#recording studio near me

[tyxstudios]

Bring Your Sound and Systems to Life With TYX Studios

TYX Studios offers state- of- the- art recording studios uk, designed to meet the requirements of artists, directors, and sound masterminds. Equipped with the rearmost technology and high- quality acoustics, their workrooms give an ideal terrain for music product, voiceovers, and post- production work. Whether you are an independent artist or part of a larger product team, TYX Studios ensures a professional and creative space to bring your systems to life. Visit their website to explore the range of recording workrooms available and book a session.

[miamirecordingstudio]

Behind The Scenes At Miami Music Recording Studios: Exclusive Interviews With Studio Engineers And Producers

Music recording studios have long been places of mystery and intrigue, allowing musicians to create masterpieces that captivate audiences around the world.

It is within these walls that some of the greatest works of art are crafted, yet few people ever get a chance to peek behind the curtain.

This article provides an opportunity for readers to gain insight into one such studio: Miami Music Recording Studios.

Through exclusive interviews with studio engineers and producers, readers will be given access to the inner workings of this leading music production facility.

A rare glimpse at the creative process and technical expertise necessary for crafting great work awaits those who read on.

The Art Of Producing: How Miami Music Recording Studio Engineers And Producers Shape The Sound Of Hit Records

Miami Music Recording Studios, also known as the 'House of Hits,' has helped to shape some of the most iconic hits in modern music history. It is a place where engineers and producers come together to blend technical skill with artistic vision, creating unique sounds that stand out from other recordings.

The art of producing records at Miami Music Recording Studios is an intricate process that relies on both engineering prowess and creative insight. To begin, studio engineers must decide which pieces of equipment best suit the sound they are trying to achieve. This includes everything from microphones and amplifiers to signal processors and equalizers.

Once these elements have been selected, it's up to the producer or engineer to experiment with different settings until they find the perfect balance between clarity and texture. The work doesn't stop there – once all of the tracks have been recorded, mixed and mastered, it's time for post-production activities such as overdubbing, sampling, looping and editing.

During this stage, small changes can mean big differences in terms of overall tone and feel. With each decision made by the engineer or producer comes another layer of detail added to create something truly special – a hit record that stands apart from others on the market today.

Creating The Perfect Studio Atmosphere: How Miami Music Recording Studio Engineers And Producers Foster A Collaborative And Creative Environment

The art of producing music is a complex and creative process that requires the perfect atmosphere to thrive. As such, Miami Music Recording Studio engineers and producers strive to cultivate an environment that encourages collaboration, inspiration, and productivity.

By creating an inviting atmosphere through the use of professional equipment and instruments, as well as encouraging open communication between all parties involved in the project, these professionals are able to foster a collaborative spirit essential for successful recordings.

In addition to providing high-quality gear and promoting productive conversations among artists, studio engineers also pay special attention to details like soundproofing rooms properly or setting up multiple microphones around drum kits for optimal recording quality.

Furthermore, careful consideration is given when it comes to selecting appropriate acoustics within each room – from selecting furniture materials with ideal acoustic properties to testing different types of speaker placement – all designed for maximum sound clarity and comfort during recording sessions.

By taking into account both technical aspects of production as well as the emotional needs of their clients, Miami Music Recording Studios ensure everyone works together comfortably in order to capture those magical moments in time.

This focus on fostering creativity while maintaining a professional atmosphere provides necessary resources needed by this team of experts to produce great music consistently.

The Role Of Mentorship: How Miami Music Recording Studio Engineers And Producers Help Develop The Next Generation Of Musicians

In a creative production setting, the mentorship of experienced engineers and producers is like a beacon of light that guides up-and-coming artists on their journey. Through this relationship, both parties are able to gain insight into each other's areas of expertise and benefit from the other’s experience in music production.

At Miami Music Recording Studios, these mentors provide invaluable guidance for emerging talent as they develop their musical skillset. The studio environment is an ideal breeding ground for collaboration between veterans and novices alike. The mentor can share with young musicians not only technical knowledge but also practical advice about the industry itself.

By providing helpful tips on networking, branding, and marketing strategies, veteran engineers help foster more successful careers for aspiring professionals. This kind of assistance allows artists to better understand what it takes to succeed in the music business while honing their craft in the recording process.

Mentorship at Miami Music Recording Studios helps shape a new generation of creators whose work has gone beyond the confines of traditional genres and styles. With access to seasoned studio personnel who have worked with some of the biggest names in popular music, contemporary musicians learn how to apply innovative techniques when producing original tracks or remixes.

Thus, by learning from those who have paved the way before them, budding talents gain confidence and build strong foundations upon which they can continue building their artistic legacies long after leaving the studio walls behind them.

Navigating The Business Side: Insights From Miami Music Recording Studio Engineers And Producers On Managing Projects And Building Long-Term Client Relationships

The success of any music production project is largely dependent on the ability of studio engineers and producers to manage projects, budgets, and schedules. In Miami recording studios, it is essential for these professionals to be able to navigate the business side in order to ensure successful outcomes.

Here are some insights from leading Miami music recording studios engineers and producers:

* Establishing a clear budget before beginning work allows everyone involved in the project understand their financial responsibility upfront. This helps eliminate potential issues during production when deadlines need to be met or revisions requested by clients.

