It’s like… swallowing light.”  

You smirked, flicking a droplet at him. “Poetic for a guy who called *pão de queijo* ‘cheese rocks’ yesterday.”  

He retaliated with a splash, and soon the riverbank echoed with shouts and laughter, Junco snorting in disapproval. Eventually, you both collapsed on the bank, clothes damp and hair wild. Changbin lay back, staring at the canopy where sunlight and shadow waltzed. “Back home,” he murmured, “I forget to look up.”  

You plucked a *fruta-do-conde* from a nearby tree, splitting it open to reveal creamy flesh. “Eat,” you ordered, passing him a slice. “Then we’ll swim.”  

“Swim?!” He sat bolt upright. “There’s no— I didn’t bring—”  

You tugged your shirt over your head, then your jeans, leaving only sun-bleached briefs. “Coming in?”  

Changbin froze. Water sluiced down your shoulders as you waded in, oblivious to the way his throat bobbed. He’d spent years rehearsing restraint—smiling at fans, dodging rumors, locking desires in a box labeled *Later*. But here, with no cameras or managers, the box rattled open.  

You dove under the waterfall, emerging with a shout. “*Água fria para alma quente!* Cold water for a hot soul!”  

*Screw it*, he thought.  

He stripped to his boxers, the air biting his skin, and plunged in. The shock of cold punched a laugh from his lungs. You floated on your back, eyes closed, and he watched the sunlight gild your collarbone, the water tracing the dip of your waist. *Liberdade* grazed nearby, her tail flicking at dragonflies.  

“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked, voice low.  

You turned, droplets clinging to your lashes. “Same reason *vó* taught me to make *pão de queijo*,” you said. “Some things…” You swam closer, until your knees brushed his under the water. “…are better shared.”  

His pulse roared in his ears. He could count your freckles now, the scar on your chin from a childhood fall. The world narrowed to the space between your lips—chapped from sun, parted slightly—and the way your fingers skimmed the surface, ripples echoing the tremor in his chest.  

A kingfisher screeched overhead. You blinked, breaking the spell, and splashed him. “Race you to the falls!”  

He chased you, the water laughing with him, and tried to forget how your breath had hitched too.  

The farmhouse patio clung to the day’s last warmth, its terracotta tiles still humming with sunlight as dusk draped the sky in indigo. You sat cross-legged on a frayed *tapete de palha*, a mountain of *pimenta cambuci* peppers glowing like embers in the copper basin between you. Changbin hovered awkwardly, holding a jar of vinegar like it might detonate. “This is… safer than horses, right?”  

You smirked, tossing him a knife. “*Corte assim,*” you instructed, slicing a pepper into a starburst. “So the brine kisses the seeds.” He mimicked your motion, tongue peeking in concentration, and you bit your cheek to keep from laughing. His first attempt looked less like a star and more like a deflated soccer ball.  

“*É horrível,*” he groaned, but you plucked it from his hands. “No,” you said, holding it up to the rising moon. “It’s *autêntico*. Like your…” You gestured vaguely at his face. “…*essa coisa de idol*. Perfection’s boring.”  

He blinked, then chuckled—a low, unfiltered sound that warmed the cooling air. “You’d hate Seoul.”  

“*Talvez,*” you shrugged. “But I’d love the street food. Teach me a Korean word, and I’ll trade you a pepper.”  

The stars blinked awake as he pondered, the Milky Way smeared above like spilled *leite condensado*. “*Hyodo*,” he said finally, scoring a pepper with surprising grace. “It means… caring for your parents. Doing your duty.”  

You repeated it, the syllables clumsy but earnest. “*Hyodo.*” The word settled between you, weighted and tender. “Now try *saudade*,” you said, nudging his knee with yours.  

“Sow-dah-jee?”  

“Close enough.” You sprinkled salt over the peppers, watching him from the corner of your eye. “It’s the ache of missing someone. Even when they’re right here.”  

He stilled, knife hovering. A *sabiá* bird sang from the mango tree, its melody threading through the silence.  

“Another word,” you demanded, softer now.  

“*Jeong.*” He didn’t look up. “It’s… the bond that grows slowly. Like roots.”  

The peppers forgotten, you leaned back on your palms. “*Jeong,*” you echoed, testing its texture. “Does it have a… taste?”  

He met your gaze, the patio’s fairy lights gilding his cheekbones. “Like this.” He popped a raw pepper slice into your mouth. Fire bloomed on your tongue, and you gasped, swatting his arm as he grinned. “*Jerk.*”  

“*Jeong,*” he corrected, laughing, and you threw a chili stem at him.  

