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seiwas · 6 months

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) 🥺 + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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hoshifighting · 1 month

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hoshi as a sugar baby!

— WARNINGS: sugar mommy x sugar baby relationship, smut, teasing, sponsor!reader,dancer!soonyoung, multiples orgasms, soonyoung is a freak in bed, dancer's hips. — (Seventeen as Sugar Baby's Series)

you were used to being the one who controlled the room, the one who made heads turn for all the right reasons. you weren’t used to showing up in a place where your designer scarpans echoed against the hard floors of a dance studio, surrounded by people in scuffed sneakers and well-worn sweats. it was almost laughable, the stark contrast between you and them, but you held your head high, owning every step as if the place belonged to you.

you were there for business, checking on one of the many studios you sponsored. it was supposed to be a quick visit, a formality, but then you saw him—soonyoung. the way he carried himself, all confident swagger as he walked in with his dance partners, sweat still glistening on his skin from what you could only assume was a performance. he was the kind of hot that made you stop and stare, like the kind of guy you'd see on a billboard in nothing but designer underwear.

but when your eyes met his, something unexpected happened—his face flushed a bright pink. you hadn’t even done anything yet, just looked at him, but suddenly the cocky dancer couldn’t stop stuttering.

“h-hi,” he managed to choke out, his voice cracking just a bit as his friends shot him amused glances.

you raised an eyebrow, trying to hide the smirk threatening to tug at the corners of your lips. “hi.”

he opened his mouth, then closed it, looking for all the world like a fish out of water. you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to figure out what to say. his friends, probably tired of watching him flounder, gave him a shove.

“soonyoung, just ask her already,” one of them hissed, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.

“ask me what?” you prompted, leaning in just enough to make him squirm. you were enjoying this more than you should.

“uh, i was just, um… me and my friends were gonna grab some food at this, uh, street food bar… you wanna come?” he blurted out, his voice rushing the words together in his nervousness.

his friends all cringed, one even elbowing him and whispering something about you being the sponsor. so yeah, a street food bar didn’t fit you, apparently.

but you didn’t mind. in fact, you were impressed that he’d asked at all, considering how out of place you looked in your crisp white shirt and perfectly styled hair.

“sure,” you said, surprising yourself as much as him. “why not?”

the stunned silence that followed was almost comical, but soon enough, you found yourself following soonyoung and his group to a small, bustling street food bar. it was the kind of place you’d never have set foot in on your own, but there was something endearing about how nervous soonyoung was as he tried to make conversation with you, all while sneaking worried glances at your hair.

“you don’t have to worry, you know,” you teased as he glanced at you again, clearly concerned about the smell of frying pork wafting through the air. “i’m not going to bite your head off if my hair smells like food.”

his eyes widened, and he quickly looked away, his ears burning red. “i just… i didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“why not?” you asked, genuinely curious.

he shrugged, poking at his food with a pair of chopsticks. “you just seem… i don’t know… out of my league.”

you tilted your head, studying him for a moment before smiling. “maybe i am, but that doesn’t mean i can’t enjoy some fried pork with you.”

his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for the first time, you saw a spark of the confidence he’d had when he first walked into the studio. “well, i’m glad you did.”

and just like that, the tension melted away. soonyoung was still a little nervous, still stealing glances at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were there, but the conversation flowed easier, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in a while.

you could tell he was trying to impress you in his own way, showing off a bit as he talked about dancing, about his aspirations, about how much the studio meant to him. and as the night went on, you realized that maybe you’d underestimated him. sure, he was a little awkward, a little rough around the edges, but there was a charm to him that you couldn’t ignore.

by the time you left the bar, your hair did smell faintly of fried pork, but you didn’t mind. if anything, it was a reminder of a night that had turned out to be far more enjoyable than you’d expected.

“thanks for coming with me,” soonyoung said as you walked back to your car, his voice more confident now.

“thank you for asking,” you replied, turning to him with a smile. “maybe next time, we can go somewhere a little more… upscale.”

his eyes lit up at the suggestion, and he nodded eagerly. “i’d like that.”

the relationship with soonyoung progressed in the most unexpected way. from that awkward street food date to trips in first class, dinners at exclusive restaurants, and gifts that had him questioning your sanity. you loved watching his reactions—how his eyes would widen in disbelief, how his voice would go high-pitched when he realized just how much you were spending on him.

like the time you handed him a box containing a pair of sneakers. he had no idea what brand they were—some obscure, ultra-luxury label that you’d stumbled upon while shopping in milan. you’d seen the way his face lit up when he talked about sneakers, so you thought you’d indulge him a little.

“babe, you shouldn’t have,” he’d said, grinning as he pulled the shoes out of the box, not even realizing just how much they were worth.

“trust me, you’ll love them,” you’d replied with a smirk, already knowing what was coming.

it wasn’t until later that night, when you were in the middle of a meeting, that your phone rang. seeing soonyoung’s name on the screen, you excused yourself, expecting some casual conversation. instead, you were greeted by his panicked voice.

“are you out of your mind?!”

you blinked, trying to stifle a laugh. “excuse me?”

“those sneakers,” he continued, his voice almost a shriek. “do you know how much they cost? that’s more than my rent!”

that did it. you couldn’t hold back the laugh that bubbled up, loud enough to make your secretary peek into your office with a raised eyebrow. you waved her off, trying to compose yourself as you brought the phone back to your ear.

“soonyoung, it’s fine. just enjoy them,” you said, still chuckling.

“enjoy them? i’m afraid to even wear them! what if i step in something? i could buy a car with that money!”

“then don’t step in anything,” you teased, biting your lip to keep from laughing again.

“you’re impossible,” he huffed, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “seriously, though… thank you. but you don’t have to keep buying me stuff like this. just… be with me.”

that last part made you pause, your heart doing a little flip. it was easy to get caught up in the luxury, in the thrill of spoiling him, but moments like this reminded you why you’d started this in the first place. it wasn’t just about the gifts or the trips. it was about him. about how he made you feel grounded, even as you floated in a world of privilege.

“you know,” you began, your tone softer now, “i like spoiling you. it makes me happy to see you happy.”

“i am happy,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. “but i don’t need all this to be happy. just… don’t stop being with me, okay?”

your breath caught in your throat, the sincerity in his words wrapping around your heart. “i won’t. i promise.”

from then on, the dynamic between you shifted. sure, there were still the extravagant gifts, the luxurious vacations, and the fine dining. but there was also more—quiet moments together, like when he’d sneak into your office just to bring you coffee, or when you’d spend a lazy sunday in bed, doing nothing but enjoying each other’s company. and yes, there were still the moments where you’d surprise him with something ridiculous, just to see that wide-eyed look on his face. like the time you flew him to paris on a whim, just because he mentioned wanting to see the eiffel tower at night.

“you’re really spoiling me,” he’d whispered, standing with you on the observation deck, the lights of the city sparkling below.

“maybe i am,” you replied, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around your waist. “but that’s because you deserve it.”

but beneath his playful frustration, you could tell that he loved it—the gifts, the attention, the way you seemed to know exactly how to keep him on his toes. and the more you spoiled him, the more he let his guard down, slipping into the role of your sugar baby with a comfort that had once seemed impossible.

every time you saw him, he was wearing something you’d bought him. the designer clothes, the luxury watches, the sneakers that were apparently worth more than his rent—it all became a part of him, an extension of the way you showered him with everything he didn’t even know he wanted.

soonyoung was a fucking beast in bed—there’s no other way to put it. you’d never met anyone who could break down your walls the way he did, turning every ounce of your composed, CEO exterior into a puddle of raw, desperate need. you’d been with your share of men, playboys who thought they could handle you, but none of them came close to what soonyoung gave you.

like that time you were waiting for your chauffeur after a charity gala. you were the picture of elegance, standing there in your custom gown, looking every bit the composed CEO. then, out of nowhere, soonyoung slid up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pressed his body against yours. you could feel his cock—hard, ready, insistent, and shamelessly grinding against your ass. his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “can’t wait to fuck you in that dress.”

“you’re really something, you know that?”

“oh? what’s that supposed to mean?” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. you felt him shift, pressing his hips forward just enough for you to feel the unmistakable hardness against your ass again.

you nearly choked on your own breath, your perfectly poised exterior cracking just a little. “not here.”

“why not? they’re all staring at you anyway,” he teased. “might as well give them something worth watching.”

“soonyoung,” you warned, but your voice lacked conviction, and you both knew it.

he loved to fuck with your composure, to see you struggle to maintain that icy exterior you were known for. like when you were paying for one of his outrageous gifts, handing over your black card with a smirk. he’d sidle up behind you, pressing his hard cock against you while murmuring a quiet “thank you” into your ear. the people behind you in line? didn’t matter. all that mattered was the way your body reacted, the way your brain short-circuited every damn time.

and when it came to sex, soonyoung didn’t just make love to you—he fucked you like he had something to prove. his dancer’s hips were a lethal weapon, rolling and grinding into you with a precision that had you seeing stars. he knew exactly how to move, how to hit that spot inside you that turned you into a moaning, trembling mess.

he held your legs wide apart, his hips driving into you with a rhythm that made you want to scream. and you did—because with soonyoung, you didn’t hold back. he wouldn’t let you.

he had this thing about numbers, too. every gift you bought him, every splurge on something ridiculously extravagant, he saw it as a challenge. like that time in dubai, when you’d gone on a shopping spree, loading up on ten full bags of presents just to see how far he’d take it. each swipe of your card was met with a smirk, anticipation building as you mentally tallied up the orgasms you knew he’d demand in return.

that night, he didn’t just match it—he exceeded it. 10. fucking. times. he had you screaming his name.

he took his time that night, dragging out every orgasm until you were on the verge of begging him to stop. but you didn’t—you couldn’t.

by the time he was done, you were spent, your body trembling, muscles sore from the intensity of it all. you’d never felt so used, so thoroughly fucked, and yet… you couldn’t get enough. not of him, not of the way he took you apart and put you back together, over and over.

by the time he was done, you were a wreck—sore, trembling, and utterly spent. the heat of dubai didn’t help, making everything feel more intense, more suffocating, even with the air conditioning blasting.

you had to take a rest day after that, your body too worn out from the marathon of pleasure soonyoung had put you through. but god, it was worth it. every ache, every sore muscle, was a reminder of just how good he was. and just how much he had you wrapped around his finger.

soonyoung had no manners in bed, and with him, you learned to have none too.

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mountainficss · 1 month

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Which svt members do you think would most likely to have a praise kink? I think Josh would be definitely on the list 😫

praise kink

!! mentions of: unprotected sex, oral sex, handjobs, scratching

ooo i like this question it’s such a good one! it made me think for a bit. i think quite a few of them would have praise kinks honestly. it just seems so fitting for a good handful of the members (and by handful i mean almost half).

and yes, i do think joshua would have a praise kink! i feel like sweet joshie would be so sheepish when you give him compliments in public, a gentle smile adorning his face each time you complimented him. he might even seem a bit bashful, maybe even reluctant to have all the attention on him. but oh it’s all just an act. in bed, his bashfulness would be nonexistent when his head is between your thighs, pressing light kisses against your inner thigh teasingly. he’d touch you and feel you up with absolutely no shame, just taking in your cute reactions. you’d be shocked at the stark contrast between his behavior in public vs. private. you were so used to observing him being so modest, even shy when you praised him in public. now joshua would be a completely different person, and any praise from you would just encourage him to pleasure you more. “please, shua! want your tongue…you’re s-so good with it! feels too good…” you’d babble, a desperate attempt to get him to fuck you like you want him to. he might act like a little shit, teasing you for a bit longer just so you beg for him, but he wouldn’t be able to resist you for long. joshua would simply take the bait if you continuously praise him, thriving on your whines alone. “i’ll give it to you. just keep telling me how much you love my tongue. i like hearing you say it.”

i felt the need to put wonwoo in this post too! i have some (partial) backup for this as well :) when asked if they’d rather have a subordinate who tries too hard to flatter or a subordinate who only talks about work, wonwoo picked the subordinate who flatters! he said that he wouldn’t hate being complimented constantly and that he “likes being flattered” (from ep. 49 of going seventeen at approx. 29:59 <3). knowing this, i felt like i should include sweet wonwoo <3 he’s so very quiet and shy, but he’d melt internally at any praise you give him. he’s such a secret softie. outside of the bedroom he’d respond to your compliments with a soft smile and a timid “thank you.” in the bedroom he wouldn’t be able to take them though, having to literally take a deep breath so he doesn’t accidentally cum on command. any words from you just get him riled up, especially praise. “you’re so fucking perfect wonwoo,” you’d mumble in his ear as you thread your fingers through his hair. you’d wrap your legs tighter around his waist while he buries his head into your neck, letting out a pathetic whimper. you’d feel his hips stutter against yours, and you’d clench around him just to make things worse. “always fuck me so good, pretty boy,” you’d smile, pressing a hot kiss against the shell of his ear. he’d moan quietly, feeling his cock throb angrily inside you. he wouldn’t want to cum so soon, but your praises just did that to him :(

believe it or not, i also think woozi belongs on this list <3 jihoon is a bit prickly, he seems really finicky when it comes to affection. he’d act so nonchalant when you compliment or praise him in any way. he’d pretend like your words didn’t affect him, but his face would be flushed a cute pink every time you so much as smiled at him. would love to bring you along to the studio just so you could be there, and you’d watch him work diligently at his computer doing whatever producers do <3 and oh you would admire him. you’d think he’s the most talented and attractive person you’ve ever seen when he’s in his element. you’d have no problem telling him this either, and in return you’d get a cute flustered jihoon. he might try to downplay his skills at times, brushing your praise off out of shyness. “it’s nothing much,” he’d mumble, flushed cheeks illuminated by his computer screen. “just doing my job.” his reserved nature would almost completely evaporate when you’re riding him though, letting out quiet moans as you use him for your pleasure. “a-am i doing good? tell—please tell me i’m g-good,” he’d plead between pants, and the desperation in his voice would make you coo. “always so good for me, jihoonie,” you’d sigh, cupping his face gently as he leans into your touch. “taking me so well. you were made for me.” he’d just whine and nod in mindless agreement, his hips bucking up and helping you reach your climax </3

seokmin was another obvious choice for me too. it seemed to fit his personality. he’s just such a happy and kind individual, and i think he’d probably be the one to enjoy compliments and praise the most. i feel like he’d yearn for it, and any sweet words from anyone would just make his stomach twist in excitement and happiness. he’d definitely value praise from you the most though. you’d constantly tell him how handsome he is, and every time you tell him he’d just beam at you. and every time you say something sweet to him or praise him, he’s doing it right back to you! he’d make it almost like a little competition. as soon as you call him handsome, he’s grinning like a lovesick fool and trapping you in the biggest hug ever. “thank you. but you’re absolutely gorgeous today. and always.” he’d respond cutely. you’d find him adorable wanting to match you with praise, making you feel loved inside and out. and it would be so fun to worship him in bed. just having him lay there, long limbs sprawled out on the mattress while you feel him up would be a dream. running your hands over his smooth skin and lightly stroking his throbbing length. he’d be so sensitive, moaning at any slight touch to his body. “so handsome, seokminnie,” you’d smile at him from above, gazing lovingly down at him. his eyes would roll back at your words, struggling to respond with a compliment for you like he always does. “let me take care of you, minnie. you’re doing so good for me.” he’d just nod breathlessly, letting you praise him and touch him all you want.