* When working with clients, building relationships that last beyond one-off projects can be more profitable than short-term transactions. Producers should strive to create an atmosphere of trust between themselves and their clientele so as not to disrupt workflow throughout the duration of the production process.

* Maintaining communication throughout every step of a music production project is key for both staying within budget and keeping clients satisfied with quality service delivery. Studio engineers must keep records of all conversations they have had with clients related to the project including notes about preferences, requests, and feedback given at each stage.

In addition to effectively managing projects, budgets, and schedules; producing high-quality results also requires sound technical knowledge coupled with strong interpersonal skills such as patient listening and precise execution of instructions. These qualities even form part of what makes certain Miami recording studios stand out from others in this competitive industry.

Conclusion

The engineers and producers at Miami Music Recording Studios are the musical architects of hit records, as well as mentors to young musicians. Through their collaborative atmosphere and creative processes they have provided a platform for aspiring artists to grow into successful professionals.

Moreover, by managing projects with careful attention to detail and relationship building, these talented individuals ensure that business remains steady in an ever-changing industry.

In conclusion, it is clear that without the expertise of the studio personnel at Miami Music Recording Studios, many beautiful works of art would not exist. As such, we must recognize and pay homage to their invaluable contributions which continue to enrich our lives musically through metaphor and simile.

House Of Hits Recording Studio

300 NE 75th St Unit 112, Miami, FL 33138

Phone: (305) 907-3440

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

The Cranberries - Zombie 1994

"Zombie" is a protest song by Irish alternative rockband the Cranberries. It was written by the lead singer, Dolores O'Riordan, about the young victims of a bombing in Warrington, England, during the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The song was released on 19 September 1994 as the lead single from the Cranberries' second studio album, No Need to Argue. While the record label feared releasing a too controversial and politically charged song as a single, "Zombie" reached number 1 on the charts of Australia, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, and Iceland, and spent nine consecutive weeks at number 1 on the French SNEP Top 100. It reached number 2 on the Ö3 Austria Top 40, where it stayed for eight weeks. The song did not chart on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart as it wasn't released as a single there, but it reached number 1 on the US Billboard Alternative Airplay chart. Listeners of the Australian radio station Triple J voted it number 1 on the 1994 Triple J Hottest 100 chart, and it won the Best Song Award at the 1995 MTV Europe Music Awards.

The Troubles were a conflict in Northern Ireland from the late 1960s to 1998. The Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA), an Irish republican paramilitary organisation, waged an armed campaign to end British rule in Northern Ireland and unite the region with the Republic of Ireland. Republican and Unionist paramilitaries killed more than 3,500 people, many from thousands of bomb attacks. One of the bombings happened on 30 March 1993, as two IRA improvised explosive devices hidden in litter bins were detonated in a shopping street in Warrington, England. Two people; Johnathan Ball, aged 3, and Tim Parry, aged 12, were killed in the attack. 56 people were injured. Ball died at the scene of the bombing as a result of his shrapnel-inflicted injuries, and five days later, Parry lost his life in a hospital as a result of head injuries. O'Riordan decided to write a song that reflected upon the event and the children's deaths after visiting the town: "We were on a tour bus and I was near the location where it happened, so it really struck me hard – I remember being devastated about the innocent children being pulled into that kind of thing. So I suppose that's why I was saying, 'It's not me' – that even though I'm Irish it wasn't me, I didn't do it. Because being Irish, it was quite hard, especially in the UK when there was so much tension." The song was re-popularised in 2023 after it was played after Ireland games at the 2023 Rugby World Cup. It was picked up by fans of the Irish team, with videos of fans singing the song in chorus accumulating hundreds of thousands of views on social media. This offended other Irishmen, who identified it as an "anti-IRA" anthem, and said that that the lyrics failed to consider their experience during the Troubles.

The music video, directed by Samuel Bayer, was filmed in Belfast, Northern Ireland, in the heart of the Troubles with real footage, and in Dublin. To record video footage of murals, children and British Army soldiers on patrol, he had a false pretext, with a cover story about making a documentary about the peace-keeping efforts in Ireland. Bayer stated that a shot in the video where an SA80 rifle is pointed directly at the camera is a suspicious British soldier asking him to leave, and that the IRA were keeping a close look at the shoot, given "the British Army come in with fake film crews, getting people on camera.” While "Zombie" received heavy rotation on MTV Europe and was A-listed on Germany's VIVA, the music video was banned by the BBC because of its "violent images", and by the RTÉ, Ireland's national broadcaster. Instead, both the BBC and the RTÉ opted to broadcast an edited version focusing on footage of the band in a live performance, a version that the Cranberries essentially disowned. Despite their efforts to maintain the original video "out of view from the public", some of the initial footage prevailed, with scenes of children holding guns. In March 2003, on the eve of the outbreak of the Iraq War, the British Government and the Independent Television Commission issued a statement saying ITC's Programme Code would temporarily remove from broadcast songs and music videos featuring "sensitive material", including "Zombie". Numerous media groups complied with the decision to avoid "offending public feeling", along with MTV Europe. Since it violated the ITC guidelines, "Zombie" was placed on a blacklist of songs, targeting its official music video. The censorship was lifted once the war had ended. In April 2020, it became the first song by an Irish group to surpass one billion views on Youtube.