But later, when the jars were sealed and the farm slept, you found yourselves sprawled on the same *tapete*, shoulders brushing as you mapped constellations. “That’s *Cruzeiro do Sul*,” you said, tracing the Southern Cross. “Guides lost travelers home.”  

Changbin’s pinky grazed yours. “We have a star like that too. *Chilsungbyeong*—the Seven Stars Spoon.” His hand lifted, drawing lines you couldn’t see. “They say it’s a ladle scooping up memories.”  

“Which one’s yours?” you asked.  

He pointed to the brightest flicker in his imagined spoon. “That one. It’s… a memory I’m not ready to drop yet.”  

You didn’t press. Instead, you taught him the *mineiro* names for stars—*Estrela d’Alva* for Venus, *Três Marias* for Orion’s Belt—and he whispered Korean folktales of lovers torn into constellations. The night deepened, the peppers’ sharp tang mellowing into the earthy scent of dew-damp soil.  

When his voice grew husky with exhaustion, you handed him a jar of pickled *cambuci*. “For Seoul,” you said. “So you don’t forget.”  

He cradled it like something fragile. “*Gamsahamnida,*” he murmured. *Thank you.* Not *hyodo* or *jeong*—but the gratitude lingered, thicker than the heat of peppers.  

-- 

The roosters were still asleep when the scent of toasted sesame oil and caramelized garlic curled into your bedroom. You padded barefoot to the kitchen, where Changbin stood bathed in dawn’s peach-gold light, his apron tied haphazardly over a faded *Flamengo* soccer jersey he’d borrowed from your closet. The counter was a mosaic of Ana’s clandestine generosity: fresh *goiabas*, a jar of *doce de leite*, and a handwritten note propped against the *cafezinho* pot: *“Para os jovens. Não estraguem minha cozinha.”* *“For the youngsters. Don’t ruin my kitchen.”*  

“Surprise,” Changbin said, flipping a *kimchi-jeon* pancake with a spatula. The sizzle of batter hitting the pan harmonized with the *sanfona* music drifting from Ana’s antique radio. “Your *vó* may have… hinted I should cook for you.”  

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Hinted? She gave you the keys to her *dispensa* and fled to the neighbor’s *fazenda*. That’s a conspiracy.”  

He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe she thinks I’ll kidnap you to Seoul.”  

“With *kimchi* pancakes?” You sidled up to him, peering into the pan. The crispy edges glistened with chili oil, and beside it, a pot of *juk* (rice porridge) bubbled gently, studded with *couve* (kale) from Ana’s garden—an unlikely, perfect fusion.  

“Sit,” he ordered, nodding to the table already set with Ana’s chipped blue porcelain. “And try this.” He lifted a spoonful of porridge, blowing on it before offering it to you. Your lips closed around the spoon, and his gaze flickered to your mouth. “Good?”  

The porridge was warm, savory, faintly sweet from caramelized onions. “*Perigoso*,” you mumbled. *Dangerous.*  

He raised an eyebrow.  

“If you keep cooking like this, I’ll have to kidnap *you*.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Noted.”  

Breakfast unfolded in a dance of clinking dishes and shared chopsticks. He taught you to wrap *jeon* in *alface* leaves, your fingers brushing as you reached for the same lettuce slice. “*Yah*,” he scolded, swatting your hand playfully. “Respect your *sunbae*.”  

“*Sunbae*?” You stole the leaf anyway. “You’re in *my* kitchen, *idol*.”  

The nickname made him flush, and you filed that reaction away for later.  

By midmorning, the dishes were washed, and sunlight pooled honey-thick across the floor. Changbin lingered at the sink, drying a bowl with unnecessary focus. “Your *vó*… she left something else.” He nodded to the pantry.  

Inside, a bottle of *cachaça* sat beside two tiny clay cups, a red ribbon tied around its neck. *“Para a coragem,”* Ana’s note read. *“For courage.”*  

You snorted. “She’s worse than the church ladies at *Festas Juninas*.”  

Changbin picked up the bottle, thumbing the ribbon. “In Korea, we have *soju* for courage.” He paused, voice softening. “And… *confessions*.”  

The air grew heavy, sweet as overripe *manga*. You took the bottle, your fingers overlapping his. “We don’t need it.”  

His breath hitched when you stepped closer, the *cachaça* forgotten on the table. The kitchen smelled of lingering garlic and his citrus cologne, and you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat over the *sanfona*’s wistful tune.  

“*Jeong*,” he whispered, the word a plea and a promise.  

This time, when your lips met, there was no river to interrupt, no peppers to blame for the fire. Just the quiet creak of the farmhouse floorboards, the distant lowing of cattle, and Ana’s radio cheering you on with a lively *forró* beat.  

