#writer stuff

[luna-azzurra]

Things that make me feel like i’m accidentally falling in love (help) and you can use for your OC

›› when they text “home?” and it just means “i wanna be where you are” and now i’m staring at my phone like an idiot

›› hearing them laugh at something dumb i said and it’s like. oh. okay. my heart does that now.

›› when they do that thing where they remember the tiny, stupid detail i mentioned once like 3 weeks ago and bring it up casually like it didn’t just ruin me

›› forehead kisses. hate them. literally short-circuits my brain. why does that feel more intimate than anything else ever

›› when they’re driving and just reach over to hold your hand??? for no reason??? like chill out i’m trying not to fall in love here

›› saying my name real soft like it’s important. stop that.

›› bringing me snacks when i’m sad. like not even asking. just showing up like ��here” and suddenly i believe in soulmates??

›› sharing headphones. yes it’s 2009 again. yes it’s still romantic. no i will not be taking questions.

›› when they notice you’re quiet and just sit with you without trying to fix it. like. that’s intimacy right there.

›› randomly texting “made me think of you” with a meme or a song or whatever. like sir. don’t.

›› accidentally brushing hands and then pretending it didn’t happen but both of you definitely felt it like a spark and now everything’s weird

›› when they say “text me when you’re home safe” and you do and they actually reply like “thank you.” like. okay now i wanna kiss you

›› when they look at you like they’re trying not to look at you. like you’re dangerous or sacred or both

›› helping you zip your jacket. pick something up for you. adjust your necklace. the casual intimacy??? it’s killing me softly

›› when they get all soft and tired and start talking about stuff they never talk about and it’s like they forgot to put their armor on for once

›› calling you out gently. like “you always do this when you’re scared” and it’s not even mean, it’s just true, and now you’re rethinking your entire personality

›› making plans with you and actually showing up. bare minimum? yes. still devastatingly attractive? also yes.

›› when they say “i like being around you” all lowkey like it’s not the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said

›› when they offer you their hoodie or jacket and you pretend you’re not dying about it

›› sitting next to you, knee to knee, arm to arm, and neither of you move away

›› just. looking at you. and not looking away. and not saying anything. and now you can’t breathe.

[theaftersundown]

fanfiction truly being the savior for everyones sanity

[rudamaruda520]

me as a writer

[charbroiledchicken]

if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.

[hayatheauthor]

10 Non-Lethal Injuries to Add Pain to Your Writing

New Part: 10 Lethal Injury Ideas

If you need a simple way to make your characters feel pain, here are some ideas: 

1. Sprained Ankle

A common injury that can severely limit mobility. This is useful because your characters will have to experience a mild struggle and adapt their plans to their new lack of mobiliy. Perfect to add tension to a chase scene.

2. Rib Contusion

A painful bruise on the ribs can make breathing difficult, helping you sneak in those ragged wheezes during a fight scene. Could also be used for something sport-related! It's impactful enough to leave a lingering pain but not enough to hinder their overall movement.

3. Concussions

This common brain injury can lead to confusion, dizziness, and mood swings, affecting a character’s judgment heavily. It can also cause mild amnesia.

I enjoy using concussions when you need another character to subtly take over the fight/scene, it's an easy way to switch POVs. You could also use it if you need a 'cute' recovery moment with A and B.

4. Fractured Finger

A broken finger can complicate tasks that require fine motor skills. This would be perfect for characters like artists, writers, etc. Or, a fighter who brushes it off as nothing till they try to throw a punch and are hit with pain.

5. Road Rash

Road rash is an abrasion caused by friction. Aka scraping skin. The raw, painful sting resulting from a fall can be a quick but effective way to add pain to your writing. Tip: it's great if you need a mild injury for a child.

6. Shoulder Dislocation

This injury can be excruciating and often leads to an inability to use one arm, forcing characters to confront their limitations while adding urgency to their situation. Good for torture scenes.

7. Deep Laceration

A deep laceration is a cut that requires stitches. As someone who got stitches as a kid, they really aren't that bad! A 2-3 inch wound (in length) provides just enough pain and blood to add that dramatic flair to your writing while not severely deterring your character.

This is also a great wound to look back on since it often scars. Note: the deeper and wider the cut the worse your character's condition. Don't give them a 5 inch deep gash and call that mild.

