#is it bad i write in present tense

[zephyrchama]

(obey me!) moments where they fall in love with you all over again

---01

It’s dinner, and you’re talking about mundane things that happened during your day. You saw a cool bird, got some gum stuck on your shoe, and bought a new flavor of toothpaste to try. Everyone is listening intently. If only they would pay this much attention in class.

Lucifer knows the way his brothers look at you all too well. It’s a look full of respect, admiration, and fondness. It’s a look that’s often reflected on his own face when in your presence. At first he never really understood why you put up with his siblings, as the option to ignore them and be on your way was always there. Yet you continue to make time for them anyway. How unusual.

Moments like these where everyone is together and you don’t treat them as the Seven Rulers of Hell, you just treat them as your dear friends and family. That’s what makes Lucifer soft. He tries to imagine a long future of things staying just like this.

---02

Mammon’s hesitant to lend anybody money, even you. It takes a few minutes to butter him up and fluff his ego before he relents. At last, he hands you the crispest bill in his wallet. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he kids, knowing full well he’d do just that if he was in your shoes.

He’s curious what you plan to buy. It never dawns on him that you have no intention of spending the cash. Half an hour later, he finds it on his desk. The exact same bill, now creased and folded neatly into an origami bird.

He picks it up to wiggle the little paper wings, entranced, then looks around frantically and catches your eye. A playful smile graces your face and tugs at his heartstrings.

---03

Leviathan is not typically one to make mistakes when it comes to anime. But even he’s not perfect.

He had it set in his mind that the new show premiered at 6:00pm, which left plenty of time to prepare the ultimate solo viewing party after school. He was humming quietly to himself when you walked over. “Isn’t your show starting soon?”

You specifically took an interest in his hobbies. You remembered that it started at 16:00 (four o’clock), not 6:00. Leviathan wondered, how could he make such a egregious mistake? You were the one who dashed back to the House of Lamentation at full speed by his side. When your human stamina started failing, he unconsciously picked you up so you’d both make it in time. You made it with two minutes to spare.

Sweaty and out of breath, still in uniform, you were able to watch the premiere together. It wasn’t until after credits rolled, you went elsewhere, and the live reactions on social media started calming down that Levi realized what a big deal this was to him. What a big deal you were to him.

---04

Satan wasn’t expecting you to be spacing out in his favorite armchair. He had plans to read in it that evening, and considered asking you politely to move. But the way the lamp light shines on your skin, the thoughtful expression on your face while pondering ideas unknown. The way your lips part ever so slightly and your eyes gaze off into nothing. It captivates him. You look like a painting. His breath gets caught in his throat, and in clearing it he manages to break your trance.

“Oh, hey. Welcome home, I didn’t realize you were there.”

You go to get out of the chair, but Satan insists you stay. It doesn’t look right without you anymore. He doesn’t feel right without you anymore.

---05

Asmodeus does not have wardrobe malfunctions often. His outfits are of the highest quality and a lot of care goes into putting them on. Still, things happen.

When his fans rush forward out of nowhere, sometimes they are successful in tearing his clothes. A fistful of shirt here, a mouthful of pants-leg there. Being in the center of a lust-fueled stampede can make even the most collected people lose their minds, but you are steadfast. You shout at the rabid demons, shaming them for their disrespect. You believe you can chase them off all on your own, not knowing that the Avatar of Lust behind you is exuding a killer aura and warning his fans to back off with a powerful glare.

As you sloppily stitch up what remains of his shirt so he can walk home without the incident repeating, Asmodeus is smiling from ear to ear. You’re so focused on genuinely helping that you don’t even notice the bedroom eyes he’s flashing. The scene of you waving your arms and trying to chase off a pack of demons as if they were stray pigeons is permanently ingrained in his memory. Just as your existence is ingrained in his soul.

---06

Beelzebub knows what he likes. He knows what will catch his interest and is pleasantly surprised when a new one crops up.

One thing he likes is you. Another is food. Both are in the cafeteria. He piles a tray high with carbs and goes looking for you at lunch time, finding you seated in the middle of a long table at the edge of the room. He calls your name.

It’s unexpected, the way you quickly swing your head up mid-bite. Your cheeks are full and noodles dangle from your mouth, sauce dripping back onto your plate. Your eyes light up as you look at him from below. It makes him stop in his tracks, causing several shorter demons to walk into him. Such a simple action, yet so profound. You hurriedly chew and offer him a seat while Beelzebub powers through his emotions. He takes a seat across from you to offer a napkin, wondering when he’ll see that face again.

---07

It’s late, far past everyone’s bedtime. Yet Belphegor forgot to tell you something during the day and decided now would be a great time. When you don’t respond to the quiet knocks at your door, he lets himself inside. Your sleeping figure looks too comforting to resist and he gets the brilliant idea to crawl into bed with you to whisper in your ear.

The problem is, as soon as he lifts the covers, you fart. It’s loud. You don’t move an inch, remaining fast asleep and ignorant of what just happened.

Belphegor freezes in his tracks to process it, but is soon doubled over on the futon laughing. The vibrations wake you. You sleepily open your eyes to see who is in hysterics and ask the obvious: “what?”

Belphegor is laughing too hard to tell you. He doesn’t want to tell you. It’s too priceless. You groggily smack him with a spare pillow and it makes him laugh harder. While he loves to look at you, that week it becomes difficult for him to meet your eyes without erupting into a fit of giggles.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Now that I know more about writing, I'm upset at all the writing advice that urged new writers to find the one best way to write stories, when they should be telling us to play with writing techniques like toys.

Don't tell us to avoid certain points of view! Don't box us into the one currently popular prose style! Let us play and see what effects different techniques achieve, so we can learn the best ways to make use of them! Give us a whole ton of possibility instead of one cookie-cutter template!

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

@dragonprincedrabbles

Nyx + Corvus, Foreboding

Corvus finds out just enough about Soren's kidnapping experience to be pushed over the edge.

Corvus is quick to dislike a person. Easy to rub him up the wrong way. And this elf had done it from a mile away.

Blue hair and heterochromic, an omnipresent shit-eating grin, and non-stop teasing, jabbing, and overall being infuriating.

Soren knows her, it seems, based on the way his jaw set and brow furrowed when he laid eyes on her across the market they passed through, and especially based on the way he heard her following them from abovehead–because of course the oversized harpy had wings–and used Corvus’s chain to yank her down from the sky. Corvus didn’t think he’d ever seen the other Crownguard so angry, so angsty in the way he stomped off to gather firewood when they made camp that night.

With the Skywing sitting across the fire from him, preening her feathered wings. “Naimi-Selari-Nykantia” had been how she’d introduced herself, tacking on a “But you can call me Nyx” as an afterthought.

Nyx was annoying.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” she says over the flames, breaking Corvus away from his thoughts.

“How do you know him?” Corvus demands, skipping directly over the small talk.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” she grumbles, but adjusts to turn at least part of her attention and body language to him.

“How?” he repeats, letting his hand drift to his chain. The angry red welts along her ankle suggest she has not forgotten how painful it was, and even less likely to want a repeat. All ration seemed to go out the window when it came to Soren. For Corvus, at least.

She shrugs sheepishly, rolling her shoulders and eyes to the sky. “Er, well… Let’s just say a girl’s got to look out for herself, am I right, eh?”

“Tell me how you know Soren,” Corvus hisses, gripping the handle in an attempt to keep himself in check.

“Oh, we went through a good ol’-fashioned pirate kidnapping together,” Nyx says with feigned cheeriness, a sad attempt at a chuckle. “I gave him some information, he let me go free. The little king, handsome dolt, and idiots in love, er- dealt with their situation themselves.”

Corvus’s blood is suddenly boiling hot, as if his skin doesn’t fit right over his bones. Shock and rage fills crevices of his body he hadn’t known existed prior to this moment. What?

Soren had been kidnapped? Ez, too? And Callum and Rayla, judging by the “idiots in love” bit. And none of them had breathed even a word of it?

That’s fine, it’s their business. Really, Corvus tried to tell himself, getting to his feet.

It didn’t work. Soren had been hurt and in danger, and sure, that’s what Crownguards were trained for, but it didn’t mean he was expected to simply be okay.

“You sold them out?” he says, voice nearing a roar. “You sold him out?!”

“Woah, there. Two batches of idiots in love, my mistake,” she mutters, and Corvus is too angry to be flustered about it. “Listen, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Everyone else there had someone looking out for them. Number One’s the only one who’s gonna look out for Number One. Everyone’s selfish.”

Corvus turns to the woods Soren had disappeared into, everything starting to make sense with each puzzle piece falling into place. “Leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave,” he repeats, digging his jagged, worn fingernails into his palms. “I’m going to look for him, and if you’re here when I get back, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

“Okay, chill out there, Big Guy,” Nyx starts, and he hears her light footsteps approaching him tentatively but quickly.