and finally, i am a firm believer that jun is a switch with a praise kink :) i feel like he’d looove the compliments you give him, the prettiest smile adorning his face when you even slightly praise him. any little thing you’d compliment him on he’d be so smiley. you’d compliment him when he wears a stylish outfit, telling him how good he looks and trailing your eyes all across his body. you’d compliment him when he makes a delicious meal for the two of you to share, giving him the most support and praise on the new recipe he tried out for you. and you’d definitely compliment him when he’s fucking you so well, raking your nails down his back as he pounds into you. he’d feel so jittery when he felt his skin on yours, so eager when he’s buried inside of your clenching heat. any moment with you he cherished greatly, so your sweet words would mean the most to him. “ah—junnie,” you’d whine at him, your face pressed against the curve of his neck and kissing the skin messily. “feel so full. love how you f-fill me up. want you to fuck me every night,” you’d ramble, receiving a muffled groan from him. he’d slow down his pace, your lewd words almost tipping him over the edge. he would never even consider finishing before you, and he’d do his best to ignore the desperate need for release. “you know you’re mine, r-right? my junnie that fucks me so good. ‘m addicted to you, baby,” you’d whisper in his ear, enjoying the way he moans your name and grips your body tighter <3

taglist: @jeonghanpill , @bangantokchy , @caratboy , @bewoyewo , @luvseungcheol , @wonvsmile , @haolovre , @aaniag , @writingbarnes , @dokyeomkyeom , @allieyaaa

#thoughts #seventeen smut #seventeen #smut #svt smut #sub!idol #svt #wen junhui #junhui smut #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo smut #lee seokmin #seokmin smut #lee jihoon #jihoon smut #hong jisoo #joshua hong smut #hong jisoo smut #mountainficss

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gyuuberryy · 1 day

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a love affair in colour

pairing: art tutor!jay x princess!reader

synopsis: as a princess exploring her artistic passions, you’re drawn to jay, your mesmerising art teacher whose lessons stir more than just creativity. what begins as a quest to master your craft quickly becomes a whirlwind of tension and forbidden desire. with every brushstroke and shared moment, the line between teacher and lover blurs. but when societal barriers and personal doubts threaten your connection, will you both find a way to embrace a future together, or will your love remain a beautiful but fleeting masterpiece?

genre: strangers to lovers, forbidden relationship, comfort

warnings: kissing, lots of tension, mentions of status difference, angst, a little suggestive

note: i used my experience in art to detail all the content related to it so bear with me if it seems a little modern, i don't know much about how they did art in the olden times. also jay just constantly raises my standards??? i love that man so much he's so husband material it hurts TT enjoy reading!

word count : 11.1k

royally yours masterlist | prev:heeseung | next: jake

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

you’ve always been drawn to art. as a child, while other princesses were learning courtly etiquette or practising diplomacy, you were sneaking into the gardens to sketch the trees or hiding in your chambers, fingers stained with ink as you copied paintings from the castle’s grand halls. but those were mere indulgences, fleeting escapes from the rigid structure of royal life.

when your parents noticed your growing talent, they encouraged it—as a hobby, of course. something to amuse yourself with between diplomatic meetings, public appearances, and the pressures of royal expectations. but for you, art was never just a pastime. it was a passion. an escape. a way to express the parts of you that didn’t fit into the carefully curated image of a princess.

so, when you told your parents you wanted to pursue art seriously, it was met with initial resistance. a princess has duties, obligations, responsibilities. but you persisted, and eventually, they relented. if you were going to study art, they wanted the best for you. that’s how jay came to the palace—an accomplished artist in his own right, though he came from modest beginnings. he was hired to help you master the craft before your trip to paris, where you’d study under the finest artists in the world.

jay’s reputation preceded him. he was known not only for his skill but for his ability to bring out the best in his students. when he arrived at the palace, you were both eager and nervous, unsure of what to expect.

your first meeting was in the grand studio, a room that had once been your sanctuary. now, as you stand by the window, gazing out over the palace grounds, you feel the weight of what’s to come. you’re no longer a novice; this isn’t just a casual hobby. this is the beginning of something serious, something real. and the thought of it is both exhilarating and terrifying.

the door creaks open behind you, and you turn to see him—jay. he’s younger than you expected, though older than you by a few years. his clothes are simple, a stark contrast to the luxury of your surroundings, yet he wears them with a quiet confidence. his dark hair is tousled, as though he’s just come from a long day at work, and there’s a certain intensity in his eyes, a focus that makes your stomach flip.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low.

“please, just my name,” you say quickly, hoping to dispel some of the formality that hangs between you. “if we’re to work together, there’s no need for titles.”

he straightens, and for a moment, you think you see a flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his expression, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “very well,” he says simply. “shall we begin?”

you nod, feeling a mix of anticipation and nerves as you lead him to the easel set up near the window. it’s been prepared for your first lesson, a blank canvas stretched taut, waiting for the first stroke of charcoal or paint. you’ve done this before, hundreds of times, but never under the watchful eye of a teacher like jay.

“before we begin,” he says, setting his bag down on the table, “tell me why you want to do this. not because you have to—because you want to.”

his question catches you off guard. you’d expected him to dive straight into the technical aspects of drawing or painting, not to ask about your motivations. but there’s a seriousness in his tone that tells you he’s not just asking out of curiosity. he wants to understand. he wants to know you.

“i’ve always loved art,” you admit, folding your hands in front of you, feeling a little exposed. “it’s the one thing that’s mine. in a world where so much is decided for me, art is where i get to choose. it’s... freedom.”

jay nods slowly, as if weighing your words. “art is freedom,” he agrees quietly. “it’s expression. it’s telling the world who you are without saying a word. but it’s also discipline. and commitment. if you’re serious about this, i’ll push you. i’ll make sure you’re challenged. does that sound like something you’re ready for?”

your heart beats faster. his intensity is palpable, and it’s hard not to be swept up in it. “yes,” you say, though the word comes out softer than you intended. “i’m ready.”

he regards you for a moment longer, then reaches into his bag, pulling out a small sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. “we’ll start with something simple,” he says, handing you the charcoal. “i want you to draw me.”

you blink, surprised. “draw you?”

“it’s a good exercise,” he explains, moving to stand a little distance away. “if you can capture the essence of a person, you can draw anything.”

your fingers tighten around the charcoal as you sit at the easel, facing him. it feels strange, having him as the subject. his features are sharp, defined, but there’s something else—an intensity in his gaze that makes it hard to concentrate. you take a deep breath and begin to sketch, the sound of the charcoal scratching against the canvas the only sound in the room.

it’s not easy. his face is a study in contrasts—strong jawline, soft eyes, dark brows furrowed in concentration as he watches you work. you find yourself getting lost in the details, trying to capture the exact curve of his lips, the shadow beneath his cheekbone. but the more you focus, the more elusive it becomes.

“you’re overthinking it,” jay says suddenly, breaking the silence. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, though he doesn’t touch you. “you’re focusing on the parts, not the whole. step back. see the bigger picture.”

you try to follow his advice, but his presence behind you is distracting, and the scent of him—earthy, with a hint of something fresh—fills your senses. your heart beats faster, though you try to ignore it.

jay steps closer, his breath warm against your ear. “here,” he says softly, reaching out to guide your hand. his fingers brush yours, sending a jolt through your body, and you almost drop the charcoal. “loosen your grip. let the lines flow.”

you do as he says, though your heart races at his nearness. his hand lingers over yours for a moment too long before he pulls away, but the connection between you doesn’t fade. the air feels charged, as if something unsaid hangs between you.

when you finish the sketch, it’s rough, imperfect, but there’s something there—a spark of life, of emotion. jay leans over your shoulder to examine it, his expression unreadable.

“better,” he says after a moment, his voice low and approving. “you’ve captured something real here.”

you look at the drawing again, trying to see what he sees, but all you can think about is the way his hand felt over yours, the way his voice seemed to wrap around you like a secret.

as he moves to gather his things, you realise that this is just the beginning. the first lesson. but already, something has shifted between you. something neither of you can name yet, but it’s there—in the shared glances, the lingering touches, the unspoken connection.

and as jay turns to leave, promising to return for your next lesson, you can’t help but wonder if this is really just about art—or if something far more dangerous has already begun.

the days following your first lesson with jay felt like a strange new rhythm. art had always been a deeply personal escape for you, something that existed in the quiet moments between royal duties, but now it had become something more. each session with jay stirred something inside you—not just the desire to improve, but a spark of something you couldn't quite name.

jay had been nothing but professional, his focus always on your craft. but beneath his calm demeanour, there was an undercurrent, a kind of intensity in the way he looked at you during your lessons. it was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there, like the brushstrokes of a painting hidden beneath layers of paint.

today, as you enter the studio, you feel it more than ever. the room is bathed in soft light, the kind of glow that makes everything seem warmer, softer. jay is already there, setting up supplies on the table, his back to you. you watch him for a moment, your eyes tracing the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his hands move with such precision and care.

“good morning,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice comes out softer than you intended, the room swallowing the sound.

he turns, a brief smile crossing his face. “good morning.” there’s a hint of warmth in his tone, but as always, it’s controlled, measured. jay has never been one to show too much emotion, though lately, you’ve caught glimpses of something more.

“i thought we’d try something different today,” he says, gesturing to the large canvas in the corner of the room. “i want to work on your observation skills.”

you nod, intrigued. “what do you have in mind?”

instead of answering immediately, jay picks up a chair and places it in the centre of the room, angled toward the sunlight. he then takes his sketchbook and charcoal, positioning himself in front of the chair but far enough away that there’s space between you.

“i want you to sit,” he says simply, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before flickering away. “i’m going to sketch you.”

the request catches you off guard. “me? but... shouldn’t i be the one practising sketching?”

he smiles faintly, shaking his head. “today, i want you to feel what it’s like to be the subject. to understand how the artist sees you.” he glances at the canvas, and then back at you. “it’ll help you observe the world around you with more empathy, more connection.”

the thought of jay watching you, studying you so closely, makes your heart race. you’ve always been behind the canvas, never in front of it. to have his eyes on you, not just in passing but with the intention of capturing every detail—it feels strangely vulnerable.

but you trust him. there’s something about jay that puts you at ease, even when you’re unsure of yourself. so, you sit in the chair, adjusting your posture slightly, your hands resting in your lap.

“relax,” he says softly, his voice gentle. “you don’t have to pose. just be yourself.”

you try to do as he says, leaning back into the chair, though your heart is beating a little faster now. the room is quiet except for the faint scratch of his charcoal on the page, and you’re acutely aware of his gaze as it moves over you—your face, your hands, the way the light falls on your hair.

he works silently, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you find yourself watching him, trying to read the expression on his face. there’s a softness there that you hadn’t noticed before, a kind of careful attention that feels almost… tender.

for a while, neither of you speaks. you’re not sure how long has passed—minutes? hours? time seems to lose its meaning in this space, as if the world outside the studio doesn’t exist.

“so you want to pursue art huh?” jay’s voice breaks the silence, and you blink, surprised by the question.

“yes” you reply, shifting slightly in the chair.

he doesn’t look up from his sketch. “why did you choose art? out of everything you could have pursued?”

the question is one you’ve asked yourself many times. you think back to your childhood, to the afternoons spent sneaking away from your tutors to draw in the gardens, the way art always felt like a safe space in a world full of expectations.

“i think… it’s because art lets me be free,” you say slowly, choosing your words carefully. “in everything else, i’m the princess. i have to be perfect, poised, controlled. but with art, i can be messy. i can make mistakes. it’s mine.”

jay pauses, his hand hovering over the sketchbook for a moment before he continues. “freedom is important,” he says quietly. “especially for someone like you.”

there’s something in his tone, a weight to his words, and you wonder what he means by that. does he understand what it’s like to feel trapped by expectations? to want something more, something beyond the roles you’ve been given?

before you can ask, jay looks up, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since he started sketching. his gaze is intense, but not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. it’s more like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, in a way that no one else ever has.

“you have a natural grace,” he says softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “but it’s more than that. there’s something… untamed about you.”

your breath catches in your throat. no one has ever spoken to you like that before. not with such quiet certainty, as if they’ve seen beyond the surface of who you are.

you don’t know what to say. the air in the room feels heavier now, charged with something you can’t quite name. you shift in your seat, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, but jay’s expression remains calm, thoughtful.

he tilts his head slightly, observing you with the same intensity he’s had since the beginning of the lesson. “there’s more to art than technique,” he says, his voice low. “it’s about connection. about understanding the person you’re drawing, not just how they look, but who they are.”

his words stir something inside you—a sense of being understood in a way you’ve never experienced before. you’re not just a princess in this room, not just another student. you’re you, with all your complexities and contradictions, and somehow, jay has seen that.

it makes you feel exposed in a way you hadn’t anticipated, and yet there’s a comfort in it, too. you’ve spent your whole life hiding parts of yourself, but with jay, it feels like you don’t have to.

finally, he sets the sketchbook aside, standing up and crossing the room to where you’re seated. he doesn’t hand you the sketch immediately, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s unsure about showing it to you.

“you can tell a lot about a person by how they draw,” he says quietly, standing in front of you now, his gaze unwavering. “but you can tell even more by how they let themselves be seen.”

your pulse quickens, the weight of his words settling deep within you. it’s not just about the sketch anymore—it’s about everything. the way you’ve been navigating these lessons, the way you’ve been letting him into your world, piece by piece.

he holds out the sketch to you, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his, a fleeting touch that lingers in your mind longer than it should.

the drawing is beautiful. he’s captured you in a way that feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. there’s a softness to your expression, a quiet strength in the lines of your face, and yet… there’s something else. something deeper.

“it’s beautiful,” you whisper, tracing the lines with your fingertips. “i’ve never seen myself like this before.”

jay watches you carefully, his expression unreadable. “that’s because no one’s ever looked at you like this before.”

the words hit you like a gentle wave, their meaning sinking in slowly. you glance up at him, unsure of how to respond. there’s a new tension between you now, but it’s not the kind that comes from desire or rushed feelings. it’s deeper than that—a connection, a shared understanding that goes beyond mere attraction.

for a moment, you sit in silence, the sketch resting in your lap as the light from the window shifts slightly, casting long shadows across the room. you can feel the change in the air, but neither of you moves to break it.

and as jay steps back, giving you space, you realise that this—whatever it is—will take time to fully unfold. you’re not rushing toward anything, but there’s something between you now, something real and undeniable.

but for now, you’ll let it simmer. there’s no need to rush. not yet.

the days have passed like pages in a book, each art lesson with jay slowly building a tension that you feel in the very air of the studio. his presence is constant but controlled, his touch fleeting yet always careful. you’ve found yourself looking forward to these lessons more than you’d ever anticipated, though not only for the sake of art. something else draws you here each time, something that’s harder to admit even to yourself.

when you arrive at the studio today, the familiar scent of paint and canvas greets you, mingling with the crisp morning air. jay is there, of course, already preparing the materials, his back to you as he arranges brushes and bottles of linseed oil. the sun filters in through the tall windows, casting long beams across the room, turning everything into shades of gold. today feels different, though you can’t quite pinpoint why.

he turns as you approach, offering you a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "good morning," he says, his voice as calm and composed as ever, though you think you detect a slight hesitancy behind his words.