8. Burns

Whether from fire, chemicals, or hot surfaces, burns can cause intense suffering and lingering trauma. Like the previous injury, the lasting physical and emotional trauma of a burn is a great wound for characters to look back on.

If you want to explore writing burns, read here.

9. Pulled Muscle

This can create ongoing pain and restrict movement, offering a window to force your character to lean on another. Note: I personally use muscle related injuries when I want to focus more on the pain and sprains to focus on a lack of mobility.

10. Tendonitis

Inflammation of a tendon can cause chronic pain and limit a character's ability to perform tasks they usually take for granted. When exploring tendonitis make sure you research well as this can easily turn into a more severe injury.

This is a quick, brief list of ideas to provide writers inspiration. Since it is a shorter blog, I have not covered the injuries in detail. This is inspiration, not a thorough guide. Happy writing! :)

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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[musingsofheaven]

OFF THE RECORD.

crown prince!art donaldson x reporter!reader

⠀⠀⠀ heavy kissing. suggestive. intimacy. tension. ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ secret romance. not graphic, but loaded. ♡

One of the perks of being in this line of work is the connections you can build and the events you can go to. It's one of your favorites, actually. You just have to have the confidence to take on many tasks until this kind of assignment lands in your lap. And here you are… only just slipped your press badge into your evening purse- a slim, elegant little purse that barely held your phone and lipstick- when the message lit up your screen with three new messages. Come up. Suite 1806. Now. That was it. No explanation. Just three firm messages. Just that familiar, quiet command, the kind he always sent when he wanted something and expected a yes as an answer. And you knew exactly what it meant. He’d seen your name on the press list. Of course, he had.

He knew you’d be here tonight in your professional best, dressed like every other media rep at the gala. Giving your big smiles to people you'll have to interview, holding a microphone, voice clear and polite, asking the right questions to the right people. He knew you’d be close- close enough to hear him speak, close enough to catch his eye- and that you’d pretend, at least for the cameras, not to remember how he sounds when he’s panting into your mouth. Not to remember how his fingers curl when he’s about to come.

For a moment, you’d considered ignoring it because you know he's being needy again. Just need to see you the moment he hears you'll be there. You don't know if he's upset, but you’d worked hard to look like this. Your hair was freshly set. Your lipstick was flawless. Not too grand or too much effort with it but it's good on your skin. (It’s Art’s favorite color on you) It has a flattering shade you knew would stay in place through speeches and handshakes. You are okay. Good to go. Your interview questions were memorized, printed neatly, and somewhere. You were prepared. Controlled. Ready. You hadn’t planned to see him, let alone touch him- not tonight. Not in some kind of big event the Royal Family is holding. And certainly not in a suite no one was supposed to know you’d entered.

But the moment you read those three short lines, you knew. It wasn’t about sex. Not really. It wasn’t about anger, either. It was about that quiet, raw thing that got under his skin whenever you were forced to treat him like he was just a prince. That's it. A royal. Just another man smiling in a tailored suit. So you went. You know how he gets when he gets ignored, you know he'll be all pouty and annoy the hell out of you when he doesn't get what he wants: to see you.

But now you’re here- shoulders tense, throat dry- and he’s standing by the window like he’s being painted for history. His shirt is pristine like always. Buttoned and closed. Pressed so clean it looks starched. His hair is smoothed back, glossy and brown, it looks so perfect and it doesn’t even have strand out of place. Regal. Remote. Looks too good and he's so unreal. Like the day hasn’t touched him yet. Like he’s still the crown prince, not your crown prince- not yet.

He doesn’t move when the door opens. Not at first. He just let the step echo first. Just a subtle turn of his head, like the sound alone told him it was you- that familiar click of the handle. Your soft footsteps that he knows that are not heavy when you step it on the ground. Your scent of something expensive and warm that he’s already memorized for many times he holds you so close and he’s obsessed with. (He couldn't get enough of them especially when you are curled up against him) His eyes find yours, steady and sharp, and for a moment he just watches you. Stare at you. Then, quietly, without ceremony, he speaks. “You should’ve told me.”