As her hand goes for his shoulder, Corvus wheels around and grabs her wrist, getting up close and personal. He lets every bit of anger show on his face. “Look me in the eye and try to call my bluff. Look me in the eye and try to reason with me. I’m not messing around.”

Nyx’s wings flutter nervously, and he lets her snatch her wrist out of his grasp. His skin feels dirty, but not from guilt– from touching this monster who’d let Soren get hurt. “Alright, alright! Message received!”

She takes a few steps backward, and Corvus relishes in how she trips over her bag, and, flustered, scramble to start shoving her things into it. “You, eh, might wanna get some anger issues management help. Friendly word of advice.”

“Get out!” Corvus screams, face hot with anger and eyes pricking with tears, ready to strangle her with his bare hands.

“Okay, okay! I’m leaving!” Nyx shoulders her backpack and only makes it a few feet into the air before reconsidering. She comes back down another bit, hesitant with downcast eyes. “Um, be careful with him. He’s a good man. Savor the people you have to look out for and who look out for you.”

Corvus turns away from her. “I will.”

[reiverreturns]

ripping up parts of this wip because turns out i hate writing past tense but here's a lil not-so-bad snippet to prove i tried. slight nsfw vibes but nowt explicit.

[wayward-sherlock]

did someone ask for a girl crush wip wednesday?

[dustylovelyrun]

Last Line Tag

Rules: Post the last line that you wrote, then tag as many people as your heart so desires, humans!

Tagged by @atomic-insomnia. Round one of the (logged) owed three, my human! If I owe you more, we’ll find out as I go poking throughout my notes again. Thank you so, so much, and I’m sorry for leaving it for so long!

���Thanks,” and, though visibly displeased with the situation, Kolisnyk eventually accepts the wordless offer, body unfurling from his admittedly entertaining slump and reaching out with his unwounded hand to grasp onto Calleum’s own. With little regards to either proper wound care or medical hygiene, Kolisnyk uses the bent and twisted fingers of his injured hand to drive into the soft earth, regaining purchase with the claw-like movement, before pressing the laceration in his palm down into the blackened topsoil. It’s with an irritable hiss that he then pushes down, using the combined momentum of his motions and Calleum’s swift tug to haul himself upwards. A momentary stagger overcomes him as he rediscovers the world on both feet, and Calleum’s hands hasten to balance him by his lower back and bicep, while Kolisnyk tilts and throws the other hand back out for some semblance of balance. He looks rather wretched, Calleum notes, while Kolisnyk continues to be quick as ever, readjusting and canting to the side, stabilizing as he shifts his weight onto the notably less muddied part of his body and the leg that doesn’t look half-beaten in its war against nature, and Calleum soon finds that he isn’t quite mature enough to reign in the soft breath of laughter that wells in his chest and releases with his observations.

From Pulse. This puppy took a little bit, with the brain constantly shifting words around and leaving me very, very confused every time I read it over. Hoping it ended up coherent. Kolisnyk is Riley, and this is the aftermath of what happens when he isn’t paying much attention, falling down an embankment, and he just so happens to do so while Calleum is absently wandering about the forest that surrounds their school somewhere during the low light of dusk, too. Riley then reveals himself to be much like any doctor, with an apprenticeship steadily underway in healing, but still making the rather poor choice of disregarding his own basic health - like slapping down a newly attained laceration in his hand into dirt.

Anyway... how are we liking the new tense? It gives me Hell~ But it’s functioning far better in terms of comprehension for me than past tense used to, and it’s all starting to flow quite nicely during the writing process, too.

Tagging: @trashplanetsandmagicforests, @aziz-writes, @thewalkingnerd, @writingamongther0ses, @rubyleaf, @juleswrites, @emelkae, @stories-by-rie, @pen-for-sword, @akindofmagictoo, @writerfae, @drippingmoon, @ineffablyendless, @oh-three, @oh-no-another-idea, @keen2meecha, @winterandwords, @writingpotato07, @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @aelenko, @maybenow22

[direwombat]

*kramer voice* it’s like a wednesday in here. 

tagged by @funkypoacher​, @socially-awkward-skeleton​, and @adelaidedrubman​ to share some wippy stuff today

tagging: @strangefable​, @natesofrellis​, @thomrainer​, @confidentandgood​, @noetikat​, @aceghosts​, @strafethesesinners​, @schoute​, @purplehairsecretlair​, @sstewyhosseini​, @harmonyowl and anyone else wanting to share what they have!

stringing words together has been difficult recently, but here’s something vaguely coherent:

When Sybille calls Jacob to meet her in the mountains, she has every intention of killing him. 

It was a decision she had made a long time ago. All of the Seeds are dangerous in their own right. John is volatile. Joseph is cunning. Even Faith has a way of distorting reality to her whims. But she’s confident she can find a non-violent solution to neutralize and bring those three to justice. Jacob, on the other hand, based on what she knows about him -- and she knows more than most -- he’s not going to give her any other choice. He’ll die for the Project. For his family. And she gets the distinct feeling that the only way she can bring the others to justice is if he’s six feet under. 

Without him, the Cult loses its strength. They’ll be weak. Vulnerable. It’ll only be a matter of time before they crumble and fall apart entirely. 

It’s the smart, tactical move. 

Killing Jacob means a swifter victory. 

It also means killing the only person who’s ever seen her for who she truly is. Not the big sister or quasi-mother figure her brother sees. Not the Deputy or some sort of savior the rest of the county thinks she is. 

Her. He sees her. A woman whose fear is only overpowered by her stubbornness and who desperately fights to protect the people of the county because if she can’t do that, then what fucking good is she? He sees how she shoulders the burden of Soldier and Commander. How she bears the familiar mantle and ignores the consuming dread that when this is all said and done, they’re just going to discard her the same way the military did when they deemed her unfit for further service. 

Some people -- people like Joseph -- are born for greatness. But people like her, and people like Jacob? They’re born to die, because in the end, they're more useful as martyrs. Tools used to forge the path of victory. Never the victors themselves. 

He understands this, and aside from herself, she thinks he’s the only person in the damn county who does. She just wishes he also saw the tragedy in it too. 

Which only fucking makes this all the more fucking difficult. To say things are complicated between the two of them would be an understatement. The intense eye contact. The clandestine meetings. The way he fucks and gives her everything she didn’t know she needed -- only you, only you, only you. She’ll never admit it because admitting it would make it real, but there’s a not insignificant part of her that thinks she might love him. 

But this is war. Her feelings have no place here and she can’t let them cloud her judgment. She’s better -- stronger -- than that. 

So, she called Jacob on their private channel under the usual pretense and told him to pick her up on the road towards their cabin.

[notfivefives]

Prompt fill #6 for my @badthingshappenbingo​ card, requested by @sharkluv. Thank you so much for the ask! This is not the story I was expecting to write (like, at all), but I really enjoyed working on it. I hope you enjoy reading it! Also tagging @rain-on-kamino​!

Prompt Filled: Manhandling

Fandom: Star Wars: The Bad Batch

Title: Salvage 

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Wrecker, and Tech

Word Count: 2,033

Summary: Crosshair’s chip doesn’t trigger during Order 66, but the rest of The Batch’s do. Crosshair disobeys an order.

Chapter: 1/1

Warnings: Non-canonical character deaths, forced ( but nondescript) medical treatment

My BTHB Card

Read below the cut or on AO3

The walk from the Marauder to their quarters is like a funeral procession. Crosshair trails his three brothers - They are still his brothers, aren't they? - and after they enter their quarters, the door slides shut with a finality Crosshair can’t recall ever noticing before.

He crosses the distance to his bunk just like he has after countless other missions, but Wrecker isn’t boisterously recounting the high notes of the mission and he hasn’t carved a hash mark on the wall to commemorate their victory.

And it is a victory, Crosshair decides; he's just unsure why.  

He neatly stows his equipment and sets his rifle on the common table, relieved when the heft of it no longer puts demands on his wounded shoulder. He will see to that later, once the others are asleep or absent. For now, he’ll clean his weapon because that’s what he always does. And he will keep Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker in his periphery and he will try not to think too much about why Echo isn’t with them. When he turns to get his cleaning kit, Hunter approaches him. Crosshair straightens and studies Hunter as intently as he is studying him.

“You should let me take a look at that,” Hunter says as he inclines his head toward the singed plastoid at the intersection of Crosshair’s chest plate and right pauldron.

“Nothing to look at.”

Where there might usually have been a dubious smile on Hunter’s face, there isn’t now. There is a tightness around his eyes and something sharp and unyielding there instead.  