"Zombie" received a total of 91% yes votes!

[jobbirecordingstudio]

Looking for music producers near you? Discover the importance of finding the right collaborator, where to find them, and tips for selection. Explore local studios, online platforms, and networking opportunities. Consider factors like genre compatibility, previous work, communication, and budget. Start your search today and embark on a fulfilling musical collaboration!

[zoomglobal]

best pod cast studio los angeles - Zoom Recording Studio

Recording Studio is your one-stop spot for all of your professional recording needs. We offer an individual working environment that allows artists and bands to focus on their creative and artistic processes. Our recording and monitoring rooms are designed to achieve the most precise acoustic properties and wound possible. The Studio features an impressive collection of High End Equipment. bit.ly/3zyaKwZ

[steddieas-shegoes]

pop goes metal

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'alternate universe'

rated t | 964 words | cw: language | tags: famous corroded coffin, pop star steve harrington, flirting, getting together

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

"No fuckin' way are we working with him," Eddie argues with their manager. "You're always so worried about our image and then you go and have us doing a song with a fuckin' pop artist?"

The manager, Anthony, rolls his eyes. "It'll broaden your fanbase. You know who spends money on shit? Women. You know who likes Steve Harrington? Women."

"Does he even write his own shit?" Gareth asks.

"Does it matter?" Eddie turned to him with a glare. "Even if he writes it, it's not our style."

"Maybe we could at least hear what he's trying to work with us on?" Jeff, always the calming presence, asked towards Anthony.

"He sent over a sample before we sign any agreements."

Eddie sat down in the chair furthest from everyone else, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Now, this isn't an official recording. Just what he did on his phone on his tour bus with his acoustic guitar. He arranged the bass already for Frankie, too, but said he's open to whatever Gareth feels is right for the drums." Anthony pressed play on his phone and the room was filled with strumming and a surprisingly raspy voice singing what was clearly a chorus.

Eddie could pretend he hated it, and maybe the guys would agree with him and they'd never have to speak of this again.

He couldn't hide his reaction fast enough, though.

His jaw dropped as he listened to the lyrics, surprised to find that they weren't just about going to a club and dancing or being in love.

Steve's voice broke at the end before there was shuffling and the recording stopped.

Eddie felt everyone's eyes on him. He closed his mouth and looked down at the floor, tapping his fingers against his arm.

"It's not bad," he finally said. "Not sure why he needs us, though."

"Apparently, his brother is a huge fan of you and suggested he try to work with you."

"I think we should do it." Jeff said, a note of finality in his tone that Eddie knew he wouldn't try arguing with.

"Yeah, can't hurt." Frankie shrugged.

"If he's giving me creative freedom on the drums, how can I say no?" Gareth smirked.

"Guess we're working with the pop diva, then."

****

Steve Harrington was nothing like what they expected.

He showed up to their studio in sweats and glasses, holding a tablet and a bottle of Tylenol. They started to introduce themselves as he found a spot on the couch.

"I'm really glad you guys were willing to work with me," he said after he shook everyone's hand.

Eddie stared.

"My uh, my brother, Dustin, he's kinda why I wrote this song and I know it means a lot that you agreed to be on it," Steve continued. "So, thanks. Hopefully it doesn't ruin your vibes or anything."

Eddie felt every wall he built crumbling with every word Steve spoke. God dammit, this man just had to be sincere and hot and talented, didn't he?

"Nah, we're gonna sound great together." Eddie smiled at Steve's wide-eyed look. "You wanna show us the whole song?"

Steve nodded, pulling something up on his phone. Another recording, this one more professional and included an electric guitar.

"Robin was the stand in for the electric while I did bass."

"So you can play bass?" Frankie asked, leaning in.

"Yeah, but my preferred instrument is piano. I just don't do a lot of slow songs. Guitar is what gets the women interested, or so they tell me," Steve smiled awkwardly. "But feel free to change some things up. I'm totally open to suggestions."

But really, it was damn near perfect as it was. Frankie made one tweak during the bridge, but Steve ended up loving it more than the original and told him so with a grin.

"You're a fuckin' genius!" He exclaimed.

Gareth started messing around on the drums while Steve and Eddie worked on the first couple of lines.

"Something still doesn't feel right," Steve mentioned.

"Maybe we change the rhyming pattern?" Eddie suggested. "You've got ABAB. Might work better to do AABB. Some of these words can be moved around to make that work."

Steve stared at the notes app for a moment, then looked back up at Eddie, beaming smile making his eyes squint.

"I could kiss you!" He shouted. As soon as he realized what he said, he blushed, looking back down at the phone. "I mean, thanks. That's a great suggestion."

Eddie searched Steve's face, coming to the conclusion that there was probably a good reason why Steve didn't care about what women liked when it came to his music.

"I have a pretty strict rule about kissing people I work with," Eddie said slowly, quietly so they wouldn't be overheard.

