#R studio for loop

[officially-bug-art]

They make me sick [postcanon au where everyone is friends :3 and goes home otay :3 and nothing bad ever happens :3]

[dakusan]

Y O U T E X T “ I M I S S Y O U ” O U T O F N O W H E R E

stray kids ot8 x reader | quiet confessions, sleepy chaos, and hearts that ache before they answer

🌙 synopsis: You don’t mean to send it. Not dramatically. Not with tears in your eyes. Just…“i miss you.” Quiet. Honest. Unfiltered. And suddenly—They’re not okay. This isn’t just texting. This is emotional freefall in three words or less. This is “i miss you” turned into “i love you” without either of you saying it.

💌 a/n: this was supposed to be short. just a little “what if you texted ‘i miss you’” post. and then chan said “i wanna hold you while the track renders” and everything spiraled. i hope you feel held. i hope you feel insane. i hope you text someone “i miss you” and they drop everything to say “get here. your side’s cold.” thank you for reading this 8-piece set of emotional damage disguised as fluff. p.s. reblogs = forehead kisses p.p.s. if one of them ever actually said this to me i would simply dissolve into a memory and haunt their laundry.

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎶 Now Playing: "All About You" — Taeyeon

Bang Chan // 방찬

It’s 1:13 AM when you send it. No emoji. No context. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it between takes — fingers hovering above his keyboard, cursor blinking on the same half-finished vocal comp he’s looped for 40 minutes. The studio is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of his screen and the flickering ‘recording’ sign outside the booth. His hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows. There’s a half-drunk bottle of Pocari on the desk. Lo-fi is playing quietly in the background — something soft, without words.

He stops.

Just… sits there for a second, staring at your message like it reached into his chest and gently pressed there.

Because you never say it out of nowhere. You’re careful. Thoughtful. Always timing your affection like a gift. And now, when you’re apart and quiet and distant—You miss him.

He exhales, thumb brushing over the screen. Smiles, crooked and slow, like it snuck up on him.

Then he does what he always does with feelings too big to hold: he turns to the mic. Doesn’t even rerecord the verse. Just switches on the track, leans into the mic, and softly hums something new — something with warmth, with ache, with the kind of sound that curls like a blanket around everything he can’t say yet.

When it’s done, he sends it.

[1:24 AM] (1 audio message) “miss you too. enough to put it in a song. come over if you can. you don’t have to say anything. i just wanna hold you while the track renders.”

Lee Know // 리노

You send it at 10:56 PM. No warning. No dramatic lead-up. Just:

i miss you.

He’s in bed. Not asleep. Not even trying. Just lying there in the dark with his phone balanced on his chest, a drama paused mid-episode and a cat curled up by his legs.

He sees your name light up, reads the message twice — once with his heart, once with his overthinking.

Immediately: suspicious. Out of nowhere? From you? At this hour?

His first instinct is to roll his eyes. His second is to reread it. His third is to sit up, grab his pillow, and clutch it in his lap like it’ll stop the way his stomach just turned to something embarrassingly warm.

You don’t say it unless you mean it. You don’t say it unless you need something. And suddenly, he hates that he’s not there — that you miss him and he can’t fix it, can’t hold you, can’t act all unimpressed while secretly tucking you under his arm like you belong there.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a while. He types and deletes twice. The third time sticks.

[11:02 PM] ...what happened? [11:02 PM] did someone say something? are you lonely? do you want me to come over or do you just want attention? [11:03 PM] ...because if it’s attention, you have it. idiot.

He throws the pillow across the room right after. Then spends the next hour watching your typing bubble like it holds the moon.

Changbin // 창빈 💪

It’s 8:14 PM when you send it. You don’t say anything else. Just:

i miss you.

He sees it halfway through a workout — hoodie tied around his waist, arms flushed and pumped, headphones in, breath ragged from a set he absolutely overdid. His phone buzzes on the bench. He wipes a hand on his towel, glances at the screen—

—and freezes.

There are a few people still in the gym. He barely hears them. Because something about that message punches the air straight out of his lungs.

You’re not usually the one to say it first. Not without a reason. Not unless something’s aching a little too much. And now you miss him — and he’s here, lifting weights like that’s gonna hold you together.

He grabs his phone and walks off into the hallway, chest still rising and falling like he just sprinted. It’s not even just the message. It’s the way his heart reacted — instantly. Like it’s been waiting to hear that from you all day.

His thumbs move fast:

[8:16 PM] you do?? 😭 [8:16 PM] pls tell me you’re free tonight i’ll cancel everything [8:17 PM] srsly. i miss u so bad i almost tripped doing lunges bc i started picturing ur face like a loser.

He stops, stares at his own text, groans into his towel.

And then:

(1 voice note) “if you’re free, come over. if not… call me? i’ll sit in my room like a lovesick sitcom character until you do.”

He puts the phone in his hoodie pocket after that. Heart loud. Arms sore. Entire soul? Yours.

Hyunjin // 현진 🎭

It’s 12:01 AM when you send it. Simple. Soft. No punctuation, no drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s painting. Alone in his apartment. A candle flickers beside his easel, wax dripping slowly as strokes of deep indigo curve across canvas. There’s music in the background—something orchestral, echoing, probably a little sad. His sleeves are rolled. Fingers stained with muted color.

The message buzzes through his speaker. He pauses mid-stroke. His breath catches.

Because you say it without pretense. You say it like it’s just true. You say it like you couldn’t hold it in any longer, like your heart blurted it out without consulting your pride.

And it ruins him.

He sets the brush down. Gently. Like it might shatter. Wipes his hands on a cloth. Looks at your name glowing on his phone like it’s the first star of the night. His throat is tight.

His first text is typed and deleted. Too dramatic. He rewrites it. Softer.

[12:04 AM] i’ve been aching to hear that [12:04 AM] i miss you in every quiet moment between brushstrokes [12:05 AM] do you want to facetime or do you want me to come stand outside your window with a candle and recite pablo neruda

He stares at the send button like it might bite him. Then presses it anyway.

His heart is a cathedral when you reply.

Han // 한 🌀

It’s 2:06 AM when you send it. No buildup. No emojis. Just:

i miss you

He was literally just lying there. Hoodie on. Face half in his pillow. Watching some dumb video on mute. Laughing at something he won’t remember in 3 minutes. He’s got crumbs on his hoodie and like, four unread messages in his group chat. He’s vibing. Barely thinking. Just static.

Until he sees you on his screen.

And suddenly — he’s wide awake.

He sits up like a corpse in a horror movie, staring at your message with the kind of intensity people reserve for bomb countdowns. His heart does a full Olympic gymnastics routine. His brain? Gone. Offline. In heaven. On fire.

He starts typing and deleting. So fast.

First message: too clingy. Second: too cool. Third: accidentally a marriage proposal.

He hits send before he can regret it:

[2:07 AM] What do you mean 😭😭😭 do you miss me like... miss me or like miss my memes [2:08 AM] bc if u miss ME i am currently free and emotionally compromised [2:08 AM] if u call me rn i’ll answer like it’s a drama and say ‘you finally called…’ i’m not kidding

Then, because he hates himself but also needs you to KNOW:

(1 voice note) “hi. i miss you too. like. so bad. like ‘watching our old tiktoks and tearing up’ bad. ok i’m gonna go cry into my cereal now bye 😭”

And then he rolls over, buries his face in his pillow, and kicks his feet like a 16-year-old girl in a coming-of-age movie.

Felix // 필릭스 🌻

It’s 9:36 PM when you send it. Soft. Unassuming. Just:

i miss you

He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, gaming headset half-on, controller resting in his lap. His monitor’s still glowing with the lobby screen, but he hasn’t clicked “ready” in three minutes.

Because your name popped up. And those three little words didn’t just land — they sank.

He re-reads it, smiling like he can’t help it. Like your message reached through the screen and gently cupped his face.

He’s not the type to question it. Not the type to pretend it doesn’t matter. You miss him — and he misses you too. More than he’s said. More than he knows how to say sometimes.

So he picks up his phone, pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and texts back with all the warmth he has:

[9:38 PM] angel :( i was just thinking about u too [9:39 PM] i miss u in like. the way stars miss the sky [9:40 PM] wanna call? or i can come over w snacks n cuddles n a playlist titled ‘us time’ 🫂💛

And because that’s not enough — not nearly enough — he sends a voice note too. His voice low, soft, wrapped in honey:

(voice note, 0:08) “i miss you so much it kinda makes my chest tight... but like in a good way. please come over. i’ll make hot chocolate. with the cinnamon u like.”

Seungmin // 승민

It’s 11:22 PM when you send it. No flourish. No drama. Just:

i miss you

He’s brushing his teeth. Pajamas on. Sleep playlist already playing low from his Bluetooth speaker. The apartment is still. Lights soft. Everything quiet — except his brain, which goes static the second your message appears.

He pauses, toothbrush halfway out of his mouth. Stares at the notification like it personally insulted him. His heartbeat? Loud. Chest? Tight. Eyes? Suddenly way too focused on the “i” in “i miss you.”

And of course—he has to respond the only way he knows how: with sarcasm and a mild breakdown. He rinses, spits, towels off his face, and flops onto bed, one arm dramatically over his eyes. Then, thumb to phone:

[11:24 PM] wow. desperate much? [11:25 PM] should i feel special or r u just lonely n scrolling ur contacts [11:26 PM] jk. unless.

He stares at those texts. Chews his lip. Rolls over. Sighs. Then types again — slower this time.

[11:28 PM] ...i was literally just about to text you [11:28 PM] this is annoying [11:28 PM] i miss you too

And because he knows you’re probably pouting, he sends one final message:

(photo attachment: his pillow with space beside it) get here. your side’s cold.

I.n // 아이엔

It’s 10:01 PM when you send it. Simple. Sweet. Just:

i miss you

He sees it while leaning against the balcony railing, earbuds in, hoodie unzipped, cool night air brushing against his skin. The city glows beneath him — golden windows, blinking lights, soft hum of life continuing below.

He reads your message and smiles — not wide. Just a slow, knowing curve that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You texted first. You cracked first. And he loves that.

But what he doesn’t say — not yet — is that he’d been about to text you the same thing. He’d been replaying that last voice note you left him. He’d been standing out here thinking about the way your hand feels when it’s tucked inside his hoodie pocket. He’s not cocky about it. Just… calm. Quietly wrecked.

He replies:

[10:02 PM] you miss me already? [10:02 PM] i thought u were tougher than this 🤭 [10:03 PM] ...good. i was starting to think i’m the only one losing sleep over you

Then he sends a photo: His shadow on the balcony, city lights in the distance, and the caption:

“you’d look better standing here next to me.”

And just like that — you're done for. Because so is he.

[saatorus]

had the brightest idea…sukuna x tattoo artist reader..😪😪

wc: 1.4k

warnings: smut (unprotected sex)

authors note: anon anon anon. i need to pull your head off so i can get access to your brain like kenjaku so that i can give your smart brain a lil smooch. this was fun to write :3

The first time he walked into your studio, he had zero tattoos. Just scars from what looked like getting into fistfights and that sharp, cocky grin.

You didn’t think he was serious. Guys like him—too smooth, too smug—usually just wanted to flirt and bounce. But he picked a design off your wall, pointed to his chest, and said, “Right here. First one. Don’t fuck it up.”

You didn’t. In fact, he looked almost… reverent, watching you prep. Like he wasn’t used to being touched gently.

You assumed he’d be a one-and-done. He was not. He came back the next week, shirt already off when he walked in. “What’s up, picasso shawty. Wanna do my ribs next?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but you let him sit. Again. And again.

He kept coming back. More tattoos. Bigger pieces. One on his back. One winding around his thigh. Some you designed just for him—your art permanently etched into his skin.

Your studio’s small. One chair. Walls covered in sketches and post-it notes. Half your tools are secondhand, but your work is crisp—clean lines, solid shading. Sukuna never comments on it directly, but he never lets anyone else touch him. Not once.

You pretend not to notice how he watches you set up. The way he stares at your hands like he’s memorizing every move.

He’s always saying dumb shit.

“If I say something filthy mid-session, will you mess up on purpose?”

“If you talk while I’m doing linework again, I’m putting a Hello Kitty on your ass.”

“Tempting.”

You keep it professional for months. Years. But it’s not cold—it’s comfortable. Inside jokes. Dumb snacks during long sessions. Him crashing on your couch once when it got too late. You drawing a fake tattoo on his thigh with sharpie “just to mess with him.”

One night, you’re doing a detailed piece low on his hip. He’s quiet, for once. Then:

“You ever think about how many hours you’ve spent touching me?”

You blink.

“You ever think about shutting the hell up?”

But your voice cracks a little.

The shift is small. He starts showing up without appointments. You don’t kick him out. You start drawing designs with him in mind. You stop correcting him when he calls you “baby” just to mess with you.

One night, it’s late. Like should’ve closed an hour ago late. The shop is quiet, just the soft hum of the fluorescent light and whatever chill R&B playlist is still looping from your phone. You’re cleaning up after a late session with Sukuna—again. He’s lounging in the chair, shirt half-on, scrolling on his phone like he lives here now.

“You know I have other clients, right?” you mutter, wiping down your machine.

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah? You tattoo them like you do me?”

You pause. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He looks up now, real slow. Smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Means you get real quiet when you're working on me. Like you’re focused or… like you’re trying not to think too hard.”

You toss the rag on the tray, annoyed. “I don’t know if you know this, but that’s actually called doing my job.”

“You’re shaky sometimes,” he adds, casual. “Especially when I’m shirtless. Or when I ask for spots you gotta like, get on your knees for.”

You scoff. “You think you’re hot shit.”

He stands. Walks up, real close. “I know I am. But that’s not the point.”

Now he’s right in front of you. Not touching—but close enough that you feel him. Heat off his skin. The scent of his cologne and smoke and something distinctly him.

“You wanna do it or not?” he says, voice low, like he’s done waiting.

Your stomach flips. “Do what?”

“Come on,” he mutters, like he’s tired of the game. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to fuck me since the third tattoo. You gonna keep pretending or you gonna let me fuck you in that chair of yours?”

Your throat goes dry. You stare at him—cocky bastard, red eyes burning into yours, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding back too.

You don’t say anything. Just grab the front of his hoodie and pull him in. Not your proudest moment professionalism-wise, but he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this.