"good morning," you reply, your heart already beating a little faster. the last few lessons have been charged with a new energy, a subtle yet undeniable pull between the two of you. you've tried to keep your thoughts focused on the art, but with each session, it’s become harder.

jay steps over to the large canvas he’s set up for today’s lesson. "we’re going to work on technique," he explains, holding up a palette of mixed colours, the vibrant hues blending like a sunset in his hands. "i want you to feel the texture of the paint, how the brush moves against the canvas. it’s all about control and release."

you nod, though the concept seems easier said than done. painting has always been more of a challenge for you, especially when it comes to finding that balance. jay, however, has a way of guiding you through each step without ever making you feel inadequate.

"let’s start with the basics," he says, handing you a brush. his fingers brush against yours for the briefest moment, and you feel a spark travel up your arm, though you’re sure he doesn’t notice.

you position yourself in front of the canvas, trying to steady your breathing as you dip the brush into the paint. the first few strokes are tentative, careful. you focus on the movement of your hand, but your mind is distracted by the weight of jay’s presence behind you. it’s as if the air in the room has thickened, every sound, every movement, magnified.

jay watches in silence for a few moments, then steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his body behind you. "here," he murmurs softly, his voice right beside your ear. "let me show you."

before you can respond, he places his hands lightly on your waist, adjusting your stance. the touch is firm but gentle, and it sends a shockwave through your body. your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of every point of contact—his hands on your hips, the warmth of his chest just inches from your back.

"relax," he whispers, his voice low and calming, though you can hear a slight strain in it, like he’s carefully keeping something in check. "you’re too tense."

easier said than done. you can barely think straight with him so close, let alone concentrate on the canvas. but you try, forcing yourself to take a breath, to focus on the task at hand. jay doesn’t move away. instead, he steps even closer, his chest nearly brushing your back as he moves his hands from your waist to your arm, guiding your wrist as you hold the brush.

"feel the paint," he says, his breath warm against your ear. "don’t fight it. let it flow."

his hand wraps around yours, firm but careful, and he moves your arm in a slow, fluid motion. the brush glides across the canvas with ease, the paint spreading in smooth, even strokes. his touch is light but deliberate, and you find yourself following his lead, your body responding to the way he directs the movement.

"you’re doing well," he murmurs, and you can feel his breath against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "just like that."

the room feels smaller, the air thicker, as if the space between you is shrinking with each passing second. you try to focus on the canvas, but it’s impossible with jay so close. his presence is overwhelming, consuming, and you’re acutely aware of every shift, every movement.

"you don’t need to force it," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper now, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "let the brush move with you."

you nod, though your throat is too dry to speak. the closeness between you is intoxicating, and you can feel the tension building with each breath you take. jay’s hand tightens slightly around yours, and for a moment, you wonder if he feels it too—the pull, the unspoken connection that seems to have grown stronger with each lesson.

he guides your hand in another slow stroke across the canvas, but this time, the brush slips slightly, leaving a streak of paint that’s a little too heavy. you let out a soft, frustrated sigh, but jay only chuckles, the sound low and warm.

"don’t worry about perfection," he says, his voice rumbling in your ear. "art isn’t about being perfect. it’s about feeling."

his hand lingers on yours a moment longer before he lets go, stepping back slightly. the sudden absence of his touch leaves you feeling off-balance, as if the ground beneath you has shifted. you exhale a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and lower the brush, your heart still racing.

"good," jay says, his voice a little more distant now as he moves back to the table. "you’re getting better. it’s all about control and release, but it takes time to find that balance."

you nod, though your mind is still reeling from the intensity of the moment. you’ve never felt so aware of your body, of your own reactions, as you do when jay is close like that. it’s as though he knows exactly how to touch you, how to guide you, without ever crossing the line—but just barely.

you place the brush down on the easel, turning to face him. jay is busy cleaning the palette, his face unreadable as he focuses on the task. but there’s something different about the way he holds himself, a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

"thank you," you say softly, breaking the silence that has settled between you. your voice sounds a little shaky, but you hope he doesn’t notice.

he glances up at you, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before flickering away. "it’s my job," he replies, but there’s something in his tone—something almost… uncertain.

the silence that follows is heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that has been growing between you for weeks. you can feel it in the way he looks at you, in the way his hands linger just a little too long when he helps you. it’s as though you’re both standing at the edge of something, but neither of you knows how to take the next step.

finally, jay sets the palette down and steps back, putting a little more distance between you. "we’ll keep working on this," he says, his voice returning to its usual composed tone. "you’re improving, but there’s still more to learn."

you nod, feeling a little breathless, though you’re not sure if it’s from the painting or from the closeness you just shared. "i’ll keep practising," you say, though the words feel almost trivial in the weight of the moment.

jay gives you a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "good," he says softly, before turning back to his brushes. "we’ll pick up again tomorrow."

you linger for a moment, watching him as he carefully cleans the paint from his hands, his movements precise and controlled. and as you leave the studio, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed between you, something that neither of you can ignore for much longer.

the pottery studio feels different today. the atmosphere is heavy, thick with anticipation, but you try to ignore it as you sit at the wheel, your hands already messy with clay. the wheel spins slowly beneath your fingers, but no matter how many times you’ve tried, the clay refuses to cooperate, collapsing into a lump before you can give it any real shape. you groan in frustration, watching another failed attempt crumble under your touch.

“take your time. it’s all about feeling the clay, not controlling it,” jay says softly from behind you, his voice calm but carrying that familiar undercurrent of something unspoken. he’s watching closely, his presence as steady as always, but today it feels more intense—like a subtle hum in the air that makes the space between you vibrate with tension.

you sigh, wiping your hands on your apron. "i don’t think i’m getting this at all," you mutter, staring down at the shapeless mound on the wheel. pottery has proven to be a far bigger challenge than painting—there’s something about the unpredictability of the clay that throws you off balance.

jay steps closer, his footsteps almost silent on the studio floor. "you’re too tense," he observes, his voice low and measured. "let me show you."

before you can respond, he’s already moving behind you. the air shifts as his body nears, and suddenly, you can feel the heat of him pressing close. he slides onto the bench behind you, his legs on either side of yours. the intimate position makes your heart race instantly, your pulse quickening in response to his proximity. his chest brushes your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck, and suddenly it’s hard to focus on anything other than how close he is.

he pauses his movements. “is it okay if i sit behind you like this? i may need to touch your hands as well.”

you nod at his soft words, “yes that’s alright.”

the studio feels smaller, the world outside forgotten as you’re enveloped by his presence. you can feel the solid warmth of his chest against your spine, the way his thighs gently cage yours. every point of contact feels electric, the tension simmering between you palpable.

“relax,” he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper, low and soothing. his breath brushes the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you’re trying too hard to control it. you have to let the clay respond to your touch.”

his hands move to cover yours, his fingers sliding over your clay-streaked knuckles. his touch is firm but gentle, guiding your hands to the wheel as it starts spinning once again. the sensation of his fingers wrapping around yours sends a ripple of awareness through your body, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hands over yours.

"feel the clay," jay instructs, his voice quiet but filled with intent. his breath is warm against your ear, and the proximity, the intimacy of the moment, makes it nearly impossible to concentrate. "it moves with you. let it guide you."

his hands press lightly against yours, directing your fingers as they glide over the surface of the clay. the wheel turns slowly beneath your palms, the soft texture of the clay smoothing out under the pressure. you try to focus on the task at hand, but the sensation of his body against yours—the gentle weight of his chest pressed to your back, his legs framing yours—is overwhelming. the world narrows down to the feel of his touch, the sound of his steady breath so close to your ear.

"you need to feel the shape," jay continues, his voice lower now, more intimate. his hands move with yours, guiding your fingers as they dip into the soft clay. his touch is deliberate, patient, and it feels like he’s not just teaching you pottery, but something deeper, something far more personal.

your hands move together as you both shape the clay, your fingers sliding inside the hollow of the vase. the action is slow, almost sensual, and the suggestiveness of the movement doesn’t escape you. the pressure of his fingers over yours, the way his hands direct yours in shaping the delicate interior, feels too intimate, too deliberate. the tension that has been building for weeks now feels almost unbearable.

your breath quickens, your heart hammering in your chest, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. jay’s chest presses more firmly against your back as his hands guide you deeper into the clay, shaping it from within. his fingers dip, mirroring yours, and the act of molding the vase becomes something far more intimate than you could have ever anticipated.

"just like that," jay whispers, his voice huskier than before, his breath hot against your ear. his hands slow, his fingers lingering on yours as you move together. the wheel spins quietly, the clay yielding to your touch, but it’s hard to focus on the art when the closeness between you feels like it’s about to explode into something more.

you can feel every movement of his chest against your back, the rise and fall of his breath growing uneven. the heat of his body is overwhelming, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on the clay. your pulse is racing, and you’re certain he can feel the way your body trembles slightly under his touch.

suddenly, you realise you can feel his heart. it’s beating erratically against your spine, matching the rapid rhythm of your own. the awareness crashes over you like a wave—he’s feeling it too. the tension, the pull between you, it’s not just in your head. his hands tighten slightly over yours, his chest pressing more firmly against your back, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is tilting.

you bite your lip, trying to keep your breathing steady, but it’s impossible with him so close, with the weight of his body grounding you while simultaneously setting you on fire. your fingers dip into the clay once more, but all you can feel is the warmth of his hands over yours, the way his presence fills every corner of your mind.

jay’s breath hitches, barely audible, but you hear it. you feel it. the tension between you has been simmering for weeks, and now it’s at a boiling point, undeniable and heavy.

after what feels like an eternity, jay finally pulls his hands away, the absence of his touch leaving you cold and disoriented. his chest moves away from your back, and he stands slowly, as if he, too, is struggling to shake off the intensity of the moment.

"good work," he says, his voice quieter than usual, almost strained. he steps away from the wheel, his hands clenching and unclenching as though he’s trying to regain his composure.

you remain seated, your hands still coated in clay, your heart still racing. the silence between you is thick with everything unsaid. you can still feel the echo of his hands on yours, the warmth of his body lingering against your skin.

finally, you glance over your shoulder, your eyes searching his face for some kind of answer, some indication of what he’s thinking. but jay’s expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on the now-complete vase on the wheel.

"you did well," he repeats, though his tone is quieter, almost distant. there’s something unresolved in the air, something that neither of you dares to acknowledge aloud.

as you stand, your legs unsteady, you can’t help but feel that something between you has shifted irreversibly. the line you’ve both been walking for weeks feels dangerously close to being crossed, and the question now is whether either of you is ready to take that step.

the last day of your art lessons starts with a sense of melancholy that you try to push away. you know that this will be your final session with jay, and although you’ve learned more than you could have imagined, the thought of no longer spending time with him feels like a loss. he greets you at the studio with his usual warm smile, but there’s something different about him today—a lightness that wasn’t there before.

“we’re not staying inside today,” jay says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i figured we’ve done enough of that. you’ve been using my supplies, so i thought it’s time you get your own.”

you blink, surprised by the suggestion. “you mean we’re going shopping?”

he nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “you deserve your own tools. besides, i want to show you my favourite spots.”

the idea excites you more than you’d expected. it feels intimate, personal—like he’s sharing a part of himself with you outside the confines of the studio. and so, you follow him out into the bustling streets, the city alive with activity as you walk side by side, the sky overhead a muted grey that promises rain.

the first shop is a small, unassuming place tucked between two larger storefronts, and you wouldn’t have noticed it if jay hadn’t pointed it out. inside, it’s a treasure trove of art supplies—shelves stacked high with paints, brushes, and sketchpads of every kind. the scent of paper and wood fills the air, and you can’t help but feel a little like a child in a candy store, overwhelmed by the endless possibilities.

jay moves through the aisles with ease, clearly at home here. he picks up brushes, testing their weight in his hand before handing them to you to feel. “this one’s perfect for detail work,” he says, holding up a fine-tipped brush. “and this,” he adds, pulling out a thicker, more rugged one, “is for broader strokes, more expression.”

you watch him as he speaks, his voice low and sure, and you find yourself more captivated by him than the tools he’s showing you. there’s something about the way his hands move with such confidence, the way he seems to understand the soul of each item, that draws you in. it’s a side of him you haven’t seen before, one that’s less restrained, more passionate.

he catches you staring, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “what?”

you quickly look away, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “nothing,” you mumble, pretending to examine the brushes in front of you.

but you can’t hide your growing admiration for him, and you suspect he knows it. he moves closer, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he reaches for a set of soft pastels. “try these,” he says, handing them to you. “i think they’ll suit your style.”

you take the pastels from him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. you swallow hard, trying to focus on the colours in your hand rather than the way his touch lingers in your mind.

from there, you move to the next shop, a slightly larger one filled with canvases of all sizes and shapes. jay pulls you toward a display of stretched canvas frames, explaining the difference between cotton and linen, the various textures and how they interact with different mediums. he talks with such enthusiasm that you can’t help but smile, his passion contagious.

“pick a few,” he says, gesturing to the rows of canvases. “you’re going to need a variety if you want to keep experimenting.”

you nod, feeling a sense of freedom in the choice. as you select your canvases, jay hovers nearby, occasionally offering suggestions but mostly watching with a quiet intensity that makes your skin prickle. you wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s just as aware of the subtle tension that’s been growing between you over the weeks.

the third shop is more modern, filled with high-end supplies—gorgeous palettes of oil paints in jewel tones, sleek metal easels, and handcrafted wooden boxes for storing brushes. it’s clear jay has saved the best for last, and as you wander the aisles together, he shows you some of his favourites, his voice soft and reverent as he talks about the craftsmanship behind each item.

“i’ve always wanted one of these,” you say, running your fingers over a beautiful wooden palette, its smooth surface gleaming under the soft light. “it’s almost too nice to use.”

jay grins, standing beside you as he watches you admire it. “you should get it,” he says, his voice warm. “every artist needs something that feels special, something that inspires them to create.”

his words send a shiver through you, and you glance at him, the closeness between you suddenly palpable. the quiet intimacy of the moment, standing together in the softly lit store, surrounded by the tools of your shared passion, feels heavy with something unspoken. you nod, slipping the palette into your basket, trying to shake the fluttering in your chest.

as you leave the last shop, your arms full of bags and supplies, the sky opens up, releasing a sudden torrent of rain. the drops fall fast and heavy, soaking you within moments. you yelp in surprise, pulling your hood over your head, but it’s no use—you’re drenched almost immediately.

jay laughs, a rich sound that cuts through the noise of the rain. “looks like we’re in for it!” he shouts over the downpour, his hair already dripping wet as he holds a hand out to catch the rain.

you can’t help but laugh, your spirits lifting despite the sudden storm. the two of you stand in the rain for a moment, looking at each other, before jay suddenly grabs your hand.