"Yeah, no, that makes sense. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-"

"But we won't be working with each other for long, right?" Eddie continued, letting his hand rest on Steve's thigh. God, he was muscular.

"Um. No I guess not."

"Rain check, then. Until we've finished our professional relationship." Eddie couldn't believe he was suggesting this. Showing interest in a pop star. What's next? Dating one? Marrying one?

"Are you saying you wanna kiss me, Munson?" Steve suddenly sounded more confident.

"I'm saying we've got work to do before I can get my hands on you." Eddie tapped his thigh before pulling away. "So let's get to it."

"Dude! I got it!" Gareth yelled, interrupting their moment.

"Be right there!" Steve yelled back, not looking away from Eddie. "Might break a record for fastest recording time ever just so I can kiss you," Steve added quietly to Eddie before standing and walking over to Gareth.

"Well, fuck." Eddie sighed, smiling to himself.

[buckyalpine]

Hello Shay ! I’ve been loving the civilian!reader fics, and I had an idea for a fic like that, but with a twist 🫣 reader is bucky’s sweet civilian gf, literal definition of sunshine, basically a lover, not a fighter. She’s a ballet teacher at a local studio (hint hint wink wink). And she lives with him and the team at the tower. One night, while the team is out on a mission, Hydra ambushes the tower and tries to take the reader hostage. And when they learn about it, they rush back home in order to save her. Meanwhile, Bucky and Tony check the footage just to see his precious sweet girl absolutely kicking ass. And I mean hardcore, like she even does the entire widow thigh-neck move. And everyone is like??? And Bucky’s just absolutely fucking HORNY bc “hell I’ve been in between those thighs so many times, you’re telling me I could’ve DIED???”

okay YESSSSS we live for a badass gf who appears to be nothing but sweet sunshine and killer on the inside. Fluffy fluffy and smutty smutty

-

"Be back soon, darling" Bucky cooed, kissing you again and again while everyone boarded the jet, getting in a few more pecks before having to leave on a mission.

"C'mon lover boy, the faster we get going, the faster you get back to your sweetheart!" Tony yelled, shaking his head watching Bucky look a you with puppy eyes, not wanting to leave his sunshine behind. "He's so down bad, I swear"

"Can you blame him, she's so cute" Sam smiled, watching the two of you cling onto each other for a few extra seconds, your form hidden, engulphed in Bucky's thick arms. "Look, you can't even see her when tin man hugs her"

"I'll miss you baby" you kissed Bucky's pouty lips, caressing his scruffy cheek before letting him run off, your cheeks heating up when he blew you another kiss before the doors closed.

"You're a little sap" Nat teased while Bucky blushed, strapping on his gear as the engine roared to life, rumbling as they took off. Bucky had 0 shame in everyone knowing how much he loved you and it started from the day he met you. He got called out immediately, questioned over the dopey smile he had on his face, the blush on his cheeks instantly giving him away.

Soon after you'd started dating, Bucky wanted you closer to him and he didn't have to ask Tony twice; his room was moved to a floor above so you'd have more space to live together. The last thing Bucky wanted was for you to get hurt because of his job. He felt more relaxed knowing you were in he safety of the compound on days where he was away.

"Who would've thought Bucky would be the romantic type"

"I did" Steve groaned, having seen Bucky's flirty side for years but he knew this was different. He hadn't seen his bestfriend like this before, clearly in utterly and desperately in love with you.

"It's adorable" Sam laughed while Bucky continued to smile, scrolling through his phone looking at pictures of you. His camera rolled was filled with various images of you baking, cuddling, sleeping, doing the most mundane things in the world, each making his heart flutter. He felt a pang in his chest, momentarily worried about if you were safe without him, the same anxiety he always felt whenever he had to leave you.

-

You stretched across the sofa, sipping on some hot chocolate and putting on your favorite comfort movie, deciding to have a relaxing night to yourself since the compound was empty. You didn't like when Bucky had to leave but you knew it was part of his job, slipping the fuzzy throw blanket over you shoulders before hitting play.

It had hardly been a few minutes before the screen went black making you blink, wondering if you'd sat on the remote by accident. Suddenly the rest of the lights turned off, a blasting sound coming from the entrance before you heard rushed footsteps nearing you.

Your heart started to race, having no time to hide or think, coming face to face with a number of masked men all towering over you. One grabbed you, pulling out a camera and hitting record, shoving it close to your face with a sinister smile.

"Look who we have, soldat"

-

The jet hadn't been flying for long, a sudden beeping alarm from the security system alerting Tony to check the cameras. His eyes grew wide, seeing the Hydra logo take over the screen before switching the live footage from the hacked system.

"Guys! There's been an attack on the compound!" Tony shouted from the computer, everyone rushing to see what came on screen, billows of smoke emitting from the main wing. Suddenly the screen went black, replaced with a man swearing a black mask, walking around the common room.

"Welcome Mr. Stark" His voice was thick with a Russian accent, the video panning to show the other agents infiltrating the tower. "Where is our soldat"

"You stay the fuck away from my girl" Bucky growled, his heart hammering in his chest, nearly crying when he saw someone grab you and shove you into a chair.