The kiss is messy. Too fast. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You don’t know who moans first—doesn’t matter. His hands are already on your ass, pulling you in like he’s starving.

You shove him back into the chair. Straddle him. His hands slide up your shirt, palms hot and rough, and he mutters, “Been jerking off thinking about this for months, fuck.”

Your fingers are already at his belt. “Shut up.”

“Not a chance,” he laughs, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna hear how bad I wanted this.”

You sink onto him right there, still half-dressed, the whole thing rushed and reckless. The studio smells like ink and sweat and skin. He’s gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you’re riding him like you’ve been needing it just as bad.

No soft words. No slow build. Just the creak of the chair. His filthy mouth in your ear. Your nails digging into his shoulders. And that broken sound he makes when you clamp around him, whispering “Fuck, don’t stop—”

Before you know it, you’re clamping down on him, hard, your orgasm washing in pleasurable waves over you. He follows suit, a final thrust of his hips, emptying his load inside of you.

The only sound is your breathing—still uneven—and the low thrum of the playlist you forgot was even on. You’re half-naked in your own damn studio, still straddling Sukuna in the chair, clothes tugged out of place, skin flushed and sticky with sweat and everything you’d been ignoring for way too long.

You shift off him with a wince. “Holy shit. That chair is not designed for fucking.”

He groans and leans back like he’s broken. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

“You’re gonna walk outta here bow-legged.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’ll limp home with dignity.”

You tug your shirt back down and start reaching for paper towels, the reality of what just happened catching up to your brain.

“Yo—chill,” Sukuna mutters, standing up behind you and gently taking the paper towels from your hand. “I got it.”

You blink, thrown off.

He gives you a flat look. “I just fucked you in your sacred little tattoo chair. Least I can do is wipe you down…and the damn chair down too.”

You snort, but your stomach flips at the way he says it—casual, like it’s no big deal, but not teasing either. 

He gently parts your legs, a grin on his face when he sees himself seeping out of you, wiping the mess clean. You lightly push your foot against his chest when he continues staring and he finally relents, snickering and grabbing your disinfectant spray.

He grabs a fresh towel, sprays down the chair, even gets the floor where one of you knocked over the rinse cup. You watch him for a second—shirtless, pulling on your pants and standing up—shakily— still flushed, watching the glint of his rings on his fingers as he moves. Like this is just part of the routine now.

“Don’t get used to this,” he says, not looking at you. “I just—y’know. Respect the tools.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So what, fucking me is now a line item on your cleaning checklist?”

He grins, tossing the used towel into the bin. “Only if it’s a recurring event.”

You scoff and toss him a water bottle. He catches it midair without flinching, cracks it open like this is just… normal now.

And maybe it kind of is.

He walks back over, presses the cold bottle lightly to your cheek with a smirk. “Still blushing?”

“Still annoying.”

“Still wet?”

You swat him, laughing despite yourself, but you don’t pull away.

There’s a weird quiet after that. Not awkward—just new. Like something’s shifted and neither of you’s pretending otherwise.

You break it first, voice lower now. “So… you still want that piece over your heart?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “If it’s your name? Yeah.”

“You’re so corny. That trend died in 2015.” You roll your eyes, but the smirk tugging at your mouth gives you away.

And when he leans in and kisses you again, actually moving his lips against you with a soft precision, different to how his tongue had been plunged into your mouth just minutes before. He grins—sharp— before uncapping the water bottle.

After a sip of the water, he looks at you over the bottle. “So… you free next week?”

You narrow your eyes. “For what?”

He shrugs. “Tattoo. Fuck. Hang out. Whatever. Don’t pretend you’re not thinking about doing it again.”

You groan. “You are so lucky you’re kinda hot.”

He winks. “And marked up like your own personal sex doll. Admit it—you liked the dick.”

You’re smiling this time. It’s different now. Maybe him being a regular wasn’t so bad at all.

[nats-firefly]

secret hobbies

natasha romanoff x reader

summary: Your strong muscular girlfriend shows you one of her lesser known hobbies.

warnings: daddy kink, beefy!nat, choking very briefly, strap on use (r receiving), teasing, fingering (r receiving), smut 18+ only

a/n: once again a repost from my old blog (twilight-99-tm), if you have any other ones you's like me to repost, let me know <3

🚩 warnings are clearly stated please do not report/flag :) 🚩

words: 2.5k | feedback is always welcome | masterlist

divider source

Natasha’s face snuggled deeper into the crook of your neck while the two of you laid on the couch. Nat was trying to take a nap, arms wrapped around your body with her slow, even breaths tickling your neck while you scrolled through your phone, soft tiktok audios filling the space of her bedroom. 

One of your hands stroked Natasha’s hair while the other tapped your screen, the contents on the device pulling the other woman’s attention. That’s where you stayed for a while, Natasha’s eyes fluttering closed every now and then, your shared laughter occasionally filling the room.

The next tiktok that played was of someone making pottery, spinning the clay as if it was nothing. Your eyes sparkled, letting the video loop over and over again. Natasha smirked, looking up at you to find your enamored expression.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” You said, pausing the tiktok and looking down at the redhead smirking up at you. “Have you ever made pottery?”

“Hmm,” She hummed, before leaving a chaste kiss to your neck and sitting up, strong thighs on either side of your hips as she took your hands into hers. “Come with me.”

She stood up, tugging your hand when you refused to get up. “But baby, we were so comfy.”

“C’mon,” She said, easily pulling you up onto your feet, arms flexing with her movement. “You’re gonna like this.”

You leaned your chin up, ever so slightly puckering your lips in protest. She chuckled and leaned down, pressing her lips against yours. You kissed her back, smiling against her lips as you wrapped your hands around her neck. Her arms made their way around your waist and down to your thighs, and before you knew it, you were being carried down the hallway.

“Where are we going?” You asked, not recognizing this part of the compound.

“You’ll see,” She said, smiling lazily as she walked down a flight of stairs. She put you down in front of two wooden doors, before scanning her thumbprint to unlock them. 

Your jaw dropped when you walked inside, floor to ceiling shelves filled with pottery or bags of clay. There was a large window on one side of the room, and right in front of it a pottery wheel with a stool. You walked further inside, Natasha following behind you holding your hand. 

“Is this,” You took in your space one more time, turning around to face your girlfriend. “Your art studio?”

Natasha almost blushed. She’d never brought anyone else here. The only person that knew about this was Tony and even he was sworn to secrecy. She nodded, pulling you closer to her and hiding her face in the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around her as you cooed, burying your hands in her hair. 

“Big, bad, Natasha Romanoff, likes making pottery,” You said, swaying the two of you as you took in more of the space. Every corner screamed Natasha, from the forgotten coffee cups on the counter, to the pictures of you on the desk off to the side, and the small radio in the corner. “It’s cute.”

“Don’t make fun,” She mumbled. “It’s fun, and relaxing.”

“I wasn’t making fun, baby,” You said, bringing her face out from your neck so you could look her in the eyes. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

She smiled as she looked at you, leaning forward to meet your lips once again. You gasped before she could pull away. “Did you make that pot you gave me the cactus in?”

The grin spreading over her face said it all, and you don’t think you’ve ever been more in love than right now. You pulled away from her, walking over to the pottery wheel and looking around the room. 

“So,” Your fingers trailed over the top, sheepishly looking over at Natasha. “Are you gonna show me how to do it?”

“Do you want to?” She asked, excited.

“Do I want my hot strong girlfriend to show me how to throw pottery? Uhh, let me think about it.”

“You’re a dork,” She said, beckoning you to follow her. 

“Yeah, but I’m your dork,” She leaned down to kiss you quickly before pulling an apron down from the hook. She draped it over your head before you turned around, her lips meeting the back of your shoulder as she tied it around your waist. 

Natasha put her own apron on before moving to cut a large chunk of clay from a block, telling you to go sit by the pottery wheel. Your eyes followed the way her arms moved as she handled the chunk, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip when she threw it harshly onto the wheel in front of you. Thank God for muscle tanks.

She brought a bowl of water and a sponge closer before approaching you, asking for your hand. You looked up at her, very obviously trailing your eyes up her body. The apron tied snugly around her waist only accentuated her muscles and if you had a little less self-control you’d be drooling. 

“I thought you wanted me to show you how to do it,” She said, taking your hand when you didn’t react. You let her pull you up, clearing your mind of the filthy thoughts your brain had come up with. She sat on the stool you had just stood up from. “Come sit on my lap, princess.”

You pursed your lips, letting her pull you into her. You made yourself comfortable atop her toned thighs, her breath against the back of your neck sending a small shiver you felt down to your core. You closed your eyes, your breath catching in your throat as her lips connect with where your neck meets your shoulder. You lean back into her as she runs her hands down your arms, taking your hands in hers. 

“Let’s start,” She mumbled into your skin, making you turn your attention back to the task at hand. Her hands almost completely covered yours as she placed them on the piece of clay. Natasha smirked as she watched your face, she could clearly tell your mind was elsewhere, exactly where she wanted it. “I’m gonna start spinning the wheel.”

Her thigh flexed under you as she pressed down the pedal, your own thighs clenching at the movement. “Go ahead, baby, try to start shaping it.”

Natasha pressed against you, it snapped you out of your train of thought, making you focus back on your hands. Natasha placed her hands on your hips, holding them against her as she watched you try to shape the clay. You grunted, the material feeling too hard and dry against your hands to make any progress.

“Baby, it’s too hard,” You whined, slumping back into her. You looked up at her with your best puppy dog eyes, if only she could move those hands further down. Natasha pushed you forward, straightening you up. She placed your hands back on the clay, leaning over and taking a sponge from a bowl of water. You felt her thigh tense again and had to suppress a moan.

“You have to get it nice and wet, sweetheart,” The cool water dripped down the clay and mixed with your fingers, immediately making it easier to shape. Natasha licked her lips before leaving a trail of wet kisses up your neck to the corner of your jaw. “Look at that, your hands look so good working on this.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, her lips connecting back to your skin. You shuddered, struggling to maintain the shape you were molding. “I know where they could look better.”

One subtle shift of her hips and you felt it. Natasha smirked against your neck when you stiffened, making the semi-shaped blob turn back into an unrecognizable shape once again. Natasha tsked, taking your chin softly between her fingertips and making you focus back down on what you were doing. “Eyes on your work, princess.”

You’re not sure if it was the way her voice went down or the rasp that suddenly became apparent, you just couldn’t help the moan that erupted from your throat. “Daddy…”

Her hand trailed down your neck, fingers subtly wrapping around your neck before pressing briefly. You gulped, suddenly becoming aware of the increasing wetness between your thighs as you clenched them together. Natasha hummed against you, sucking a mark onto the skin on your neck as her hands roamed down your body. 

“C’mon, detka,” She mumbled, hands curling around your thighs, and spreading them apart just enough so she could idly run her fingertips up and down your inner thigh. “I don’t wanna have to get my hands dirty, I’d much rather have them right here instead.”

She slid her fingers down to your core, pressing down against it over your clothes. You whined, pushing and grinding back against her. Your brain was becoming overwhelmed with the feeling of her against you, not wanting to focus on anything but that. “B-but, I-”

“Shh,” She shushed you, her fingers starting a slow movement sliding up and down. You have never hated the two layers of clothing separating her fingers and your skin more. You felt her arms flex around you as she pulled your hips back against her. “But what baby? Can’t think with Daddy’s hands all over you?”

“I- Pleas-” You stuttered, struggling to come up with words as you pathetically rocked against the redhead’s hand. You pulled back from the wheel, fully leaning against Natasha for support. This time, she didn’t protest, giving in to what you wanted in favor of all the pretty noises you were making for her. You needed to do the one thing you knew would give her no choice but to take you right there and then. “Please Daddy, I need you to fuck me.”

By the way her hands stiffened against you, you knew you played your cards right. Natasha is always one to tell you how much she likes it when you use your words. She practically stood up with you, turning you around and pulling your apron’s string behind your back. She slid it over your head before roughly slamming you against her workbench. 

Her lips slammed against yours, her tongue immediately colliding with yours between moans and whines. Natasha slid her hands down to your hips and easily lifted you onto the tabletop. Your legs parted on instinct, allowing the older woman to stand right between them. Her fingers easily undid the button of your pants and pulled down the zipper, giving her enough space to slide her hand into your pants and feel how you’d already ruined your underwear. 

“This all for me, princess?” She asked, smirking against your lips. You whined in response, crossing your hands behind her head and trying to pull her closer. “Nuh-uh keep those hands right there, let Daddy do the work.”

Your brain practically melted as she wrapped one arm around your body, easily lifting you up so she could pull your pants and underwear down in one go. Her fingers easily met your core once again, coating themselves in your wetness as you moaned against her lips.

“Please, Daddy,” You whined, rocking your hips forward so you were almost grinding against her. “I need you, please.”

“Patience, my love,” She said, easily pushing two fingers past your entrance. You gasped at the intrusion, legs clenching around her arm as she moved her fingers inside you. Her lips met your neck again, leaving marks in their wake as they kissed down to the collar of your shirt. You whined, clenching around her fingers as she reached the perfect spot inside you.

You tried pushing Natasha closer to you by bringing your crossed wrists closer to your body. Natasha smirked, leaning in just enough to tease you, eyes glued to your face. Your eyes were screwed shut in pleasure, lips parted and waiting for Natasha’s. She hovered her lips right above yours, breaths mingling in the small space separating them. She loved being this close to you, she loved knowing how good she was making you feel.

“Nat-Natasha,” You whined, clenching around her fingers. She knew you were close, but she had to drag it out longer, seeing how much you could take. 

“That’s not my name,” She corrected, curling her fingers in the way she knew made your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

“Daddy, please,” Your voice came out unsteady as you tried to hold yourself back. “I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Not yet sweetheart,” She said, withdrawing her fingers. Tears almost rolled down your cheeks at the loss of contact, your core yearning for sweet release. “I want you to cum on my cock.”

Natasha leaned back and slid her pants down enough so she could take out the strap, your core tightening at the mere sight of it. You reached forward, taking a handful of Natasha’s shirt and pulling her into you. You kissed messily, trying to feel as much of the other as possible. 

The tip of the strap nudged your entrance, making your hips shift closer to the edge of the table. Natasha broke the kiss, just long enough to slide the large toy into your cunt. You moaned against Natasha as you bottomed out, the toy easily sliding in with your arousal alone. The redhead grunted as she began to fuck into you. The force made you support your weight on your hands behind you, your ankles locking behind Natasha. 