The soft morning light lit bedroom becomes your sanctuary as clothes fall away between passionate kisses. Changbin's muscular body presses against yours, skin on skin creating electric sensations. Your Brazilian passion ignites as you guide him to the bed.

"Let me take care of you," you whisper, pushing him onto his back. Your lips trail down his defined chest and abs while your hands explore every inch of his body. When you reach his hard cock, you take him into your mouth, making him moan deeply.

His fingers thread through your hair as you worship him with your tongue, taking him deeper. The isolation of the farm means neither of you need to hold back your sounds of pleasure.

"Want you," he pants, pulling you up for a deep kiss. His hands move to prep your tight hole, working you open slowly and carefully.

Changbin's fingers work you open expertly as you writhe beneath him. His thick digits stretch your tight hole while his lips mark your neck. When he crooks his fingers just right, you arch off the bed with a loud moan.

"Ready for my cock?" he asks roughly, withdrawing his fingers. You nod desperately as he slicks himself up with lube.

The initial push has you both groaning - the stretch and fullness overwhelming as he sinks deep inside you. His muscular body covers yours as he starts a slow rhythm, making love to you thoroughly.

"You feel amazing," he pants against your lips, gradually picking up the pace. Each thrust hits your prostate perfectly, making pleasure build low in your belly.

Changbin's thrusts grow more desperate as pleasure builds between you. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting your prostate with each deep stroke while his hand wraps around your leaking shaft.

"Gonna cum," you moan, clawing at his back as the pressure builds. The feeling of his thick cock stretching your tight hole has you right on the edge.

"Cum for me *amor*" he pants, stroking you faster. When his teeth graze your neck, you lose control - cumming hard between your bodies as your hole clenches around him.

Your orgasm triggers his, making him slam deep one final time as he fills you with his hot load.

Changbin holds you close as you both catch your breath, his cum leaking from your well-used hole. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your skin as the afterglow washes over you both.

"That was incredible," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder. The morning light catches the sheen of sweat on his muscular body as he shifts to look at you.

Your hand finds his face, pulling him in for a tender kiss. The passion may have cooled but the intimacy remains, two souls connecting in the quiet farmhouse.

"Round two?" you suggest with a playful grin, grinding back against his slowly hardening cock.

----

The afternoon sun hung low, gilding the rows of coffee plants in liquid gold. You sat cross-legged on Ana’s checkered picnic blanket, a thermos of *cafézinho* between you and Changbin’s head resting in your lap. His lips still tasted of stolen kisses and the *goiabada* pastry you’d shared, sticky-sweet and fleeting. Your fingers carded through his hair as he traced idle patterns on your knee—a map of nowhere, everywhere.  

Then his phone buzzed.  

It lay facedown in the grass, a sleek black intruder in this sun-dappled world. Changbin stiffened, the peaceful curve of his mouth flattening into a line. You felt it before he spoke: the shift in the air, the way his breath hitched as he read the caller ID. “I have to… it’s my manager,” he muttered, sitting up too quickly.  

You nodded, pretending to study a coffee cherry’s blush while he stood and walked toward the grove. His Korean was sharp, clipped, a language that suddenly felt alien amidst the *sabiá* birdsong. You caught only fragments: *“…flight tonight…” “…schedule in Tokyo…” “…yes, hyung, I understand.”*  

When he returned, the farm seemed quieter, as if the earth itself held its breath. He knelt in front of you, grass staining his jeans, and cradled your hands. “I have to leave. In two hours.”  

The thermos tipped over, coffee seeping into the soil like a secret. “Oh.” You’d known this was borrowed time, but the word *two hours* clawed at your ribs. “Ana will… she’ll want to pack you more *pão de queijo*.”  

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that thing where you make it easier.”  

You laughed, though it cracked like over-roasted beans. “*Mineiros* are good at goodbyes. We’ve had centuries of practice.”  

He pressed his forehead to yours, his exhale trembling. “Come with me.”  

You stilled. “To Seoul?”  

“To the airport. Just—stay until I’m through security. Or… or *gate* B12. Or—”  

“Changbin.” You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the shadows under his eyes. “You don’t have to bargain with me.”  

The drive to Belo Horizonte was a blur of winding roads and silence. He held your hand the entire way, his grip tightening each time the city’s skyline loomed closer. At departures, Ana shoved a cloth bundle into his arms—*pão de queijo*, a jar of *doce de leite*, and the *cachaça* bottle, now half-empty from last night’s courage. “For the soul,” she said, pinching his cheek. “And the homesickness.”  