"She's precious to you, isn't she. We'll see you soon" he laughed, before the stream cut off leaving Bucky wanting to scream in frustrating, anxiety clouding all his thoughts, just wanting to get back to you to protect you.

"We have to go help her!" Bucky paced up and down while Tony rerouted the jet, speeding back to save you. "How the fuck do I know what's going on, there has to be something" He pleaded, hating that he no longer had eyes on you.

"Hold on, let me get into the back up feed" Tony tapped away at different keys, getting into the security system, selecting the camera for the common room where you were being held. "Here, I got it! I-Holy shit..."

The sound of screaming screeched through the speaker but it wasn't coming from you.

No.

"B-Barnes, you're girl just killed someone with her thighs" Tony stared at the footage with wide eyes while Bucky and the others watching in awe as your legs wrapped around one of the agents' heads, snapping his neck before flipping over and attacking another one of your assailants.

Bucky nearly choked, watching the men drop to the floor like flies, your arms and legs holding onto the men with a vice like grip until they fell, hardly breaking a sweat each time.

"Do you understand how many time's I've been in between those thighs, you're telling me she could've killed me?!!" Bucky practically moaned, seeing you fight, all his anxiety melting into lust, his cock straining against the thick material of his tac suit.

"Jesus Bucky, you're gonna poke an eye out" Sam's face scrunched up while Bucky adjusted himself, biting his lip to keep from making a sound, his tip leaking, breathing out a sigh of relief seeing you perfectly safe.

"Can't help me, look at her. Better count me out for movie night, m'gonna spent the whole night fuckin'-

"Okay, got it, you're a ridiculous, horny, pervert, and y/n probably won't walk for a week, will you please put that away" Sam shook his head, walking away when he tent in Bucky's pants got worse.

"I'm sorry, we've been housing a Hydra killer all this time?" Tony shook his head as the jet landed, still in disbelief over what everyone had just seen, both impressed and 100% scared of what else you were capable of. "You sure know how to pick em' Barnes"

As soon as the jet hit the floor, Bucky was sprinting off into he compound, running to find you, relief flooding his veins when he saw you sipping on your tea, seated on the couch again. You jumped up from your spot, jumping into your boyfriends arms, clinging onto him while the others also entered, glad to see you were okay. They got to work, clearing up the room, rounding up the few agents that were knocked out for questioning while also giving you and Bucky some privacy.

"Babygirl" Bucky hugged you tightly in his arms, burying his face into your neck, inhaling your soft scent, hoisting you up so your legs were wrapped around his waist. "Are you okay doll, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine Bucky" you reassured him, pecking his soft lips, letting him check you over before feeling satisfied you were okay, not finding a scratch on your body.

"Everything okay Buck?" you cocked your head noticing your boyfriends shift in demeanor, his soft baby blue eyes darkening into something else, biting his lip.

"Baby, I had to hold back from pulling my cock out on the jet and touching myself, you know how much that hurt? How hard I was the entire time, struggling not to jet my dick off watching how sexy you looked" He walked you up to your shared bedroom, his erection shamelessly pushing against your clothed core, not bothering to hide it one bit. "Where have you been hiding all that princess"

"Not hiding Bucky, just-never needed to do that" You shrugged shyly, squeezing your thigs around his waist playfully, making him groan as he dropped you on the bed.

"Can't wait to keep my face between these pretty legs that could kill me" He groaned, slicing your clothes off with his pocket knife before diving in without a care in the world, eating you like a man starved, tapping your thighs to wrap around his head.

"C'mon doll, squeeze em'" he moaned, humping against the bed feeling your muscles flex, his eyes rolling back, nearly cumming against the mattress at the strength he could feel, knowing you were holding back from hurting him.

you could kill him if you want.

Fuck, he was going to cum so fast.

-

"Oh god! Bucky!! PLease! D-DOn't STOP"

"That's it gorgeous, so good to me, so fuckin' pretty. won't last baby, gonna cum for you!"

"They're going at it like rabbits, didn't you sound proof their room after the first incident?"

"I did. This is after the sound proofing"

"Gonna fuck your thighs next baby, you got my cock so hard, almost creamed my pants like a teenager watching, you, oh shit-shit-m'so sensitive, keep clenching around my dick, that's it-fuckkk"

"Jesus christ, it's been an hour"

"Did you forget he has the super soldier serum? They're not gonna stop any time soon"

"I'M CUMMING JAMES"

"Gonna fucking cum for you y/n, OH FUCK YESSS you're so sexy when you fight baby, m'gonna fuckin' cum again, I can't stop"

"He's really gonna go all night, isn't he"

"Can you blame him?"

[seiwas]

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 ♡

[embrosegraves]

𝕂𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 ℂ𝕦𝕕𝕕𝕝𝕖𝕤

(request) Lando Norris x Reader (implied she/her) Reader takes a video of Lando laying on them and captures a sweet moment. Non-sexual neck kisses!

It was rare that Lando would get enough downtime where he could do literally nothing and not feel guilty about it. It was even rarer that your schedule would match up with Lando’s sparse moments of pure relaxation. However when they did align with each other, the both of you made the most of it by doing absolutely nothing but cuddling. 