Your thighs clenched around Natasha’s body as she brought you closer and closer to the edge. The mumbles leaving your lips only spurring her on more. She looked at your face contorting in pleasure before trailing her lips down your jaw and onto your neck. Her hand moved from holding your hip to rest on your front, thumb rubbing against your clit. 

“You close, baby?” She asked, baby hairs sticking to her face as she continued thrusting into you. You couldn’t do anything other than nod, sloppily trying to move your hips in sync with hers. Natasha paused, pulling out before quickly and roughly flipping you onto your stomach on the table and sliding the strap back in. You arched your back in pleasure, reaching up and gripping the other edge of the table. Natasha held your hips, the sounds of your drenched pussy filling the room. “Cum for me, princess.”

You didn’t need any more than that to send you over the edge. Your body shook as the intense orgasm washed over you. Natasha slowed her thrusts, letting you ride out your orgasm as she watched you twitch under her. She slowly slid the toy out from your pussy when she saw your grip let up on the other side of the table, carefully flipping you around once again. You weakly reached up, wanting Natasha closer to you but too weak to sit up yourself.

“Fuck, Nat,” You mumbled, thighs instinctively twitching when the strap nudged your entrance when she came closer. 

Natasha’s lips moved softly against yours, her arms holding you against her as you lazily kissed her back. Her hands slid down to cup your ass, enjoying the way you whined softly against her. The two of you shared a blissful moment enjoying each other's closeness before she pulled away. 

“Do you have any other secret hobbies I should know about?”

[velvetvexations]

Seeing the whole "let's just mock vaginas to trigger the TMEs" thing being painted as feminist is making me lose it because not only everything everyone has already said, but also are they aware that society is so vagina-phobic that if you show someone with a penis getting off you can squeeze by with a PG-13 rating, but if you show someone with a vagina getting off it's immediately a hard R. This used to be feminism 101, people talked about how it's ridiculous that vaginas are considered obscene in a way penises are not quite often and there was something of a push to change it, but eventually I guess everyone turned into anti-sex puritans and we stopped caring that showcasing a specific type of sexual expirience is punished so harshly you basically can't depict it at all(unless it's something like Deadpool or 50 Shades where an R is expected most movie studios will fight tooth and nail to get a movie to be PG-13 up to and including removing any depiction of people with vaginas experiencing sexual pleasure) so yeah saying "let's all start acting like vaginas are disgusting as a gotcha" shows that the people speaking are completely ignorant of feminist history and the issues we have always been fighting to address.

I've also literally seen TERFs use the demonization of vaginas to justify being that way about penises. It's a radfem loop lol.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Where You Belong

The studio hums with the low thump of bass and the rhythmic tapping of fingers on keyboards. It’s late—way past when you’d normally be in bed, curled up against Marshall’s side, but he didn’t want to leave you at home tonight. So here you are, tucked into a corner of the dimly lit room, quietly watching as he works.

The guys don’t mean anything by it, you tell yourself as one of them hands you an empty bottle with a murmured, “Can you toss this for me?” Another asks you to grab some water from the mini-fridge. It’s not rude, not exactly—but it does make you shift uncomfortably, your hands curling in your lap. You’re not an assistant. You’re his wife.

Marshall hasn’t said anything yet, but you can feel his eyes on you between takes, sharp and unreadable. He’s been watching—he always watches.

Then, someone claps their hands together. “Hey, could you—”

“Yo.”

Marshall’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. The casual chatter halts. You glance up just in time to see him push back from the console, his expression unreadable but his body language screaming something possessive, something warning.

“She ain't here for that,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “She’s here for me.”

The room is silent. The tension crackles. Your stomach twists as everyone looks between the two of you, but you don’t move, waiting for Marshall to decide what he wants.

And he does.

With an almost lazy motion, he reaches for you, his fingers curling around your wrist as he tugs you forward—easily, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing. You stumble slightly, but it doesn’t matter because he’s already guiding you into his lap, his arms looping around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s had you like this, but it is the first time in front of the guys, and your cheeks heat instantly. Still, you don’t resist. You never do. Instead, you melt against him, small and soft in his hold, and he exhales like that’s exactly what he wanted.

His chin finds your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. “You good?” he murmurs, meant just for you.

You nod, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie. “Mhm.”

Marshall hums in approval before turning his attention back to the room. “We good now?” he asks, though it’s not really a question.

No one argues.

And just like that, conversation resumes, but the dynamic has shifted. No one asks you for anything else. No one even looks at you the wrong way.

Because Marshall’s made it clear—there’s only one place you belong. And it’s right here.

The weight of Marshall’s arm around you is grounding, his grip firm but familiar, keeping you exactly where he wants you. You can feel the heat of his body through his hoodie, the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s a silent claim, one the guys clearly understand, because no one so much as glances in your direction now.

His fingers trace absentminded circles against your hip as he turns back to work, listening to the track play back, nodding in approval. You stay quiet, content in your place, your head resting against his shoulder. It doesn’t matter that there are others in the room—when you’re in his lap like this, wrapped up in him, the world shrinks to just the two of you.

Marshall leans forward slightly to adjust something on the mixing board, shifting you with him like it’s nothing, like you’re just an extension of him. His lips brush your temple in a fleeting, almost absentminded gesture, but you feel it all the same, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Yeah, that’s better,” he mutters, satisfied with whatever change he made. One of the producers chimes in with a comment, and the conversation flows again, but Marshall keeps one hand on you, his thumb now running slow, lazy strokes over your thigh.

Minutes pass, maybe hours—you’re not sure. Time moves differently when you’re with him. Your body relaxes more and more, until you feel like you could drift off completely, lulled by the sound of his voice, the low thrum of bass vibrating through the room, the steady rhythm of his fingers against you.

Then, his breath is at your ear, quiet enough that no one else can hear. “Sleepy, baby?”

You nod, barely lifting your head, and he huffs out something that’s almost a chuckle.

“A’ight.” He leans back again, one arm tightening around you, the other adjusting his mic. “Guess we’re callin’ it soon.”

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t explain. He just makes the decision, and no one questions it.

And you, as always, let him take care of you.

---

The weight of exhaustion tugs at you, but you don’t fight it. Not when you’re wrapped up in him like this, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his warmth seeping into your skin. His arm is still around your waist holding you close.

The track loops, the bass thrumming low, and then Marshall starts murmuring to himself—half-formed words, a flow building in his mind. You know this part. You’ve seen it a hundred times, the way he gets lost in it, the way the world fades until it’s just him and the beat.

His hand on your thigh taps out a rhythm. You can feel the energy thrumming through him, the way his breathing changes, the way his fingers flex like he’s already gripping the mic.

Then, it happens—he starts spitting. Low at first, almost muttering under his breath, but then he finds it, and the words spill out fast and sharp, weaving through the beat like they were meant to be there all along.

You stir against him, but you don’t pull away. Even through your exhaustion, you love watching him like this—watching him work, watching him get completely lost in his element.

The music swells, and he tightens his hold on you instinctively, keeping you close as he leans forward slightly, adjusting the levels with one hand while still flowing effortlessly.

And then, just as quickly as he started, he exhales, running a hand down his face, shaking his head like he just woke up from a trance.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, then glances down at you.

You’re still curled into him, eyes half-lidded, body pliant against his. His expression softens instantly, guilt flickering in his eyes.

“Damn, baby,” he murmurs, shifting his grip to cradle you more comfortably. “I forgot you were ‘bout to pass out on me.”

You hum sleepily, barely managing to lift your head. “S’okay,” you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

He huffs out a quiet chuckle, one hand brushing up and down your back. “Yeah? You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re about two seconds from knockin’ out right here.”

You don’t answer, just nuzzle further into him, and his heart clenches in that way it always does when you go soft for him.

“Alright,” he says, voice dropping to something gentler, something just for you. “Lemme wrap this up, then we’ll go home, yeah?”

You nod against his chest, and his hand slides up to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, keeping you right where he wants you.

And even though he’s still got music in his veins, still riding the high of his flow, he doesn’t let go. He keeps you close, keeps you warm, keeps you his.

Always.

The studio hums around you, voices blending with the low thump of bass as Marshall absentmindedly runs his fingers up and down your spine. His other hand is still adjusting levels, still playing with the beat, but his grip on you never loosens.

You’ve gone nearly boneless against him, tucked into his chest, your breaths slow and even. You’re not fully asleep, but you’re floating—somewhere between wakefulness and dreams, lulled by the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Then, a voice cuts through the space.

“Yo, Em—she’s out, man,” one of the guys chuckles. “You sure she don’t wanna stretch out on the couch or somethin’?”

It’s not a bad suggestion. The couch in the corner is definitely more comfortable than a studio chair, but before you can even process the thought, Marshall speaks—sharp, unwavering.

“Nah,” he says, his voice low but firm. “She’s fine.”

There’s a beat of silence, the energy in the room shifting. You don’t have to look to know he’s giving that look—the one that shuts down conversations before they even start.

The guy huffs a quiet laugh, backing off immediately. “A’ight, man. Just sayin’.”

Marshall doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he shifts slightly, adjusting you in his lap like you’re the only thing that matters. His hand slides up to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he presses his lips to your temple.

“Doin’ good, baby?” he murmurs, voice softer now, just for you.

You nod sleepily against him, and he exhales, something like satisfaction rumbling in his chest. His grip tightens, keeping you exactly where you are—where you belong.

The guys get the message. No one else makes a comment. No one dares suggest moving you again.

Because Marshall’s made it clear—you’re not going anywhere.

---

He’s barely thinking about it, just feeling you—your warmth, the way your fingers stay curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie, the way you sigh softly when he shifts. It’s second nature now, the way you melt for him. The way you trust him completely, letting him hold you, letting him keep you.

And then—just like that—it clicks.

That one verse, the one he’s been struggling to land all night, suddenly unravels in his head, smooth and effortless. The words were there the whole time, hiding in the quiet, in the way you surrender to him so easily, in the way he never wants to let you go.

His grip tightens on your hip, and his breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, his mind already racing, already piecing it together.

You stir slightly, mumbling something unintelligible against his chest, but he hushes you softly, his fingers trailing up to cup the back of your head.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your hair.

But his eyes are already on the mic, his pulse thrumming with something electric.

He nods to the engineer, signaling to roll the track again. The beat starts up, low and steady, and Marshall leans in, his voice smooth but sharp as he finally delivers the verse that’s been evading him all night.

And this time—it fits. Perfectly.

The guys nod along, murmuring their approval, but Marshall’s barely paying attention to them. His focus is on the way you breathe against him, the way you shift slightly but stay tucked in close, soft and warm in his arms.

He glances down at you, his voice dropping just above a whisper as he delivers the last line, one he hadn’t planned but knows belongs there now:

"And I ain't lettin’ go—nah, not now, not ever."

The track cuts, silence settling over the room for half a beat before someone mutters, “Damn. That’s it.”

Marshall exhales, his grip on you firm, protective, possessive. He knows it’s good. Knows it’s right. Because it came from you, from this—this quiet, sweet moment that no one else in the room will ever really understand.

And as the playback starts, as his own voice echoes through the speakers, he just holds you closer.

The track plays back, the verse finally slotting into place like it was always meant to be there. The energy in the room shifts—something satisfied, something settled. The guys murmur their approval, nodding along to the flow, but Marshall barely registers them.

His attention is on you.

You’re still tucked against him, your breath soft and even, your body warm in his lap. Even in sleep, you stay close, trusting, like you know—know—you’re safest here. His hand strokes slow, lazy circles against your hip, grounding both of you.

“That’s the one,” the engineer says after a beat. “Want another take?”

Marshall shakes his head. “Nah. That’s it.”

He means it. It’s right. He can feel it.

The guys nod, start wrapping up, but he stays still, listening to the verse again, his own voice running back at him through the speakers. His words hit differently now, not just bars, not just flow—something real, something meant only for you, even if no one else knows it.

"And I ain't lettin’ go—nah, not now, not ever."

He means that, too.

With a quiet sigh, he shifts slightly, one arm looping under your legs as he adjusts you in his lap. You murmur something sleepily but don’t wake, just nuzzle closer into his chest. His lips twitch—something small, something private—before he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“All done, baby,” he mutters, voice low and rough from rapping. “Time to go home.”

He stands carefully, lifting you effortlessly, and no one says a word. They just glance over, exchange knowing looks, but no one dares make a comment. They know better.

Marshall adjusts you against him, keeping you snug against his chest as he makes for the door. And even as the studio fades behind him, as the cool night air hits, as he carries you to the car—he’s still got that line in his head, still got you in his arms.

And he ain’t lettin’ go.

---

The house is quiet when Marshall carries you inside, the dim glow from the kitchen the only light guiding his way. You’re barely awake, your body limp and soft in his arms, but when he shifts to unlock the door, you whimper—the smallest sound, barely more than a breath—and nuzzle against his chest, reaching for him even in sleep.

Something tugs deep inside him, something raw and unshakable.

You don’t even know you’re doing it—don’t know how easily you seek him out, how naturally you cling to him. Like you trust him completely. Like you need him. Even knowing everything you do about him—all the darkness, the temper, the past—you still want him.

And fuck, does that do something to him.

He exhales sharply, tightening his hold on you as he carries you up the stairs. You’ve always been softer than him—smaller, gentler, all quiet patience and easy submission—but it’s not just that. It’s the way you let him be who he is, the way you don’t flinch from the shadows clinging to him.

He swallows hard, pushing open the bedroom door and stepping inside. The room is dark, the bed waiting, but he hesitates. Just for a second.

Then, carefully, he lowers you onto the mattress, peeling back the covers before tucking you in. His fingers linger at the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, the one swallowing you up—but he doesn’t pull it off, just smooths it down over your stomach before brushing his knuckles along your cheek.

And then you do it again.

A soft whimper, barely more than a breath, as you shift under the blankets, your hands searching, reaching—for him.

His chest tightens, something hot and possessive curling inside him.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, leaning down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “I’m right here.”

You sigh at his voice, settling slightly, but your fingers still grasp weakly at his hoodie, like you need his warmth, need him close.

And maybe you do. Maybe you always will.

He exhales through his nose, running a hand down his face before slipping off his hoodie, then his jeans, leaving just his boxers and a t-shirt. He wasn’t planning on climbing in just yet, but fuck it. You want him close?