“come on!” he says, pulling you into a run.

you follow him, laughing breathlessly as you race through the rain-soaked streets, splashing through puddles and dodging other passersby who huddle under umbrellas and awnings. the bags of art supplies jostle against your sides, but you barely notice, too caught up in the exhilaration of running with him through the storm.

the rain comes down harder, drenching you completely, your clothes clinging to your body and your hair sticking to your face. but none of it matters—you’re both laughing, the world around you a blur as you sprint through the narrow streets, your hand still held tightly in his.

jay pulls you into a narrow alleyway, ducking under a stone archway for shelter. it’s barely enough to shield you from the rain, but you’re both out of breath, giggling uncontrollably as you lean against the cold stone walls.

you’re both soaked, your clothes dripping water onto the ground, but the warmth between you is undeniable. jay’s hair is plastered to his forehead, droplets sliding down his face as he looks at you, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

you can feel the heat radiating from his body, even through the dampness of your clothes. you’re pressed so close to him in the narrow space that you can feel the tension building, the awareness of every inch of space between you—or rather, the lack of it.

jay’s laughter fades as his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you shifts. his gaze softens, his usual playful demeanour replaced by something more serious, more intense. you’re both still, the rain beating down around you, but inside this tiny archway, it feels like time has slowed.

he reaches up, his fingers brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, and the simple gesture sends a shiver down your spine. his hand lingers by your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch even through the coolness of the rain.

for a moment, neither of you say anything, the space between you heavy with everything that’s gone unsaid. you can feel your heart racing, your breath catching in your throat as his eyes drop to your lips for just a second, but it’s enough to make your pulse quicken.

then, without thinking, without hesitation, he leans in.

the kiss is slow at first—tentative, as though he’s testing the waters. his lips brush against yours softly, almost delicately, and for a moment, it feels like the world stops. the rain, the city, everything fades away, and all that exists is the warmth of his mouth on yours, the softness of his kiss.

your heart stutters, your body frozen for a split second before you kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his chest. the kiss deepens, and the tension that’s been building between you for weeks unravels in a rush of heat and longing. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, pressing into him as though you can’t get close enough.

the rain falls around you, forgotten, as you lose yourself in the kiss. there’s a desperation to it, like neither of you knows when—or if—you’ll ever get this chance again. it’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything you’ve been holding back spills out in that single kiss.

when you finally pull away, breathless, jay rests his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you close as though he’s afraid to let go. you’re both panting, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, but you can’t seem to move, can’t seem to break the connection between you.

the kiss lingers in the air, an invisible thread still tying you to jay even as the rain continues to fall. his forehead rests against yours, his breath shallow and quick, matching the erratic rhythm of your heart. for a moment, everything feels right, the world outside forgotten, the storm cocooning you in your own little universe.

but then something shifts. you feel it in the way his grip on your waist tightens briefly before loosening, in the way his eyes darken, filled with a sorrow that cuts through the joy of the moment.

he pulls back, just a fraction, enough to put space between you but not enough to break the connection entirely. his gaze drops to the ground, as though he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“we… we can’t,” jay whispers, his voice heavy with regret.

the words hit you like cold water, the warmth of the kiss suddenly feeling distant. “what do you mean?” your voice is soft, confused, almost pleading. you take a step closer, unwilling to let him slip away. “jay, what are you saying?”

he sighs, running a hand through his damp hair, his shoulders tense. “you know what i mean,” he says quietly. “you’re a princess. you belong to a world of crowns and thrones, and i… i’m just your art teacher.”

you shake your head, the rain beginning to soak through your clothes, but you hardly notice. “i don’t care about that! my parents wouldn’t either. jay, this—this connection we have, it’s real. you can’t just pretend it isn’t.”

his eyes finally meet yours, and for a moment, you see the same longing reflected in them. but then he looks away again, his jaw tightening. “maybe your parents wouldn’t care, but i do. i won’t let you throw away your life for me. you have responsibilities, a future. i can’t be the reason you turn your back on all of that.”

your heart aches at his words, at the way he’s trying to protect you even as it tears you both apart. you reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “you’re not asking me to give anything up. i’m telling you what i want. you. you’re what i want, jay.”

he looks at your hand in his, and for a second, he doesn’t move, as though he’s frozen between what he wants and what he believes is right. “you don’t understand,” he says quietly. “you’re used to a life of luxury. i can’t give you that. i won’t let you settle for less.”

the frustration bubbles up inside you, mixing with the hurt. “it’s not about that. it never was. do you really think any of that matters to me if i’m not happy?”

jay’s gaze softens, but the doubt lingers in his eyes, a shadow of the barriers between you. “i need time,” he says, his voice pained. “i need to think about this.”

you bite your lip, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “take all the time you need. just… don’t take too long. please.”

he nods, his face filled with a mix of guilt and sorrow. then, like the gentleman he is, he steps closer, offering you his arm. “let me take you home,” he says softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that only deepens the ache in your chest.

the walk back to the palace is quiet, both of you wrapped in your own thoughts, the sound of the rain the only noise between you. his arm around yours feels protective, grounding, but it’s bittersweet knowing that he’s still holding a part of himself back.

when you finally reach the palace gates, jay pauses, turning to face you. the light from the lanterns casts a soft glow over his features, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still.

“goodnight, princess,” he says, his voice gentle, though there’s an unmistakable distance in his tone now.

you look up at him, wanting to say something—anything—to make him stay, to convince him that this is worth fighting for. but the words stick in your throat. instead, you nod, forcing a small smile despite the heaviness in your heart.

“goodnight, jay.”

he gives you a final, lingering glance before turning and walking away, the rain continuing to fall as his figure disappears into the night. you stand there for a long time, watching him go, your heart aching with every step he takes.

as you finally turn and walk inside, the warmth of the palace feels stifling compared to the cool rain outside. the emptiness left in jay’s wake presses down on you, and the realisation that you might not see him again for a while hits you like a blow.

in the days that follow, the quiet is suffocating. you try to fill your time with painting, with other lessons and royal duties, but nothing seems to lift the weight pressing on your chest. each moment stretches on, and the palace, usually filled with the comfort of familiarity, now feels hollow without him.

your parents notice your change in mood but don’t pry, their knowing glances suggesting they’re aware that something more than art is on your mind. still, you keep jay’s name on the tip of your tongue, unable to speak it without feeling the ache of uncertainty.

and so, you wait. you wait for a letter, for a word from him—anything to tell you that he hasn’t let go, that he’s still thinking about you as much as you are about him. but with each passing day, the silence only grows louder, the doubt harder to ignore.

what if he doesn’t come back? what if he decides you aren’t worth the risk?

the thought makes your heart tighten painfully. you sit in your art studio, staring at an unfinished painting, the brush limp in your hand, as you wonder if jay is fighting the same battle within himself.

it feels like an eternity has passed since that rainy day, since that kiss that felt like the world shifted. and now, all you can do is hope that he finds his way back to you before it’s too late.

the days stretch long and quiet after that night in the rain, and the distance between you and jay feels more unbearable with each passing moment. you keep replaying his words, the look in his eyes, the way he had kissed you—like he wanted to hold on forever but didn’t know if he should.

you throw yourself into your art, hoping the colours and brushstrokes will distract you from the weight of his absence. but the empty space he’s left behind is hard to ignore, especially as you finish the final piece you’d been working on for weeks—a vibrant painting of a parisian street, your future awaiting you there.

paris. the word itself sounds like a dream. the trip is supposed to happen soon—your long-awaited opportunity to study art in the heart of a city known for its creativity and beauty. it’s everything you’ve worked toward, yet now the thought of leaving without jay feels hollow.

what was once the pinnacle of your aspirations now feels incomplete. you had imagined this adventure, this new chapter of your life, and pictured jay being a part of it. but now, with his silence lingering between you, you’re uncertain of whether he’ll still be there when it begins.

sitting at your desk, you stare down at the blank parchment, the quill hovering in your hand. you haven’t spoken to jay since he walked away that night, but you can’t bear to leave for paris without reaching out, without giving him one last chance to understand how much he means to you.

the words come slowly at first, but then they start to pour out, your emotions and thoughts spilling onto the page.

dear jay, it feels strange writing to you after all this time—after all the moments we shared that now seem so far away. i’ve been thinking about what you said that night, about how we come from different worlds, about the future you think i deserve. but you need to know that none of it matters to me if you’re not a part of it. i’ve wanted this trip to paris for as long as i can remember, to learn from the best, to immerse myself in art and culture. it’s something i’ve dreamed about for years. and yet, now, as the day of my departure gets closer, all i can think about is you. i don’t want to go to paris and leave you behind, wondering what could have been. you’re as much a part of my passion for art as any paintbrush or canvas. you’ve shown me new ways to see the world, to express myself, and i’ll always be grateful for that. but more than that, you’ve become someone i can’t imagine my life without. i know you think i’m giving up too much, that i’m risking my future. but my future isn’t just about royal duties or titles. it’s about choosing the life i want—and i choose you, jay. i wish you could see that. paris is calling, but so are you. i can only hope that when you think of me, it’s with the same longing that fills every moment of my days without you. i hope that when you think of our time together, you’ll realise that this isn’t about status or sacrifice—it’s about love. i’ll be leaving soon after my birthday, but before i go, i need to know: will you come with me? or will i have to leave you behind? with love, [your name]

after sealing the letter, your heart is heavy with both hope and fear. you send it to jay, knowing that the next move is his. each day that passes without a response stretches the wait longer, the ache of uncertainty growing.

you try to stay busy with preparations for your trip, packing supplies and finishing your artwork. your parents notice the change in you—the excitement for paris dimmed by something you can’t quite bring yourself to share with them yet. they ask if you’re nervous, if you’re ready for the adventure, and you smile, telling them what they want to hear. but deep down, all you want is to hear from jay.

paris is just around the corner, but so is the decision you’re waiting for—the choice that could change everything.

the ballroom is a swirl of colour and laughter, filled with nobles, artists, and well-wishers all gathered to celebrate your birthday. the chandeliers above glitter like stars, casting a golden glow over the elegant space, and the music weaves through the conversations like a living thing, light and joyous. your parents spared no expense for this occasion, not only to mark your birthday but also to celebrate the upcoming adventure to paris.

it’s your birthday ball, but your mind is elsewhere, your heart tugged toward a memory that refuses to leave. you stand in front of your painting, the centrepiece of the night, hanging proudly on display for all to see. nobles and artists alike gather around it, marvelling at the vivid colours and delicate brushstrokes. you nod and smile politely as they offer praise, but inside, your thoughts are distant, wandering to a day not long ago when everything felt simpler.

the painting is of the marketplace—a bustling, lively scene full of energy and warmth. it’s the day you and jay had gone shopping together for art supplies, the day you let yourselves be ordinary, blending in with the crowds. the colours are bright and rich, capturing the vibrant chaos of the market: vendors calling out, the smell of freshly baked bread, the sound of coins clinking and people bartering for goods. in the corner of the canvas, nestled in the shadows of an alley, is a small, quiet space. it’s where you and jay had shared a moment away from the crowd, a stolen minute of peace amidst the noise, where the world had seemed to slow just for the two of you.

every brushstroke is infused with that memory—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the soft brush of his hand as he reached for yours, the unspoken connection that had blossomed between you in that hidden corner of the market. it was a day that felt like freedom, a glimpse of something more, something forbidden but undeniably real.

“your highness, it’s simply breathtaking,” someone says beside you, pulling you momentarily back to the present. a noblewoman in an exquisite gown stands at your side, her eyes wide with admiration as she gazes at the painting. “the light, the detail… it feels as though i’m standing there in the market myself.”

you nod and smile, offering a polite thank you, but her words barely register. all you can think about is him.

the weight of his absence has been heavy, pulling at your heart with every passing day, each one more difficult than the last. and now, on the night of your birthday, as you prepare to embark on a new chapter, all you can think about is the chapter you left unfinished.

you glance at the painting again, tracing the familiar lines of the marketplace, the hidden alley. that was the moment you knew there was something between you and jay, something more than just student and teacher, more than just friendship. it was the moment you allowed yourself to hope. but now, standing here alone, you wonder if that hope was misplaced.

and then, through the hum of voices and the soft strains of music, you hear it—a voice that sends a jolt through your entire body.

“you captured it perfectly.”

the sound of his voice makes the air around you seem to freeze. your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat. slowly, you turn toward the source, and there he is—jay, standing just a few steps away, his eyes locked on the painting, his expression a mixture of awe and something deeper, something raw.

for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. after weeks of waiting, of wondering, here he is, standing before you, his presence filling the space that had felt so empty without him. he looks different tonight—still himself, but dressed in a way that blends with the formality of the event. yet, there’s something in his posture, in the way his dark eyes flicker between you and the painting, that betrays the turmoil he’s been carrying.

“jay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. but he hears you, as he always does.

he takes a step closer, his gaze shifting to meet yours, and for a moment, the world around you disappears. the ballroom, the guests, the music—it all fades into the background, leaving only the two of you in this fragile, suspended moment.

his eyes soften as they take you in, and there’s a vulnerability in his expression that you hadn’t seen before, something that makes your heart ache even more. “you remembered,” he says quietly, gesturing toward the painting. “the marketplace. that day.”

you nod, your throat tightening. “how could i forget? it was…” you pause, searching for the right words, but nothing seems adequate. “it was perfect.”

jay’s gaze lingers on the painting, as though seeing the memory play out all over again. his lips part, but no words come. instead, he takes another step toward you, his presence so close now that you can feel the pull between you—the unspoken tension that had simmered just beneath the surface for so long.

“i’ve been thinking about that day,” he says, his voice low and rough. “about us.”

your heart hammers in your chest. “and?”

his eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—regret, longing, and something you can’t quite place. “i thought i could stay away. that it would be easier, safer, for both of us. but i couldn’t.” his voice wavers, just slightly, and the vulnerability in it makes your pulse race. “not tonight.”

you swallow, your chest tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. the distance between you feels unbearably small, but also impossibly vast. he’s here. after all this time, he’s finally here. but the question still lingers, heavy in the air between you: what happens now?

just as you open your mouth to speak, to ask the questions that have been burning inside you for weeks, jay steps closer, his eyes locked on yours. the noise of the ballroom fades even further into the background, until all that’s left is him. and in that moment, with his gaze so full of emotion, you know that nothing has been forgotten. every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every whispered word—it’s all still there, between you, as real and undeniable as ever.

the night may be full of celebrations, but the only thing that matters is this: jay is here, and nothing will ever be the same again.

the grand ballroom continues to pulse with life around you, but the world feels quiet in the cocoon of jay’s presence. you haven’t even fully processed the fact that he’s here, standing in front of you after weeks of silence. his eyes—deep and full of an emotion you’ve longed to see—are fixed on you, as though he’s drinking in the sight of you, afraid to blink in case you disappear.

the weight of his absence, the unanswered letter, the uncertainty—it all rushes to the surface, but you force yourself to stay grounded in the moment. you open your mouth to speak, to ask the questions burning in your chest, but before you can, jay takes a step closer.

“you never stopped painting,” he says quietly, nodding toward the marketplace painting, his voice filled with a mix of awe and relief. “you’ve grown even more since i left.”

his words are a gentle balm to the ache in your heart, but they only skim the surface of what you truly want to know. you swallow hard, the emotions too thick in your throat to speak.

your breath hitches. “why didn’t you respond to my letter, jay?”

there’s a beat of silence before he looks away, the rawness of his feelings flickering across his face. “because i didn’t know if i was strong enough to walk away again,” he admits. “and i wasn’t sure if i could give you the life you deserve.”