“I’m fine.” Crosshair’s words come out icily, and they would be convincing if Hunter wasn’t the one listening. But Hunter’s privy to every electromagnetic pulse and vibration, scent, and every other type of sensory input that slips beneath the notice of most. Crosshair has never envied Hunter the intensity of his senses, never wished to know the reek of a battlefield the way Hunter must. But that doesn’t stop Crosshair from cursing Hunter in the privacy of his own mind and loathing him just a little bit for not shutting things out, for not shutting it off. For just knowing.

“Is that why your heart rate just jumped, and why I can smell the stink of infection?”

Damn.

“Leave it alone.”

Crosshair narrows his eyes and focuses on the deep, ceaseless pain, wills it to temper his resolve. He itches to be anywhere but under Hunter’s scrutiny. He traces the tip of his tongue along the backs of his teeth, quelling the urge to reach for a toothpick.

“I need you functional,” Hunter presses as he takes a step closer to Crosshair and reaches toward him.

Crosshair takes a clipped but still-graceful step away from Hunter and scoffs. The derisive noise is louder than he intends and he can feel Tech and Wrecker’s eyes on him. They’re not listening to an argument with interest or waiting to throw their opinions into it. They’re just watching, waiting. The instinctive thing Crosshair has been feeling since Koller lurches into clarity.

He is outnumbered.

“I said leave it alone, Hunter.”

Crosshair can see a minuscule twitch in Hunter’s jawline, and his expression grows harder. Just like it had on Koller before-

Crosshair shakes off the memory and sidesteps Hunter and avoids the temptation to punctuate his disdain by checking Hunter’s shoulder with his own. No use in causing himself more pain.

He wants out of this room, and he wants away from his batch. Hunter grasps Crosshair’s forearm and Crosshair wrenches away. That ignites fresh agony in his shoulder and he sucks in air through his teeth. He reaches for the wound, but stops short and puts his arm back down at his side, straightens, and looks from Hunter to Tech to Wrecker, then back at Hunter, trying to gauge how much weakness he just displayed.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. The threat in his voice grows jagged and brittle with each syllable.

He walks toward the door and the blood rushing in his ears and the hair pricking at the nape of his neck tell him the same cold, clear truth.

You should be running.

Crosshair makes it two steps before he hears Hunter say Wrecker’s name.

“Right,” Wrecker says. There’s eagerness in his tone that’s familiar but wrong and for once Crosshair wishes Wrecker was as slow as some people - idiots mostly - thought he was.

Crosshair makes it another two and a half steps before Wrecker is between him and the door. Silently, Hunter falls into place behind him, and Crosshair can feel him there, the trigger in a trap that is ready to slam shut.

Tech hasn’t moved; he’s watching proceedings, assessing them from behind the yellow lenses of his goggles. Crosshair doesn’t doubt Tech can tell him the precise likelihood he’ll make it out of their quarters, but he doesn’t have to. Crosshair knows it’s laughably slim.

“Get out of my way, Wrecker.”

Wrecker moves his head back and forth and raises his hands, palms outward, ready to catch Crosshair or fight him if it comes to that. Crosshair bends at the knees and flexes his fingers, and he realizes it will come to that.

And he doesn’t know why.

“Enough,” Hunter warns. “Remove your kit. Let us treat the wound. Now. That’s an order.”

An order.

This isn’t a professional disagreement or a fraternal spat. Hunter’s words are absolute and Crosshair feels as though he’s being tracked through the scope of someone else’s rifle. He glances back at Hunter without looking away from Wrecker completely. Hunter’s expression is hard and direct. Expectant. Hunter’s esteem for his own rank is inconvenient at best and unnerving at worst.

Crosshair followed orders every day of his life. He followed them to complete missions, to win. He followed them because it was in his very marrow to do so. Freedom from choice has always been a mercy - though the rest of The Batch would never admit it, not even Tech - but before today, that mercy has never felt like slow suffocation.

When Hunter reaches for his arm again, Crosshair disobeys.

He swings back at Hunter’s head with his elbow. He knows it's a bad move.

Hunter catches his arm easily and twists it behind him. The countermeasure hurts, but it’s not hard enough to be cruel. Maybe Hunter is still in there somewhere after all. Crosshair wants to believe that. He suddenly, desperately needs to believe that, but he contorts in Hunter’s grip and viciously curses as Hunter’s hold tightens.

“What are you doing?” He tries his best to bury his pain and the spike of fear with indignation as he tries to pull away. “Don’t touch me.”

Then Wrecker is there and Hunter hands him off as casually as he would an ammo cartridge.

“We’re going to help you, Crosshair.” It’s the closest thing to patronization Crosshair has ever heard in Wrecker’s voice and he hates it. Lula is lying discarded on the floor, half buried under an old panel that Tech had likely been using for one project or another between missions. The tooka, with her red eyes and forlorn lip lipline, is the only thing in the room that feels familiar.

Crosshair turns away from the doll and futilely tests the constraints of Wrecker’s arms.

“I can help myse-”

“Bring him to the table,” Hunter orders. He’s crouched next to Echo’s bunk searching out the med kit Echo keeps there.

Wrecker nudges Crosshair in that direction, letting him know compliance is a good idea. He digs his heels into the durasteel beneath him and pushes back hard. He may as well be trying to move a wall.

"No," Crosshair says. He can hear the ragged edge of desperation wearing at his own voice as he lunges back toward the door. Wrecker holds him tight.

He tries to crush Wrecker’s instep, but he only catches armor and there’s no indication Wrecker even noticed. He’s only managed to send new pain screaming through his shoulder, but he bites back on the agony and struggles.

It makes no difference.

Crosshair cries out in surprise when Wrecker tugs backward, using his own weight against him. Wrecker keeps him from falling flat on his ass, but panic lances through him when he can’t get his feet beneath him again. His boots stutter pathetically on the floor, but that ceases when Wrecker hauls him up and toward the table.

“No!” He’s struggling now, writhing without regard for how frantic and ineffectual it is. “Let me fucking go!”

With dizzying speed, Wrecker lifts him and hefts him onto the tabletop. The back of Crosshair’s head hits the table. It’s enough force to stun, but not enough to do any harm, and in the fleet seconds it takes Crosshair’s mind to catch up to what’s happened, Wrecker has both of his wrists in one massive hand, pinning them over his sternum. Wrecker’s other hand forces his left leg down by the thigh.

“This outburst is unnecessary,” Tech says as he takes his place on the side opposite Wrecker. There’s something like commiseration in Tech’s words, but there’s callous interest in his eyes.

Crosshair drives his unrestrained knee up toward Tech, but Tech anticipates the attack and catches his leg with quick hands.

“You should cooperate,” Tech grunts. He shoves Crosshair’s leg back down and Crosshair takes petty satisfaction in the disapproval on Tech’s face.

“You should let me go.” Crosshair says, breathless and caustic. Wrecker laughs at that. It’s not booming or jovial. It’s the distant rumble of a storm.

Crosshair bucks beneath their hands, all lean muscle, obscenities and fear. He thrashes harder when Hunter sets the medkit by his head. He looks down at Crosshair, dour but thoughtful.

“Where are you going to go, Crosshair?” he asks as he begins to remove Crosshair’s armor.

Crosshair shouts. Neither the harsh sound nor the rage behind it makes his brothers flinch; it doesn’t make them do anything at all. They all know the answer. By the time Hunter is satisfied with the amount of armor he’s taken away, Crosshair is panting and his limbs are trembling from the strain.  

Hunter draws his vibroknife from its sheath and Crosshair’s eyes go wide. He stills and groans involuntarily when he sees the honed, glinting blade in Hunter’s skilled hand.

It’s been cleaned since its last use.

General Bilaba’s padawan had been fast. So fast, Crosshair’s first shot following Hunter’s order had gone wide, and his second one had struck him after it had been deflected back at him by the padawan’s lightsaber. He’d lifted the butt of his blaster rifle to his left shoulder instead of his right and found Hunter in his scope, advancing on Dume. One elegantly efficient move put a burst of crimson on Koller’s snow-covered ground. The roar of the falls had been the only sound.

Crosshair shakes his head and jerks helplessly.

“Shh,” Hunter says without sympathy or warmth. Crosshair is frozen while Hunter cuts away the dark gray underlayer. The blade separates the fabric with awful ease, then Hunter sheaths it without any flourish.

A hypo comes after that. Crosshair tries to flinch away, but it still finds its way into his shoulder, and as the pain abates, Hunter works slowly and methodically, cleaning and dressing and bandaging until he seems satisfied that Crosshair would still be of use to him. To this nascent Empire.

Crosshair’s mind feels slow and his chest feels tight. He doesn’t even have the energy to move after Tech releases his hold on his leg. Tech scans him and shows Hunter with an unconcerned shrug. If Crosshair is on trial, perhaps this small jury has already come to its judgment.