You get him close.

Carefully, he eases into bed, sliding under the covers and pulling you against his chest. You go willingly, instantly, your small body molding to his like you were meant to be there.

His arm locks around your waist, holding you firm against him, his lips pressing into your hair.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he mutters, his voice rough, almost strained.

You let out a soft hum, your breath warm against his collarbone. “Mmm... love you.”

His grip tightens. His throat feels tight, too.

He presses his lips to your temple, lingering for a second. “Love you too,” he murmurs. “More than you know.”

And as your breathing evens out, as your body softens even further against him, he just holds you closer—because he doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do if he ever lost you.

The room is still, the only sound the quiet rhythm of your breathing against his chest. Marshall stays awake longer than he should, staring at the ceiling, his hand absently stroking slow circles on your back.

You’re so fucking soft. Always have been. The way you fit against him, the way you melt into him without hesitation—it does something to him, something he can’t put into words.

He’s never been soft. Not really. He’s sharp edges and frayed tempers, battle-worn and restless. But you—you move through life gently, and somehow, you’ve never let his darkness scare you away. You’ve seen the worst of him, stood in the storm of his anger, his demons, and yet—you still want him.

That truth settles deep in his chest, something warm and almost painful.

He tightens his grip on you, pulling you impossibly closer. You let out a little sound, barely more than a breath, and burrow deeper against him like you belong there.

And fuck, maybe you do.

He presses his lips to your hair, lingers there. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” he murmurs, voice low, rough.

You don’t answer, already too deep in sleep, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the truth is—he needs you. More than you’ll ever realize. More than he’ll ever be able to say.

So, he doesn’t say anything else.

He just holds you tighter, pressing another kiss to your forehead before finally letting sleep take him, too.

---

[xtra7s]

Well, since we know her iconic SNL performance (which was on loop) how would r react. Cause like I'm in love with herrrr. It could be like a live reaction or they are live and fans requested for a reaction vid

(Just a gay thought)

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋: 𝐒𝐍𝐋 ─── 𝘙𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘱𝘱 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Synopsis: Y/N watches Renee preform on SNL.

Content: Renee Rapp x Fem!Reader, literally just Y/N swooning over Renee as she preforms, complete fluff

Word Count: 1.1k

masterlist | first part | second part | third part

a/n: I LOVED WRITING THIS, I added Snow Angel too because I felt like it was too short with just Not My Fault. Hope you enjoy!!

The stage lights bathed Renee Rapp in a warm glow as she took center stage on Saturday Night Live. The hushed anticipation in the studio was palpable, but amidst the cheering crowd, Y/N sat, fidgeting with nervous excitement. It was a secret thrill, knowing that the woman who held her heart was about to captivate the world.

Jacob Elordi was on stage, smiling widely as he introduced Renee. "Ladies and gentlemen, Renee Rapp!"

The stage was set in a soft, ethereal light as Renee Rapp prepared to perform "Snow Angel" on Saturday Night Live. The melancholic notes of the piano filled the studio, creating an atmosphere of haunting beauty. The audience hushed in anticipation as Renee lay on the stage floor, an ethereal figure amidst the gentle glow.

Y/N, seated amidst the crowd, watched with bated breath. As the first lines of the sorrowful ballad left Renee's lips, a wave of emotion washed over the audience. Renee's voice, rich with emotion, painted a poignant picture of heartache and longing. The harmonies join her as she sings, and Y/N finds herself captivated, unable to tear her gaze away from the captivating performance unfolding before her.

Renee's form on the ground seemed to embody the weight of the song's melancholy. The vulnerability in her voice resonated, and Y/N felt a deep connection to the emotions conveyed. The crowd sat in rapt silence, collectively holding their breath, as Renee lay there, pouring her heart into each delicate lyric.

More instruments joined the song, Renee standing up from the floor as the song swelled. The melancholy tones transitioned into a powerful crescendo, and the studio transformed into a sea of emotions. Y/N, now on the edge of her seat, felt a lump forming in her throat. The raw intensity of the performance left her in awe, a silent witness to the soul-baring artistry on display.

As Renee's voice soared through the studio, Y/N couldn't help but feel a deep admiration for the vulnerability and strength intertwined in the performance. It was a heartbreaking and beautiful symphony, and Y/N found herself lost in the haunting melody, her emotions mirroring the raw intensity and flow of the song.

When the final note hung in the air, the studio erupted into applause. Y/N joined in, her admiration for Renee's talent mingling with a profound sense of connection. As Renee smiled and the lights dimmed, she spun around and applauded the people playing the instruments to her song. Y/N couldn't shake the lingering impact of the song, grateful to have been present for a performance that transcended the stage and touched the depths of her soul.

After a short break, Jacob Elordi hosting and speaking, Rachel McAdams Walks on stage, smiling at the applause before gesturing her hands up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, once again, Renee Rapp!" She speaks loudly, gesturing her arms to the stage Renee is standing on top of.

The first notes of "Not My Fault" begin to float through the air, and Y/N's gaze is fixed on Renee. The way she was dancing, the raw power in her voice, the way she effortlessly commanded the stage, left Y/N breathless. Each lyric that came from her mouth had Y/N squirming in her seat. The crowd responded with thunderous applause, but for Y/N, it was a personal serenade, an intimate connection she could only share in secret.

"god damn, she looks so good I could die," Y/N murmurs under her breath, sitting up and adjusting in her seat.

As the song continued, Renee's stage presence intensified, her magnetic energy filling the room. Y/N couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion, pride, and an ache in her chest from the sheer brilliance of the performance. It was a potent mix of love and admiration, leaving her utterly flustered in the midst of the electrifying moment.

The entire time Renee has been singing, Y/N's eyes have been drifting down her neck to her stomach, her cheeks covered in a maroon shade as she takes in Renee's outfit. 

she has too much trust in that top.

Renee does a little dance as she sings with the backup dancers, getting to Y/N's favorite part. "Get her number, get her name, get a good thing while you can. Kiss a blonde, kiss a friend, can a gay girl get an amen?"

Y/N was immediately standing as she watched this, yelling out amen after Renee sang that part. Renee notices her in the crowd beyond the blinding lights and sends a wink her way.

The cake begins to spin around as Renee is singing, revealing Megan Thee Stallion as she raps her part of the song. Renee does a little dance in front of Megan as she sings, them both going into sync as they do their choreography. Renee sticks her tongue out while she smiles, making the cheers louder around Y/N.

Renee dances with her hands in the air and does a body roll as Megan sings, pulling her mic back to her face and singing again. It's short-lived as the song is getting to an end, Megan speaking into her mic. "What's up SNL??!" The cheers get louder as she does, Renee joining in. "Give it up for Megan Thee Stallion!!" She yells into the mic, jokingly twerking for a second before jumping back into the end of the song, "It's not my fault you're like in love with me." She sings as she gets closer to Megan, turning her head to smile at her. "You're like in love with me."

When the final notes hung in the air, the applause was deafening. Y/N joined in, clapping enthusiastically, but her eyes never left Renee. The stage seemed to shimmer around her secret girlfriend, a beacon of talent and passion that left Y/N in awe.

As Renee laughed with Megan and then hugged her, waving to the stage before rushing off stage the applause echoed, and Y/N couldn't suppress the giddy smile that spread across her face. She had witnessed something extraordinary, something incredibly sexy and beautiful, and it filled her with a warmth that lingered long after the lights dimmed. In the secrecy of the crowd, Y/N reveled in the magic of being in love with a woman who could command a stage with such brilliance, all while keeping their connection hidden like a precious secret between the notes of a song.

[crescencestudio]

when i release the Enhanced Demo one of u has to promise me u will download it do u understand. imagine if no one downloaded it omg u all would never hear from me again fr

beta testing has been going well. here r some of my fave comments:

there they are, all in their glory

i’ll die

it’s all fun and games until you enter the death loop

scrumptious

AHHHHHHH (Kuna'a)

AHHHHHHHHHHH (Fenir)

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH (Etza)

multiple people not starting the game bc they r hypnotized by the title screen (including someones cat)

multiple people not live reacting bc they r too immersed in the game

everything is amazing and definitely worth the wait

if you’d like to play the beta still, you can access it on Patreon at the Hydra level:

[pinkyjulien]

▶ Johnny, Mikoshi, and SPI AIs

Years ago I bought some of the original TTRPG sourcebooks and only just recently started to really read through them 👀 It's a blast and I recommend every cp77 fan to get them!

I'm mainly focusing on the Cyberpunk RED era - it's set during the 2040's (2045) and exist as a canon, direct bridge between the Cyberpunk 2020 pen and paper, and the Cyberpunk 2077 game;

"[...] In addition, RED allows us to create something unparalleled in gaming history—a tabletop RPG that serves as the perfect onramp for the expanded and far future of the Cyberpunk 2077 arc. With threads looping forwards and back through the timeline, my partners at CDPR (Patrick, Adam, Marcin, Amelia—let's face it, the whole damned 600+ crew at the CD studio) and our crew at R. Talsorian Games have given you a deep, complex gaming experience you can explore on both the tabletop and the video screen." - Mike Pondsmith, Cyberpunk RED (2020)

In the Cyberpunk RED sourcebook, we get to read through the real events that took place in 2013, the kidnapping and "death" of Alt

"He's coming out of the Hammer, about midnight, and he sees them. Three punks,mohawks bright and bristly with reflected neon, wearing high-collared jackets; gang colors." - Cyberpunk RED, page 5

We also get to read the Arasaka bombing event, how Johnny really died- and who's responsible for getting him soulkilled... 👀

"On the other side of the room, Johnny crouches under a desk, fighting with his past between bursts of gunfire. I left Alt last time. Just abandoned her. Not again. Never again. Better to burn out, says the Hand. Yeah, Johnny says to himself—and he knows what he has to do." - Cyberpunk RED, page 121

I'm obviously not going to post the whole chunks here and DEADASS ENCOURAGE YOU TO CHECK THEM OUT FOR YOURSELVES - especially if you love Johnny, Rogue, Alt and the entire old crew, it's a real treat!

Anyway, the reason why I'm making this post is because I got further into the book and into the parts about AIs

We know our Johnny, the engram stuck in V's head, isn't a reliable narrator; we learn why and how in the previously mentioned stories on how these events went down - We also know that, well, our Johnny isn't really much of Johnny - He, and everyone who has been Soulkilled, are known as "SPI" AIs

"Soulkilled Pseudo Intellects (SPI) are AIs that were originally actual people but have had their consciousness digitized and now exist only on computers in the NET. The process is often not voluntary — Soulkiller programs produce this type of AI. Otherwise indistinguishable from Symbolic Analysis AIs, these "ghosts" were created in huge numbers as Arasaka put its infamous Soulkiller program to work targeting enemies and rivals alike. The majority of these SPIs have gathered in sanctuaries around deserted mainframes and city systems abandoned by Corporations or (as in the case of a number of bio-plague attacked cities along the Asian Rim) totally abandoned cities. Most of these "ghosts" just want a safe place to live; rumor has it that Alt Cunningham, the creator of Soulkiller and a digital ghost herself, has created a number of "ghost towns" in hidden places all over the remains of the Old NET. They pretty much want to be left alone." - Cyberpunk RED, page 263

We learn about other types of AIs in this section as well - but obviously this one grabbed my attention because, well, that's the Johnny we know - and that's also who, what V becomes after Mikoshi (talking here about the canon game events in some of the endings ofc)

It is so interesting and almost comforting in a way to read about this, to have a proper name and description of what we see and experience in game

I'm late to the party of course, I bet this was already a known thing - but wanted to share it here cause again, it was really really interesting to read and made me feel things hHHHH a lot to think about

[amayaonly1]

Verses Unwritten: A Rap Odyssey

Eminem x Rapper!OC

Verse 5

About: Genji finds herself immersed in the creative chaos of her music studio, only to be drawn into an unexpected conversation with Eminem, who invites her to the release of his deeply personal book. The event in New York unveils a different side of him, vulnerable yet resilient, sparking questions about their connection and his decision to share this moment with her. Amid the city's electric energy, old friendships resurface, and Genji reflects on the intricate layers of human connection and creativity.

"Verses Unwritten: A Rap Odyssey" Chapter List: Verse 1 | Verse 2 | Verse 3 | Verse 4 | Verse 5 | Verse 6 | Verse 7 | Verse 8 | Verse 9 | Verse 10 | Verse 11 | Verse 12 | Verse 13 | Verse 14 | Verse 15 | Verse 16 | Verse 17 | Verse 18 | Verse 19 | Verse 20 | Verse 21 | Verse 22 | Verse 23 | Verse 24 | Verse 25 | Verse 26 | Verse 27

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

The gentle glow of her laptop screen lit up the dim studio as Genji adjusted the final EQ levels of the track. A sultry R&B instrumental looped softly in the background, filling the room with smooth undertones. She leaned back in the swivel chair, rubbing her temples. The creative process was relentless, yet deeply satisfying, like a puzzle she's never tired of solving.

Her phone buzzed on the cluttered desk, breaking her concentration. She glanced at the caller ID which sent an involuntary smile to her lips — Eminem. The name flashed against the faint glow of her screen, stirring an unexpected mix of emotions. Her lips curved into a small, involuntary smile, and her heart quickened, though she quickly pushed aside the ripple of nerves. Their conversations were sporadic and mostly about music, yet she could always tell when he was up to something. His invitations were never without a hint of unpredictability.

"Hey," she answered, her voice warm.

"Hey to you too," came his familiar voice, carrying a hint of excitement. "You busy?"

"Always," she teased, swivelling her chair. "But I'm listening."

"Well, I've been working on something different," he began, his voice casual yet deliberate tone. "Figured I'd let you know before the rest of the world does."

"Oh? Don't tell me you're trading rap for country music," she joked, stifling a laugh.

"Nah, I ain’t got the boots for that," he deadpanned, but the faint amusement in his voice gave him away. "No, it's a book. My book. I'm throwing a release party in New York next month."

"A book?" Genji repeated, her eyebrows arching; intrigued. "Interesting... Didn't peg you as the literary type."

"Yeah, well, surprise, surprise," He replied with mock indignation, drawing a soft chuckle from her. "I ain't all about beats and rhymes, y'know. Not like this is the first book I wrote, anyway."

"So what's it about? A collection of your best insults?"