Your stomach pulls tight and churns at the sound of his voice, that quiet and steadiness that masks something sharper beneath it. Low and deep. He's not mad but not in a good mood either. Still, you lift your chin with careful control. The habit you learn when you are in this kind of industry. Not to get intimidated. You are refusing to show the way his presence affects you. “Told you what?” you ask, your voice even, though your throat feels dry, but you are not being defensive about anything. You just don’t like that that was really his first words to you when you came inside. It made you raise your eyebrow while you waited for his response, staring at him and confused about what he was talking about.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. “That you’d be covering the event,” he says, the words level but too pointed to be casual. You don't know where you will go with this conversation though. “That you’d be there with the others.” His gaze stays fixed on you, he couldn't even get that mad when you look that good. But his gaze is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him- just slightly, just enough. He looks like he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying very hard not to let it show how much it stung to see your name on the list like it meant nothing. (Even though he knows there are big possibilities for it to happen because he knows what kind of work you have.) Like it didn’t belong to someone who knows what it sounds like when he whispers your name into your mouth. Maybe he's like this because you didn't give him a heads up… that he really has to know this from a piece of paper handed to him.

You step fully inside now, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. There’s a weight beneath his words, buried under the mask. He looks the part- composed, princely, in a shirt that’s buttoned up but there’s something in his voice that frays at the edges. Something personal. Something like disappointment. You can't figure out what it is though. You move a little closer, your voice quiet. “It’s not a secret. I’m on the press list.”

“It’s not your job that bothers me,” he says, the words coming fast. He can’t control them because he’s been holding them in. Like they’ve been sitting just behind his teeth since the moment he saw you. Or maybe the moment he saw the list. Like it's been bothering him since he saw it. “It’s the way you said it- like it's… You don't really tell me you'll be there.” His voice stays low, measured, but there’s a quiet ache underneath it, something raw and personal that turns the air heavier between you. He knows that you know that he doesn't like being surprised with information because it's throwing him off guard.

That’s where it lands- not as anger, but as ache. You should have told him. Because he doesn't like not being prepared because it's there, that slow, silent bruise he wears whenever you both have to pretend. Whenever you stand too far away. Whenever you smile like you don’t know the heat of his mouth or the way he falls apart when you touch him. Whenever you adore him while he has to act he doesn't know you, that he doesn't want to kiss you all the damn time.

Because you know him. You know that it's not really about not telling him. It's about both of you pretending this is nothing when people are around you. “You think I’ll ignore you?” you ask, your voice pitched low, almost a dare. But you don’t say that to provoke him. It’s softer than you mean it to be gentler. It is threaded with a question you’re not really ready to ask, but you do. You always ask him things especially when he can’t voice them out properly. You know him. But you know he's bothered about it. Because you can see how he looks. Now? He's holding it for a long moment, his gaze catching and holding, eyes moving over you like it physically pains him. It does. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the flicker of hesitation across his mouth before he speaks.

“I think you’ll try,” he says, and it’s not cold. It’s worse- it’s knowing. Certain. Like an assurance to himself that you might do it. The kind of quiet certainty that comes from watching you too long, too closely, and recognizing the cracks before you ever felt them form. “Because you think it’s easier,” he adds, and his eyes drift down, slowly, like every inch of you costs him something. Like looking at you is both a weakness and a warning.

You step forward. Not a dramatic move, just a quiet shift in the space between you, enough for the air to change. He still doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t move- his hands at his sides, his spine straight, shoulders set like he’s bracing for impact. But he wants to reach for you. To touch you. To feel you. His shirt is soft, collar neat, still buttoned. There’s no visible sign of strain, but you know how tightly wound he is. You can feel it, coiled beneath the surface of him, humming just out of reach.

“My boss would lose her mind if I got a quote from you,” you say softly, watching the way his mouth tightens when you speak. But you just said it to lighten the mood. To subtly tell him that it's not possible to happen, that you'll ignore him. “Do you really think I’d miss the chance to put your name at the top of my piece? That I’d stand ten feet away from you and not still feel you looking at me?”

“You’d better not,” he whispers, and it lands like something closer to prayer than warning. There’s no threat in it. Just hunger. Just yearning. Just that desperate undercurrent that’s always been there - the one he hides behind silk ties and perfect posture. “Because if I watch you tonight and you look through me- like I’m nothing but a topic in some article- I won’t forgive it.”

Your hand rises, slow and sure, fingertips brushing the edge of his collar. He twitches and tightens at your action at the same time. You feel the warmth of him there, the slow thud of his pulse under your thumb as you slip it beneath the fabric. His skin is hot and soft. You toy gently with the first button, and his breath catches. Just the smallest hitch. But it’s enough. Enough to tell you he feels something beneath all the walls he built.