Currently, you were laying on the couch in Lando’s living room, the man in question lying snuggled and comfortable on your chest. The only bit of noise was the low hum of the cars as they passed by on the road. One of your hands was playing with strands of Lando’s hair while the other was being used to answer a few texts that you had left unread. 

Quickly telling your mother that you had landed and were safely surrounded by your boyfriend, your eyes wandered to Lando’s position. His legs were completely tangled through yours, telling you that there was no way either of you were getting up for a while. His arms encircled your waist, his right arm underneath your body while his left curled upwards to rest on the couch near your chest. And though you couldn't see you could definitely feel his head buried in the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck. Every now and then, you could feel him press a feather-light kiss to your neck, letting you know he had not fallen asleep. 

You were glaringly reminded of when Charles’ girlfriend had posted a tiktok of him joining he skincare routine. You had swooned at the domesticity of it and part of you had wished that you could have that with Lando. This could very well be your only opportunity for a very long while. Without wasting another second, you quickly opened your camera app and started recording. 

You moved your arm ever so slightly so that the camera would catch Lando as well as yourself, extremely glad that Lando was a little clingy when you had been separated for a while. Knowing that Lando would not be speaking until you spoke first, you gave him a soft kiss on the head. 

“I love you so much, Lan.” You whispered. “I hope you know that.” 

“O’course I know that, Baby.” He smiled and placed another kiss on your neck, just a bit firmer than previous. “I know a lot of things about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Your eyes sparkled and flickered to your phone, making sure it could still see the both of you. He hummed, the kisses on your neck getting more and more frequent the longer you recorded. 

“What’s something you know about me?” You knew you had just stumbled on a gold mine of domestic fluff, there was no way you couldn’t ask. 

“Know you wanna get married, and have kids. A boy and a girl.” His words were clear though a little muffled. “And I know I’m gonna give ‘em to you one day.” 

“Really?” 

“Mhmm, and I know you wanna move to the countryside, with a big house for family and an art studio. And I know that I’m gonna work until I can give it to you and then I’ll retire and look after the kids and you’ll probably keep working, be the breadwinner of our family.” 

“Lan?” Not once did the kisses on your neck stop throughout his whole explanation. 

“I also know that you’re recording so that you can post it and show everyone how clingy I am but that’s okay because I really love you and at the end of the day you’re here with me and not anyone else.” Now he moved his head so he could look at you with his boyish grin. You couldn’t help but grin back at him. You stopped recording when he had moved his head. The look of pure love in his eyes had whatever remained of your self-control vanishing like dust in the wind. You leaned your head down and kissed him firmly on the lips. 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” You whispered after you both parted from the kiss. 

“Not more than you.” Lando pecked your lips once more before snuggling back to position. Soft kisses meeting your neck until you both eventually fell asleep.

twitter.com

The way I rewrote this like 100 times before I was happy with it. Like when I say I fully wrote out like six different scenarios for this request only to not like any of them, before finally landing on what is quite possible one my favourite things I've ever written (also ignore the date on that tweet lmao I only thought about adding it at the very last minute)

ANYWAYS! As always, I hope you enjoyed reading! Please feel free to send me any requests (preferably for a driver I haven't written for yet)

likes, replies and reblogs are very appreciated <3

MUAH

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[felixbit]

songwriter

pairing: han jisung x gn!reader w. 0.7k genre: fluff summary: your boyfriend jisung's birthday is right around the corner and you have the brilliant idea to make him a song. you learn it's not easy, and you begin to worry it won't work out. warnings: reader overthinks and gets a bit insecure, jisung is of course there to reassure a/n: im so sorry this one is so short!! i promise i'll make up for it with a better hanji fic in the future. felix fic coming tomorrow!

Being a songwriter's partner has benefits.

Every new Stray Kids album that would come out would have some sappy love song written by your boyfriend, Han Jisung. He would send it to you after the album would drop, asking if you liked it. He would then reveal that it was about you, and you had to act surprised.

Of course you loved all his songs. They were beautifully crafted and every single thing made your heart go wild. He put words to feelings you didn't know you had. But, he was so painfully obvious.

His birthday was coming up, and you had a great idea: what if you wrote him a song?

As it turned out, it was a little harder than you expected.

Lines were so hard to piece together and it was near impossible to make proper rhyme schemes. Jisung's ability to write a song was quickly becoming even more impressive than it already was. Even when you started to get lyrics on paper, you had to figure out how it was supposed to be sung.

Whenever Jisung went to the studio, you took special care to see just how he put together melodies. You tried to ask inconspicuous questions, and so far hadn't risen suspicion. You'd settled on trying to figure out playing his guitar instead of doing anything fancy with production.

Learning guitar chords had your fingers aching and sore. Building up calluses and memorizing just where to place your fingers in a short amount of time was no small task. But, you had basic chord progressions down in a few weeks and were on your way to something.

You'd let Chan and Changbin in on the secret of the birthday song, and you were eternally grateful when Chan extended an invite to use their studio. He gave you a ride, showing you inside and some basic functions of how to record.

Even if you didn't end up recording the song, the space was perfect for sitting and conceptualizing music. You had the lyrics pretty much solid, even if you questioned their quality every time you read them.