"Yeah, and chapter one’s all about you," he fired back without missing a beat, earning a chuckle from her. Although, she could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

His tone shifted then, vulnerability slipping through. "Nah, it’s more like my version of therapy. It's about my life, the ups and downs... all the shit I went through, y'know I'm saying?" His words carried a weight that caught her off guard, silencing the teasing.

Genji leaned forward, gripping the phone tighter as a quiet understanding passed between them. "And you want me there?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's at Recon on October 15th, 8 p.m. You not flying back to Japan soon, right?"

"No, I got back like last week. Makes no sense for me to suddenly go back now, especially with new projects lining up."

"Alright, I guess I'll see ya there. Don't make me hunt you down."

"I'll be there," she relented, chuckling. "But you owe me a signed copy."

"Deal. I'll send a car. No excuses."

The call ended with a soft click, leaving Genji staring at her phone, a faint smile lingering on her lips. Eminem wasn’t one to extend such invitations lightly. He’d always been guarded, a trait she understood and respected. So being included felt meaningful, as it gave her a glimpse into his tumultuous inner world often masked by that aloof exterior.

The buzz of New York City filled the crisp October evening, its energy electric: a cacophony of honking cabs, distant sirens, and the rhythmic chatter of late-night pedestrians. Neon lights flickered in a kaleidoscope of colours, reflecting off rain-slicked streets and adding an electric glow to the city's bustling chaos.

Genji stepped out of the black car Eminem had sent, dressed in a long-sleeved V-neck navy blouse tucked into high-waisted white pants, and paired with black, heeled ankle boots. Her silver hoop earrings glinted faintly as she adjusted her scarf against the October chill. Anticipation swirled in her chest as she approached the building.

Inside Recon, the pulsating rhythm of music and conversation surrounded her. The low hum of excitement buzzed in the air, the sound of familiar voices blending with the buzz of anticipation for the night ahead. She'd always known Eminem as a force of nature in the music world, but tonight felt different. This wasn't about Slim Shady, and she could feel the weight of his presence in every detail.

She didn't have long to ponder the matter before Eminem himself walked into the room, cutting through the crowd like a storm. He spotted her almost immediately, and a subtle shift in his expression signalled a mixture of relief and determination.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice casual, but with that unmistakable edge that never quite left, even in softer moments. There was a slight hesitation in his steps, like he wasn’t sure how much of himself he wanted to reveal. "Glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it especially when you personally invited me," she replied, offering him a smile. "Looks like a big night."

"It is," he agreed, glancing at her with a flicker of something genuine in his eyes. "But… you showing up? Kinda makes it better. But don't go telling people I said that." He smirked, the familiar, self-deprecating humour slipping in to mask the moment.

"Duly noted, sir," Genji answered playfully, though her curiosity piqued by the underlying tone in his voice. There was a softness there, a subtle shift in the way he was standing, as if he was letting something unspoken hang between them. The usual bravado he was known for hadn't disappeared; it lingered, but underneath, there was a fragility, a kind of quiet gratitude.

"Good, keep it that way," he said, glancing at the ground briefly before meeting her gaze again. "Alright, I gotta go. Gotta do Shade 45 and all that." He gestured loosely toward the broadcast setup, then paused. "Catch you after, maybe?"

"Maybe," she teased, watching as he turned and walked off with that familiar swagger, though she couldn't help but notice the way his shoulders carried a touch less weight than before.

Leaving her standing with a whirlwind of questions, Genji watched him disappear into the crowd, his presence still lingering like the echo of a verse unfinished. There was definitely something softer in him tonight, a glimpse of the man behind the razor-sharp words and bulletproof persona. But the question remained: why her?

They had worked on only two songs, sure, but hardly the kind of history that explained this unguarded moment. Their conversations, few and far between, had been all about music: beats, lyrics, the mechanics of creation. Nothing in those exchanges had hinted at this level of familiarity, this openness.

Had she missed something in the rhythm of their words? Or was this simply another side of him, one he rarely let anyone see, bleeding through the cracks? Whatever it was, it left her unsettled, like standing on the precipice of something far deeper than she'd anticipated.

"Baby G!"

A familiar voice echoed through the room, cutting through her thoughts. She turned to see LL grinning widely as he strode towards her. The moment they looked at each other, his face broke into a wide grin, and she couldn't help but return it.

"James!" Genji greeted. "How have you been?"

"Good," he beamed, pulling her in for a quick, friendly hug. "Still causing chaos in Japan?"

"Always," she quipped with a mischievous smirk. "Then I'll disappear for a year before shaking things up again."

He laughed, shaking his head. "That sounds exactly like you — unpredictable and always keeping people guessing. I still remember how you got MTV Japan to broadcast me, De La Soul, MC Lyte, and A Tribe performing live from New York. I still don't know how you pulled that off." He leaned closer, his grin widening. "And I'm pretty sure half the world doesn't even know it was you who made it happen."

"That was fun," Genji admitted, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, but she still remembered the rush of pulling off something so ambitious. She was so passionate about spreading hip-hop in her country. It was laboriously slow, but in the end, it was worth it. "I listened to Exit 13, by the way. You still got that energy, huh?"

"Of course," he replied, flexing his biceps with mock seriousness. "You know me; staying strong, staying smooth. Gotta keep the legacy alive."

Genji rolled her eyes, laughing. "But in all seriousness, you've still got it. I'll give you that."

"Hey," he said suddenly, his expression turning playful. "Let's grab a photo. It's been too long since we had one together."

"Er…" She hesitated, her smile faltering for a moment. "We can, uh, have someone take one for us."

"C'mon, Baby G," he teased, raising an eyebrow. "For such a pretty young thing like you, you sure hate photos."

Her gaze softened, and she murmured, "Well, 1995 happened…" The words lingered in the air, and for a split second, her lighthearted demeanour dimmed.

LL paused, his playful smirk faltered, now replaced by an understanding nod. "Yeah… I get it," he muttered quietly, his tone carrying a depth that only close friends could share. "But hey, this is different. It's us. No pressure."

Genji studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Alright, James. Since you asked, let's do it."

"That's what I'm talking about!" He enthusiastically gestured for her to follow him. "Photographer's right over here. Let's make this iconic."

As they reached the backdrop, the energy shifted. Cameras flashed, capturing their camaraderie in a way words couldn't. Genji stood beside him, her posture relaxing as the nostalgia and comfort of shared history took over.

"See? Not so bad," LL said, nudging her lightly as they stepped away.

She rolled her eyes playfully. "You're lucky I like you, James."

He chuckled, slipping back into their familiar banter. "I'm more than lucky, Baby G. I'm blessed to have a friend like you."

They drifted into more conversation, slipping into the comfort of shared history with each exchange. The evening unfolded with laughter, memories, and the quiet reassurance of a bond that had stood the test of time.

Genji slipped away from the noise of the event and found a quiet corner of the venue where a soft glow illuminated a secluded area. The chatter and music felt distant here, the dim lighting offering a rare moment of solitude. She swirled her drink thoughtfully, the night’s events replaying in her mind.

"Figured you'd be hiding somewhere," came a voice behind her. She turned to see Eminem leaning casually against the wall. His cap was pulled low, but it didn't hide the exhaustion etched into his face. His expression was soft and worn, like someone who'd been carrying a weight too long.

"You done entertaining guests?" she asked, her tone light but curious.

"Yeah," he said, stepping closer. "Needed a breather. Crowds aren't really my thing, y'know."

"Could've fooled me," she remarked lightly. "No offence, but I thought you'd thrive in the spotlight."

He shrugged, looking down at his shoes for a second before meeting her gaze again. "Yeah, but it's different. This… feels personal. Makes me feel exposed, y'know? Especially when I've been out of the spotlight for more than a year. Coming back like this…" he trailed off, his voice low.

Genji studied him, her expression softening as the vulnerability in his words settled between them. "I was aware of... what happened in 2006. I think this is a good start. Turning your struggles and pain into something people can connect with —that's powerful."

Eminem gave a faint chuckle, but it didn't carry his usual sharp edge. "Yeah... well, it's still easier to put it in a song than to say it outright. Writing this book? Man, it's like ripping open old wounds. Makes me question if I'm crazy for doing it."

Genji tilted her head, a thoughtful smile tugging at her lips. "Not crazy. Just… surprising. But I get it. It's not easy letting people see you. The real you."

"Nah, it's not," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "It's hard being the guy who's gotta have it together all the time, y'know I'm saying? I've been so busy being whatever the world thinks I'm supposed to be, I kinda forgot how to just… me."

There was a heaviness to his words, and Genji didn't rush to fill the silence that followed. Instead, she let the weight of his honesty linger, her own thoughts turning over in her mind.

"You know," she said eventually, her voice gentle. "You don't have to do it alone. You've got people who care about you. People who want to see you thrive."

He met her gaze, and for the first time that night, the guarded walls he so often kept in place seemed to crumble for a moment. "Yeah... but it's not easy letting people in. It's easier to keep 'em at arm's length, y'know I'm saying? Less mess that way."

His hand brushed over the brim of his cap, an absent gesture that seemed to ground him. "But you… you're not lookin' at me like I'm Slim Shady or that guy in all the headlines. And for some reason, that makes it easier to just… talk. Like, I don't gotta explain every damn thing, y'know I'm saying?"

Genji smiled faintly, crossing her arms. "Well, I think sometimes the people we don't know that well end up understanding us better than the ones who think they know everything."

Eminem tilted his head, his expression softening as he mulled over her words. "Yeah, that's some real talk. I guess it's just weird to me. Trust ain't somethin' I give out easy, but… I feel like I don't gotta worry 'bout you judging me, y'know I'm saying?"

She chuckled lightly, shaking her head. "I just want to make good music, just like you. Everything else? That's up to you to share or not."

He let out a quiet laugh, genuine but tinged with that self-deprecating humour he carried. "You got a way of makin' it sound simple, Genji. Kinda wish life worked like that."

Silence stretched between them for a moment, but it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of pause that let words settle and take root.

"That thing you said," he began again, his voice low. "About seeing someone for who they are now, not who they used to be… I dunno if I've even figured out who I am now. But maybe this — making music again — is how I start."

Genji's gaze softened, her voice quiet but firm. "That's all anyone can do, right? Take it one step at a time. You're not the guy from the early 2000s anymore, and that's okay. It's about who you want to be now."

Eminem nodded slowly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah… guess I ain't used to people sayin' stuff like that to me. But don’t get used to this mushy shit. You caught me on a good day, is all." His smile lingered, though, the kind that suggested he didn't mind the moment as much as he claimed.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Noted. I'll make sure to remind you the next time you're acting all grumpy."

He snorted, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "Grumpy, huh? I just figured I was keepin’ it real."

Genji grinned, her eyes sparkling with challenge. "Wouldn’t want it any other way."

He shook his head, chuckling. "You're something else, y'know that?"

In that quiet corner, away from the lights and cameras, they found a rare moment of connection that didn't need to be defined or explained. It was just kindred souls sharing a moment of honesty in a world that rarely allows it.

[kemetic-dreams]

Minnie Julia Riperton Rudolph (November 8, 1947 – July 12, 1979) was an American singer-songwriter best known for her 1975 single "Lovin' You" and her four octave D3 to F♯7 coloratura soprano range. She is also widely known for her use of the whistle register and has been referred to by the media as the "Queen of the Whistle Register."

Minnie Riperton grew up in Chicago's Bronzeville neighborhood on the South Side. As a child, she studied music, drama and dance at Chicago's Lincoln Center. The youngest of eight children in a musical family, she embraced the arts early. Although she began with ballet and modern dance, her parents recognized her vocal and musical abilities and encouraged her to pursue music and voice. At Chicago's Abraham Lincoln Center, she received operatic vocal training from Marion Jeffery. She practiced breathing and phrasing, with particular emphasis on diction. Jeffery also trained Riperton to use her full range. While studying under Jeffery, she sang operettas and show tunes, in preparation for a career in opera. Jeffery was so convinced of her pupil's abilities that she strongly pushed her to further study the classics at Chicago's Junior Lyric Opera.

The young Riperton was, however, becoming interested in soul, rhythm and blues, and rock. In her teen years, she sang lead vocals for the Chicago-based girl group the Gems. Eventually the group became a session group known as Studio Three and it was during this period that they provided the backing vocals on the classic 1965 Fontella Bass hit "Rescue Me".

After graduating from Hyde Park High School (now Hyde Park Academy High School), she enrolled at Loop College and became a member of Zeta Phi Beta sorority. She dropped out of college to pursue her music career.

Her early affiliation with the legendary Chicago-based Chess Records afforded her the opportunity to sing backup for various established artists such as Etta James, Fontella Bass, Ramsey Lewis, Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters. While at Chess, Riperton also sang lead for the experimental rock/soul group Rotary Connection, from 1967 to 1971.

On April 5, 1975, Riperton reached the apex of her career with her No. 1 single "Lovin' You". The single was the last release from her 1974 gold album titled Perfect Angel. Riperton's third album, Adventures in Paradise was released in 1975. Despite the R&B hit "Inside My Love", some radio stations refused to play "Inside My Love" due to the lyrics.

Her fourth album for Epic Records, titled Stay in Love (1977), featured another collaboration with Stevie Wonder in the funky disco tune "Stick Together".

In 1978, Richard Rudolph and Riperton's attorney Mike Rosenfeld orchestrated a move to Capitol Records for Riperton and her CBS Records catalog. In April 1979, Riperton released her fifth and final album, Minnie. "Memory Lane" was a hit from the album.

Riperton provided backing vocals on Stevie Wonder's songs "Creepin'" from 1974's Fulfillingness' First Finale and "Ordinary Pain" from 1976's Songs in the Key of Life. In 1977, she lent her vocal abilities to a track named "Yesterday and Karma", on Osamu Kitajima's album, Osamu.

In January 1976, Riperton was diagnosed with breast cancer and, in April, she underwent a radical mastectomy. By the time of diagnosis, the cancer had metastasized and she was given about six months to live. Despite the grim prognosis, she continued recording and touring. She was one of the first celebrities to go public with her breast cancer diagnosis but did not disclose she was terminally ill.

In 1977, she became a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society. In 1978, she received the American Cancer Society's Courage Award, which was presented to her at the White House by President Jimmy Carter.

Riperton died of cancer on July 12, 1979 at the age 31.