“So that’s what this is?” you ask, your voice low but steady, your lips pulling into a shape that almost looks like a smile - but isn’t. It’s too sharp, too sad, too knowing. “You made me come all the way up here just to remind me I belong to you?” Not an accusation but a confirmation about something you already have the answer to.

He exhales sharply, and for a second you think he won’t answer. His nostrils flare, jaw locked, like he’s fighting himself. But still, he doesn’t move. But not until your thumb caresses his skin. His hand reaches out, wraps around your wrist, slow but gentle- grounding you there, holding you in place like the idea of letting go is impossible.

“No,” he says at last, and the word falls softly between you, but its weight is heavy. His fingers tighten, not cruelly, but with something closer to desperation. Yearning. “I made you come here so I could see you before they got the chance to look at you,” he said but still holding back the words in his mind about him missing you.

His thumb drags along your inner wrist, just once, slow and careful, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse. The thickness of your skin. The feeling of your hair. His eyes search yours - not asking for forgiveness, not even for understanding. Just looking. And then he kisses you.

Hard. Messy. Like he’s been starved for weeks and you’re the first taste he’s allowed himself. Like he's trying to prove something to himself more than to you. His hand slides behind your neck, the other curling around your waist. He squeezes it and feels the shape and the curve before he's dragging you in so fast your heels stutter on the marble. His mouth is hot and open and hurried like he’s punishing you for every minute you’ve spent apart.

You moan into it, fingers fisting in his perfect shirt. Making it wrinkly. Buttons snap loose. Your palms slide over the firm heat of his chest, feeling his soft chest and the hair on it. His curls falls loose, curling where your fingers rake through it, tumbling forward across his temple. You like the way it feels under your palms.

By the time he finally pulls back, he’s already a wreck- but not because he wanted to stop. It’s because he had to. For air. He’s breathing hard, dragging in air like it costs him, like it hurts to be apart from your mouth even for a second. His shirt is half off, wrinkled from your grip. Buttons gone. One cuff hanging loose, the other forgotten. His hair's ruined the neatness of it from earlier- wild from your fingers, damp at the temples. His lips are wet and red, swollen and shining. There’s saliva on his chin, and you know it’s yours.

And still, when he pulls away, he doesn’t really pull away. His mouth drags across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips again. Just peppering you with soft kisses. He’s chasing the taste of you. He can’t help it. Been a long time since the last time he saw you personally. “You’ll stand there tonight,” he breathes against your skin, “with your camera and your script- like I’m nothing but a headline.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your hand fists the front of his shirt. Tighter like you're mad at the words he's saying. You drag him back in, crashing your mouth against his like you’re furious with him, like kissing him is an argument. Like you don't like everything he said the moment you came here. Like he's ruining the mood for you to be at the event. Your teeth catch. Your tongues slide. His groan rumbles straight through your chest as he slams you back against the wall, fingers digging into your waist.

“I won’t,” you gasp when you finally come up for air- barely. Maybe just to say them. Maybe because you don't want him to have the last word. Your mouth is red and spit-slick, aching from how hard he kissed you, but you liked it anyway. Your throat burns like his tongue scraped it raw. You can’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t.”

But he doesn’t believe you. He never does when he feels like this. When he wants you so much it hurts. His hand curls tighter in your hair like a warning. Like a claim. Then he crashes into you. Not a kiss, but you are colliding with him. A consequence. His lips smash into yours, already parted, already demanding. His tongue shoves inside like he owns it, licking past your teeth without invitation, taking like he’s starving for it. His tongue is exploring inside, trying to scrape everything to taste every inch of what he hasn't tasted for weeks. You moan into his mouth- into him- and he swallows it down like breath. Like it's some source of oxygen for him.

His teeth catch your bottom lip- bite, then suck until you can taste the metallic taste. Until it blooms. You whimper, your hand clutching tighter on his hair and shirt. He groans back into you like it hurts to stop. His hand fists harder in your hair, yanks your head back, and he licks into your mouth deep, wet, unforgiving. “You will,” he growls, breath hot and wet against your lips. “You’ll smile like I’m not still thinking about the way you taste.”