The pressure Wrecker’s been putting on him lets up. When breathing comes more easily, he rolls his head to the side and looks at Echo’s empty bunk.

“Where’s Echo?” He rasps. “Where’s the reg?”

“CT-1409 was in violation of Order 66,” Tech says, as though it explains everything. “But perhaps, with some re-education, you can be salvaged.”

Hunter nods as he packs away Echo’s medkit.

Crosshair doesn’t fight as Wrecker helps him into his bunk.

He curls on his side and drifts.

[hazmatazz]

i hjgghavahsjd hate writingggg

[white-weasel]

Do…. Do people actually have an issue with stuff being written in present tense?

[delta-piscium]

mmh and what if i rewrote an entire wip just to change the pov what then? (tears, that's what)

[sabertoothwalrus]

tips for getting people to like your ocs

*disclaimer: this is based on what’s worked for me, aka an artist that likes to make comics/storyboards. so this advice is directed at people who do that

you can do things like this:

Which is fun! Character sheets like this are great, especially for personal reference! But frankly, I don’t think most people engage with this (at least I personally don’t). You could have the coolest character in the world, but it will be harder for most people to feel invested when they’re presented so neutrally like this.

My main piece of advice is: get better at writing.

That might sound harsh when said like that, but let me explain what I mean! (Not trying to imply you’re bad at writing either!)

What I tend to do is just throw characters into situations with as little handholding as I can. Give enough context that readers can follow along, but don’t feel like they’re being explained to.

what can you learn about the characters through their designs alone? (age, personality, economic status, occupation, etc)

what can you learn about the characters’ relationship though their interactions alone? (are they close? familial? romantic? is there hostility? are they tense/relaxed?)

what are the characters currently doing? what were they doing previously (how long have they been talking)? what are they going to do next? can you convey this without dialogue?

how do they feel about what they are doing? are they content? focused? over/understimulated? would they rather be doing something else?

where are they? does it matter? would establishing a setting in at least one panel clarify the scene? is there anything in the enviroment that could tell some of the story?

what time of day is it? what time of year is it? what is the weather like?

Now, with all this in mind, I'm going to give you another example. I'm going to use completely brand new characters for the sake of the experiment, so you won't have any bias (aka I can’t use Protagonist from above, since you already know all about him).

Did this get more of an emotional response from you than the first example? Why do you think so? Who are these characters? How do they know each other? What else can you infer about them? What happened? Who is "she"?

Now, you don't have to actually answer all those questions. But think about them! You can tell people a whole lot about your characters without ever showing them a list of their likes and dislikes.

Obviously, comics aren't the only way to get people invested in your original characters! But regardless, easily digestible formats will grab people's attention faster than huge blocks of text, and comics are a lot less work than doing wholeass storyboards.

Now go and share your ocs with the world!!!

[junietuesday]

i'll be like "why do i suddenly suck at writing what happened why is my style abruptly trash 😭😭😭😭😭" and then i'll switch from present tense to past tense and realize all i was looking for was that sense of refinement

[boxwinebaddie]

do u think we can hear a little bit of the kyle cant say i love u ask?

ugh, yes </3

so...fair warning, idk what this is. also...

why is it written in present tense? idk. anyways!

i started ~writing~ something ( bad ) that i was going to maybe slap to the end of the ask, which is not proofread or finished, but basically context is that it's the #ravesey divorce fight, the climax of it...

...where stan starts packing a bag and for one of the first times in his pleated, completed, type-a, show no mercy, no nonsense, new jersey slaughterhouse life, kyle broflovski...is paralyzed with fear.

because kyle who always has his shit together is completely losing it.

everything.

his everything.

his stan.

again.

and he's ripped at the seams, dissolving right before our very eyes: his perfect auburn tresses which usually cascade and glide effortlessly down his lithe shoulders, are fucked up, frizzy and falling all over his face which is pale, creased and gaunt...

— like he's seen a ghost.

his pupils are blown to high heaven and shot to all hell. dilated like two green distress signals. once fierce now frightened, floundering.

his special stan glasses are crooked and fogging up from how hard and uneven his breathing is with the chain nearly suffocating him from how rough and imprecise his startled, frenzied movements are.

he's shaking his head in horror, in shock, in grief, in utter disbelief. really, his whole fucking body is shaking like an addict going through withdrawals, but this is a million times worse than watching someone flush a pack of cigarettes down the toilet. it stings. it burns. it lingers.

in a way that stan won't.

but kyle needs him to, needs him to stay, needs him close, needs him forever, so he's talking fast, way, way, Way too fast, like if he can say enough other words, i love you will seem far less grand and lustrous...

but they're not.

whilist time passes achingly slow. and kyle's given hundreds of speeches, debates and lectures, but words fail him, his lips quiver, his mouth opens and closes helplessly and that booming voice is barely a whisper when he finally musters up the dis-courage to mumur;

"...b-baby? baby! where—where are you going?! w-where are YO—“

kyle darts forward and reaches for his boyfriend before he turns into a memory again, not sure where he was aiming. to please, to squeeze, to stroke his tear-slicked cheek, maybe? to dust the tips of the his trembling, unworthy fingers cross that little spot of sun just beneath his right eye. the gentle curve of his jaw, far less violent than his, or—or even just on the side of his arm where love is written in spanish. amor. like tracing the letters onto his skin would be good enough.

but it never was.

he never was.

and as proof of his inadequacy, stan sails to the left and ducks right under kyle's arm, which collides with the quilted down of their couch.

…their couch.

how long would their couch be their couch? kyle thought that their couch would always be their couch! kyle thought that—

"out."

it was a single syllable, uttered in the same bratty voice harnessed by misbehaved teenage boys everywhere, but it was different coming from stan, whose mouth was not made to start fights or draw blood. it was a horrible, harsh sound, wrought with an undercurrent of sadness.

it was then that the realization dawns on him.

stan wasn't angry with him.

stan was disappointed in him.

which was far, far worse.

kyle wants to look strong, look stable, look sturdy, so stan would look at him — god, he would do anything for stan to just look at him! and stop packing that stupid fucking bag, that dumb black jansport backpack they'd bought back to school shopping because...his stan was going back to school. and kyle was so...so proud of him.

but gerald never was, gerald was loud, so kyle was loud, so when he should have congratulated stan for doing something difficult, he criticized him for not doing something easy! like the dishes and told stan he'd stitched his name into the bag...just in case he lost it.

funny how things happen.

…not funny.

not funny at all, actually!

so then…why was he laughing?

why the Fuck was he laug—

"out? Out? O-OUTSIDE?! stan, you—ya can't be serious?! you're in a little t-shirt and—and shorts, you'll freeze to death! you'll—“

kyle clings to the thin fabric of stan's tee-shirt, admiring the myriad of sauce stains and makeup marks that, on a normal night, kyle might be livid about, but tonight...they're lovely; they're so, so lovely.

just like the boy who made them.

the boy kyle loves.

not rockstar raven of crimson dawn.

but sweet, sensitive stanley marsh.

his stan.

his...

kyle's eyes fall absentmindedly to the tattered hem of stan's shorts, where amidst a jagged, serrated sea of angry self mutilizations past, was a new beginning...the beginning of a word, a sound, a letter...a

K.

a k...for kyle.

stan had gotten it done last anti-valentine's day, as a gift, for him, but mostly...for himself. because stan cruelly hated himself, every part of his body, but he hated that part the most. his inner thighs, the valley that stretched between them...so he'd gotten kyle's name tattooed down there, so that when he was off on tour and missed his boyfriend terribly...he was with him.

always.

so that on his very worst days, when he felt the worst about himself, he could still see his super best friend. a precious skin-deep reminder that when the dysphoria hit and he felt like shit, craved a stiff drink and the razor blade winked…that when he felt falsely ugly...

...someone thought he was truly beautiful.

and he was.

he was really...and truly beautiful.

everyday. every second. even now. especially now. and god, what kyle wouldn't do to place his lips in that spot right there, anywhere, everywhere! because kyle couldn't say i love you and they weren't married, no, not in the traditional sense, but even so, kyle went to temple, a place of sacred worship & recited his vows every night.

every stroke, every sigh, every stretch of blessed skin.

i love you.

i love you.

i love—

"because you're so Worried about me, right, kyle?"

stan sneers, holding his name like a knife between teeth.

"—because you 'LOVE' me, right?"

he spit and twist it.

it was twisted. and kyle feels those spiteful syllables split him open like shrapnel. he gasps like stan had shot him, grasping the hem of his shirt so hard that it hurt, like a little kid clinging to his mother's skirt.

so scared she would leave.

so scared she would go, begging

don't go.

please don't go.

please, please, please don't g—

"NO! i—i do! stan, i do!”

kyle tries to argue but nearly breaks his neck nodding, with his shrill voice weak and watery and wanting.