When the final call echoed through the terminal, he pulled you into a corner behind a potted palm. His lips found yours, desperate and salt-tingged—he’d been crying, you realized. “I’ll come back,” he vowed, voice raw. “Or you’ll come to Seoul. Or—”  

“Shh.” You tucked a folded paper into his jacket pocket. The *pão de queijo* recipe, stained with coffee and your grandmother’s annotations. “For when your hands miss the work.”  

He kissed you again, deeper this time, until a security guard coughed pointedly. You watched him walk away, shoulders squared like he was marching into battle, until the crowd swallowed him whole.  

Ana found you staring at the departures board, Seoul’s flight number blinking tauntingly. “*Menino coração valente,*” she sighed, looping her arm through yours. *Brave-hearted boy.* “Come. We’ll plant new coffee seedlings tomorrow.”  

You nodded, but that night, alone in your room, you opened your bedside drawer. Inside lay a single *cambuci* pepper, dried and preserved, and a post-it note in messy Hangul: *“내일도 같이 먹을래?”* *Will you eat with me tomorrow too?*  

You pressed it to your chest and let the *saudade* take root.  

--

One month later.

The package arrived wrapped in brown paper, its corners softened by the journey across oceans. Ana carried it to the porch where you sat shelling *feijão*, her eyes twinkling. “*Alguma coisa cheirando a amor,*” she teased. *Something smells like love.*  

Inside, nestled in crumpled *jornal* pages from Seoul, lay three treasures:  

1. A Vinyl Record: The sleeve, hand-painted with *flamboyant* flowers and Korean *norigae* tassels, held a single track—*“Nosso forró”* by a band neither of you knew. Scrawled on the label: *“Play at sunset. I’ll be listening too.”*  

2. A Han River Pebble: Smooth and slate-gray, tucked into a *cachaça* cork for safekeeping. When you shook it, a slip of paper fluttered out—*“Found this mid-river. Thought it could use a farm adventure. (Don’t lose it—I’m sentimental now.)”*  

3. The Photo: Changbin in a stainless-steel kitchen, apron askew, holding a tray of *pão de queijo* so misshapen they bordered on abstract art. His grin outshone the studio lights behind him.  

You turned it over. His handwriting, once clumsy in Portuguese, now flowed with practiced care:  

“Saudade is growing. Slowly. Wait for me.” 

Ana hummed the *forró* melody already spinning in your head. “*Menino esperto,*” she murmured, thumbing the pebble. *Clever boy.* “He knows *mineiros* are stubborn. We’ll wait a hundred years.”  

That night, you placed the record on Ana’s antique player. As the accordion wept and Changbin’s laughter echoed through the kitchen photo, you pressed the pebble to your palm and wondered if the Han River missed its stone—or if rivers, like hearts, learn to hold emptiness as part of their flow.  

[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

[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.)

[eta-volantis]

Damn, it turns out the situation with Lycaon's old VA is a lot more complicated than I thought. From what I found, essentially Sound Cadence already have anti-AI clause but it seems like he was trying to get into SAG-AFTRA so he joined their strike. However, he's non-union so his strike is not recognised especially since the studio he was working for already have anti-AI clause which leads to him being replaced. And the studio is created by working VAs as well, so these are issues they take seriously.

Sounds like a huge clusterfuck, damn. This is very much a short summary of what I found, so best to dig if you're interested, but like seriously it sounds like a clusterfuck.

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 9: You

That book was amazing.

Aegon had devoured it the night before, somewhere between a video call from his mother—checking that he was home and not out trying his best to die—and a half-hearted attempt to sleep.

He’d never really thought about the concept of anticipation, yet it had shaped his life so much that he almost believed Vic had worked some kind of witchcraft, understanding him before he even had the words for it.

At least, that’s how it felt after their last studio session.

There was no denying it—Aegon had to admit it had been a success. He hadn’t even thought it was possible, not after all the times he’d tried writing with other people, only for them to either fall for his provocations or treat him like an inconvenience while they did all the work for him.

But Vic had kept every unspoken promise they’d made to each other.

And that filled him with anticipation.

Maybe it was because he’d woken up with a hard-on more persistent than usual.

Maybe it was because when she’d been standing next to him, rewriting the bridge, he’d been hit with the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull her to sit onto his face.

Or maybe it was just because Huron had explained to him exactly how this psychological process worked.

Expectation triggered a series of emotional responses, each slipping in before he could catch them.

Reaction—like telling Vic to fuck off every time she annoyed him.

Tension—like not knowing why she hadn’t asked him to fuck yet.

Prediction—like calculating that two more sessions like the last one would end with her naked in his bed.