Your knees buckle. It’s not a metaphor. You almost fall. But he’s ready for that, too- like he knew you would. He's already holding you tight. His thigh shoves between your legs, and you grind against the thick press of him without even meaning to. Your body just moves. Your panties are soaked it's embarrassing. Your thighs tremble. You gasp against his mouth and he smiles- that crooked, mean, and cruel smile like he’s proud of you for falling apart.

“I’ll ask you two questions,” you rasp- an assurance to him that it won't be a lot when you interview him later, voice wrecked and slurred with spit and heat. You grab his collar and yank- hard. He chokes on it, stumbles forward into you, and you feel his cock twitch against your hip.

“Nothing too serious.” You add, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just groans- and kisses you again. Hot. Violent. Sloppy. Tongue sneaking into yours. Licking deep. Sucking hard. His mouth seals over yours like it belongs there, like he’s trying to breathe you in and choke you on him at the same time. His hands are everywhere- your jaw, your throat, your ass. Gripping. Lifting. Pulling you closer, harder, deeper. He couldn't just get enough of it, of you.

Your teeth clash. Your lips slip. Neither of you stops. He kisses you like he wants to fuck your mouth open. Like he's trying to prove to you that he misses you. Like your mouth is a wound and he’s digging in tongue first, then teeth, then that awful, desperate moan like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He bites the corner of your lip. Sucks your tongue into his mouth and holds it there, just around his mouth. He tastes like heat. Like sweat. Like he wants to live inside your breath.

Saliva smears your chin, your cheeks. His spit. Yours. Both. The line’s long gone now- blurred out by hunger and heat and the way you’re rutting on his thigh like it’s instinct. Like it’s more important than your job. “Smile like you don’t know how I sound when I’m needy,” he mutters against your open mouth.

And you shatter. You kiss him harder- kiss him meaner. Like it’s the only language you know. Like maybe, if you keep going, if you keep licking him, grinding against him, tasting him, you won’t have to answer. You won’t have to admit how much it’s ruining you. Your hands twist in his collar, his shirt, his skin. You don’t know what you’re holding onto anymore- just that if you let go, you’ll disappear.

“I’ll be professional,” you lie, soft and broken and right against his lips. It sounds like it hurts to say, but you still do. He stills. Then opens his eyes- and you wish he hadn’t. They’re haunted. Glazed. Starving. He looks at your mouth like he’ll never get enough of it. Like he wants to spit in it. Cry into it. Fuck you through it. Like he’ll never forgive it for making him feel this way. And when he finally speaks, it’s not a warning- it’s a promise.

“You’ll be mine,” he says. Ruined. “Even if I’m the only one who knows it.” And when you finally leave- lip gloss smudged, shirt clinging in all the wrong places- he’s both of you are standing close to the mirror, looking like he just got hit by a tornado. One with lip balm and soft hands.

He’s trying to fix himself. Tugging his shirt down. Flattening the wrinkles in it. To straighten it without an iron. Refastening buttons that don’t quite line up. His curls are all flat on one side and sticking up on the other. He looks… sweet. Ruffled. Soft.

You blink at him and fix your clothes with a crooked smile. “Wait,” you say, voice small and teasing, “are you like this when you miss me?”

He freezes, glancing at you in the mirror before scoffing like you haven’t caught him red-handed. “Like what?”

“Like…” You step in closer, eyes wide with pretend concern. “All messy and flustered and- ” your fingers flutter toward his hair, curling it around them, “- your curls doing that sad little please touch me thing.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it only makes him look more adorable. You swear you saw him pout. “They don’t do that.”

“They do, actually,” you sigh like you are disappointed with what you heard, smoothing the worst of it down, fixing the strands you tugged on earlier when you were kissing him like it meant something. Your voice drops to a whisper as you tilt in close to his ear. “You missed me so bad, huh?”

He exhales sharply through his nose and doesn’t answer, but you can feel how warm his skin gets. So you poke his side, light and giggly, and say again, “Huh? Be honest.” You smile and play with him right now like you haven't had the most starving make out you have had in a long time.

He groans, turns to face you fully, and grabs your waist like he doesn’t even mean to, but it stays there. He squeezed it though before speaking, “You’re evil.”

“I’m right,” you proudly say, grinning up at him.

He kisses your forehead, quick and breathless, and mumbles into your skin before kissing your head, “Fine. Maybe a little.”