“baby—BABY! i do, i DO! i really do! i—I LO—“

but the words wouldn't come.

kyle was banging on the wall, iron clad and impenetrable, he fought and shouted, kicked and screamed and still...nothing would come.

he couldn't say it. he couldn't FUCKING say it!

why...why?

Why?

WHY?!

he had never wanted to cry before but he could feel it in the back of his throat. he wants to come out. the little boy he'd trapped back there. but he couldn't be that big again, that small...that pathetic. so he bites down HARD. harder than he'd even bitten before and thrashes his cheek with his teeth, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

and for a moment...he feels dizzy...

because the blood tastes like metal.

like stan.

just like sta—

"save it, mi sabelotodo."

stan sniffs and lifts his head up slowly. his damp bangs are stuck to his forehead, the tips just barely kissed with bleach, mere whispers of the boy they wanted him, those beautiful dark roots growing with him into the man he wanted to be. whose wonderful face was flushed with frustration, whose kind, bright blue eyes were...

god, all kyle had wanted was for stan to look at him. but it gores him; it guts him. it carves him; it cuts him.

it was wrong. it was all wrong!

he took it back. he took it all back!

take me back, baby.

he wants to plead, while his lip shakes and bleeds.

stanley, PLEASE take me ba—

then, in one foul swoop, the boy with the bag shrugs his shoulders and kyle's hand crumples back down onto the couch. broken. lifeless.

"—save it for someone you ACTUALLY love."

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

—

These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!

[ja3yun]

Stretch it Out | P.SH

instructor!sunghoon x ballerina!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, mirror sex, pet names (sweatheart, good girl), bad ballet references bc idk what i'm talking about, slight mention of self doubt, not proof read, anything else lmk! wc: 7.4k REQ: ballet intructor!sunghoon helping ballerina!reader stretch and you know where the rest leads to 😼 a/n: hi! i took this request and shuffled it around to make it this! hope this is okay anonnie and i am also so sorry for the late posting of it! i've been working on so much lately and with my little break i didn't do much writing. as always, comments, reblogs, and likes are all welcome!

Applause echoes through the spacious studio as one of your fellow dancers finishes receiving her critique from Mrs. Yang. Her routine was strong, though it seems she needs to work on her turnout - something you hadn't noticed. Perhaps it’s because your nerves are clouding your perception; after all, it will be your turn once she's finished.

The Annual Exhibition is less than two months away, and this will be your first time presenting your completed routine for approval in front of an audience - especially Mrs. Yang, who is more than just an instructor to you; she’s your role model, the person you’ve looked up to throughout your entire ballet journey.

Throughout your high school years, you dedicated your evenings and weekends to ballet school, working tirelessly just for the chance to apply to the National University of Arts and audition in front of Mrs. Yang. For months leading up to this moment, you poured everything into perfecting your pliés and pirouettes. Blisters marred your feet, and exhaustion settled deep in your bones, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was proving yourself worthy.

“Y/N, you’re up,” Mrs. Yang’s voice echoes through the studio like a haunting ghost. 

Following her words, you get up and shake off any nerves you have, all too aware of the impact performing badly will have; she could cut you from the exhibition or tell you to scrap the routine entirely, and both of those are not an option for you.

Now, as you step forward to take your place at the centre of the studio, the weight of the moment presses down on you. Every muscle is tense with anticipation, and your heart races as you prepare to dance.

The music begins, and you launch into your routine. At first, the nerves are overwhelming - each movement feels too stiff, too calculated. But as you glide into an arabesque and sweep through a series of pirouettes, something shifts. The familiar rhythm of the dance takes over, and your body begins to move almost on its own, flowing through each step with a grace you didn't know you possessed.

You’re hyper-aware of Mrs. Yang’s presence, of her eyes following your every move, but instead of faltering, you find yourself sinking deeper into the performance. Each développé stretches to its fullest extent, each sauté feels lighter than air. Your breathing steadies and the tension in your muscles transforms into power and control.

As you close the final sequence with a grand jeté, landing with a precise yet delicate touch, you can feel the room holding its breath. You finish in a graceful reverence, chest heaving but mind calm. In this moment, all the hours of hard work, the pain, and the sacrifices feel worth it. You've given everything you have.

But as you glance at Mrs. Yang, it doesn’t look like she’s as satisfied with your performance as you are. Her face is stoic, unreadable, but you’ve been in her class long enough to decipher even the subtlest of her expressions. The slight raise of her right eyebrow sends a wave of dread crashing through you. That’s never a good sign. Her eyes cling to you with the intensity of an unwanted gaze, leaving an uncomfortable knot twisting in your stomach.

She remains quiet for a few minutes, the silence stretching unbearably as though she’s gathering her words. When she finally speaks, her tone is clipped, measured. “It’s good, modern, and meets the criteria.”

You brace yourself, knowing that a ‘but’ is coming.

“But,” she continues, and you wince slightly, “you are not sharp enough. I mean seriously, Y/N, how many times do I need to pull you up for this? Do you not want to improve?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to disappoint her. You gave everything you had in that performance, even though it was just a run-through. But it’s clear that it wasn’t enough.

You bow your head, fighting to keep your voice steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Yang’s irritation sharpens. “Then for the love of God, can you listen to me this time?” She stands up, her movements precise and deliberate as she walks over to you. Her voice is firm, tinged with exasperation. “This exhibition is crucial to your future career. It’s what sets you apart from the others, and yet you seem to lack such basic skills. Even the first years are forming lines better than you.”

Her words slice through you, each one a reminder of the standards you’ve failed to meet. The sting of her tone is almost unbearable, but you know deep down that it comes from a place of faith. She nitpicks because she sees potential in you, potential she wants to help you realise. Each six-month review she’s had with you, she’s made it clear that she believes you can make it far in this world.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yang,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Apologise to yourself, not to me.”

A chorus of snickers drifts from the edge of the room. You glance over to see a group of girls, giggling and holding in laughter, their eyes full of condescension. The sound pierces through your already fragile self-belief, making you shrink into yourself, every snicker chipping away at whatever confidence you had left. Doubt begins to creep in, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You start questioning whether you’re truly cut out for this, whether all the sacrifices you’ve made have been for nothing.

Before you can spiral too deeply into your own thoughts, Mrs. Yang’s fingers press firmly against your cheek, gently but insistently turning your face to meet hers. “You can’t do this on your own, so I’m assigning you a coach.”

“But you are my coach,” you reply, your voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes, but I don’t have time to give you hours of one-on-one training,” she says, rolling her eyes as if that statement should be obvious. She strides back to her seat, preparing to evaluate the next girl in line. “I have someone in mind. They’re very fluid and pointed in their gestures. They should whip you into shape. I’ll book you an out-of-hours studio for the foreseeable.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You stand there, rooted to the spot, unable to fully process what she’s just said. Sure, she’ll still be your instructor during scheduled lessons, but this means that on top of your gruelling 12-hour days, your endless rehearsals, and the constant pressure to perfect every move, you’ll now have to spend extra time with a new coach.

It’s overwhelming. The thought of adding yet another layer of intensity to your already packed schedule makes your head spin. Your body, already pushed to its limits, protests at the idea of even more hours in the studio. Your heart sinks as the reality of the situation sets in. How will you manage it all? How will you balance the expectations of not one but two demanding mentors?

You want to succeed, to rise to the challenge, but a part of you is terrified that you’ll crumble under the weight of it all. The path ahead, already steep and treacherous, has just become even more daunting.

As Mrs. Yang calls out the name of the next dancer, you force yourself to step aside, the familiar sting of exhaustion settling into your bones. 

You can only hope that this new coach makes it worth your while.

_____

The long day of classes has left you drained, every muscle aching with the residue of endless rehearsals and critiques. The last thing you want to do is spend more time in the studio, yet here you are, trudging down the empty hallways of the performance centre with your gym bag slung over your shoulder. The familiar scent of rosin and sweat lingers in the air, and you can't help but feel a pang of dread at the thought of more practice. Your mind buzzes with the memory of Mrs. Yang’s words earlier this week, her disappointment, and the pressure of living up to expectations weighing heavily on your shoulders.

As you push open the door to the studio, your eyes fall on an unfamiliar figure - a boy standing with his back to you. He’s tall, strikingly so, with broad shoulders that taper down into a lean, athletic frame. His dark hair is tousled, falling just above the nape of his neck, and he’s dressed in loose joggers and a fitted white tank top that highlights the sinewy lines of his muscles.