Imagination—like fantasizing about tracing his tongue along the outline of her tattoo. And then there was

Appraisal—according to Huron, that’s what happened once conscious thought kicked in, but Aegon preferred to imagine it as the moment when he would come on her tits.

“Jesus, Aegon, you scared the shit out of me,” Helaena yelped, appearing from behind a column, clearly not expecting to find him sprawled out on the chaise lounge in their parents’ living room.

He’d forced himself downstairs because if he stayed alone in his attic any longer, he was going to spend the entire morning jerking off.

“Sorry! Just taking advantage of Mum and Dad being out to mooch some food that isn’t Chinese takeaway,” he said with a lazy grin before sinking back into his book.

“Put a damn shirt on, it’s freezing,” Helaena muttered, pulling her robe tighter around herself as she made her way to the kettle on the kitchen island.

Yeah, okay, maybe lying around in just his boxers at the end of October was a bit much, but Aegon wasn’t about to explain to his sweet sister that he couldn’t shake this fucking heat that had been crawling over his skin since this morning.

“I’m okay,” he shrugged.

Helaena shot him another look as she filled the kettle. “Are you… reading?”

“Incredible, my siblings being astonished when I do completely normal things. Should we call Daeron in Paris and inform him I can, in fact, read?”

He sank deeper into the chaise lounge, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers, trying desperately to focus on the book.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Helaena raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“A book by some psychologist explaining the emotional processes behind anticipation and how certain tricks in music—syncopation, cadence, meter, tonality, climax—can be used to satisfy a listener.”

“That actually sounds interesting,” Helaena mused, leaning against the counter with her cup of tea.

“It is! Vic lent it to me.”

Just saying her name was enough to make his dick stir back to life.

He smacked the open book against his groin, shifting slightly, trying to make sure Helaena didn’t notice.

Luckily, she was too busy gazing out the window, watching the sun hesitantly break through the otherwise gray and chilly autumn morning.

“Nice of her,” Helaena commented absently.

It was.

“It is,” Aegon echoed his own thoughts.

He should thank her.

“I should thank her,” he added, now completely incapable of redirecting blood flow away from the center of his body.

Helaena gave him a look—he wasn’t sure what she was searching for—but then she just shook her head and turned to leave with her cup of tea, muttering under her breath, “fucking weirdo.”

Aegon grabbed his phone, caught somewhere between carnal frustration and genuine excitement over everything this madman David Huron was teaching him. He wanted to talk to Vic. He wanted to discuss syncopation, test different meters and tonalities, and hell—maybe even reach a climax together.

He smirked at his own joke.

“Destroying yourself at the gym?” he texted, gathering his things and heading for the attic, but not before swiping a Naked bar from his parents’ pantry.

“No. Woke up too late,” Vic replied just as Aegon, devouring the bar in two bites, turned on the shower—cold, obviously.

“The book is fucking amazing! Want to meet up and try some of the things our good friend Huron talks about before heading to the studio?”

He stepped under the freezing water, letting it ground him a little. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes, just focused on the steady stream against his skin.

Then his phone buzzed from the sink.

He lunged for it, soaking everything in the process.

“Glad to hear you’re doing your homework! Could be an idea.”

Bingo.

“You could come here, then we could head to the studio together. And if you want, I’ll even drop you off after, as a thank you for the inconvenience.”

The water pounded against his back as he leaned over the sink, struggling with his screen as droplets made it glitch.

She was typing.

Then she stopped.

Then she started again.

“Thinking about it, we should be in the studio in a couple of hours anyway, and I need to take care of a couple of things, see you there."

Damn Victoria Dawson.

Well, it was worth a try.

The shower had helped—not completely, but enough to let him focus on the songwriting session rather than the session he actually wanted to have with Vic.

He’d arrived at the studio first, picked up coffee for everyone, and made himself comfortable on the sofa, the Huron book in his hands as he idly toyed with the arm of his sunglasses.

Psychologists were cool—at least, the good ones, like Huron, not the morons in rehab. If someone had explained to him that people fall into self-destructive behaviors because they crave control over the outcome, even if it’s a bad one, and if they’d used something as simple as expecting a C chord to resolve after an F and a G, maybe he would have left three months earlier. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so guilty every time he thought about getting high.

“You really liked the book, huh?”

Vic’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she walked into the rehearsal room. Aegon should have kept his eyes down.

He hadn’t thought about sex for a whole ten minutes, and now, thanks to Vic, her leather skirt, and her bare legs under those high boots she’d decided to wear, he felt an overwhelming urge to sink his teeth into her thigh.