During the 1990s, Riperton's music was sampled by many rap and hip-hop artists, including Tupac Shakur, Dr. Dre, A Tribe Called Quest, Blumentopf, The Orb

[lilarus]

We interrupt your regularly scheduled masked man posting read reblogging to bring you:

✨TES Fest '24✨

Day 1 !

B⃞ R⃞ E⃞ A⃞ T⃞ H⃞ vs F O R B I D D E N

[alt text: gif of woman (oc: Eisi) getting up after taking a deep breath, liquid dripping down body. black linework, no color. looping gif]

ramblings below

So this is the first animation/animatic I've made in years. Who thought it'd be for a character who's face I haven't finalized... AND she's nakey.. Who'd've thought...

Made on Clip Studio Paint Pro with that sweet sweet 25 frame limit bc it's a "premium feature" on CSP Ex orz

[romiantic]

LOWKEY !

rapper!earth 42!miles falling deeply in love with a rock angel member but tries to hide it from the public

→ READING: rock angel!jade-coded!black!fem!reader

→ GENRE + WARNINGS: fluff + miles & y/n do a terrible job at hiding their relationship

→ A/N: this is part of @mypimpademia 3k collab, thank you for letting me join juice. love youuuu and happy 3k <3

— miles, aka young and upcoming rapper prowler, would be head over heels, fallen in love with you. well, he would rather say that he’s into you a lot but really, this man wakes up every day thanking God that he has someone like you in his life

— he doesn’t know if it’s the personality you bring out on your shows or your angelic features that is shown on almost all social media, but miles will never get enough of you

— when he first seen you on his instagram explore page, his immediate thought was go to one of y’all shows. thankfully, he was on tour as well so some of the dates aligned, it was just depending on what his manager said

— coincidentally, his show, which was in the same city yall were performing in, was a day after yours so he had enough time to check (you)r band out. this boy got a vip package, with the meet and greet, just to get a good seat for the show and he didn’t regret it at all. he was blown away at the rock angel’s performance but even more in shock your beautiful vocals when you came out to sing, your voice brought chills and a rising temperature to his body

— the singing voice of yours was in a constant loop in his mind and brought his heart to start pumping. he doesn’t know why his heartbeat was racing but every time you got closer to your fans and shot them a smile, oh he would wish badly that you look his way. well you did and when made contact with the young boy, you felt…butterflies

— the meet and greet was no different after the show. you grew nervous at his presence, you would avoid his eyes but also smile at his blatant nervousness. your best friends/band mates that it was so cute how y’all were interacting, and they easily peeped how deeply y’all were into each other

— at first yall wanted to keep the relationship lowkey. both being artists, especially teen artists, would mean the spotlight is on yall almost every hour, every day. yall would reside to calling each other when you had the chance but a majority of the time, yall would just end up texting instead

— with the spotlight on yall two, any time yall would be spotted together, you would keep it platonic. any sign of romance would be kept in private places. though, the number of smiles and hands grazing each other when y’all are in public show that y’all are far from friends

— in public, miles would be caught smiling at some joke you mentioned and you would be poking his arm to bother him, or holding onto his waist. especially when it’s raining, you would have his hoodie on while hugging his waist and not trying to show your face

— in private, it was like best friends but more. you would hum a song while he laid on your chest, complaining to you about his recent studio session. he would lay there and tell you all his insecurities, his fears, his concerns of being a teen rapper

— sometimes y’all would sing or rap to each other snippets of y’all new song. miles does rely a lot on your opinion, besides his family, you are his biggest supporter. your opinion always matter to him, even if it’s for a verse to complete his unfinished songs

— you guys would sneak into other’s studio sessions, to give support and comfort. especially when miles visit, you feel more at ease and less tense while singing. he would give you smiles and text you words of encouragement while you’re in the booth

— sadly, fans start speculating from the songs yall would put out and how coincidentally, he would have a show the day after your show ?? yeah y’all not slick. It doesn’t help that yall would post each other songs on each other’s social media, comment hearts under each other posts, and pop into your live or the band member’s live

— it doesn’t help that miles would post mostly your part of the song on social media but hey, he says there’s nothing going on. liar

— during interviews, the host would ask if there’s anything going on between you and miles and you would deny everything but the cheeky smile on your face would show otherwise. your band mates would start laughing at your shyness and give major side eye when you deny

— but as time go on, miles would hint that there is a special girl in his life but definitely not say too much. during his instagram lives, he would avoid any comments that could drop y’all relationship and during interviews, he would play it off by saying vague answers or joke around it. any and everything that could potentially expose you, miles would pretend to not see and leave it at that

— when y’all did go public, your fans were incredibly happy and supportive for yall!

— the upcoming rapper, prowler, is speculated to date a rock angel member? oh fans will go insane for the two of yall and they did! they thought of how y’all compliment each other and begged almost everyday for a prowler x rock angel collab

⭑ why do I lowkey wanna make this into a series 🤭? lemme stop-

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: Ephesians 4:2

SPIDERMAN: ATSV MASTERLIST + MAIN MASTERLIST

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖼. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[caexanadt]

Dead Air - Chapter One - Nova

“Subject: Welcome to Radiant Records! Let’s Build Something Epic!

Hey Nova,

Congrats — we’ve been vibing hard with your solo stuff, and we want you on board with Radiant Records! Your sound? Totally electric. Your energy? Next-level.

Here’s the deal: We want to help you build a band that can match that fire. Think: a crew that’s as tight and dynamic as your music — people you click with, who bring their own flavor but share your vision.

We know assembling the right band can be tricky, but don’t sweat it. We’ll back you every step of the way — from auditions to studio sessions. This is about creating something fresh, authentic, and loud enough to shake the scene.

Ready to make some noise together? Hit us back, and let’s get this show started.

Catch you soon, Casey Flinn A&R Coordinator, Radiant Records.”

Nova blinked and read the email again. What? This was wild. She must be still drunk from her pity party with Jamie, after convincing herself that no labels would ever sign her and she would be forever stuck as the struggling artist. Before she could spiral into doubt, her phone started loudly blaring the ringtone she’d assigned to Harper. 

Before Nova could speak, Harper’s calm but excited voice came through.

“Good Morning freshly-signed Superstar!”.

 Nova laughed, still in disbelief that today was real. “Uh, yeah.. Morning? Is it real?”

“100%! They’ve been watching you kill it solo! Its time to level it up. They want to build a band with you!”.

 There was a beat of silence on the line before Harper’s voice nudged,

“Hello? Nova? You still there?”

“Yes Harper, I- I’m still here. Build a band? Are you serious?! I don’t click with anyone!”

“That’s the fun- and the challenge.  It’s not about finding perfect musicians. It’s about finding people who get you. Chemistry over skill, every time.”

Nova took a deep breath, thinking it over. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t sing — just people she’d met at gigs, all aspiring singers. Finding a full band? That was going to be tough.

“Okay. Okay, before I chicken out. When do we start?”

“That’s the spirit! I have auditions lined up for this afternoon and the rest of the week!”

“Thanks Harper, Text me the details?” Nova ended the call and read the email again. 

“Guess it was real”.

_____

Nova found herself an hour later, sat in a musty room that smelled faintly of old cables and nervous sweat, waiting for the auditions to start. Her coffee had long gone cold beside her, untouched, forgotten. She was hunched over a battered notepad — the one Harper had handed her on the way in, all casual like "just in case inspiration hits."

Apparently, it had. Or something close to it.

Lyrics bled out in messy loops and scratched-out lines. Half a verse here, a fragmented chorus there. Her handwriting slanted harder when she was anxious — and right now, the whole page was at a damn 45-degree angle.

The quiet buzz of fluorescent lights overhead did nothing to calm her. Every now and then, a sound tech passed through the hallway, or someone coughed behind a nearby door, and she’d glance up like she was being caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

She sighed, tapping her pen against the side of the pad, eyes darting to the clock. Almost time. Strangers were about to walk through that door. People who could become her band… or people she’d awkwardly avoid eye contact with forever.

“Please let someone decent show up,” she muttered, then shook her head. “No. Let someone right show up.”

There was a difference.

After what felt like forever, Harper strolled into the space like she owned it — a nervous red-headed boy trailing behind her, clutching a guitar like it might bite him.

“Uh—hi. I’m Wes. Big fan. Of you, I mean! Not me!”

He stopped short, cheeks already turning pink. Lanky and tall, he had the look of someone who tripped over air and apologized to furniture.

Nova raised a brow, amusement flashing across her face. “Hi, Wes. I’m Nova.” She nodded toward the guitar in his hands. “That your weapon of choice?”

Wes blinked, then looked down at the instrument like he’d forgotten it was there. “What? Oh! Yeah, totally.”

He smiled — wide, genuine, the kind of smile that could disarm a crowd if he ever let it grow into confidence.

Harper stepped forward, clapping her hands once. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Wes.”

Wes fiddled nervously with the amp knobs, the soundboard, his guitar strap — everything but his nerves. A sudden screech of feedback rang through the room.

Nova and Harper both winced in sync.

“Sorry! Sorry—got it,” Wes muttered, cheeks redder than his hair as he twisted a final dial into place.

Nova gave him a soft smile, trying to ease the tension. “Play whatever you want.”

He nodded, closing his eyes as he strummed a few chords to test the sound. A moment later, he launched into a piece — something mellow, almost wistful, with clean transitions and steady rhythm.

He was good. Really good.

But as Nova listened, her smile faded just a little. It was technically strong — polished even — but there was something missing. That raw edge. That gut-punch feeling. The je ne sais quoi she was hoping would slam into her chest and say this is it.

When he finished, the final chord hanging in the air, Nova clapped politely, exchanging a look with Harper that said: close… but not quite.

“Thanks, Wes. We’ll be in touch. Harper rose, walking him out. 

Wes gave a sheepish smile, unplugging his guitar with a small nod. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thank you,” Nova said, still warm but already drifting into her thoughts as Harper escorted him out with a polite pat on the back.

___

Harper smirked, nudging Nova. “Remember when you tried to teach me guitar and I just invented a new way to hit all the wrong strings?”

Nova rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yeah, and you called it Harper’s special chord. I’m still traumatized.”

Harper laughed. “That’s why you’re the musician and I’m the hype crew.”

The door had momentarily shut behind him before it creaked open again — but this time, the energy shifted.

Boots thudded confidently into the space, and in walked a person with shaggy dark curls, silver rings on nearly every finger, and a hoodie half-zipped to reveal a band tee that had definitely seen some pits. They dragged a well-worn drum pad case behind them and gave the room a once-over like they were sizing it up for a fight.

Harper’s face lit up. “Nova, meet Knox Vale. Drummer. They use they/them pronouns.”

Knox dropped their case in the corner and popped the lid. “Hey,” they said simply, but there was a weight to it — like they didn’t need to say much to own the room.

Nova arched a brow, intrigued. “Got anything you wanna show us?”

Knox shrugged, cracking their knuckles. “Not much of a talker,” they said, pulling out sticks and settling into the practice kit set up in the corner. “But I’ll make noise.”

And they did.

From the first strike, it was clear they weren’t just keeping rhythm — they were commanding it. Each hit was crisp, each fill bold without being showy. The beats had this pulsing undercurrent of control-meets-chaos, and Nova felt her chest tightening in the best way — like something in her bones had been waiting for that sound.

Harper grinned knowingly at her.

Nova blinked, stunned, then nodded once, slowly. “Okay,” she said under her breath, almost to herself.

That was it. That was the spark. Noticing Nova’s silence, Harper spoke up.

“Thankyou, Knox. We’ll be in touch” Knox just nodded, walking towards the door. After the echoing bang of the door, Nova blinked, stunned, then nodded slowly. Her chest felt tight — in that good, electrifying way. Like Knox had just plugged into something inside her she hadn’t realized was waiting to be sparked. “Okay,” she whispered, almost to herself. Harper caught her eye and winked. “See? Told you the perfect weirdos are the ones to watch.”

___

AN: This is the first crack at a story I've come up with, please feel free to leave feedback and such!

[mjonthetrack]

queen

Chapter One: Brooklyn Born x Bled

Joey had half a blunt burning slow between his fingers and a beat looping in the background, something dark and grimy with too much bass and not enough structure. He wasn’t really listening. The studio smelled like weed, sweat, and whatever candle his engineer swore made the "vibe hit different." It didn’t.

He slouched back on the leather couch, phone tilted just enough to catch the glare of his screen. Scrollin'. Mindless. Thumb on autopilot. Till— Boom. A photo.

And not just any photo.

It was her. Or more like, the photo. The kind that stops time and chokes the air out your chest.

She stood dead center between Tyler and Rocky, like the baddest bitch on the planet — which, judging by the look in her eyes, she knew she was. Legs long, dress barely clinging to her, lips glossy like they were dipped in honey and secrets. One brow cocked, smirking like she had your password and your bank routing number.

The caption? “I don’t smile, I smirk. 💋”

Her tag blinked at him like it was daring him to click: @ chanelthemodel

Joey exhaled sharp, almost offended. “Who the fuck is that?”

He tapped. Instantly. No hesitation.

7.2 million followers. Blue check. Of course. Model. Of course. Brooklyn born x bled, timbs to heels. Oop. There it is.

“Brooklyn?” “Aight. That’s mine.”

Her feed looked like fashion porn dipped in R&B nostalgia. Covers. Campaigns. Music videos. She was the girl — the one in the center of every shot, the one music heads whispered about in group chats, the one stylists booked two seasons ahead just to say they might get a confirmed.

He saw her in that one Brent Faiyaz joint — the video where she’s in the silk slip, walking down a hallway in slow motion, then turning around like she knew you were watching. He remembered that. He just didn’t know it was her.

Her smile was lethal. Her waist was illegal. Her walk? Disrespectful. And her eyes? Yeah. That shit was dangerous.

Joey leaned forward, elbows on knees, phone inches from his face like the screen might blink and swallow him whole.

“Ayo, nah. Why I ain’t seen her before? That’s disrespectful to me personally.”

He liked three posts back-to-back without even thinking, then immediately unliked them — rookie move. He wasn’t tryna look thirsty. But it was too late. He was already deep in the scroll, lost in the sauce, decoding her life through pixels and tagged locations.

One photo? She’s in Paris with Naomi. Next? Backstage at a SZA show in L.A. Another one — her walking through Bed-Stuy in oversized jeans and a vintage Hov tee like she ain’t just graced a Fendi runway.

“Nah. She really Brooklyn. Like… for real.”

He bit his bottom lip, smirking at nothing.