“A lot,” you correct sweetly, hugging him back. “You’re all needy and rumpled. It’s very endearing. I love it.”

He shakes his head like he disagrees, but he’s smiling- cheeks warm, curls still a mess. And when you finally do leave, slipping out with your lip gloss smudged and your heart doing something weird in your chest, he just… stays there. In front of the mirror. Still catching his breath. He stares at himself for a long moment. Tries to fix it.

Straightens his collar. Wipes the kiss from his mouth. Runs a palm through his hair- but it’s no use. His curls have that wild, post-you look to them now. Soft and ruffled and touched. The kind of mess that only means one thing.

He buttons one more button, just to say he did. But he doesn’t bother at all the way. Doesn’t want to. It still smells like you- his shirt, his skin, the air. Like heat and sweetness and something dangerous. So he leaves it. Half-undone. Like you left him.

And when he shows up at the event like that- lips clean but cheeks still flushed, curls all over the place, shirt buttoned like he couldn’t finish- everyone notices. They don’t say anything. Not outright. But they glance.

Someone claps him on the back and asks if he’s had a long day. Someone else raises a brow when he laughs too easily. One person says, “You look like you’ve been busy.” He did. But not with his responsibilities, just with your mouth this time.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[obsidianpegasus]

Spoiler: 70% of the time, it is not :(

[moonqz]

OUT OF THE FIRE : Kwon Jiyong x reader

pairing : obsessive!possesive!jiyong x reader

genre : 18+, kind of dark themes (obsession, possessiveness)

warnings/contents : very suggestive content towards middle/end, no actual smut // MDNI! very slight manipulation? fluff entailed in parts of it.

description : Jiyong has a break in between concerts so what does he do? Spend every last moment with you. Or at least trying to convince you to do so.

requested by : anon : thank you for being patient and for the request 🤍

Jiyong was obsessed. Not in the casual way, but in the most gut wrenchingly soul stricken way. A way that blurs in between the lines of control and love.

You’ve been dating him secretly for over a year, and now that he’s on a break between concerts, he’s practically glued to you, insisting that you stay with him in his penthouse apartment for a week straight.

He doesn’t get angry when you try and put some distance, even if just to go to the bathroom, he gets clingy. Passive-aggressively hides your purse so you ‘can’t leave yet’. Buys you matching designer pajamas and insists on doing skincare routines together. And at night, he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish by morning.

You think it’s a bit much at first, but he’s so soft with you; cooking you breakfast, always wrapping himself around you on the couch, leaving gentle kisses along your cheek and jaw, getting pouty when you even look at your phone too long.

“It is the girls,” you said with a laugh, tilting your head to kiss the top of his hair. “You want me to show you the texts?”

He didn’t answer. Just nuzzled closer, long arms wrapping around your waist as if he was trying to fuse your bodies together. Typical.

Ever since his tour ended, he’d practically barricaded the two of you inside his penthouse apartment. Not in a bad way, you’d wanted time with him too. But it had been five days now, and you were starting to forget what sunlight looked like.

“You’re clingy,” you teased, brushing his hair back from his eyes, with care that made him want to keep you there even longer.

“I haven’t seen you for two months.” Jiyong defended. It’s not like it would make a difference if he wasn’t on tour, he’d still want you completely surrounded by him and his presence.

“You FaceTimed me every night.”

“ ‘s not the same.” His grip tightened a little. “You’re not allowed to leave again for at least a year.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just going to the store.” you tried to reason, but the way his lips pressed against your jaw gently again, and his hand around your waist tightens more, made you resign slightly.

“I’ll order whatever you need baby.” He persuaded, hesitant of even thinking of letting you go.

“I want to go,” you said firmly, stretching your arms. “I need to breathe. You’re gonna have to survive fifteen minutes without me.”

He frowned, like the concept personally offended him. “Is someone meeting you there?”

“What?” You blinked. “No. I’m just going alone.”

“Good,” he muttered, another kiss to your jaw. “No one should be seeing you like this but me.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“You’re too pretty to be walking around alone,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Someone’s going to look at you the wrong way. And I’ll get upset. You don’t want me upset, do you?”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a confession.

You’d seen it before, at shows, at events. The way he wrote the song ‘Ride or die’ for you. The lyrics.

How he tensed up whenever male staff hovered too close to you. How his arm would circle your waist tighter when someone looked at you too long. How he never let go first when he held your hand.