Halfway through trying to run through the song, anxiety started to creep up on you. Jisung's birthday was tomorrow, and you couldn't decide if you liked the song enough to show him.

Another half an hour of brainstorming, and you were tempted to scrap the song entirely. Everything you had come up with in your head wasn't sounding right when you tried it aloud. How could it compare to his songs?

You heard the studio door open, turning and expecting to see Chan. Instead, standing in the doorway looking perplexed was Jisung himself.

"Jagi, what are you doing here?" Jisung looked at you suspiciously before approaching the couch you were sat on.

You pulled the guitar out of your lap and propped it up against the couch. Shit. "Oh, you know.. you come here often?"

Jisung let out a loud laugh, sitting down next to you and scooting closer. "Your one-liners won't distract me. Why are you here? I mean, I don't mind you being in the studio, but.."

"I.." You looked down at the lyrics still pulled up on your phone screen before handing it over to your boyfriend, "I was doing this."

His eyes scanned over the lyrics a few times with a perplexed look before they shifted back to you. "These are.. lyrics, did you write this?"

Fidgeting, you nodded. "Yeah.. I was thinking it'd be a good thing for your birthday. If I wrote you a song."

Jisung stopped for a moment and looked at you, stunned. "A song? For my birthday? Honey.."

"I know, it's not great, really nothing compared to yours, but-"

"I love it."

You looked up to him, taking your eyes off the floor. He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. "You do?"

"I mean, it's really sweet. These lyrics, they're... I don't even know how you put these words together in the way you did. The feeling is so real, I didn't think I could feel that through words on a screen like that."

You felt your heart swell in your chest, leg bouncing as your eyes drifted back to the floor. "I mean, it's not that good.."

Jisung wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. "Don't give me that! It's the best! I would say it's just as good of a birthday present if you'd let me work on actually recording this with you and making it a full song."

"Really?"

Pulling you into a kiss, Jisung smiled. "Yeah! Now, would you please play it for me?"

[leaderwonim]

LET THE BEST PLAYER WIN.

pairing: tennisplayer!sunghoon x film major!fem!reader

summary: everybody knew park sunghoon, the tennis player at harvard that was most likely going to go pro as soon as he graduated. determined to get closer to him to gather videos for her final, film student nishimura yn tries to find out more about the infamous tennis player everybody seemed to talk about.

warnings: mentions of excessive drinking and smoking (please don’t do any, your bodies are precious 🙏), they’re both lowk bad people LOL, nonconsensual filming (not sexually)

“Whoa there,” you say, camera loosely hanging around your neck as you watch Park Sunghoon slam his racket on the floor till the strings popped out.

“What?!” He screamed, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets. He takes a deep breath, realizing that he has too much of a reputation to lose it over too little of frustration.

“Hey, don’t mind me.” You lift your hands in surrender, “just gotta film something for my final, you know.”

“Film major?” Sunghoon scoffs, throwing his now broken racket to the side as he shuffles through his gym bag for another. “Funny.”

“Very funny,” you shrug. “When I get into a big studio and start making films that blows up Hollywood, Park.”

“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon doesn’t look at you, instead focusing on his footwork. “You got into Harvard and you’re doing film?”

“You got into Harvard by doing tennis.” You snark back. “I think we’re on the same page.”

Sunghoon laughs, and it’s the first time you’ve ever heard such thing from the boy. The only things you do hear is his groans of frustration and grunts as he hits the ball back and forth.

“Not bad,” he compliments you, finally deciding to turn over. “Want to get beer tonight?”

“I thought athletes don’t drink?” You sit up straight from your previous position on one of the plastic chairs placed near the players that oversaw the whole tennis court.

“Pft, which liar told you that?” Sunghoon packs away his things, and despite having played for 3 hours, he still looks as good as ever. “How do you think I keep sane in tennis? Medication? Fuck no.”

For the first time, you see a glint in Sunghoon’s eyes, one that wasn’t the competitive glint he wore like a blood sucking cheetah every tournament.

By the end of the night, you realize that Park Sunghoon can really drink.

He’s downed 6 shots already, but his face is still as bright as ever. In fact, he asks for three more.

“The adrenaline is similar to playing tennis.” He says with his oh so cheeky smile.

As soon as the server passes Sunghoon his drinks, he wraps one arm around your shoulder, cheering, “to Nishimura Y/N, the film major at Harvard!”

You laugh, pointing your camera at his smiling face. He’s too drunk to notice you recording, swaying you side to side as the alcohol consumes his living thoughts.

🎾 ⊹ ‧

You’re pleasantly surprised when Park Sunghoon invites you to one of his matches. It’s not a state competition—but it’s his competition that he invited you to nonetheless.

Your eyes rush back and forth from Sunghoon to his opponent, the ball stroke faster and faster until your head starts hurting from cranking too close. It was a match against Stanford, Sunghoon was playing against a girl named Kelsley Aptos, who was stunning enough to make your film pop.

You cracked your neck before taking out your camera, recording the two competing. As soon as Kelsley misses the ball, you stop filming, standing up to applaud Sunghoon.