“Vic, it’s insane!” he said instead, forcing himself to sit up properly on the sofa. “It’s genius! I’d never thought about why a song works when it works. Now I get what you were saying the other day about that chord progression resolving.”

She smiled at him, then bent down—like a damn sadistic menace—to pick up one of the bass guitars resting on the stand. As Aegon realized he was leaning forward without thinking just to catch a glimpse of her ass, he had a fleeting thought: Naturally, Victoria Dawson played a dozen instruments—including bass.

“I was thinking we could switch the bridge to 3/4,” she said, slinging an Ibanez over her shoulder before plugging it into the bass amp.

“I think it fits with the new lyrics you tweaked the other day.”

That you did something warm to his chest—and, frankly, to his dick.

“I never really got how these weird-ass time signatures work, but we can try,” he said, finally putting the book aside and reaching for his favorite Telecaster.

“Of course you don’t,” came the voice of doom from the doorway.

Aemond.

He walked straight to the table where Aegon had left the coffees, picked up his, and—after cautiously inspecting the contents—took a sip without so much as a thank you.

Ungrateful bastard.

Then he turned to Vic. “You should stop by Laura’s office at the end of the day to give her your banking details so she can—”

Blah, blah, blah. Aegon tuned him out the second he realized it was something insufferably boring.

Luckily, his phone buzzed with a message.

It was Martin.

And that son of a bitch had impeccable timing because he was inviting Aegon to his Non-Halloween party.

“Martin and Leon are throwing a party in Brixton tonight,” he said casually to Aemond, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Aemond, who was still mid conversation with Vic, shot him a look of weary disdain. “Good. I hope the police raid it,” he said dryly, clearly fishing for a laugh from Vic.

Aegon smirked. “Why? Planning to get arrested?”

Aemond froze for a second as he sat down on the sofa. His expression shifted as the meaning sank in. “Oh no, Aegon. Don’t even think about it. I’m not taking you.”

“And why not? Princess Victoria’s coming. We already made plans,” Aegon lied smoothly. In reality, he’d only promised her a lift to her place, but Brixton was on the way. If she had refused, he had a whole arsenal of excuses and pleas ready to rope her into playing along. But to his surprise, Vic didn’t object. She simply raised an eyebrow at him before glancing at Aemond, perhaps trying to gauge his reaction.

Weird.

“Because I’m exhausted! This week, I’ve slept maybe two hours a night dealing with all the mess with the technicians, drafting Victoria’s contract, and Cole constantly asking me to cover for idiots who can’t keep a commitment,” he snapped.

It was true—his dark circles were downright terrifying.

“Even better. At least you’ll get to relax a little,” Aegon countered with fake altruism.

Aemond’s eyes flicked between them, suspicion etched across his face, clearly trying to uncover the catch. No doubt wondering why Vic would willingly associate with the “bootlicking idiots who cling to Aegon,” as he so eloquently put it.

“Two beers, and then we’re leaving,” Aemond muttered with a resigned sigh, shooting another glance in Vic’s direction.

Perfect. No—better than perfect.

He felt a thrill of anticipation. It had been ages since he last saw his old friends and had some serious fun. And honestly, with Vic meticulously dodging his every attempt to get her to come to his place, he seriously needed to fuck.

His mind drifted to Cassandra. He hadn’t seen her since rehab, but if he remembered correctly she was a wild force of nature. Utterly insatiable in bed, with an ass that could stop traffic and the best blowjobs of his life.

Though, to be fair, he couldn’t recall most of their wild nights together, he was always so fucked up that his cock shooting its load felt more like a reflex than any real stimulation reaching his brain. But one image had alway remained seared into his memory: Cassandra’s face, her blue eyes glassy and pupils blown wide as she proudly showed off swallowing every inch of his dick.

After all, he was just a a man.

He suddenly got dragged back to earth when Vic leaned in and whispered, “You’re actually taking me to this party now.”

He stared at her for a second, trying to reassemble his lust-clouded brain, before smirking and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Perfect, love. Now I don’t even have to figure out how to keep Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass entertained,” he said, nodding toward Aemond.

“Can we start working now?” That boring crow said exasperated.

****

Victoria knew exactly what her final thought would be before dying. She could see it clearly—old, maybe 80 if things went well and her liver held up, hooked to some machine, with Sara by her side. Proof, as always, that men were unreliable and they’d truly been forced to marry each other in the end. “I didn’t live enough.”

That was Vic’s kind of FOMO.

She loved the idea of parties. Ever since she’d seen the trailer for Skins on MTV at 12, the idea of chaotic, wild gatherings had enthralled her. Sure, she hadn’t been to many that reached that level of insanity, but she knew one thing for certain: she was no introvert.