You hesitate in the doorway, momentarily taken aback by his presence. The studio had been booked for you, and the last thing you want is a confrontation with a stranger. You clear your throat softly, hoping to catch his attention. “Um, hello?” you say timidly, your voice barely above a whisper. You hope that a gentle approach will encourage him to leave without any fuss.

The boy whips around at the sound of your voice, and your breath catches in your throat. His face is nothing short of breathtaking; sharp, elegant features softened by a small, almost shy smile. His eyes, a deep, captivating brown, seem to sparkle with quiet intensity as he takes in your appearance. For a moment, you’re struck by how impossibly beautiful he is, like a sculptor’s masterpiece brought to life. He seems too perfect, too unreal, and you feel a strange flutter in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“Hi,” he says, his voice smooth and warm, like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. He’s still studying you, and you can’t help but take the opportunity to do the same, noting every detail of his flawless face - the way his lips curve slightly upwards, the sharpness of his jawline, the softness of his eyes.

You blink, trying to regain your composure. “I don’t mean to be rude,” you start, hoping to keep your tone polite, “but my teacher booked me this room for a few hours.”

He raises an eyebrow, his small smile never fading. “Four hours to be exact, yeah. She also booked you…me.” The confusion must be evident on your face because he adds, “I’m your coach, Sunghoon.”

“You?” The word slips out before you can stop it, and you instantly regret how incredulous you sound. The last thing you want is to offend him, but the shock of the situation has thrown you off balance.

“Yeah, me. Why?” His tone is still light, but there’s a hint of defensiveness in his voice, and that sends you into a mild panic. You quickly shake your head, trying to salvage the situation.

“No, no, I’m not trying to say anything negative,” you stammer, holding up your hands as if to ward off any misunderstanding. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you around the performance centre, let alone the ballet corridor.”

He nods, seeming to understand your confusion. “That’s because you’ll find me in the sports centre.”

You take a moment to size him up, your mind racing as you try to figure out what sport he could possibly play. He’s too lean to be a rugby player, his legs too slender to be a footballer, but he’s tall enough to be a basketball player. You consider the possibility of him being a rower or maybe a gymnast, but nothing quite fits. He’s a mystery, one that piques your curiosity.

As if reading your thoughts, he interrupts your internal questioning. “I’m a figure skater.”

The revelation surprises you, and you can’t help but blurt out, “Oh.” You pause, trying to piece together why a figure skater would be chosen to coach you in ballet. Placing your bag to the side of the room, you turn to him again. “So why are you coaching me?”

“Why can’t I?” he counters, his tone holding a subtle challenge that makes you feel slightly defensive. “Mrs. Yang said you’re having trouble looking elegant and punctuated in your movements. Skaters have the same problem.”

You nod slowly, but a part of you is still sceptical. “But you guys have ice and skates. I have a wooden floor and ballet pumps.”

A laugh escapes his lips before he quickly covers his mouth, a look of apology flashing across his face. “Sorry, it’s just…what does that have to do with anything?”

You frown, still not entirely convinced. “You guys have blades to move you. I have to coordinate my legs to move me. You guys can think about fluidity and movement.”

He crosses his arms, his expression becoming more serious as he regards you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “Do you know how ridiculous you sound? We have to balance on a tiny blade and have every chance to slip or crash from a jump.”

His words hang in the air, and you suddenly feel a bit foolish for your assumptions. Of course, figure skating requires immense skill and precision - maybe even more so than ballet, given the added challenge of balancing on ice. 

“Okay, fair point,” you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. You also hate it when people underestimate the skill and energy it takes to perform ballet, and yet here you are doing it to him about his own sport. 

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and you find yourself holding your breath under his gaze. “I know you were expecting some ballet genius to help you but our arts are similar. It’s about control, balance, and grace,” he explains. “On the ice, every movement needs to be both powerful and delicate. The same applies to ballet. You need to find that balance between strength and elegance. That’s where I come in.”

You nod slowly, beginning to understand his perspective. The way he speaks, the passion in his voice, makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might actually work. “And you think you can teach me that?”

“I know I can,” he says confidently, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If you’re willing to put in the effort, that is.”

There’s a challenge in his words, one that you can’t resist rising to. You’ve always prided yourself on your work ethic, and you’re not about to let anyone doubt your dedication.

“I am,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze with determination.

Sunghoon starts the session by having you go through your routine. His eyes are sharp, missing nothing as he watches you move across the floor. You’re acutely aware of his presence, the way his gaze seems to weigh on your every step, every turn, every jump. It’s unnerving at first, but you push through the discomfort, focusing on executing each movement with precision.

When you finish, he steps forward, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re good,” he says, and the praise sends a warm flush of satisfaction through you and a blush to your cheeks. “But you’re too tense. You’re overthinking every move, and it shows. Ballet is as much about feeling as it is about technique. You need to let go a little.”

You frown slightly, not entirely sure how to do that. “Let go?”

“Yeah,” he says, moving to stand beside you. “Your muscles are too tight, your movements too calculated. It’s like you’re afraid of making a mistake, so you’re holding back.”

You look down at the floor, his words hitting a little too close to home. You’ve always been afraid of making mistakes, always felt the pressure to be perfect. It’s something that’s been drilled into you since you first started dancing, and it’s hard to shake.

He must sense your hesitation because he steps closer, his voice softening. “Hey,” he says gently, and you look up to find his eyes full of understanding. “I get it. But if you keep holding back, you’re never going to reach your full potential.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you want to trust him, something that makes you feel like maybe he understands you in a way that others don’t. You nod slowly, taking a deep breath as you try to let go of the tension in your body.

“Good,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Now, let’s try something different.”

_____

For two hours straight, you push your body to its limits, executing each movement with precision and determination. Sunghoon’s voice fills the studio, giving you sharp, pointed instructions that you follow without question. But as the minutes tick by, the atmosphere begins to shift. The calm, encouraging demeanour he started with fades, replaced with a growing tension that seems to coil around the two of you, tightening with each correction he makes.

“Extend more,” he snaps as you move through a series of arabesques. His tone is snappier now, the softness from before replaced with something harsher. “You’re still too stiff.”

You grit your teeth, focusing on stretching every muscle to its fullest, making sure each line is as precise as possible. But no matter how much you try, his dissatisfaction only seems to grow.

“Again,” he commands, his voice laced with frustration. You try to push your discontent down, channelling it into your movements, but the more you try, the more his critiques seem to cut through you.

“You’re losing focus. How are you going to perform on stage if you can’t even manage this in practice?”

The sting of his criticism hits you deep, and you can feel your confidence waver. Are you really that bad? You’re hitting the moves correctly, focusing intently on your lines - the very aspect of the performance Mrs. Yang had criticised you for. You’re doing everything he’s asking, so why is he still so frustrated? Shouldn’t he be pleased that his coaching is starting to take effect?

You execute a pirouette, landing with precision, but the instant your foot touches the ground, Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the air. “No,” he says sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not following through. Where’s the energy? The intention?”

“I’m trying!” The words slip out before you can stop them, frustration bubbling over. Your chest heaves with exertion, and you meet his eyes, desperate for some sign that he understands how hard you’re working, how much you’re giving.

But his expression remains hard, unreadable, and that only fuels the growing tension between you. “Trying isn’t enough,” he snaps back, stepping closer, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to do more than just hit the moves. You have to feel them. Right now, you’re just going through the motions. There’s no passion, no fire.”

His words cut deep, and you feel a flare of anger mixed with hurt. “I’m doing exactly what you asked,” you retort, unable to keep the edge out of your voice. “I’m focusing on the lines, on the form. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” he says, his frustration palpable, “but you’re missing the point. It’s not just about form; it’s about bringing the movements to life. Right now, you’re nothing more than a marionette, moving because you’re being told to, not because you’re actually feeling the dance.”

The comparison stings and you can feel yourself reaching boiling point. You’ve been working so hard, pushing yourself beyond what you thought you were capable of, and yet here you are, being told that it’s still not enough. A part of you wants to shout at him, to tell him that he doesn’t understand how hard this is, how much pressure you’re under. But instead, you swallow the words, letting the irritation simmer beneath the surface.

Sunghoon’s gaze softens, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make you feel the weight of his expectations even more acutely. “I know you can do better. Mrs. Yang told me you’re one of her best students,” he says, his voice gentler now with the content, though no less intense. “That’s why I’m pushing you. I need you to push yourself. You’ve got so much potential, but something’s holding you back. What is it?”

His question hangs in the air, heavy and probing. For a moment, you’re at a loss for words. Why are you holding back? Is it the fear of failing? Fear that you’ll never be good enough? Or maybe, deep down, you just don’t believe in yourself.

The silence between you stretches, thick with hostility. Sunghoon steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming, the heat radiating off him nearly suffocating. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, a challenge flickering in his eyes, daring you to shatter whatever invisible barrier is restraining you.