“after everything we’ve been through, you still think i care about that?” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of all the unspoken words. “i just wanted you, jay. that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

his jaw tightens, and he takes another step forward, closing the distance between you until his presence is overwhelming. “i couldn’t respond, because i knew that if i did, i wouldn’t be able to stop myself from coming back to you. and once i did, i’d never want to leave. but you… you have paris, you have a future.”

“and i want you to be part of that future,” you say, your voice stronger now. “i’ve had weeks to think about this, jay. i’m leaving soon, and i need to know where we stand before i go. please, just tell me how you feel.”

jay’s eyes flash with a storm of emotions—hesitation, fear, and something deeper, something that has been bubbling just beneath the surface. he reaches out slowly, his fingers brushing yours, the touch sending warmth rushing up your arm. “i’m terrified,” he admits in a voice so soft it makes your heart ache. “i’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and i don’t want to ruin it.”

“you won’t,” you say, stepping closer until your hands are fully entwined, your pulse quickening as his warmth floods your senses. “i don’t care about titles, status, or what anyone else thinks. you make me feel alive, jay. that’s all i need.”

his grip tightens on your hand, and for a moment, it seems like he’s grappling with the depth of what you’re offering. his breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, as though he’s trying to hold himself together.

“i don’t want you to sacrifice everything for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “you’re a princess, destined for greatness, for a life most people can only dream of. i’m just... a man who paints.”

you step even closer, until there’s barely any space between you. “and that’s enough for me. more than enough.”

for a split second, he looks at you as though he can’t believe you’re real. but then, before you can say anything more, he steps forward, pulling you into his arms in one swift motion. the warmth of his body against yours is overwhelming, but in the best way, and as his arms wrap around you, holding you tightly, you feel the tension that’s been building between you melt away.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear as he holds you close. “for leaving. for making you wait.”

you close your eyes, leaning into him, your heart swelling with the relief of finally having him here. “you’re here now,” you murmur against his shoulder. “that’s all that matters.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your arms as his dark eyes meet yours. and in them, you see everything—the love he’s been holding back, the fear, the hope. “i love you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i’ve loved you since the first day we met, and i’ve been fighting it ever since. but i don’t want to fight it anymore.”

your heart swells at his words, the weight of them settling deep in your chest. “i love you, too,” you whisper, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you as you say the words out loud for the first time. “i always have.”

the smile that spreads across jay’s face is like sunlight breaking through clouds, and before you know it, he’s lifting you off the ground, spinning you around in a burst of joy and laughter. the world around you spins with him, but you don’t care—because for the first time in what feels like forever, everything is right. everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

when he finally sets you back down, your feet touching the ground once more, his hands stay on your waist, grounding you in the moment. his eyes, full of love and warmth, search yours, and for a second, neither of you speak. you don’t need to. the silence is filled with everything you’ve both been waiting for.

“i want to be with you,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “but i don’t want you to lose yourself for me.”

you smile, shaking your head. “i’m not losing anything. i’m gaining everything i’ve ever wanted.”

jay’s hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he looks at you, his gaze full of the future. “paris,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re still going?”

you nod, your heart racing at the thought of what’s to come. “i am. and i want you to come with me.”

he hesitates, just for a moment, as though the reality of what you’re asking is still sinking in. but then, his smile grows, and he nods, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “i’ll come with you. we’ll go together.”

your heart leaps at his words, the hope you’d been holding onto finally blossoming into something real. paris—together. it’s everything you’d dreamed of, everything you hadn’t dared to believe could happen. but now, standing here with jay, it’s all within reach.

“we’ll see the world,” he says, his voice soft but filled with excitement. “we’ll paint, we’ll live, we’ll—”

“we’ll be happy,” you finish for him, your smile widening as you lean into his touch.

he nods, his forehead resting gently against yours. “yes. we’ll be happy.”

and in that moment, as the ballroom buzzes with life around you, as the painting of your shared memory hangs on the wall behind you, you know it’s true. you and jay—together, free, and full of love. the world is yours, waiting to be explored. and with him by your side, you know that this is only the beginning.

as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the future stretches out before you like a blank canvas, waiting for you to fill it with all the colours of your love, your passion, and the adventures you’ll share. together, you’ll paint a life full of beauty, one brushstroke at a time.

and as the night fades and the dawn of a new chapter begins, you know—this is your happily ever after.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @punchbug9-blog @firstclassjaylee @capri-cuntz @addictedtohobi @jaysfavoritegirl @yuniesluv @isa942572 @academiq @missychief1404 //the ones in bold could not be tagged for some reason. im so sorry guys tumblr is acting up :(

#౨ৎ 𝓐dy writes🪄#enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #jay #jay park #jay x reader #jay imagines #jay fics #jay oneshots #kpop fics #enhypen royal au #jongseong park #jay enhypen

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alxtiny · 3 months

Text

Helping bf! Ateez relax

Synopsis: where you help bf!ateez relax

Pairing: ateez x gn!reader, idol au

Genre: fluff

Word count: 3.5k

Warning: drinking, one shared bath, excessive use of the word weary

masterlist

• Hongjoong

Hongjoong dragged himself wearily through the door, his shoulders burdened with exhaustion. It had been a long long day at the studio, his work never ending even after their latest comeback. He still had unfinished projects prodding at the back of his mind, the repetitive droning of the beats that once seemed to fit together perfectly were now just annoying.

But as he stepped into the warmth of your home, a wave of relief washed over him. The heavenly aroma of your home-cooked dinner greeted him, and he couldn't help but close his eyes and smile despite his weariness. Of course you knew the best way to calm the chaos in his mind and satisfy his rumbling stomach.

"Hey, love," you greeted him softly, setting down the spoon you had been stirring with. "You look exhausted. Come sit down, dinner's ready."

Hongjoong managed a grateful nod, shedding his coat and shoes before joining you at the table. He marvelled at the spread before him, his stomach making noises of protests, urging him to eat. You always knew how to take care of him, even on the busiest of days.

As he dug into the warm meal you had prepared, Hongjoong felt a sense of warmth spread through him, both from the food and from your presence, he slid down further into his seat, muscles relaxing. It was a stark contrast to the spare snacks he had been subsisting on all day, and he savoured every last bite, feeling the tension slowly melt away.

Once dinner was finished, you led him to the couch, where plush blankets, sltolen from your bed, awaited. Sitting down you pulled him into yourself. Nestled in your arms, Hongjoong sighed contentedly, his exhaustion catching up to him at last. You began to trace soothing circles on his back, your touch lulling him into a state of blissful relaxation.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice a gentle melody in the quiet of the room. "Thank you for working so hard, for always giving your all. You mean the world to me, Hongjoong."

His heart swelled with warmth at your words, and he snuggled closer to you, feeling safe and loved in your embrace. As the weariness finally overtook him, he whispered back those three precious words, knowing that with you by his side, no tiring days could defeat him. And with that, he drifted off into a peaceful slumber, your whispered declarations of love the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.

• Seonghwa

The atmosphere in your home is serene, a haven you've carefully crafted to make it only the best place to come back to after work. As Seonghwa arrives, weariness from the day's endeavours overshadow him, but you're ready with a comforting surprise. The bath is drawn, warm steam curling upwards, carrying the delicate scent of his favourite soap and bath salts, all the way to the living room. You've paid attention to his preferences, knowing how much he treasures these moments of self-care.

He steps into the house, greeted by the soothing ambiance you've created. Gratefulness softens his features as he sees you coming out of the bathroom, after preparing everything, and he thanks you, appreciating the thoughtful gesture. Taking care of the members took a lot out of him, now he just needed someone to take care of him.

“Come Hwa, this should help, just relax,” You gently guide him to the bath, encouraging him to unwind. But before you can leave, he reaches out, a request lingering in his gaze.

"Join me," he murmurs, and seeing the flashes of melancholy in his eyes, you can't resist the invitation. Shedding your own clothes, you slip into the bath with him, your back resting carefully against his chest, feeling the quickened rhythm of his heartbeat. As he recounts the events of his day, your hands move in gentle circles along his limbs, easing away the tension he carries.

The warm water works its magic, lulling him into a state of relaxation. Sensing his drowsiness, you decide it's time to get to bed. You rise from the bath first, the air kissing your skin as you towel off and dress. You move to the kitchen, warming up the dinner on the stove, filling the air with inviting aromas.

Seonghwa joins you quickly, fresh and rejuvenated, ready to indulge in a meal prepared with love and care. The comfort of the food wraps around you both like a blanket as you dine, conversation continuing from where it was left off in the bath, effortlessly. Afterward, you retreat to the cosiness of your shared space. Seonghwa wastes no time in bringing your body close to his as your hands move to soothe his hair, the day's weariness melting away with each tender stroke .

As he drifts off to sleep, he whispers, “Thank you my n/n, I love you,” With a smile, you kiss his cheeks lightly, replying with the same, feeling grateful for these quiet moments together.

• Yunho

As Yunho stepped through the door, you could practically see the exhaustion etched into every line of his body. The day's rigorous dance practice had taken its toll on him, leaving him sore and aching. Seeing him like this pulled at your heart strings and you were determined to ease his discomfort.

“Yunho, why don’t you go shower, I have something in mind to help you relax,” you said, to which he quickly agreed.

While Yunho showered off the sweat and strain of the day, you busied yourself with creating a soothing atmosphere for him. Infusing massage oil with calming scents, lighting candles that cast a soft, flickering glow across the room, and laying out a warm towel on the bed. You were on a very important mission.

When Yunho emerged from the shower, steam still lingering in the air, you gently took his hand and guided him to the bed. His tired eyes softened at the sight of your efforts, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Relax, love," you murmured, as he settled onto the warm towel, the fabric comforting against his fatigued muscles. With practiced hands, you began to knead away the tension that had accumulated throughout his day, your touch both firm and gentle.

As you worked, you listened to him animatedly recount the events of practice, how despite the initial difficulties with the choreo the boys had managed to perfect their movements and Yunho was proud of their efforts. You were quick to offer words of encouragement and support and tell him he should be proud of himself too, for leading their practices with patience and enthusiasm.

With each passing minute, you felt the tightness in his muscles slowly give way, replaced by a sense of peace and calm. You could hear small noises and hums of pleasure and relaxation from Yunho.

When you finally finished, Yunho rose from the bed, letting out a deep sigh as he rolled his shoulders, the weariness in his movements replaced by an airy weightlessness. With a grateful smile, he dressed while you put away the things and blew out the candles and then turned to you, his gaze filled with affection.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice soft and tender as he pulled you into a warm embrace. Nestling into the curve of your chest, he closed his eyes, finding solace in the warmth of your embrace. Together, you drifted off to sleep, the gentle rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a peaceful slumber.

• Yeosang

Yeosang trudged through the door, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. The day had been unforgiving to him, draining every ounce of his energy. He longed for nothing more than a moment of solitude to replenish and recharge his social battery. As he entered, you glanced up, immediately catching the weariness etched on his face.

Without a word, you approached him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Go relax, Yeosang," you murmured, understanding his need for quietude.

Grateful for your understanding, he nodded silently and headed for the shower while you set about tidying the house, knowing that the clutter would just make him more uncomfortable.

Later, as you made your way to the shared bedroom, you found Yeosang lying on the bed, an open book resting on his chest, his eyes closed, but eyebrows slightly furrowed. Smiling softly, you picked up the book assuming he had fallen, intending to put it away. But as your fingers grazed the pages, he stirred, reaching out to grasp your hand.

"Read to me, please," he whispered, his voice heavy with drowsiness. This wasn’t new for him to ask for, he loved the low soothing tone of your voice and right now it felt like medicine to him.

You obliged, hoping his request would help distract him from his overwhelming thoughts. You settled beside him, the bed enveloping you both in its warmth. With his head nestled against your shoulder, you began to read, the calm cadence of your voice lulling him into a peaceful slumber.

As you read through a few chapters, you felt his breathing gradually slow, his features relaxing into a soft repose. With the book now forgotten, you leaned down to press a tender kiss to his forehead.

"I love you," you whispered, before allowing sleep to claim you as well, the two of you finding solace in each other's embrace.

• San

The sound of the door slowly creaking open pulled you from your cosy spot on the couch, where you had been engrossed in a book. You glanced up to see San shuffling into the apartment, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

"Hey, Sannie," you greeted him, setting aside your book and moving over to him. "Rough day?"

San nodded wearily, dropping his bag by the door as you put your arms around him and gently kissed his lips. "Practice ran longer than usual. I just want to relax."

A smile tugged at your lips as an idea sparked in your mind. "How about we go out for some late-night ice cream? It might help you unwind."

San's tired expression brightened at the suggestion. "That sounds perfect actually."

You both quickly changed into comfortable clothes, opting for light oversized t-shirts and jeans before heading out into the cool night air. The streets were quiet as you made your way to the local ice cream parlour, you could feel San getting more excited as the distance closed in.

Once inside, you were greeted by the comforting scent of freshly made waffle cones and the sight of colorful ice cream flavors lined up behind the glass display. San faced no hesitation n ordering his favorite mint chocolate, while you opted for the indulgent mocha brownie.

As you settled into a cosy corner booth, you took turns sharing bites of your ice creams with each other, giggling as San told you about the antics he and Wooyoung got to. You couldn't help but laugh out loud when San took a particularly enthusiastic bite and ended up with a smidge of ice cream on his nose, making his laugh as well, feeling carefree after the fast pace of his work day.

After relishing every last spoonful, you reluctantly left the warmth of the parlor and made your way back home. Once there, you snuggled up together under the soft comforter of your bed, the events of the evening bringing a smile to your faces.

As you got ready to sleep, comfortably resting against San's chest, he whispered "I love you," pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

With a contented smile, you returned the sentiment, heart fluttering at his gesture, as sleep pulled you away.

• Mingi

Mingi let out a long, tired sigh as he stepped out of the studio. Another gruelling day of working with Hongjoong, mixing beats, perfecting lyrics, and laying down tracks. As much as he loved his work, today had taken a toll on him. He was ready to go home, hoping to find some solace in your presence.

As he entered your shared apartment, the familiar scent of home wrapped around him like a comforting hug. But what caught his eye next made his tired expression melt away instantly. There, in the middle of the living room, was a magnificent pillow fort. The fluffiest blankets you owned were artfully draped, creating a cosy, inviting little enclosure. Soft fairy lights twinkled from within, giving out a warm, gentle glow.

Mingi's face stretched into a wide grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy. He carefully made his way towards the fort, trying not to disturb the delicate construction. As he peeked inside, he saw all his favorite snacks laid out neatly, alongside a couple of iced coffees. And there you were, waiting for him with your Switch already in hand, Cozy Grove loaded and ready to play.

"You did all this for me?" Mingi asked, his voice filled with awe and gratitude.

You nodded with a smile, leaning up to give him a quick kiss. "I thought you could use a little escape after your long day."

He settled into the fort beside you, careful not to knock anything over. Pulling you close, he whispered, "This is just what I needed. Thank you so much. I love you."

"I love you too," you replied softly, handing him his Switch.