Which is why, even though she loathed giving Aegon a helping hand—especially at poor Aemond’s expense—she hadn’t objected when that idiot roped her into his ridiculous plan.

On the Uber ride to this supposed party, the vibe between the brothers couldn’t have been more different. The older one was buzzing with excitement, staring out the window like a dog being taken to the vet. The younger one was glued to his phone, obsessively checking emails and occasionally shooting her glances, as if trying to figure out what she was thinking.

The house was one of those typical brown-brick homes you’d see around South London, complete with a small front gate, a backyard, and a sloping roof with modest windows.

As soon as they arrived, Aegon lunged at some blonde guy’s neck. He introduced himself, but between the blaring music pounding from the next room and her immediate disinterest, Victoria didn’t catch whether he was Martin or Leon. Didn’t matter. If forced, she’d just call him mate. That tactic never failed.

Martin-Leon led them into the next room, packed with people. Surprisingly, it was far tamer than Victoria had anticipated. This seemed to relax Aemond, though—he’d probably expected some post-apocalyptic chaos but instead found a crowd of relatively normal people laughing, chatting, and not dressed in costumes despite the claim of it being a Halloween party.

They were also treated to terrible music, and Aemond gave her a look, mock-hissing in disgust. She couldn’t help but laugh.

They settled on a sofa, the party swirling around them—loud but distant, like waves crashing on the shore while they sat just far enough away to stay dry. Victoria took a slow sip of her beer, the glass already half-empty. Aemond, arms crossed, leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose as if resigning himself to being here.

“Are you always this much fun at parties?” she teased, tipping her glass toward him in mock salute.

“I don’t usually go to them,” he admitted. His voice wasn’t defensive, just matter-of-fact.

Vic hummed, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

He arched a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The brooding? The general air of ‘I’d rather be anywhere else’?” She smirked. “Not to mention, I think this might be the first time I’ve seen you sit still for more than five minutes. Usually, you’re pacing around the studio like a man on a mission.”

“That’s because I am,” he said simply, a confident smirk on his face.

Vic laughed. “Right. You do take this whole music thing very seriously.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. “Shouldn’t I?”

She shrugged. “Sure. But there’s a difference between taking something seriously and letting it consume you.”

His gaze lingered on her for a beat, unreadable. “And which one do you think I’m doing?”

“Ask me again when we’re not at a party,” she said, flashing him a grin. “I charge for deep conversations in social settings.”

Aemond huffed, shaking his head slightly, but there was the ghost of something—almost amusement—at the corner of his mouth.

“So if you don’t go to parties, and you never take music lightly… what do you do for fun?”

Aemond huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I work.”

“Come on, there’s got to be something else.”

“Reading,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “Boxing. Motorcycles.”

Victoria raised a brow. “Motorcycles?”

That earned her a glance, like he hadn’t expected her to be surprised by that detail. “Yes.”

“Do you actually ride, or are you one of those guys who just buys an expensive bike to look cool?”

His smirk was almost imperceptible. “I ride.”

She looked at him, weighing his answer. “Figures. You’ve got that whole lone-wolf aesthetic down. Let me guess—fast, sleek, all black?”

Aemond didn’t confirm or deny it, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was enough.

“See, I’d picture you more in some vintage British bike. Classic. Precise. Maybe a Triumph,” she mused.

Aemond finally turned to face her fully. “You know motorcycles?”

“I know a little about a lot of things,” Victoria said with a smirk. “And I know bikes. My father was obsessed. I hate them.”

Aemond considered that for a moment before nodding. “That explains the tattoos.”

Victoria glanced down at her inked arm, lips twitching. “Yep, I got these to impress my dad’s biker gang”

“Wouldn’t be the worst strategy.”

She laughed, warm from the alcohol.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the party humming around them. Vic glanced across the room, where Aegon had somehow found himself at the center of attention, dramatically reenacting some story, drink sloshing in his hand as he gestured wildly.

She turned back to Aemond, catching him watching the same thing. “Let me guess—you’re the designated responsible for Mr. Menace?”

Aemond didn’t react right away. He just blinked once, slowly, then took a sip of his drink. “It’s not exactly a choice.”

Vic nodded as if she understood. Because she did.

She followed his line of sight back to Aegon.

“Yeah. I get that,” she said after a beat, her voice light, almost absentminded. Her thoughts circled back to her own brother.

Aemond turned to her. “Do you?”

Vic just smiled, taking another sip. “Yeah. I do.”

His expression flickered—just a split second, like she’d struck something raw. But then he exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch again.

There was a pause.

And then, just like that, he was asleep.