The girl isn’t happy, in fact, she’s almost furious with the way her lip twitches. But she does as any good sport would do, shake Sunghoon’s hand and tell him good game.

“I like your skirt,” Sunghoon tells her, licking his lips which were now dry from all the playing. “It’s pretty.”

“Well thanks Park,” she replies. “I like your stance.”

You’ll never understand the way athletes compliment each other—and hell you probably never will since you’ve practically signed your life to the film industry.

He grins, then makes his way to you. “You see how I beat Aptos? She was great, stunning.”

You don’t know why your stomach churns at the way he describes her. Was it jealousy? It couldn’t be; you barely knew Sunghoon, so why the hell were you genuinely upset over him calling Kelsley Aptos stunning?

“C’mon,” he draws you to his side, way too close for two people who’ve only gotten to know each other in the span of two days. “I believe we have to celebrate with drinks.”

🎾 ⊹ ‧

If there’s one thing about Park Sunghoon that you’re utterly confused by is his lack of self control.

On the court, he’s insane, unbeatable, practically a God in the world of tennis. But after tennis, after the matches, he’s chugging down as many alcoholic beverages as he can take, which is far too many a person—much less a college athlete—should inhale.

Sunghoon liked it though. He liked the way the liquor burned as it went down his throat, he liked the way it cooled in his body and how lightheaded he felt everytime he’d drink. When he wasn’t drinking, he was smoking.

You two were perched on lawn chairs, on opposite ends of each other. The chairs oversaw the beach near Harvard, and you could hear the whoosh of the waves as it drew closer.

“Your coach would kill you,” you said, grinning as you watched him inhale the cigarette. He’s not sober, clearly, but his stamina is good enough that he could make out his surroundings and conversations.

“He totally would.”

You perch your camera up on your knee, secretly recording Sunghoon as he leaned his head against the chair. Although he claims he’s so out of it, he looks so beautiful.

“Will you teach me tennis one day, Park?”

He lifts his head up slightly, eyes making direct contact with yours. “Will you teach me film?”

You nod, and he does too.

“Then it’s a deal Nishimura.”

🎾 ⊹ ‧

Sunghoon is a bad influence.

You can tell now that you’ve known him for a month and by the way he drags you into parties, your little camera still dangling around your neck like it was engraved there.

“You know what they would say if they saw Harvard’s precious athlete partying his ass off on a Wednesday night?” Sunghoon yells over the music.

“What?” You yell back.

“How preposterous!”

The two of you giggle loudly at that, bodies so close to each other that it looks like you’re making out to anyone who wasn’t closely paying attention.

“Hey Y/N,” he says, and as you look up, his eyes are already meeting yours. “I like you a lot.”

You smile at that, letting Sunghoon lean in and kiss you right there and then.

It just felt right. So right. Like a missing piece of a puzzle was finally discovered.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

🎾 ⊹ ‧

It feels like you’re discovering a new piece of Park Sunghoon everyday as you get to know more of him.

He was no longer Harvard star tennis player Park Sunghoon, but your boyfriend Park Sunghoon.

It felt weird, but giddy. Girls who had thrown themselves on him before backed off with fury, wondering why a random film student of all people got with their beloved athlete.

You don’t mind that Sunghoon loves tennis, you really don’t. You know he wants to go pro, it’s all he’s ever talked about on your dates and calls.

“I’m gonna make it to the Olympics.” He says. “You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will Hoonie.”

What you do mind is the fact that Sunghoon loves tennis too much. His fixation with the sport concerns you, but that’s just what happens when you’ve been playing since you were 3, isn’t it? The sport becomes one with you.

“Park Sunghoon! How was your match?” The interviewer asks, shoving his microphone into Sunghoon’s face.

“Oh it was great man, lovely weather.”

“Mhm, a great warm glow over Boston today! Have you always loved tennis this much?”

“Yes, honestly, tennis is my number one. It’s the reason I breathe and live today.”

He doesn’t mention anything about you when asked about what he loved. He never did. It was always the same thing.

Tennis, tennis, tennis.

If you hadn’t seen the red flags that were ringing before, you clearly were now.

“Are you seriously upset I didn’t mention you in my interview?” Sunghoon asks, biting into his apple angrily.

“Yes! It’d be nice for you to mention me once in your interview but you never do! It’s always the same bullshit Hoon!”

“I love tennis, why can’t I talk about it? It’s what the people want! They watch me for tennis, they don’t watch me for some stupid relationship.”

“Oh, so this is relationship is stupid to you now?”

“You’re twisting my words and you fucking know it.”

You and Sunghoon haven’t talked in over a week. All because you had practically begged him just to talk about you once. Was it so hard for him to show appreciation to his own girlfriend?

It didn’t help when you went to try and visit him on the court, practicing what you were going to say. He was already too engrossed in his conversation with Kelsley Aptos, their proximity dangerously close.

Fine. You think. If Park Sunghoon wants to play this way, we can fucking play it this way.

The next thing you knew, the headlines were filled with PARK SUNGHOON, HARVARD STAR ATHLETE CAUGHT EXCESSIVELY DRINKING AND SMOKING, blaring all over Boston, with the clips from your camera being right on the front page.

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