The rest of the evening was a blissful retreat from the demands of the day. You both immersed yourselves in the little life of Cozy Grove, munching on snacks and sipping iced coffee. Laughter and gentle conversations filled the fort as you helped each other with game tasks, the stress of the day soon melting away.

As the hours slipped by, the ambient glow of the fairy lights dimmed to a soft lullaby. You found yourselves growing drowsy, the peaceful atmosphere lulling you both into a serene state of contentment. Snuggled in each other's arms, you eventually drifted off to sleep, the worries of the day forgotten, replaced by the warmth of your love and the comfort of your shared sanctuary.

• Wooyoung

The sound of the front door creaking open followed by the soft thud of shoes being kicked off was your first indication that Wooyoung was home and he was not feeling like his usual self. You glanced at the clock—it was well past midnight. Usually, he would burst through the door with a loud greeting, but tonight, you only heard a heavy sigh and the muffled thump of him dropping onto the couch.

You knew immediately it had been one of those days. Thankfully you also knew the remedy for times like this, your strategy being wine and unwind.

Setting aside the book you had been reading, you headed to the kitchen and grabbed a new bottle of wine and two glasses. With a practiced hand, you uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses to the brim, the rich red liquid glistening in the dim light. You made a quick stop by the bedroom to grab a pair of sweatpants for Wooyoung, then made your way to the living room.

He lay sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, his usual energetic demeanour overlayed by a shroud of exhaustion. You quietly placed the glasses on the coffee table and approached him, the sweats in hand.

"Hey," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Why don’t you go change into these? Get comfortable"

Wooyoung opened his eyes, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he nodded and took the sweats from you. "Thanks, babe," he mumbled, dragging himself off the couch and heading to the bedroom.

While he changed, you quickly lit a small candle, its gentle glow adding a warm ambiance to the room. You settled back on the couch, the soft flicker of the candlelight reflecting in the wine glasses. Moments later, Wooyoung returned, looking more comfortable in the sweats and a simple t-shirt.

"Come here," you said, patting the spot next to you.

He sat down, and you handed him one of the glasses. "Cheers," you said, clinking your glass against his. "To getting through tough days."

He smiled faintly at your teasing words and took a sip. The wine seemed to work its magic, the tension in his shoulders released slightly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I guess I really needed this."

You leaned back against the couch, tucking your feet beneath you. "Tell me about your day," you prompted gently.

For the next few hours, you listened as Wooyoung opened up about the long day of practice and recording. He talked about the frustrations, the little victories, and the relentless drive to perfect the choreography. As he spoke, you could see the weight lifting from his shoulders, the wine and the comfort of your presence helping him unwind.

The conversation flowed easily, the wine glasses slowly emptying until the bottle was finished. By the time the clock struck three, you were both feeling pleasantly tipsy and relaxed, the worries of the day forgotten in the comfort of each other’s company.

"Let’s go to bed," you suggested, stifling a yawn.

Wooyoung nodded, his eyes heavy with fatigue but softer than they had been when he first walked through the door. You both stumbled to the bedroom, the exhaustion finally catching up with you.

As you crawled into bed, Wooyoung pulled you close, wrapping his arms tightly around you. "I love you," he whispered, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head.

"I love you too," you murmured back, snuggling into his chest.

In the quiet darkness, you felt him relax completely, the rhythm of his breathing evened out as sleep claimed him. You smiled to yourself, content in the knowledge that you had helped him find peace after a long, hard day. With his warmth surrounding you, it wasn’t long before you, too, drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the comforting embrace of the one you loved.

• Jongho

The front door clicked open, and Jongho stepped inside, his usual energy noticeably absent. You looked up from the book you were reading, instantly recognizing the tiredness in his eyes. His shoulders were slumped, and he moved with a heaviness that spoke of a long, draining day, his feet dragging against the floor. Without needing to ask, you knew it had been one of those days where everything felt like too much—constant rehearsals, pushing his voice to hit those perfect high notes, and the pressure to always perform at his best.

"Hey," you greeted softly, setting your book aside. He gave you a small, weary smile in return.

"Hey," he replied, his voice slightly raspy. He dropped his bag by the door and began to pull off his shoes.

"You should go get into some comfortable clothes," you suggested, your voice gentle. "I'll make you some green tea."

Jongho nodded, too tired to argue, and trudged towards the bedroom. You moved to the kitchen, quickly brewing a pot of green tea just how he liked it, knowing it would help soothe his strained throat and relax him. As the tea steeped, you prepared a tray with a cup and a small teapot, making sure everything was perfect.

A few minutes later, you carried the tray into the bedroom. Jongho was already in bed, dressed in his favorite comfy clothes, looking slightly more at ease. You handed him the cup of tea, and he took it with a grateful smile.

"Thank you," he murmured, taking a careful sip.

You returned his smile and walked around to your side of the bed, pulling out your laptop. "I thought we could watch something light tonight. How about Wonka? I've been wanting to see it for a while."

Jongho's eyes brightened a bit at the idea of watching the latest musical. "Sounds good," he agreed, his voice still hoarse but filled with warmth.

You dimmed the lights and set up the laptop between the two of you, starting the movie. As the scenes played out on the screen, you noticed Jongho relaxing more, a few quiet giggles escaping his lips. He even hummed along to some of the songs, his voice low and soothing.

When the movie finally ended, you heard a yawn from his side. Glancing over, you saw him rubbing his eyes, clearly ready for sleep. You closed the laptop and set it aside, then patted the open space next to you.

"Come here," you invited softly.

Jongho scooted closer, resting his head on your shoulder as you wrapped your arms around him. You kissed the top of his head, whispering, "I love you, and I'm so proud of you."

He snuggled into your embrace, his eyes already drifting closed. "I love you too," he whispered back, his voice barely audible but filled with sincerity.

You held him close, feeling his steady breathing as he drifted off to sleep, warm and safe in your arms.

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS PURE FICTION AND NOT RELATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ATEEZ IN REAL LIFE PLEASE DO NOT TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

Taglist:

#ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez reaction #ateez smut #ateez x y/n #ateez x you #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #choi san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho

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moghedien · 2 months

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obviously there are a bunch of issues with the MCU and I'm not gonna sit here and try to convince everyone that MCU movies are cinema or whatever so don't get what I'm gonna say twisted. I do find their kinda mainstay in cultural media and the dominance they had to be interesting, especially now in an era where the MCU is undeniably falling off and struggling. just as like a cultural analysis I find that interesting and everyone has their opinions of why it happened.

my opinion/theory on why the MCU just crashed is because they sort of forgot what it means to be telling a comic book story, especially a marvel comic book story. Because I've read thousands of issues of various marvel series at this point, across tons of different eras and events, and the thing that makes them last (which is also a thing that drives me personally crazy and I hate so much) is that the status quo doesn't really change. Or when it does, it lasts for a few arcs or years at most and then gets reverted back to the norm eventually. Like the fact that everything is pointless and nothing is a risk is something I loathe, but it is admittedly what keeps them going. If someone just got into comics, they can pick up a modern issue and expect to find Spider-man or Captain America or whoever. They may be introduced to new characters, but the big ones will show up eventually.

And after the last Avengers movie, like half of the mainstay cast are just gone. Which as someone who likes good stories, I think is a good opportunity (which is arguably being wasted but idk I haven't watched any MCU thing in years) to actually shake things up and develop characters that mainstream people are less familiar with and give them a chance to shine and tell interesting stories. But that's not why people like marvel comics.

People like marvel comics because if they want to read about Iron Man, they can pick up any random issue about Iron Man and it will most likely be the Iron Man they know. People like the status quo, and Marvel has never been high literature and has always basically been pulp storytelling, and it gave people status quo and familiarity. And I think Marvel Studios figured this out waaayyy too late.

Because if Marvel actually understood what people like about the comics, they would have embraced recasting major roles from the start. They wouldn't have tied characters' identities so strongly to their actors and would have made it clear that characters can and will continue on with different faces. There is no reason why Tony Stark needs to be RDJ or Steve Rogers needs to be Chris Evans. They would have had plans to not write these characters out of existance the second actors wanted to exit or died or were fired or any of the various reason why actors are no longer involved with the MCU. Hell they had precedent. They didn't have a problem replacing Terrence Howard with Don Cheadle, who are very different looking people who give very different performances, but we know why they felt ok with that recasting but won't recast any of their boys named Chris...

Anyway it seems like they realized that general audiences don't actually like change if its permanent and are learning the wrong lessons with the Doom casting nonsense and the fact that they seem to keep changing what the new story is to fit what they think audiences want.

I'm fine with the MCU dying off and its probably better for media that it does, but again I'm just kinda interested in the fumble from like an objective standpoint because it seemed like they just locked themselves into eventual failure in such a stupid way. Like they could have told the same safe representative Avengers storylines for decades and wouldn't have a meltdown every time an actor in a major role needed to be removed from production if they just accepted that people would be recast as needed. It would be worse for actors and it would be worse for movies in general probably, but it would have kept the MCU churning out pulp like the comics do to this day. But now people are realizing its not just pulp but pulp they don't want and its gonna kill the MCU eventually.

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hometoursandotherstuff · 4 months

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This 1874 Gingerbread Victorian is a doll house. It was renovated, and some of the new construction is a little weird. Located in Annapolis, Nova Scotia, Canada it has 3bds, 2ba, C$595K.

Enter the beautiful hall with a gracefully swirling staircase.

In the sitting room, the re-done fireplace is the focal point. The walls are a softer griege (gray/beige) than stark gray.

In the 2nd sitting room, the current owner has a baby grand. You can see a built-in cabinet in the corner.

It's a large room to fit this piano with room to spare.

The dining room is next to new kitchen, and it's very spread out. I love the reproduction stove, I can't understand why this huge room has a stove and sink in the corner. No cabinets, no fridge.

A counter with a sink and dishwasher has a nice granite counter.

Cute pantry looks original. They chose to put the fridge in here.

The service stairs are still off the kitchen.

Breakfast room used for everyday dining.

They kept this wonderful original sink in the first floor bath and added a new shower and laundry, which put the sink in the middle. It needs to be in a beautiful Victorian bath.

There's even a fireplace in here. The toilet was placed in a corner behind the door and under the stairs.

Isn't this beautiful?

A delicate desk looks lovely up here on the landing.

Bedroom #1 is a nice large size. It looks like the floors up here are original.

This bedroom is set up as a home office and it has a fireplace that's closed off, but it's still a nice feature.

Bd. #3 is a little smaller, but still a good size. It's cozy.

This bath has all of the elements as the original except for the shower.

This is an attic bedroom and it's it needs some work. The chimney is in here and there's a hole in the ceiling, plus the wallpaper has peeled off, which could indicate maybe a roof leak?

The other attic room looks okay, except for the pipe.

Neat cellar storage area.

Isn't this well cute?

There's a nice new double garage with 2 sheds. One part looks like it could be an office or studio.

The 1.24 acre property is just across the road from the Annapolis Basin.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/5265-Granville-Rd-Annapolis-NS-B0S-1A0/350232544_zpid/

#gingerbread victorian #victorian homes canada #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour

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daddysfangirls-marvel · 1 year

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Polyamorous: 8th Anniversary

*Bonus*

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem! reader x Bucky Barnes / Stucky x fem! Reader

Warning: language, Fluff, nudity, and smut ( Pegging, dildo)

Polyamorous Material list

"I've never done this before," (Y/n) said nervously " Do you think this is okay?"

It was their marriage anniversary, eight years. They had the house to themselves. Rose was spending the night with Wanda (actually, she was spending the night with Peter, but her dads didn't need to know that), and Ian was spending the night at Stark's having a good night with Morgan. They had to whole house to themselves to do as they pleased. And they did.

Getting up for a late breakfast, they made it together. Eating brunch in the garden together. The rest of the afternoon was spent in Steve's art studio, where Steve had the pleasure of painting his husband and wife in the nude, nothing he could hang around the house with kids, obviously, but still beautiful. And that was followed by dinner at a high-class restaurant, an excuse to dress fancy and sexy, the dessert at their favorite family diner.

Now they were back at home, fancy clothes tossed away as they prepared for their pleasures. Steve was in the bedroom waiting while Bucky and (y/n) were in the bathroom getting ready.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want," Bucky said as he was kneeling in front of her.

"I'm just worried I won't do it right," (Y/N) confessed. Bucky smiled and kissed her thighs. She gasped as he put one end of the toy inside of her and made sure it was a snug fit.

"Don't worry, I'll teach you" Standing up, Bucky Kissed her, calming her nerves " Now let's go show him our surprise."

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed in his boxers, fidgeting with his fingers as he waited patiently for his wife and husband, who had disappeared into the bathroom not long ago. Apparently, they had a surprise for him.

"hi," Bucky said, cracking open the bathroom door and sticking his head out.

"Hi," Steve chuckled.

"so," Bucky stepped out but kept the bathroom door slightly closed, " I remember some time ago we were talking, and you said you wanted to try something new"

Steve looked at him, confused, but he quickly got answers as he opened the door further to reveal (Y/n) standing there in nothing but a Blue pegging dildo. It was like the breath had been stolen from him.

"What do you think?" (Y/n) asked as she stroked the dildo. She did a little spin showing him her nakedness, that there was no harness, and that the other end was inside her. Steve didn't say anything, not trusting himself to speak he nodded his head as he looked her up and down. She giggled at his loss for words.

"Sorry, I may have told her about your dream," Bucky said as he watched her walk up to him.

Steve held his breath as she stood in between his legs. She places his hands on her hips, kisses his forehead, and tilts his head to look at her. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have given this to you much sooner"

"Sorry, I just-" he stops mid-sentence looking down at (Y/n) dildo and" Bucky"

"yes-"

"no, this is Bucky. I'd recognize your dick, and this is exactly your dick," Steve said, pulling at her Dildo (Y/n) whined at the sensation, placing her hands on his shoulders. Bucky comes up behind (Y/n), kissing the back of her neck.

"I made is specially made."

"You let someone else touch your dick?!"

"No, God no," Bucky shouted (Y/n) quickly came to his defense.

"We took a class on how to make molds, and then we came home and... made our own mold ... of his penis."

"This," Bucky said as he reached forward in front of (y/n), stroking the dildo, "is one of many. We'll have another night to play with the rest of those. Right now, we're done talking. Time for fun."

Leaning down, Bucky kissed Steve. He moaned as he kissed him, slipping his tongue into his mouth. Tugging on his hair, Bucky pulled Steve back, biting his lip as he went. Pulling him back, he brought him closer to (Y/n) dildo. They watched as he slowly took it between his lips and down his throat.

While the dildo felt like Bucky in his mouth, it lacked a few things. It didn't have the same warmth as Bucky, nor did it twitch when he licked the underneath or spill cum into his mouth when he swallowed. But it was okay because the weight in his mouth was still the same, and it still hit the back of his throat in a good way, and Bucky still moaned all the same.

"Fuck, doesn't he look beautiful" Bucky whispered, and she whimpered as she slowly thrust her hips forward. Bucky reached forward, grabbing at her breast and pulling at her nipples, and kissing along her neck and jaw.

Bucky chuckled as he watched Steve Deepthroat her while stroking himself. Taking a seat next to Steve, he took his cock into his hand and began to kiss along his neck.