Victoria stared. At first, she thought he was just ignoring her, but no—his breathing had slowed, his posture slackened. He’d actually passed out.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “Wow. Riveting conversation, apparently.”

Still, she didn’t wake him. Instead, she sat back, finishing her beer, watching the party swirl around them.

Aegon, however, had vanished. Whether it was the beers or a sudden pang of sympathy for Aemond and his thankless role as his brother’s keeper, Vic instinctively got up from the sofa, took another beer from the messy kitchen, and started scanning the house. She wandered through the hallways, spotting Martin-Leon wielding an absurdly large bong, surrounded by a circle of partygoers. He coughed violently after taking a hit, earning cheers from his audience.

She pushed open the door to another room and, in a scene straight out of a bad cliché, stumbled upon a couple mid-hookup. But no, that wasn’t Aegon.

Determined, she kept exploring the house with as much precision as her tipsy state allowed, until muffled giggles from the pantry caught her attention.

She swung the door open to find Aegon on the floor, leaning against a shelf, laughing with a dark-haired girl straddling his lap. Of course.

But before she could dwell too long on the familiar sting of jealousy, her focus shifted. When the two noticed her presence and turned toward her, Vic saw Aegon holding a small bag of coke.

“Out,” she ordered, her voice firm, directed at the girl.

The brunette, with strikingly blue eyes, shot her a defiant look as if to say Vic had no authority here. Aegon’s expression, however, was unreadable, but he stayed silent.

“I said, out,” Vic repeated.

Maybe it was the steel in her voice or the glance she threw at Aegon—who merely shrugged and gave the girl a light pat on her thigh, a silent cue to leave—but the girl, clearly wasted, wobbled to her feet and stumbled past Vic, muttering a slurred “bitch” as she left.

Vic closed the door behind her and turned to Aegon, her eyes locking onto his. He was obviously enjoying himself, probably misinterpreting (or correctly interpreting?) the reason for her intrusion.

Still seated on the floor, Aegon swung one knee lazily, biting his lower lip in that infuriating smirk. He didn’t say a word.

Vic walked toward him, her steps deliberate, heavy, like an executioner approaching the condemned. She knelt to his level, and with her free hand, she snatched the bag of coke from his grip.

He didn’t react. She couldn’t tell if it was because he recognized he’d messed up or if he was simply too far gone.

“You do any?” she asked, straightening up.

“No,” he replied, almost offhandedly.

“Sure about that?” Vic pressed.

“Straight from the bag? Do you even know how it works?” he shot back, his tone laced with sarcasm, mean-spirited and amused.

No, she had no idea.

Vic scoffed. Without another word, she strode over to the small window at the back of the room, slid it open, and emptied the bag’s contents outside.

Snowfall, party edition.

Still, Aegon didn’t react. He watched her quietly, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Even when she shot him a triumphant look, expecting to see him get furious, he stood exactly where she’d left him, staring.

Suddenly, he pulled a face—the kind you make when you're impressed, mouth corners dipping downward, sarcasm radiating from every pore. With a groan, he stood, stepping toward her.

Vic felt her cheeks heat as Aegon stopped uncomfortably close, his eyes boring into hers. Mustering every ounce of her willpower, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and gave him a defiant glare.

Her newfound confidence, however, wavered slightly when he placed a hand on her shoulder. Slowly, he traced his fingers down her arm, brushing her tricep, then her forearm, before resting them on her wrist. Vic followed the movement with her eyes, and when his hand stilled, she shot him a questioning look.

He answered with a smirk.

Before she could process it, Aegon gently pried the beer from her grasp. Without hesitation, he stepped to the window and poured the remaining liquid out.

The empty glass landed with a deliberate clink on the windowsill. Aegon threw her one last glance before sinking back to the floor, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease.

And then Vic understood.

She saw it in his silence, the way he didn’t argue or make a snide remark when he took her beer—her own little crutch. He could’ve mocked her, turned her action into a joke, but he hadn’t.

This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t him trying to piss her off, or assert some kind of dominance.

It was a trade.

He let her take care of the reckless part of him, the part that still ached for something he couldn’t have. Aegon had chosen to stay clean.

And in return, he took care of the part of her that pretended it wasn’t aching at all.

This wasn’t about petty revenge or annoyance. He didn’t want to needle her; he wanted her to see him, to understand that no matter how neatly her addiction was wrapped in legality, he had seen through it.

Aegon wanted her to know they were the same.

The realization hit her hard. Without a word, Vic lowered herself to sit beside him, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. She took two drags, then leaned her head against his shoulder.

Aegon exhaled smoke into the silence.

When she handed the cigarette back, he rested his head lightly atop hers.

No words. No promises.

[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.