He’s so close now that you can see the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes blaze with a fire that sends a shiver down your spine. The frustration is palpable, a tangible force crackling in the air, making it feel electric, charged with something both exhilarating and frightening.

With a firm but gentle touch, Sunghoon places his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face the mirror. He steps in behind you, closing the space between your bodies. “Look at yourself,” he says, his voice low and resonant. “See how tense you are?” His large hands slide down from your shoulders, tracing the line of your body. “Every muscle is knotted up. You can’t perform at your best unless you loosen up. Stop overthinking. Just…let go.”

Your eyes meet his in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and in that instant, the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you, close enough to feel each other’s breath. Then, almost instinctively, his fingers press into your sides, firm and commanding, gliding up your waist and torso with deliberate slowness. The sensation sends a wave of heat through your body, and your breath catches as he lifts your arms, stretching your upper half with a fluid motion that leaves you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

“Feel this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the nape of your neck, sending another quake over your body. He holds your wrists above your head with one hand, the other pressing into your lower back, making you hyper-aware of the heat emanating from him. “See how good that feels?”

Using his knuckles, he circles the bottom of your spine, dissolving any knots and doubts from it. You resist the urge to moan but your eyes roll to the back of your head as you push your hips into him, aching for more of his magical touch. Out of all the massages you have ever had, this tiny glimmer of one beats them all.

His breath spreads over your skin, and his fingers tighten slightly around your wrists as he holds you in place. Once you bring your eyes forward, he locks in with yours in the mirror. His piercing stare is intense and your heart quickens, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. 

“You like that?” Sunghoon asks, the smirk plastered on his face as he feels you grinding onto his growing boner. He can see you wanting to let go in the reflection of your eyes as well as the neediness in your breaths, giving him all the consent he needs to take this further.

As he releases your wrists, his hand trails down your shoulders and back to meet the other. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of your top, firm yet tender. His fingers glide along your spine, coaxing your body to arch into the movement, a soft sigh escaping your lips. His touch is skilled, knowing exactly where to press and where to ease, melting away the tension in your muscles, leaving you pliant under his hands.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers, the edge in his voice betraying his awareness of the effect he’s having on you. The connection is almost too intense to bear. But you can’t look away, drawn to the magnetic pull between you. He slides his hands over your sides and across your lower abdomen, fingers digging slightly into your muscles, the pressure both soothing and intoxicating as he massages your belly and hips.

You instinctively begin to lower your arms, the proximity making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. But his grip tightens around your waist in warning. “No, keep your arms up, sweetheart,” he says, his tone demanding, the instructor in him resurfacing.

Resting his hand flatly on your stomach, his fingers spread as he pulls you flush against him, your back meeting the solid expanse of his chest. The contact makes you acutely aware of every point where your bodies touch, your heart hammering in your chest as your breath catches. His hands linger at the waistband of your leggings, before slowly, his hands dip down, fingers brushing against your skin, exploring with deliberate, teasing slowness. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, your skin tingling under his touch.

His hands move lower, the anticipation building with every inch he covers. You can feel your muscles trembling, your arms still stretched above your head as he asked, but the effort to maintain the position becomes increasingly difficult with every passing second.

His fingers find your folds, slipping between them with an agonising slowness that leaves you gasping. The sensation is overwhelming, your body instinctively moving with his fingers, but he’s quick to remind you of his control. “Keep your arms up, be a good girl and listen,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a quiet authority that leaves no room for disobedience.

The smirk on his face is unmistakable as he watches you struggle to comply, the tension between following his instructions and giving in to the intoxicating pull of his touch almost unbearable. His fingers continue their slow exploration, teasing and tormenting you with a skill that leaves you trembling, your resolve weakening with every passing moment.

Impulse begs you to let your arms fall, to collapse into his embrace, but his gaze holds you in place, that smirk still playing on his lips as he watches you battle with your own desires. The contrast between his command and the sheer pleasure he’s coaxing from your body is dizzying, leaving you on the edge of surrender.

Yet, despite the intense need coursing through you, you force yourself to keep your arms raised, stretching above your head, the effort only adding to the thrill coursing through your veins. His fingers move with deliberate intent now, pressing deeper, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body that make it almost impossible to think, to breathe.

Sunghoon’s fingers expertly play with your pussy, two of them circling your sensitive nub with a maddening precision that leaves you dizzy. “Do you feel how exhausted your arms are?” he asks, his voice tinged with a hint of smugness, as though expecting an answer despite your obvious distraction.

Nodding, you squeeze your eyes shut so tightly that white spots dance behind your lids, a kaleidoscope of fleeting lights against the darkness. The burn in your arms is a sharp contrast to the way your hips instinctively move, undulating in perfect sync with his skilled fingers. It's a delicious torment—the strain in your muscles somehow amplifies the pleasure coiling low in your belly, turning every sensation sharper, more intense.

Suddenly, his lips are on your neck, a gentle press of heat that sends a shiver cascading down your spine, threatening to unravel you completely. The warmth of his mouth on your skin is your undoing, and before you can stop yourself, your arms give way. You collapse forward, hands scrambling to find purchase, seeking him instinctively as if he's the only thing keeping you grounded. Your fingers dig into his arms, nails biting into his skin as you cling to him, desperate for stability in the storm he's unleashed within you.

"See how loose you feel?" His voice is a murmur against your neck, each word a hot, teasing caress. "How your body wants to move on its own, to give in? That’s how your performance should be."

As if to punctuate his point, his fingers slide inside you, the sudden, intimate invasion tearing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your hips buck against his hand, craving more, driven by the need he’s ignited in you. His other arm tightens around your waist, holding you close, anchoring you to him as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm, each stroke designed to push you further, closer to the edge.

The atmosphere around you thickens, every breath heavy with the electric tension between you. The heat radiating from his body seeps into yours, an overwhelming presence that consumes you, making it impossible to think of anything but the here and now. The scent of him - musky, intoxicating - fills your senses, making you feel lightheaded, dizzy with desire. You can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing insistently against your lower back, a solid reminder of his own need, adding fuel to the fire already burning within you.

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, more urgently, more demanding. "Even your pussy is so tight," he murmurs, his tone more observation than criticism. "Do I need to open this up too?"

Your laboured breathing is your only response, mingling with the slick, rhythmic sounds of his hand moving inside you. The coil of pleasure in your core tightens with every thrust, winding tighter and tighter, the pressure building until you feel like you might shatter from the intensity of it.

Your hands clutch at his arm, desperate, seeking something solid to hold onto as your legs threaten to buckle beneath you. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot that sends your vision spinning, a raw, needy moan escaping your lips. The feeling of his hard length pressing against you, coupled with the masterful way his fingers work you, has your entire body humming with sensation, alive with the need to surrender to the pleasure he’s offering.

Sunghoon’s mouth returns to your neck, lips brushing over your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly as he sucks, sending another jolt of arousal through you. "That’s it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, rough command that vibrates through you. "Let go. Feel it. This is how you should be."

His words wrap around you like a spell, breaking down the last of your restraint. Your body moves with his, falling into the rhythm he’s set, lost in the heat and desire pulsing between you. Every stroke, every touch, draws you deeper into the abyss of pleasure, until all you can do is let go and let him guide you.

“Fuck, Sunghoon,” you manage to mewl, your voice trembling, breathless, as you throw your head back, letting it rest against his chest.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound reverberating through you, adding to the fire already blazing in your veins. His lips trail up to your ear, his tongue flicking against your earlobe, a playful, teasing nip that sends another shiver racing down your spine. “That’s it,” he whispers, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and desire. His fingers curl inside you again, hitting that spot that makes your entire body jerk in his hold, another gasp torn from your throat. “You like this, don’t you? You’re such a perfect student, so eager to please.”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to stifle the moans threatening to spill over. He hums appreciatively, his hot breath brushing against your ear, the sensation sending another ripple of pleasure through you. “Good,” he purrs, his voice low and commanding, like the instructor he is. “You’re a quick learner when you want to be. You respond so well to guidance.”

Without warning, his hand shifts, thumb finding your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips jerk involuntarily. Your vision blurs, stars dancing before your eyes as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one pulling you deeper into the sensation. His fingers move with expert precision, relentless in their pursuit of your release, pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

In the mirror before you, Sunghoon’s eyes lock onto you, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he relishes in watching the pleasure contort your face. "You’re moving perfectly, not overthinking, just feeling how you should," he murmurs, almost to himself, pride evident in his voice. 

Just as you feel yourself teetering on the brink, he slows his movements, dragging out your pleasure, keeping you suspended on the edge. You whimper with need, the desperation in your voice only making him grin wider. His lips brush against your ear, his voice a dark, seductive whisper that sends your brain into orbit. "You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you? Be a good dancer and let go, show me how well you can perform."