(Y/n) thread her fingers through Steve's hair as she slowly thrust into his mouth, careful of making him gag or bruise his throat.

Fair to kind in Bucky's option, but this was her first time he wasn't going to instruct her beyond the minimal. If tonight went well, he'd be teaching her how to properly fuck sooner rather than later.

Suddenly Steve puts a hand on her hip, pushing her away, the other hand pushing Bucky away. She pulled back quickly.

"What's wrong? Does it hurt?" she quickly kneeled in front of him and began to check his throat.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Steve said, reassuring her, kissing her " You're amazing. Too amazing. You guys are going to make me cum"

"I thought that was the point," Bucky said as he began Kissing along his neck again he leaned his head back to give him more access.

"And I thought you wanted to peg me"

"Yes, please," (Y/n) said as she pulled him into a kiss

"You don't have to say please," he chuckled against her lips " Now, do you want me to ride you, or do you want to fuck me? I could go for either or. "

" I... I don't know," she whispered hesitantly, Steve pulled away. He cups her face looking for any doubt or fear.

"Hey, we can stop"

"no," she said quickly, " I just don't know what to do. I-"

" I think she's confused about how she is to fuck you, Steve," Bucky said "And I don't blame her, You are very intimidating and big. " Bucky kisses his shoulder, trying to calm him down. Turning Steve's head, he kisses him gently, opening his mouth for his tongue. Steve moans against him.

Bucky slowly pushed Steve down as he kissed him. As Steve lay down, Bucky trailed kisses down his chest and to his waistline, and he slowly removed his boxers all the way. Flinging them across the room, he crawled back up and kissed Steve. Steve sat up on his elbows has he watched Bucky step away from him.

Standing up, Bucky turned to (Y/n) as she had stepped away to watch them. Pulling her closer and kissing her, he whispered against her lips, "You still want to fuck him?" she nodded against his lips "Use your words"

"I...I want to make love to him "

He smiled against her lips and kissed her as he pulled her closer to the bed and Steve. He helped her into the bed and in between Steve's legs.

"how about you show her," Bucky said

Steve lifted his legs, holding the back of his thighs as he presented himself. (Y/n) held her breath as she saw what he wanted to show her. Nuzzled between his cheeks was a blue jewel. It seemed that (y/n) wasn't the only one Bucky helped prep for tonight. She gently pushed on it, making Steve held his breath.

"I was wondering where this went," she said as she tugged on it. He moaned slightly.

"go ahead, pull it out," Bucky encouraged her.

And she does, slowly pulling it out, she and Bucky watch and listen as Steve arches his back and moans out. His cock twitch and starts to leak precum. He reaches for (Y/n), but Bucky stops him grabbing (y/n) and taking his hand instead, putting it back on the back of his thigh and spreading his legs wider.

"Fuck" Steve cursed as she finally pulled it all the way out.

Taking it from her, Bucky tosses it across the room to be found later.

"You ready?" He asked Steve

"what do you think," he said sarcastically

"What about you?" he asked (Y/n) she nodded "No, need to hear you say it"

"yes...I'm ready"

Bucky helps the two get closer together and get into position between his legs. He helped her line her up with Steve's back entrance. Holding her hips, he helped push her forward inside of him Steve gasped and whimpered. (Y/n) watched as his mouth opened up in pleasure, and he let out a whimper. As she fully sheath inside of him, she leaned over him, her hands on his chest.

" Are you okay?" ( y/n) asked, trying to give him the same treatment they always gave her.

Reaching forward, Steve pulled her down into a kiss. They both moaned as she pushed in deeper. "You said you'd make love to me"

"I don't..."

Leaning over the both of them and pushing them chest to chest Bucky kissed Steve before turning to (Y/n). " I said I would teach you"

Gripping her hips again, Bucky pulled her hips back, leaving on the tip and then pushing her forward inside. Back and forth she went with Bucky leading her hips at a steady pace Steve moaned as he felt her faux cock fucked him slow and good, stroking him deep. Making Love to him just as she said.

"Ah, look at you touching me good." he moaned out breathlessly with one hand as he pulled her closer "M-making love ...all by yourself ".

It was then that (Y/n) noticed that she was indeed doing it all by herself. She hadn't realized when Bucky let her go, but he was now sitting against the headboard boxers long gone, not stroking his cock and watching them. He was already leaking cum just from watching them. He could not resist such a sight.

"(y/n)," Steve said before he quickly flipped them over with him on top. She moaned out at the sudden movement and feeling. And she continues to moan out as he grinds down on her she tries to grab onto his hips ( as they usually do with her), but he pins her hands to the bed.

Bucky watches as Steve bounces and grinds on the toy while pinning (Y/n) down. She moaned out and arched her up into him, the toy pressing down onto her clit. He watches as Steve's pre-cum leaks onto her stomach.

"Fuck" Steve cursed as he began to slow down, his legs shaking and his cock twitching. (Y/n) saw this and started thrusting up into him, trying to help him reach his end. Was this what Bucky saw? Was this how he felt? It felt so good, and he looked so fucking gorgeous she just wanted to fuck him harder, faster. She wanted to watch him cum like this she wanted to watch him paint her stomach with his cum just as he had done for Bucky many times. She wanted that, she wanted that so bad, she wanted to feel that.

"cum" (y/n) moaned "Cum, fuck, please cum, please cum."

Slipping her hands out of his grasp, she grabbed onto his hips, holding on as she thrust up into him. He moaned as he began to fist his cock, his other hand pulling at the sheets. Seeing what he was doing, she pushed his hand away and began to fist his cock herself. And That was all he needed.

"Yes," (Y/n) praised as Steve began to cum on her stomach. "Oh, oh fuck yes" She continued to stroke him until he was empty and whimpering from the overstimulation.

He then pulled himself off of her and rolled over to the side.

"That...that was amazing," Steve said breathlessly. Turning to look at (Y/n), he found her licking his cum from her hand, and Bucky was licking cum off her stomach. " Fuck," And now he was hard again.

"Why didn't You tell me?" (Y/n) asked as she lay on his chest, tracing patterns on his skin.

"I don't know, I just ..." Steve sighed " I didn't know how or when to bring it up. Wasn't avoiding it just didn't know how to talk about it. I really don't know, and I'm sorry"

Steve truly didn't know why he kept quiet, he just did. He could give some excuses, and maybe he could find some truth in them, but he could not confidently say why. Maybe this was a conversation with his therapist. No, he piled enough on her without adding his sex life to the mix. ( (Y/n) would bring it up in marriage counseling later on)

"Sorry? Don't be sorry"

"If anyone is sorry, I am," Bucky mumbled he was on the other side of Steve, lying on his shoulder, slowly dozing off. " I told her your secret instead of waiting for you to tell her, and I'm sorry."

Bucky knew it probably should have kept his mouth shut, but he wanted to Steve to experience something new and feel good. At their age and with everything they've been through, it was hard to experience new things.

"I would have never experienced it if you didn't say anything. We would have never had this amazing night. So thank you" Steve kissed his forehead. (Y/n) leaned over and kissed Bucky as well. "Thank both of you"

"Don't thank me . Just doing what I love," (Y/n) said as she kissed him "You"

She and Bucky dissolved into fits of giggles. Steve groaned but did not pull away from their embrace.

They loved him.

Permanent

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miela · 1 year

Text

Shattered Memories • Chapter I: The Expo & The Files • {Peter Parker x Stark!Reader}

Chapter Genre: Angst Chapter Warnings: Flashback Death (writing it hurt me lmao), Mentions of substance abuse and alcholism. Masterlist

↪ divider by firefly-graphics

DIARY / Dream Log #3 / 10 NOV 2024

Dear Diary,

I dreamt of him again last night…the faceless boy

For the past few nights I've been dreaming of this boy. I didn't remember the dreams but I remember him. I can't remember what he looked like. It's like I remember the essence of him. Like he existed but he's nowhere to be found.

Only this time I remembered.

We were at the studio on a rainy day. I was wearing a long sleeve fitted crop top and matching leggings with my ballet shoes on.The pink of my slippers were a stark contrast against the black of my outfit. He was wearing a black fitted muscle shirt with black leggings under a pair of loose fitting Midtown Tech PE shorts. He was wearing a pair of star wars socks, which I found quite adorable. We were dancing playfully around the studio as we laughed at ourselves for not dancing so seriously but instead sliding across the floor and twirling each other as if we were ipart of a dance number in a musical

I wish I could remember his face.

I remember loving his smile. It's such a pretty smile, that much I know…but I don't remember what it looks like. I just know it brought me comfort and joy. His hair is soft and curly. He has such lovely hair. It feels soft and silky in my hands as I ran my hand through them a few times just to feel them. His eyes are puppy-like but I don't know what color they are. I just…know how they are.

It's strange to dream of someone and have no idea what they look like, but knowing little details that explains what they look like. It’s like running to a destination and then having no idea where you’re going.

He likes to kiss my cheek and his lips feel velvety on my skin. He calls me different pet names too.

"Baby, you’re going to hurt yourself."

"My little Lovebug."

"Are you hungry, Darling?"

"Princess, you’re doing great!"

"There’s my Pretty Girl~"

His voice is soft, just like everything about him. (Well…minus his arms and chest and abs…) but his voice is like music to my ears. I would respond with my own pet names for him.

“Don’t worry, My Love, I’ve been doing this my whole life.”

“My Sweet Boy~”

“No, I’m okay, Baby.”

“It’s like you’re my own Disney Prince.”

“And there’s my Handsome Boy~”

We danced around the studio for about an hour until we laid on the floor facing each other tiredly. His fingers traced over my hips and waist several times causing my skin to react to his touch. I scoot closer to him until our faces are centimeters apart. I could hear his heartbeat and I’m pretty sure he could hear mine. We have a special connection that is different from most. It was a biological connection that I couldn’t place.

I wish he was real. Then maybe I wouldn't feel so fucking lonely.

I leaned in to kiss him before something happened. He glitched. He glitched and my head felt like it was splitting in half with a migraine so painful that I woke up dizzy, shaking and sweating.

How strange…and terrifying.

[END NOTE]

The night was in good weather and the streets of New York City were bustling and busy, as per usual. Life was moving on as usual. The sun and moon cycled as usual.

The year is 2030.

Five years had gone by after the incident at the Statue of Liberty. Five years since you were forced to forget him along with the rest of the world.

No one knew who Peter Parker was. Not a single soul. To anyone that would be a terrifying thought, but it was something Peter himself had to accept.

He was swinging across buildings in the city one night, as usual. He was on his nightly patrol doing the same thing he's always done—protect the little guy. He figured it would be a somewhat busy night considering today was a special day so, he would probably have to protect some of the…not so little guys as well. He only stopped when he saw one of the big screens in Time Square and decided that this was a good spot to watch from.

It was showing the Stark Expo.

It had been awhile since he'd been excited about the beloved and annually anticipated event. Before, it hurt too much to bear with everything that happened but he was particularly intrigued with this one this year because this is when you made your official debut as the new owner of Stark Industries, and he knew you always wanted to make a big entrance. Much like your father, Tony Stark.

Only you wanted to do it bigger. Better.

Peter remembered different ideas you came up with for when the tech company torch was passed down to you. You said no to fireworks because the constant loud noises bother you and it was disrespectful to veterans, animals and those who are like you and sensitive to sound, even more so as a mutant human with super hearing.Other ideas you thought of were outlandish like setting something on fire or blowing something up (which Peter reminded you, contradicted your statement about the fireworks) and some were outrageous like blasting out of a giant cake. Eventually you came up with a solid plan that seemed to have fit your personality and mission as the legacy. You had it all planned out in a digital notebook with blueprints, lists, distributors, catering options and many more categories. Peter loved to watch you while you were fixated on something. It showed how much passion you had. He wondered how you felt leading up to the event.

He wished he could have been there.

There was a countdown on the screen for when the Expo was going to begin. Peter's friends invited him to go with them to see the Expo but he decided against it and used the excuse of having a lot of work; for school, for home and his job. Really he just couldn't handle the crowd right now he didn’t think he would be able to handle being so close to and yet so far from you.

Also he's Spiderman. He's got his hero duties to do.

With school, work, trying to function as an adult and being Spiderman, he was a busy guy, and that was the only thing that kept him distracted from thinking about his friends, his family, Mr. Stark, you…

Especially you.

There were times when he looked at the necklace you gave back to him and remembered what you had said to him.

"Give this back to me, I'll remember you."

But he knew it wouldn't be that simple.

Five years ago, he had full intentions of calling you at seven like he promised but...he didn’t. He went to your window later that night instead. You were sitting on your bed sadly looking at a picture of you and your dad. It had been a year since you both lost Tony but it was taking you a longer time to move on for obvious reasons. He was your actual father and you knew him much longer. Tony was like a father figure to Peter, but he's been to this rodeo four times already.

This was the first time you lost someone so close to you in such a way.

Peter recalled that day. He remembered how you were.

Pepper had her arm around a crying Peter’s shoulders. Rhodey had given you a sad and apologetic look as you went over to Tony. You kneeled down by him.

"Dad, we did it." You said going up to him, your voice shaking as you put your hands on his shoulders. "Pops, we won. You did it. You…you…"

You paused when you saw the state of him. Half of his body was fried from using the infinity stones and he was taking his last breaths. Peter put his hand on your shoulder and you glanced at him with a fearful and hopeful look in your eyes. He pressed his lips together in a thin line giving you an apologetic and pained look. He had that same look you had in his eyes a moment ago.

“No,” you shook your head and looked back at Tony. “Dad, please. We….we….we won.”

Tony looked at you one last time and weakly pointed to his heart before pointing to yours. You understood what he meant by it and you sighed deeply, nodding before he forced a small smile on his face that was barely there and took his final breath.

Your lip quivered and you leaned your forehead on his. “I love you, Daddy. I love you so much.”

Then the arc reactor light on his chest went out.

Peter sat next to you after a moment and you instantly wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug and you hugged him back both of you crying your eyes out and attempting to comfort each other. Peter had to carry you back and he didn’t put you down until you had cried yourself to sleep on his shoulder.

Remembering that moment and then remembering how you were afterwards, it dawned on him how things played out. Peter was your rock, and you were his, but he had already made his decision.

Your name was called and you perked up before quickly wiping your eyes and softly calling “Coming!”

You put down the photo on your end table and then walked out of your room. Once it was safe to do so, Peter climbed into your window and gathered any trace of his existence and put it in a box and left with it.

Would he regret this? He had no idea.

He had run into once or twice or three times after that but as Spiderman and when he was saving your life from any danger. Nothing too eventful.

And that is how he ended up here five years later with a new life so different from yours.

The countdown made it to the 10 second mark and Peter was knocked out of his thoughts to pay attention to the screen. Once the mark hit zero the intro began.

Instantly he recognized the song. Back in Black by AC/DC.

Different forms of tech and inventions were brought onto the stage in an almost cinematic way. Lights flashed, sparks flew, and the crowd went wild. Fireworks went off in the sky to Peter’s surprise but he was even more surprised when they made no sound. He concluded that you somehow made soundless fireworks. He wondered when and how you came up with that one.

Once the platforms finished forming on the stage he spotted something flying in the sky. He didn’t sense danger from it but it was headed towards the expo.