“You’re mine,” he whispered now, lips brushing your cheek. “I like you best where no one else can touch you.”

He stared at you like you’d just declared you were moving to another continent. Then, reluctantly, he let go, but his hand lingered on your hip, his finger looped in one of the belt loops of your jeans.

Still, you left — with a promise to be quick. And even then, your phone buzzed the entire walk.

You were halfway down the street from his apartment building when your phone buzzed.

“Don’t talk to anyone.”

“I saw your location — why did you stop walking?”

���Are you okay?”

“Please come back.”

“I miss you baby.”

“I need you home, Iye and Zoa miss you”

“Now.”

You didn’t text back. Not because you were upset, but because you knew what was waiting.

And when you returned, breath caught in your throat, you found it: the apartment dimly lit, fairy lights glowing, your favorite snacks laid out, a blanket folded with new pajamas on top.

And him, waiting on the couch, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to look relieved.

You dropped your bag.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” you whispered.

“It felt like forever,” he said, rising. “Don’t do that to me again.”

You stepped into his arms without a word. He held you too tightly, like something might come tear you away if he ever let go.

“You know I’ll always come back, right?” you murmured into his chest.

“No.” His voice was firm. “You won’t come back. You won’t leave. I’ll keep you here. Right where you belong.”

It wasn’t a complete truth, he wasn’t psychotic, and he wanted you to have space to breathe, but he was also half serious on keeping you with him all the time

Your heart should’ve raced, but it melted instead.

Because even though his love was obsessive, consuming, maybe a little insane…

It was yours. It was out of pure love and affection.

And you never wanted to belong to anyone else.

You realize Jiyong’s obsession isn’t about control. It’s about fear. Fear of losing the only part of his world that’s real.

By the time you’re pressed against the bedroom door, you’re not sure who reached for who first.

His hands are on your hips, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, and your breath catches as he lifts it over your head in one swift movement, eyes never leaving yours.

“You left me,” he murmurs, voice low, like he’s scolding you.

“I went to the store,” you reply, breathless, one hand tangling in his hair, the other limp around his shoulder.

“For almost an hour.” His fingers slide along your bare skin. “You said fifteen minutes.”

You tilt your chin up, challenging. “So what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw flexes. You see the shift in his eyes, from pouty to possessive.

“I’m going to remind you,” he says, guiding you backward, “that this” he presses a hand flat between your thighs over your underwear, “belongs to me.”

Your breath hitches.

“You like saying things like that,” you whisper, even as you lean into his touch. “You like hearing me say it back.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Say it, then.”

You feel his fingers press more firmly between your legs, not enough, but almost, and he smirks when your knees buckle slightly.

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

He kisses you then, deep, hungry, claiming. His hands move over your body like he’s trying to memorize you all over again, like you’ve been gone for years instead of hours.

Clothes disappear fast after that.

He lays you on the bed like you’re fragile, but his grip is anything but gentle; a hand wrapped around your thigh, the other trailing possessively along your neck as he settles between your legs.

“My pretty baby” Jiyong murmurs, cupping your jaw gently to make you look at him.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again, voice husky. “No one gets to see you like this. No one gets to touch you. Just me.”

The following morning, you woke up to the weight of Jiyong wrapped around you. Again.

You blinked awake slowly, warm and boneless, limbs tangled in his.

He was already awake.

Jiyong lay half on top of you, eyes heavy-lidded and pouting a little as he blinked down at you, messy hair falling into his eyes. His hand was stroking up and down your bare back in lazy, aimless circles.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice scratchy.

He didn’t say hi back.

“Never leave again,” he murmured instead, tucking your head under his chin. “I mean it this time.”

You gave a tired laugh, voice still half-asleep. “You say that every time I take a step toward the door.”

“I’m serious.”

His fingers curled slightly against your hip. Not hard, just enough to remind you he was there. Still clinging. Still not done with you.

“You could move in,” he said suddenly, voice low, almost too casual.

You froze. Then pulled back a little to look up at him.

“You serious?” You questioned. He chuckled under his breath, pulling your head gently back to his chest, peppering kisses to your hair, gentle unlike how he was last night.

“Yeah..you already have a toothbrush here, I’ll buy you everything you need, I’ve already cleared out space in the closet for you. Plus, the cats hate when you leave” He spoke softly, his hand trailing over your hip now in small, hypnotising circles.