“She look like my baby mama. On some universe already claimed her type shit.”

He took a screenshot of her profile. Sent it to his boy with a one-line text: “Find her.”

Joey wasn’t subtle. Never had been. If he wanted something, he got it. And right now? He wanted her.

Didn’t matter that they’d never met. Didn’t matter that she ain’t follow him back, or that she was neck-deep in a world of flashing cameras and high-profile dates.

She was from Brooklyn. And so was he. That meant something.

“Yeah,” he murmured, lighting the end of his blunt again, smoke curling past his lips like a vow, “She just don’t know it yet… but she mine.”

Chapter Two: Bestie Bookie

Chanel was on her third glass of pét-nat and her fourth joke at Tyler’s expense. He was slouched on her penthouse couch wearing a giant-ass fuzzy hat, some pastel monstrosity that looked like it had a life of its own. And of course, he insisted on putting it on her head the second she said it looked dumb.

Now she was sitting pretty, legs curled under her, hat slipping slightly sideways, and laughing so hard her grill flashed under the glow of her sconces.

"Tyler, you're an idiot!" she cackled, swatting his knee. "I can't even take you serious with that top hat looking like a damn cotton ball."

"Shut up, you love it," he grinned, all teeth. "That’s why I let you wear it. And because it gives me allergies.”

The room was warm with wine and weed smoke and dimmed lighting, and somewhere in the corner, Rocky was fake snoring like he was sick of both their antics.

She pulled out her phone, propped her arm up for the story, tilted her chin just enough to catch her best angles — click. Boom. IG Story. She tapped the screen. Tagged: @ feliciathegoat Caption: “My bestie bookie 😩🧸💅🏾”

Instant post. No filter. She didn’t need one.

Her story was up for all 7.2M of her followers in less than five seconds, and her DMs were already lighting up. Verified checks. Brand reps. A few thirsty exes. Even that one NBA player who kept reacting to all her selfies with heart eyes and still never got a reply.

She scrolled through a few comments, thumb flicking with practiced ease, then flicked over to her tags outta boredom.

And that���s when she saw him.

Joey Badass. Tagged in some fan edit with her from the Brent Faiyaz video. Someone cropped a shot of her looking over her shoulder in the silk slip and layered it with a photo of Joey in black and white, hoodie low, lips parted like he was about to say something wild.

She blinked. Paused. Clicked his profile. @ joeybadass Mutuals: Tyler, Rocky, SZA, like… everyone. 3.9M followers. Blue check. Pages of film stills, freestyles, studio shots, that smoldering “I know I look good and I want you to suffer” type of aura.

She scrolled once. Twice. Paused at a video where he was rapping on live, blunt in one hand, saying,

“Yo, my baby mama out there working. I'm proud of her. Deadass. I’ma pull up on her shoot, watch.”

Her brow quirked. “Who told him I was pregnant?” she muttered under her breath with a smirk.

Cute. Delusional. She exited the app without liking a damn thing. Didn’t follow. Didn’t even breathe too long on his page. She wasn’t giving no free air time. Especially not to a rapper talking like they shared a kid and a rent payment.

“You good?” Tyler asked, peeking over her shoulder.

“Mmhm,” she hummed, sipping her wine with a little grin. “Just saw a boy catching feelings through the phone. That retrograde hittin’ hard.”

He burst out laughing, falling back into the couch. “Not retrograde!”

“Yup. Got these men talking like they know me. They don’t.”

She didn’t think about him again that night. Or so she told herself. But later, when she was alone, legs crossed on her rooftop balcony, city lights flickering below, and a slow track humming out her Bluetooth speaker...

She picked her phone back up. Typed in @ joeybadass. Browsed real slow this time. Paused on a photo where he was shirtless, arms spread, looking like sin and salvation.

Her thumb hovered.

Then she locked her phone. Tossed it aside.

She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction. Not yet.

Chapter Three: Front Row Feelings

The venue was somewhere downtown — a converted warehouse that looked like concrete and history, humming with the energy of old money, new culture, and fashion kids trying not to blink too loud.

Inside was velvet and glass and rows of front-row royalty. Paparazzi flashes lit up the outside like lightning, and the whispers? They all circled one name: Chanel Amari Tate.

Gucci’s new face. The first to walk. The moment, not the guest list.

Backstage, Chanel stood center in a sea of models, stylists, and assistants buzzing like bees around her. The runway was minutes away. Her look? Sheer black corset dress with oversized faux fur shrug, emerald stilettos, and a single diamond earring that caught the light like a camera flash. Her hair was slicked, twisted, edged. Her eyes? Painted sharp. Her lips? Glossed just enough to blind someone.

Tyler kissed her cheek for luck. Rocky gave her a “kill that shit” nod from the side. And then she was called.

First out. Spotlight on. Crowd hush.

Joey was front row. He hadn’t planned to be there — or maybe he did. Someone sent him a ticket last-minute, said “you’ll wanna see this.” He almost didn’t go. But then he heard she was walking. And something in him said go. watch. regret everything.

The lights dimmed. The music hit — all bass and chaos, avant-garde and lowkey demonic.

Then the curtain peeled back. And there she was. Chanel.

Walking like the floor didn’t deserve her. Chin high. Legs slicing air. Hip bones screaming confidence. The crowd went quiet for a half-second too long — it wasn’t gasps or applause. It was reverence. Like they were witnessing art.

Joey’s heart dropped into his Timbs.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, low, jaw clenched. “She really out here lookin’ like that?”

No one noticed him lean forward. No one saw him stop breathing. But inside? He was combusting.

She didn’t even glance his way. Didn’t flick her eyes toward the crowd. She knew he was there. But Chanel wasn’t walking for him. She was walking for herself. For Brooklyn. For every girl who turned pain into perfume and stilettos.

Backstage again — the moment her heel hit that last turn, and she disappeared behind the curtain — applause broke like thunder. Phones up. Instagrams loading. Hashtags exploding.

#ChanelAmari #GucciGirl #SheAte

Joey sat there stuck. Sweating under his Carhartt jacket. Throat dry. Head spinning.

“Yeah. I’m cooked.” “She mine, bro.”

His boy leaned over, smirking. “You don’t even know her.”

Joey didn’t blink. “Don’t gotta. My soul already do.”

She didn’t see him leave. Didn’t see the look on his face. Didn’t care.

Because Chanel Amari Tate just shut Fashion Week down. And if Joey wanted to get in her orbit? He better bring more than lust and delusions.

Chapter Four: "He an Artist or Sumn?"

The backstage area had turned into a war zone of lights, velvet ropes, and designer chaos. Everyone wanted a piece of Chanel Amari Tate. She’d just opened Gucci’s most talked-about show of the season, and the internet was already dragging its jaw across the pavement.

But Chanel? She was cool. Collected. Still in heels, shrug half-off her shoulder, water bottle in one hand, phone buzzing like a mad ex in the other.

“Miss Tate! Chanel! Over here, just one quick interview!” A mic was in her face before her assistant could block it. Cameras snapped like gunfire. She turned, smiled — that million-dollar smile — and nodded.

“Sure, real quick,” she said, voice velvet-smooth and dipped in Brooklyn accent.

The reporter held up her phone like a trophy, screen already playing a grainy clip of Joey front row, eyes locked, leaning forward like he’d just seen God in stilettos.

"So this was rapper Joey Badass watching you walk tonight — any thoughts?"

Chanel blinked. Leaned in. Watched the clip. Then leaned back and let out a loud, unbothered laugh — full grill flashing, bottom row dancing with little diamonds like her teeth were throwing shade too.

“I would look at me like that too,” she said, playful, unapologetic, voice all light and glitter.

Then the shrug came. A little tilt of her head, like the thought of him didn’t take up enough brain space to weigh her down.

“And yeah, I think so. He an artist or something, ain’t he?”

The reporter looked stunned — stuck between “is she deadass?” and “I need that clip viral in 3 minutes.”

But Chanel wasn’t waiting for follow-ups. She turned her body slightly, giving them one final angle like she was curating their best shot.

“I’m just grateful to be the new women’s face for Gucci,” she said, professionalism sliding in like a silk glove. “And I hope y’all tune in to my campaign with Miss Riri herself.”

She blew a kiss with both hands — nails long, glossy, cruel. “Muah. Muah. Bye y’all.”

And just like that, she stepped away. Hair bouncing. Heel clickin’. Phone blowing up.

Somewhere else, Joey was in a car watching that video get posted by @ fashionbombdaily, @ theshaderoom, and @ complex within minutes.

He replayed it. That laugh. That “he an artist or something?” That shrug???

“Oh, so we playing dumb now,” he muttered, half amused, half in emotional distress. “Bet.”

His boy in the back seat tried not to laugh. “Damn bro, she curved you in 4K and smiled doing it.”

Joey just stared at the screen, tongue in cheek, brain spiraling.

“Watch. I’ma make her remember me.”

Chapter Five: Bars & Bombshells

It started with a clip.

A moody black-and-white reel dropped to Joey’s page, captioned:

“Midnight Therapy 🎙️🖤”

He was in the studio — hoodie up, mic low, blunt lit, voice raspy like he'd been thinking too hard and sleeping too little.

The beat was hazy, heavy, laced with bass and heartbreak. Real headphones-in, hood-up, feelings down energy.

Then came the bars:

“She walk like her last name legend / Face like the Louvre and them hips straight from heaven / Said she don’t know me, that’s cute, I respect it / Still, I’d trade a Grammy for a text, no question.”

And the internet?? LOST IT.

@ rapalert: “JOEY BADASS DROPPING SUBLIMINALS ABOUT CHANEL AMARI?? 😳” @ theshaderoom: “Joey in his feelings?? Who’s the mystery muse in these bars?? 👀” @ itsontheblock: “This man out here rapping like he need prayer and a hug from Chanel.”

Everyone tagged her. Everyone waited. But Chanel?

Did. Not. Flinch.

Hours later, like she’d been letting the hype marinate, she logged in. Quiet. Calm. Deadly.

Three slides. No warning. No mercy.

@ chanelthemodel 7.4M followers. Posted to main.

Slide One: Her in a cheetah print thong and micro bralette, Timbs laced up like a threat, bent low to the side, hand resting on a live cheetah’s back. Her face calm. Cheekbones sharp enough to slice egos.

The whole pic felt like danger and beauty had a baby in Flatbush.

Slide Two: Sitting back on a silk-sheeted bed, grinning dead at the camera, arms behind her, full gold grill twinkling. Hair in big vintage rollers like she just walked out the salon and into a flex. A savage x fenty silk robe slipping down her shoulder, like it knew better than to get in the way.

Slide Three: Her back to the camera, legs slightly spread, infamous ‘I ♥️ NY’ shirt barely covering her upper half. Cheeks cheeking. Cheetah print peeking. Just enough. Never too much.

Like she was saying: Yeah. You see me. You always will.

Caption:

“it’s a Brooklyn thing 💋”

Within 5 minutes:

200k+ likes. Rihanna herself commented: “That’s my savage. 💋🐆” Doja reposted it with “INSANE ENERGY.” Joey? Quiet. His last tweet was two hours old and sad as hell:

“Y’all ever feel invisible to someone you can’t stop seeing?” 😔

Back in Chanel’s world? She was on set for her next campaign. Sipping something cold. Assistant refreshing her mentions. Her phone vibrated once.

Joey’s name on the screen. Unopened DM. Left unread.

She smirked. Took another photo. Posted it to her story.

Just a close-up of her grill with the cheetah in the background. No caption. Just tagged: @ savagefenty #BrooklynRoyalty

Chapter Six: Baby Mama? She Don’t Know That Man.

Joey hadn’t slept right in two days.

Not because he was tired. But because every time he closed his eyes, she was there — bent over in cheetah print, Timbs laced, hand on a wild animal like she trained it to act right.

He’d played his freestyle a hundred times, hoping maybe she’d repost. Like it. DM a laughing emoji. Breathe his name. Blink in his direction. Something. Anything.

But all he got was silence.

And then the universe really tested him.

He was scrolling through his feed, minding his business and lowkey stalking her tagged pics, when he saw it:

@ ShowtimeBoxing:

“Brooklyn meets Omaha 😤👊🏾 Chanel Amari Tate x @ terencecrawford in the new promo for #CrawfordVsOrtiz” 🎥🔥🔥🔥

Joey clicked. Immediately regretted it.

The video opened with Chanel in a cropped boxing hoodie, hair in space buns, Crawford’s signature gloves on her hands, nails still done. The gym was smoky, cinematic, gritty.

She giggled as Crawford showed her how to jab. Laughed LOUD when he made a joke about her "breaking hearts like ribs." Her voice? Bright. Pure Brooklyn. Her smile? Dangerous.

She threw a few cute swings, light on her feet, fake punches like she was play fighting.

Then — accidentally but not really — she caught him with a sharp lil uppercut. RIGHT under the chin.

Crawford stumbled back, blinked, then started laughing hard as hell.

“You been holdin’ out on me!” he shouted, rubbing his jaw.

Chanel looked shocked, then doubled over laughing, throwing her gloves off and covering her mouth.

“I told you I was heavy-handed! Don’t play with a Brooklyn girl!”

The video ended on her smiling, cheeks full, pushing Crawford’s shoulder like “don’t gas me up,” while he grinned like she was his new lucky charm.

Twitter? Exploded. #ChanelTheChamp #SheHitHimFrFr #BrooklynHands

@ espn: “Chanel Amari got hands?? 👀 Crawford better watch out.” @ joeybae4eva: “Joey somewhere crying in the booth rn.” @ fanficfever: “Somebody check on Joey Badass. He’s losing his girl to a whole champion boxer and she LAUGHIN.”

Joey saw it. And he SNAPPED. Not in anger — in pure delusion.

He went live at 1:26am, hoodie on, two gold chains out, red eyes, voice low like he was confessin’ to God and his fans.

“Y’all keep tryna clown me but that’s my lil shorty, man. She just playful. She got that laugh that fix your whole mood, you feel me?” “Mmm, mmm, mmm... Chanel Amari. Baby mama behavior fr. She just don’t know yet.”

He paused to sip his drink, stared dead into the camera, eyes glossy.

“Ain’t worried about no boxer. I’ll fight the whole card for her. She know where home is.” “Brooklyn born, Brooklyn raised — that’s my twin flame. We just in different chapters.”

Live ended after 9 minutes. Fans screen-recorded everything.