“Hey Karen, zoom in on that thing in the sky.”

“Okay, Peter.” and with that the lens of his mask zoomed in on the flying object. It was red and gold and mechanical…

Wait, could it be…?

“It appears to be an Ironman suit.” Karen stated.

“Who is it…?” Peter wondered.

“Activating X-Ray Scan Function.”

“Wait a minute…!” Peter panicked. “What if they’re naked…!”

“Be serious, Spiderman.” Karen retorted while deactivating the x-ray scan.

Peter was taken aback by his AI. “Wow, Karen, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“All Stark Industries AI have been updated with a Bestie Feature created by (Y/N) Stark.”

Peter smirked to himself. “Classic (Y/N/N).”

You landed on a mid-rise platform on the stage as it lowered to the regular height. The crowd was cheering loudly as you stepped out of the iron suit and Peter was taken aback.

You looked amazing.

You wore an oversized blazer with a black dress underneath and knee high combat boots. Your lips were painted a bright red color and your nails were a teal blue that Peter recognized you always wearing. Under the dazzling lights of the Expo. You looked happy, healthy and lovely as ever.

Just how Peter hoped for you.

You danced your way across the stage before you stood poised at the podium, your confidence radiating, much like how Tony was. The audience hushed, anticipation hanging in the air as they waited to hear from the new owner of Stark Industries, Tony Stark's eldest daughter, (Y/N) Stark.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests and partners," you began, your voice steady yet carrying an echo of nervousness that Peter recognized all too well that others wouldn’t. “How are we all doing tonight?!”

The crowd went wild and you grinned in response.

"Good glad to hear it because today marks a significant milestone – not just for Stark Industries, but for a legacy that my father, Tony Stark, entrusted me to carry forward."

The crowd erupted in applause, the memory of Tony Stark's genius and charisma still fresh in their minds, even five years after his passing. Your presence on that stage, the spitting image of confidence of your father with a twist of your own determination, stirred a mix of nostalgia and curiosity in everyone. Even people on the street stopped and watched curiously and anxiously. Once the crowd calmed down, you continued on with your speech. Peter sat on top of the tall building that was right across from the screen that he was watching. You looked a little different but you were still as beautiful as he could remember.

“Tony Stark was many things; a visionary, a genius, a multi-billionaire, a philanthropist, an American patriot, a playboy, a raging smart ass…”

The crowd laughed, and you continued.

“But to me, he was my number one supporter, my greatest mentor, my biggest inspiration and my best friend."

You looked back at the Ironman Suit that you arrived in longingly for a moment before turning back to the crowd.

“When I was nine years old, my dad was taken by terrorists. He told me those three months were a huge awakening for him and changed the trajectory of his life. Through those dark times he went in a man, and came out a hero. A year later, he had learned that he had made enemies and then one day, our home in Malibu was blown to pieces. Each and every attempt to knock him down only made him come back stronger and stronger...and each time he became more and more my hero.”

Peter agreed with you from his sitting place in the building and the crowd cheered once again.

“Obviously, I began to notice at a young age what was happening. I did inherit his genius after all. And I began to ask questions, lots of questions.”

“One day he pulled me off to the side and He told me, ’(Y/N/N), one day this company will be yours and I want this to be a learning lesson for you. I want you to learn from my mistakes, instead of your own. I want you to grow to be a better person than I am’... I still hold those words close to me and I wonder how I can even be half of the genius and a fraction of the hero that he was...and still is to many people? I don't think I ever could. But because he believed in me so deeply, I will be. Even though he is gone from this world, he's still in my heart, guiding me.”

"Change is inevitable, and with change comes the opportunity to create a brighter future,” you continued, your eyes alight with determination but Peter could tell that you did it to hide the pain. "My father once said that his suit was a cocoon, and he emerged as Iron Man. Stark Industries is my cocoon, and I am committed to guiding it toward new heights of innovation and impact.”

“I remember his speech here at the expo, after he revealed himself as the iron hero and how he said ‘it's not about us, it's about legacy’. I stand before you as a testament to my father's belief in progress, innovation, and the power of human potential," you stated. "Tony Stark was more than a genius inventor; he was a visionary who saw challenges as opportunities, who dared to dream the impossible and then turn those dreams into reality."

The holographic screens around the stage displayed images of Tony Stark's greatest creations: the Iron Man suits, the Arc Reactor, the revolutionary technologies that had changed the world and his one of his greatest creations stands in the middle of all of it.

You.

“So I will go on with this genius mind and this heart made of gold and iron that I inherited from one of the greatest people I have ever known and be the heir of legacy that he believed me to be.”

Peter looked at the screen, his heart swelling at your words and the emotion and passion in your voice. He could only imagine how this was for you.

"As the new owner of Stark Industries, I take this responsibility seriously," you asserted. "My father's legacy was not just about technology; it was about making a difference. And that is what Stark Industries will continue to do under my guidance, because with great power comes great responsibility."

Peter could have swore that his heart exploded. That was what his Aunt May had told him right before she died. He wondered where you heard it from. “Now, just because I came down in the suit, doesn’t mean I’m trying to be the new Iron Man. Oh no, I’m trying to be a different kind of hero…but I will work hard to find someone who will be suitable to wear it.” You stated and the crowd seemed to look at you understanding.

After that, you spoke of a renewed commitment to clean energy, sustainable technologies, and global initiatives aimed at improving lives.The audience was captivated, witnessing the torch being passed from one generation to another, seamlessly transitioning from Tony's leadership to your vision. Peter was also captivated by the strong and determined person you have grown to be.

Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was better that he was out of your memories and your life.

“Now a few words from the man who walked and the man who ran so that I could fly.” You smiled.

Your words resonated deeply with the audience as you concluded your speech. The applause that followed was thunderous, a testament to the faith they had in your ability to carry on your father's legacy. Peter couldn't be anymore proud of you than he already was.

He just wished he was by your side, supporting you.

As you stepped down from the podium, Peter couldn't help but feel the weight of the moment.

The Stark Legacy was in your hands now, and you were ready to honor it and not by imitating your father, but by carving your own path while staying true to his spirit of innovation, determination, and a desire to make the world a better place. Just as you had told Peter once before.

Peter pressed his lips together under his mask as he watched you. He watched as you walked off stage as a video of Howard Stark began to play. He talked about the initial mission for Stark Industries. Then Tony’s video came on, and he spoke about legacy and the future. It sure seemed like the future of Stark Industries was bright with your mission to push it even further with technology for space exploration of the solar system, and making technology that can advance cybernetics and construction tools.

Peter wished nothing for the best for you, but he couldn’t help but wish he could be by your side while doing all of it. Something told him to go to you and tell you everything but another part of him told him to do the opposite and stay as far away from you as possible, but he had decided a while ago that he would just let you have your own space to grow before he attempted to come back into your life…before he would return the necklace to you, but the more he thought about it the more he feared doing it. He had tried once with Ned and MJ before they left for MIT, but he also chickened out. He couldn't even get close to Celina since she was training with Doctor Strange. He figured by now it would be a dead end anyways.

So he promised to support you guys from a distance. A big one.

The wail of sirens echoed down below fading in and out as they passed by and that was Peter’s signal to resume his duty as the beloved web slinging, wall crawling hero that he was meant to be.

You had left the Expo early.

You left after you actually gave your speech. You had better things to do than to pretend that everything was okay. These five years were tough on you. You have lost so much and so many people and even five years later it deeply affects you. You were definitely better than you were years ago though. You pretty much flew off the handle and went off the deep end. You did some dumb shit and did some bad shit, took some dumb shit and took some bad shit and now you’re trying to forget all of the dumb shit and the bad shit. Lucky for you, you always kept a low profile.

Everyone knew Tony Stark had a daughter but he kept you out of the public eye for good reason.

You preferred it that way anyways. It made life and school easier. You went as far as to take up the name (Y/N) Jarvis and take the bus home from school to keep your identity a secret. You were in no way ashamed to be a Stark, in fact, you were proud of it. You just didn’t want the unwanted attention that comes with being a famous person’s offspring. You could already hear the nepo baby accusations for everything (not that they were really wrong…).

So, when you went on a bender for a year, no one knew who you were. When you decided to take things to forget your pain, no one batted a pretty eye.

Except those who did know you of course.

You’d rather not think about how you broke Pepper and Happy’s hearts seeing you like that. Or how selfish you had been. It wasn’t until you were at your worst one day, where you finally decided that you were gonna get your act together. It wasn’t easy…it was far from easy. You had spent the first half of the first year utterly depressed from the loss of your father and the next half was your party girl bender era, much too young from doing anything that you were doing. The year after that was recovery and the years after that was making amends with everything you made crash and burn.

This year you worked. A lot.

You spent most of your time in your lab at the avenger’s compound creating and inventing while also scolding DUM-E, the help robot your father created, for doing too much. Which is where you were right now instead of networking with people you really didn’t give a flying fuckaroo about at the expo.

You had more important matters to attend to.

Usually you would be working on a new AI format (that wasn’t the debauchery that Ultron was..) or the car you were supposed to build with Tony before he passed, but with the world in near shambles all the time, you have a different project you were working on.

The NAI— New Avengers Initiative.

After the fight with Thanos and the blip coming undone by the hands of your father’s sacrifice, shit went sideways in your eyes. You recalled how people reacted when the world went back to normal, you recalled Sam and Bucky going on missions to stop a literal child from causing a mass murder attempt on government officials, you recalled Sam becoming the new Captain America and his beautiful call out speech to those government officials, and you recalled the day five years ago at the statue of liberty.

Sort of.

You had remembered a battle, you had remembered being there with Ned, Celina and MJ, but you honestly weren’t really sure why you were there and you didn’t understand why you were crying so hard.

Come to think of it, why were you crying at all?

You fought all types of enemies including the Big 3 (Aliens, Robots, and Wizards) as Sam likes to put it. You have fought terrorists, governments, hell you have fought in the civil war of the avengers, and yet you had the waterworks about a battle you couldn’t even remember. You blamed it on the realization that you would have to fight big battles without your biological family and chosen family the same way anymore, but…you felt like something else was missing, like a big part of you was carved out of your life. It was like there was this big hole in your chest and you tried to fill it with everything imaginable. You failed miserably.

It must be the dreams you were having.

You kept dreaming about a boy, and everytime you dream about him you’re super happy. The happiest you have ever been. The only problem is you couldn’t remember who he was and why you kept dreaming about him. Since those dreams began you have been having terrible headaches and nothing has been really fixing them. Morgan would tease you in her oh-so-annoying-little-sibling-way and basically say that your brain is trying not to be stupid for once.

God forbid she knew you were dreaming about a boy. You wouldn’t hear the end of it.

“FRIDAY,” You stated as you sat in your chair in thought. “Pull up all the files on the Avengers.”

“The remaining ones or All of them?” the voice asked.

“All,” you replied. “Minus me, I know me. Very well actually.”

“Pulling up Avenger’s database right now, miss.”

Holographic screens appear in front of you. “Spread them out. Circular please.”

The screens surround you as if they were a council meeting. You walked to each one studying them as you reminisced on your past relationship and current stance with each of them now.

You heavily looked up to Natasha Romanoff and she was like a big sister to you.

Now she’s dead.

You deeply admired Wanda Maximoff, and even had a mini crush on her.

But she went rogue and is now nowhere to be found.

You adored Vision, since he was the personification of AI Jarvis.

But you don’t know what happened to him either.

You also admired Steve Rogers, and he was like a big brother to you.

But he decided to go back to the past and live his own life.

Thor was like your goofy uncle and you loved him like one.

But he has his own thing going on in New Asgard and with the Guardians of the Galaxy.

Doctor Bruce Banner you felt so much for. You honestly admired him too. You were one of the only people who didn’t fear him as the Hulk but rather felt pity for him.

You decided he needed to be left alone, even though he was better now.

Scott was cool. He was also like a cool uncle figure.

But he has other matters to worry about. Including a family.

Same with Clint. You learned alot from him.

But he only came out of retirement by force. You didn’t wanna bother him.

Doctor Stephen Strange you found amusing.

But you currently hate magic, that’s more of Celina’s thing. Possibly Ned too apparently.

You look at each of them as if this is the only way you could send them off with good riddance…for some of them it was true. Some of them you expect to never see again. You long accepted that already and wished nothing but the best for the rest of them and you hoped they all could find peace as much as they could. You sighed and smiled as you looked over all of them, but your eyes landed on a screen that would change the trajectory of your life.

You let your eyes scan the face of a puppy-eyed figure with brown curls and boyish features. There was something vaguely familiar but so foreign about him. It bothered you. You read the name.

“Peter Parker…” His name tasted familiar on your tongue, like you had spoken it many times before.

Could it be…?

“FRIDAY,” you asked. “Give me all the information on Peter Parker that we have.”

“Certainly,” she responded and pulled up more screens. “Peter Parker. Age: 21. Would have been 26 but he was part of The Blip. Hair Color: Brown, Eye Color: Brown. Ethnicity: Some sort of European descent, seems to be English by the last name.”

“Okay, okay but like ...who is he in the Avengers?”

“He is Spiderman and he was taken under the wing of your father.”

Your face twisted in confusion. “Huh? How…?”

You knew Spiderman. You remember Spiderman as your partner on Missions. You two bonded over the fact that you both had Spider powers. You even built his and your suits and begged your father not to tell him that it was you for some odd reason…oh yeah you had a major crush on him. Your suits synced up to each other making you both the Iron Spider.

Two Spider Mutants + Stark Tech = Iron Spider.

As you scanned your neurons for memories, you tried to remember his face. Surely, you knew his face…but you couldn’t place it. Really, all this time you just thought Spiderman was Harley Keener, but now that you think about it…nothing in that thought process would make any sense. After all he’s from Tennessee and has been in the same room as Spiderman. You recall sleeping on the Quinjet with Spiderman with your head on his shoulder and his head on top of yours. You recall even fighting “against” him in the Avengers Civil War.

That’s a different story for a different day.

You went through a plethora of memories but you could never remember his face and it peeved you to no end. Did he just hide his identity from everyone? He was young and honestly you did the same thing for a while, so you don't really blame him. After you gave the heroic works, he continued being the friendly neighborhood spiderman, helping the little guy. But things weren’t adding up in your mind still.

Especially if he knew your father on a close level to wear he took him under his iron wing.

“Peter Parker,” you said softly again. “Who are you? How did you meet my father…? Are you the boy in my dreams…?”

“The Database says he was part of the Stark Internship. Which was a Pseudonym for his Avenger call.” FRIDAY responded.

“Something isn’t adding up,…” you said, chewing your lip, vexed. “Why don’t I recognize him?”

“Would you like me to do a deeper search, miss?”

Invading his personal information? You thought.

“How deep are we talking, Fri?” You squint your eyes at the picture of Peter Parker, as if you were addressing him.

“I can go as far back as to the day he was born and as deep as to where he is right now.”

You nearly fell out of your chair. “FRIDAY…!”

“It’s the way I was built, miss. You can’t blame me.”

You snorted.

“FRIDAY, that is stalker behavior,” You respond, thinking no more than ten seconds on the idea. After all, if you knew each other personally I’m sure he told you most of this stuff already.

And if he’s the boy from your dreams…

“Do it.”

And this is how everything changed.

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