It’s not a question; it’s a command. And with one final, skilled stroke, he pushes you over the edge, sending you spiralling into a climax that tears through you, leaving every atom in your body shaking with intensity and your muscles instantly tensing, just to relax once again.

As the tremors subside, you feel his hands shift, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “We’re just getting started,” he murmurs, a hint of something dark and promising in his voice. Slowly, he pulls them down, the fabric dragging against your skin, heightening your sensitivity. “You’re still tight,” he observes, voice low, almost thoughtful. “We need to work on that.”

He positions himself behind you, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the cool air against your bare skin. Pushing his joggers and boxers down to his thighs, he lets his hard cock spring free, your body shielding it from the mirror in front of you, but as he drags it along your folds, you get a sense of the thick, long shaft he is about to impale you with.

His hand moves to your hips, guiding you, adjusting your stance, and your hands find home on the mirror in front of you, fingers splaying across the cool glass. “Arch your back,” he instructs, voice firm yet gentle, as if this were just another rehearsal. “Relax into it…let me in.”

With a measured, almost calculated precision, he enters you, the sensation of him filling you completely making you gasp. In the mirror, your reflection catches your eye, your mouth falling open as you watch him disappear inside you. “Oh god,” you moan, the image of your bodies coming together, the way he stretches you, only intensifying the sensation. “Sunghoon…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet, wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into the moment. “Look at yourself,” he commands softly, his breath hot against your ear. “See how your body opens up when you let go? When you stop fighting and just let the movement happen? That’s how you get perfect lines.”

His pace is slow at first, methodical, every thrust a deliberate stroke meant to coax your body into submission. Your eyes lock onto your reflection, the sight of his hips moving against yours, the way your skin flushes with arousal, captivating. “Fuck, your pussy is sensational,” he breathes, a hint of strain in his voice as he pulls back slightly, only to push deeper. “Almost as good as your allegro.”

You let out a broken moan, your gaze flicking between his intense expression in the mirror and the way his muscles are contracting in his arms as he firms his grip on your waist, focusing on pounding into you with fervour. “Sunghoon… more… please…”

Each movement of his hips is like a masterclass, each squeeze from his hands and twitch of his cock only making your body ache for more. “Don’t hold back,” he whispers, his grip on your hips tightening, pulling you closer. “Let your body respond to mine.”

Your eyes widen as he leans forward slightly, the angle allowing you to see more of him in the mirror, his jaw tightening with every thrust. “Feels so good,” you manage to gasp out, your voice breathy, desperate as you push back against him, trying to take him deeper. “Please, don’t stop…”

The mirror reflects the sheen of sweat forming on your skin, the way your body arches into his touch, how every line of your form matches the rhythm he’s set. Your body moves with his, every thrust pushing you closer to that edge again, every word sinking deeper into your mind. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers finding your clit once more, adding that extra layer of stimulation that has your legs shaking. “That’s it,” he coaxes, voice rich with approval. “Give in to it. Let your body move the way it wants to…the way it needs to.”

“Sunghoon… oh, god… I’m gonna-” Your words cut off in a whimper as his pace quickens, the pace he sets becoming more intense, more demanding, each thrust designed to unravel you, to push you past your limits.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs into your neck, his gaze flickering up to meet yours in the mirror, watching how your breath fogs up the glass in front of you and your fingers claw down the flat surface in an attempt to grip onto something tangible. The sight of you coming undone in the reflection only seems to spur him on, his hips snapping against yours with renewed vigour.

“Sunghoon, I-” you try to speak, but the words dissolve into a moan as he thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur and stars dance before your eyes, the bell of his cock kissing the sensitive spot inside your walls.

“Show me,” he commands, his voice like a conductor’s baton, directing the crescendo. “Show me how beautifully you can fall apart.” 

Sunghoon’s arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling your trembling body back against his chest. The new angle allows him to thrust even deeper, the motion sending shockwaves of pleasure through you, each stroke of his cock searing itself into your memory. You feel completely filled by him, the sensation overwhelming as your reflection quakes, your body obeying every demand he silently makes. Your muscles clench around him, and as your head falls back against his shoulder, you cry out his name.

The mirror captures every detail - the flush of your skin, the arch of your back, the way your mouth opens in a silent scream as another intense climax rips through you. This one is even more powerful than the last, leaving you utterly undone, your body shaking in his arms as he holds you steady.

As the waves of pleasure begin to ebb, your eyes lock onto the mirror once more. You see yourself as Sunghoon sees you raw, vulnerable, but also strong, capable of surrendering and finding beauty in letting go. For a moment, all you can see is the perfect dancer he’s crafted, the one who’s learned to trust the rhythm and fall apart beautifully.

Chasing his own release, he begins to buck his hips in a fast, sharp manner, aware that two orgasms on your end could make you extra sensitive. Your pussy milks his cock as he cums deep inside of you, his nails scratching your hips and down your ass, as he moans out your name, chanting it like a hymn during confession. 

His chest heaves against your back and he kisses anywhere he can on your neck and shoulders to ground himself in the present, bringing himself down from his high.

As he slowly slides out of you, his arms never leave your body, keeping you close. He gently lowers you to the ground, sitting you down and holding you against him. Your body feels like jelly, completely spent, but his embrace is comforting. He presses soft kisses to the back of your head, his breath warm against your damp skin.

"You did so well, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice tender, full of pride.

You tilt your head back slightly, looking up at him with a small, exhausted smile. "I don’t think I’m supposed to be this relaxed when I perform at the exhibition," you manage to say, a breathless giggle escaping your lips.

Sunghoon chuckles along with you, the sound vibrating through your body where you're pressed against him. He shakes his head, brushing a few strands of hair away from your sweaty face. "No, you should have some feeling in your bones," he agrees, wiping the moisture from your brow with the back of his hand. "But do you see how, when you let yourself do what your body wanted, you felt a million times better?"

You nod, the memory of the intensity still fresh in your mind. "Yeah…I did. It felt different…freer."

"Exactly," he says, his eyes softening as he gazes at you. "That’s how ballet is supposed to be. You can’t bring emotions to an audience if you’re too busy concentrating on getting the next move right."

"But Mrs. Yang always talks about perfection," you counter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "She says, ‘You need to be perfect to achieve perfection.’ She repeats it all the time."

Sunghoon sighs, a look of understanding crossing his features. "It’s the same for us," he admits, his tone tinged with a mix of disdain and resignation. "Every skate has to be better than the last, or else you’re a failure." His voice carries the weight of someone who’s heard those words too many times, who’s internalised them and yet knows there’s more to the story.

"But perfection isn’t something you learn from a textbook. It’s not something you can force." He pauses, looking down at you, his expression thoughtful. "You need to find your own colour, your own style. That’s where true perfection lies - when it comes from within, not from trying to meet someone else’s standards."

You hold his gaze, the truth in his words sinking in. For years you have tried to live up to Mrs. Yang’s expectation that you lost your real love for the art. Or maybe, not lost the love, but rather buried it under the weight of being perfect. 

"But…what if I never find it? My colour."

Sunghoon’s lips curve into a small smile, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "To be honest, you’re better than most. You’ve got the skill, the technique, but you’re holding yourself back because you’re so focused on being perfect." His eyes bore into yours, sincere and encouraging. "You need to let your posture breathe, stop worrying about being flawless, and just…dance. That’s what’s holding you back - then you’ll find it."

His words resonate deeply within you, stirring something that’s been buried under layers of self-doubt and external expectations. "So I just need to let go?"

"Exactly," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "Let go, trust yourself, and let your body move the way it’s meant to. Just like we did there."

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight on your shoulders lift just a bit. "I’ll try," you whisper, the words carrying more determination than you thought possible.

Sunghoon smiles, a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it nearly makes you melt. "That’s all anyone can ask for," he murmurs, his voice reassuring.

You nod, feeling a newfound resolve build within you. As you sink deeper into his embrace, the world around you seems to blur, leaving behind the certainty that you’re ready to let go, to embrace the dancer you’ve always been meant to be.

After a moment of quiet, Sunghoon pulls back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips, grounding you. "How about we get you cleaned up, and then we run through it again?" he suggests, his tone light yet purposeful.

You smile, the idea of starting fresh with this new perspective sparking a sense of excitement in you. "Yeah," you agree, your voice steady. As Sunghoon helps you to your feet and fixes your outfit for you, you feel your heart burst with determination and adoration, both for ballet and the man in front of you.  

You’re going to have to thank Mrs. Yang for this by giving the most passionate performance at the exhibition.

Maybe Sunghoon can keep coaching you until then. You do need to work on your flexibility after all…

---

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