Chanel? Not even watching. She was asleep on a hotel bed with silk sheets, post-shoot glow, Fenty lip balm still on, and Crawford had sent her a DM that just said:

“If you wanna spar again, I’ll wear a helmet 😭🥊”

She laughed, put her phone on Do Not Disturb, and turned over.

Joey’s DM still? Unread. Message request status: pending.

Chapter Seven: Keep It Cute, I'm Busy

The venue was glowing. Soft lights, velvet seats, click-clacking heels, and a sea of fashion girls mixed with industry execs. It was the “Women Who Run the Culture” summit, and Chanel Amari Tate was on the center couch in a corseted Mugler piece, her hair in a sleek bun, heels sharp as her mouth.

She sat like she owned the stage — legs crossed, nails drumming lightly on the armrest, eyes alert but relaxed. She looked like a woman with ten checks clearing and not a single reason to stress.

The moderator, a well-meaning journalist who’d clearly been dying to ask this question since they sat down, leaned in mid-segment.

“Now Chanel… you’ve had the internet in a frenzy lately.” (Cue polite laughter from the audience.) “From the Savage x Fenty campaign, to the Crawford video — and let’s not forget rapper Joey Badass going live recently, calling you his, quote, ‘baby mama’.”

The room gave a lil “ooooooh”. Phones went up. Cameras zoomed in.

Chanel smiled sweetly. Paused just enough to let the suspense marinate. Then hit them with:

“Y’all keep letting men write fanfiction about me. It’s cute.”

Laughter. Gasps. Claps. A few screams.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even blink. She just kept her eyes soft and her voice smooth, like she hadn’t just cooked that man publicly on a mic.

Then — as if she hadn’t just ended someone’s night — she turned the moment on its head with pure precision:

“But don’t forget to stay tuned in. I’ll be in your boy K.Dot’s next music video.” “Directed by Hiro Murai. Full concept piece. All Black cast. Real art.”

Boom. Boom. BOOM.

Mic drop without dropping the mic.

The audience gasped again because suddenly, the conversation had shifted. She wasn’t someone’s maybe-kinda-crush. She was about to star in Kendrick Lamar’s next visual piece.

By the time she left the stage:

#ChanelAmari was trending AGAIN.

@ voguemagazine posted: "A masterclass in poise, power, and presence."

Kendrick’s label had already soft-launched her casting with a shadowy teaser on IG stories: “Starring @ chanelthemodel. Coming soon. 🎬”

And Joey? Joey was watching the clip from a studio in downtown Brooklyn with his forehead on the desk like:

“Did she just call me Wattpad?”

His boy in the back tried to console him with, “Technically… fanfiction is a love language, bro.”

Chapter Eight: G.N.X. (Girls Not Xpected)

The video opened like an old VHS tape.

Grainy footage. A static flicker. A New York train roaring through a tunnel. Then a hard cut to Compton streets at golden hour, Kendrick in a wife beater, blunt in his hand, watching the world move slow.

His verse started low — almost spoken — and the camera panned to her.

Chanel.

East Coast. Untouchable. In full 90s video vixen regalia:

Red mesh two-piece that hit different in the Cali sun.

G-string peeking up like it signed a contract.

Gold doorknocker earrings that said “AMARI” in the middle.

Long, coffin nails that tapped on a cherry-red lowrider hood like "hurry up, I got places to be."

She was chewing gum and applying lip liner like it was a ritual. No smile. Just vibes. Full pressure.

🎶 “GNX / I like my women loud, sharp, and heavy on the neck flex /” 🎶 “She don’t need my name, just the check / but I’m still posted up, tryna earn her respect.”

She walked through a bodega set wearing a cropped Yankees jersey tied up, a bamboo anklet, and a mean walk. One of those “my heels loud enough to make your boy shut up” kinda struts.

She leaned in slow against Kendrick’s shoulder by a mural wall. Didn’t kiss him. Didn’t touch. Just looked at the camera like, “This my city, no matter where we shoot.”

Fans were already feral before the premiere even finished:

@ rapnerdsunite:

“Chanel in Kendrick’s ‘GNX’ just out-vixen’d every 90s visual you ever loved. Y’all not ready for her biopic.”

@ femmetheory:

“East Coast presence in West Coast aesthetics?? Chanel is the physical embodiment of duality. Kendrick knew exactly what he was doing.”

@ joey_cant_breathe:

“Joey really said ‘baby mama’ and now she in a Pulitzer winner’s music video looking like the national anthem. RIP bro.”

And Joey? Watching in a dimly lit room, blunt burning out, thumb hovering over her story.

He was sick. Not even “sad,” just spiraling in that “how did I fumble her when I never even touched her” kinda pain.

He tweeted — then deleted — within two minutes:

“She ain’t mine, but she was made for me. I stand by that.”

Then posted a black screen to his story with “G.N.X. hit different.”

Then dipped off the internet completely.

Meanwhile, Chanel? Posted a screenshot of the YouTube thumbnail to her IG with a caption:

“Brooklyn girls do it better — even in LA. 💄💋 #GNX #VixenEnergy” 🎥: @ hiromurai 👑: @ kendricklamar 💃🏽: @ chanelthemodel

[tilbageidanmark]

MOVIES I WATCHED THIS WEEK # 229:

"Goodu Luck!"

I've seen all of Miyazaki's movies multiple times, and SPIRITED AWAY had always been my favorite. It's the Mount Rushmore of Japanese animation, a modern Odyssey for children, The Alice of Wonderland of the Spirits, an endless fountain of inventiveness and beauty. Isn't its main theme that of transformation? How a frightened, ordinary 10 year old girl is thrust into scary adventures, and in the process becomes a resourceful heroine, while everything around her changes too. Poor Chihiro! The set up opening with her and her family driving into their new town is so captivating. 10/10 - One of the best movies of all time. Re-watch♻️.

The superb imagery was unsurpassed. I don't watch sequels, but I could envision another world, where ol' man Miyazaki is using Artificial Intelligence to create 'Spirited Away 2'.

My comment on r/moviedetails from 5 years ago about Miyazaki's usage of the concept of 'Ma' was one of my most popular posts on Reddit.

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More from 2001:

8,984 films were released in 2001. On Letterboxd, 'Spirited Away' was rated second-highest for the year with 4.45/5.00.

The eerie DISINTEGRATION LOOP 1.1. was the 9th highest film there, with 4.21/5.00. This hour-long powerful recording was filmed by avant-garde composer william Basinski on the evening of September 11, from his roof in Williamsburg Brooklyn. It consists of a single, static shot of the black smoke billowing over Manhattan, and is set to a decaying tape loop of an ambient sound project that Basinski finished editing just that morning. Dust to dust.

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First watch: Orson Welles 1947 confusing Noir THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI. An excuse to show off his then-wife Rita Hayworth, the impossibly glamorous femme fatale Elsa Bannister. Lucky him.

The film was chopped and brutally edited by the studio after completion, so much of Welles ambitious visions made what's left of the convoluted plot incomprehensible. The Boy Wonder was a theatrical genius, a misunderstood highbrow "Artisté" who created stylish masterpieces at a young age. But here he wrote himself as a wannabe Hemingway, a tragic anti-hero with an atrocious fake Irish accent, that was irritating to listen to. I'm sure that had he lived today, he would be an insufferable pompous ass who thinks very highly of himself. He would probably use a pretentious third-person voice-over in telling the incredible story of his life - just like in here.

Many of the visuals and especially the Hall of Mirror ending at the Funhouse were very cool though.

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"Korbyn was buried in the early afternoon."

RaMell Ross directed one of 2024 best movies 'Nickel Boys'. Also 'Easter Snap' about hog butchering. His first film, the only other one he made, HALE COUNTY THIS MORNING, THIS EVENING (2018) was also nominated for an Oscar. It too takes place at a similar community in Alabama's Black Belt, rural, poor, backward county, but full of people with dreams on their mind. A moving non-fiction work, with impressionist details and meditative style. (Screenshot Above).

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STÉPHANE AUDRAN X 2:

🍿 “Cognac?…”

THE THIRD LOVER, my 14th love triangle noir by Claude Chabrol. An early (1962) modern interpretation of Othello: A young, mediocre writer, a Tom Ripley-type, befriends a successful German couple, and in jealousy decides to destroy their happy life. It is told with an irritating voice-over by the un-charismatic actor. With one unusual Oktoberfest scene.

🍿 PRESENTATION, OR CHARLOTTE AND HER STEAK (1951) is a curious early New Wave short by Éric Rohmer. Unrecognizably young Jean-Luc Godard plays a young man, and Stéphane Audran in her very first film credit voices the young woman who cooks the steak. 1/10.

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DOCUMENTEUR: AN EMOTION PICTURE, my 22nd film by Agnès Varda. It's a companion piece to her other Los Angeles feature from the same year, 'Mur Murs', and one of my least engaging of her experimental works. A single mom is trying to put her life together again after separating from the French man whom she followed to America. Together with her 8 year old boy (played by Mathieu Demy, Varda's own son) she's drifting in pre-gentrified Venice, among the poor working class Latinos who used to still live there in 1981. [*Female Director*]

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SALT FOR SVENATIA (1930), my third soviet-propaganda film by Bolshevik Mikhail Kalatozov [After 'I am Cuba' and 'The Cranes are flying']. A (pseudo-)ethnographic study of a remote community which barely exists in isolation in the Georgian Caucasus. A backward country and poor, unfortunate people. I saw it on recommendation from HootsMcguire.

(The Scottish klezmer band Moishe's Bagel plays a theme song from the film.)

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"Fuck my tits! That's fire!"

Because I've watched so very little television in my life, the showbiz comedy 'The Studio' is one of the funniest TV-series I've ever seen. It's also the first time since that 70's where I saw each episode separately and had to wait a whole week for the next one.

THE STUDIO, EP. 10, "THE PRESENTATION" wraps up the Season 1 in perfect hilarity. 82-yo Bryan Cranston is terrific, and so is everybody else. For its constant barrage of insider references about the movie business, it's as insightful as 'The Player' and even 'Sunset Blvd.'. 10/10 for the whole series! I think that this Seth Rogan has a promising future in Hollywood.

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4 DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS:

🍿 "But... For the children!..."

1988 was a good year for some comedies classics: Midnight Run, The naked gun, Big top Pee-Wee, Who framed Roger Rabbit?, A fish called Wanda. And then, there was DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS. It would have been interesting with Mick Jagger and David Bowie as originally intended, but it was perfect with odd couple Michael Caine and Steve Martin. "It is better to be truthful and good… than to not." And Beaulieu-sur-Mer looks peachy. Re-watch♻️.

🍿 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels' was a faithful remake - in big parts, verbatim - of the 1964 BEDTIME STORY. But, and I don't know how to say it diplomatically, smarmy Marlon Brando couldn't hold a candle to Steve Martin's comedic Ruprecht, and Michael Caine's charmed sophistication seems to come more naturally than David Niven's. This Freddy Benson swindles women just for sex, and the money he extracted from them was secondary. Also, Janet Colgate's final end-twist was replaced with a wedding (?). 2/10.

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So every time I recommend my all-time favorite rom-com PALM SPRINGS to somebody, I have to watch it again [to make sure it's still perfect], and it is. 10/10 for the Nth time.

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2 MORE WITH BRITISH AMIT SHAH:

🍿 I only watched THE INFIDEL (2010) because of its potentially-original, semi-controversial concept: A Muslim taxi-driver in London discovers that he was adopted as a baby and that his birth parents were Jewish. But the bigoted director was awful, and the ethnic comedy had definitely zero laughs in it. ⬇️ Could Not Finish. ⬇️

🍿 MY FIRST DICK (2022). Two actresses talk and act as if they are 11 yo, and they want to see their first picture of a penis. Terrible. 1/10. [*Female Director*]

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"You're going to get chara on your trousers..."

A similar comedy that is just a tad more palatable [at least I finished it], Sacha Baron Cohen’s 2012 THE DICTATOR. I saw it only because of this prophetic clip, a love letter to all Dear Leaders everywhere, but the rest of the movie was garbage. Dedicated "in loving memory" to Kim Jong Il, it's a cliche-filled parody of Middle Eastern strongmen, Gaddafi, Saddam, the current Kim, and is blatantly incorrect politically about everything Arab. So there are goats, golden Range Rovers, antisemitism, female bodyguards with enormous chests, rape jokes. It has Fred Armisen and Chris Parnell, so it's on 'that' level of humor. 2/10.

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THE SHORTS:

🍿 THE COLORLESS MAN, a new A.I.-assisted 13 minute short, that was created by Yemeni biologist Hashem Al-Ghaili. Took 2 weeks part-time to complete at the cost of $600. A step by step guide on r/ChatGTP. Some of these projects will become indistinguishable from "real" movies before the end of the year!

🍿 HAPPY AND GLORIOUS is an excellent action clip starring Daniel Craig and Queen Elizabeth herself, which was made by Danny Boyle for the 2012 Summer Olympic Games in London. Lots of operatic Handel fanfare to accompany the patriotic sentiment.

I don't care for any sports, and never followed the news of the day, so I wasn't even aware of the games. But Boyle directed the spectacular 4-hour ceremony, which apparently was very-well received. There were other terrific segments: MR. BEAN performing the 'Chariots of fire' theme with the orchestra, ERIC IDLE singing 'Always look at the bright side', and Paul McCartney closing with HEY JUDE.

🍿 Robert Altman's 1964 POT AU FEU is basically just a montage of many people smoking weed, with a lovely score of French chansons.

🍿 THE BED was made by counterculture poet James Broughton, a member of the 'San Francisco Renaissance', in 1967. It's is an experimental hippy trip showing a bunch of naked people frolic on a bed in a meadow. 2/10.

🍿 PEANUTS IN SPACE: SECRETS OF APOLLO 10 (2019) is a mock-documentary by Morgan Neville, celebrating the 50 anniversary of the moon landing. Jeff Goldblum and Ron Howard play-act the conspiracy theory of Snoopy on board.

🍿 Spike Jonze created some visual magic through the years, but mostly he's a prostitute for music videos and consumer brands that pay him top dollars. SOMEDAY is a new 5-min. ad with Pedro Pascal shilling for Apple AirPods with Active Noise Cancellation. Reminiscent of the old Sony Bravia color television commercials from 20 years ago. Not too bad.

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(ALL MY FILM REVIEWS - HERE).