“The cats hate when I leave, or you hate when I leave?”

“Both” He smiled, his lips still against the top of your head, “Just stay..you can stay here when I’m away, and I’ll bring you with me whenever I can”

A beat shuddered between the two of you. You were barely contemplating it, you already knew the answer.

“You planned this?”

“Obsessively,” he said without shame.

You laughed, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re insane.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned down to kiss you.

And when your arms wrapped around him again — when the kiss deepened, and sunlight broke in through the curtains, and his body settled against yours, you realized you’d already made the decision.

This wasn’t just where you were staying.

This was home.

[luna-azzurra]

Common Jealousy or Envy Tics

⊹ Narrowing Eyes Slightly

⊹ Clicking Tongue Quietly

⊹ Faking a Smile (and it shows)

⊹ Pursed Lips or Sucking Teeth

⊹ Overcompensating With Loud Positivity

⊹ Making Passive-Aggressive Remarks Disguised as Compliments

⊹ Clenching a Hand Hidden From View

⊹ Intense Focus on Something Random (to avoid reacting)

⊹ Glancing Sideways Frequently

⊹ Trying Too Hard to Join the Conversation

⊹ Interrupting or Correcting the Object of Jealousy

⊹ Looking at the Person, Then at Who They’re Talking To, Then Back

⊹ Complaining About Unrelated Topics That Totally Aren’t Related, Nope

⊹ Repeating or Mocking What Was Just Said

⊹ Spilling or Dropping Things from Distraction

⊹ Unexplained Mood Shift

[cervenakoviny]

Valid, please do go for it, be it the codified version or a dialect and slang.

As for me, it's a bit different. For a time being a foreign language became my emotional one, cause I spent some time communicating emotional things in it. Not the most properly, but communicating them all the same, with compulsive imediacy and reverberations brought by both the concepts and the form they took in that specific language. One could even say I opened a thirteenth chamber using it and thus these things became interwoVen. These days ideas come to me in all languages I use. I cannot rate quality of my expression between each of them, but I can report that during translation of my own writing I often end up also changing the original text.

Recently I came across a theory, that people (especially writers, poets and creatives) can express themselves better in their second language, because it's stripped off of emotional value, it isn't plagued by your feelings and it's more rational. Well... My heart aches for my mother language (czech), especially the version my family talks in. What do you mean you don't want to be plagued by emotions? Cause I DO. I want my writing to be so infected by them, I want my writing to be so ill with emotion! That's an infectious disease I'll gladly infect myself and my art with. The second language I learned was english. I'll never be able to create fully in it. I always feel like everything I create is only a shadow, a reflection of what may have been. If I can write in the language my grandma spoke to me, in which my mum sung me lullabies and in which my father told me stories, then I will. In the language we speak carries our identity as a society and shapes our understanding.

Protože každý nápad ke mně přichází v mém mateřském, rodném jazyce, pláču v něm a raduju se, tvoří moje vzpomínky. I když forma (ani ne nářečí, ale přímo ta konkrétní část, kterou mluví naše rodina), je hrubší a neučesaná, je mi tak drahá. Ano, ráda budu mluvit nespisovně a vlastně špatně, ale někde v mém srdci mi tenhle jazyk zní jako zpěv. Prostě proto, že je můj.

[tokkibean]

sometimes i stare at my screen and my writing, mentally sigh and think this is what i love to do?

[wordsbyurwa]

Words by me @wordsbyurwa

[musingsofheaven]

TALKING BODY.

summary: Everyone expects you to get it. Because you are smart enough to get into this program and smart enough to stay. The overachiever. The one who never needs help. The people who expect don’t need to review because you know it. And they’re not wrong. You’re not dumb and never have been. So why does anatomy make you feel like you are? And what's worse could happen if you start tutoring and leave your lip gloss at his place?

pairings: student physical therapist / tutor!art donaldson x student physical therapist!reader

warnings: 9.5k words. mature themes. masturbation. sexual fantasy. use of personal item (lip gloss). anatomical touching. unspoken power imbalance. edging. read responsibly.

note: hello! this fic is based on a request I received. i know anon didn’t really give specifics and just said “tutor,” so i built it from there, and my mind immediately jumped with what if they’re both student pt? well, i ended up relating it a lot to the program i’m currently in. i might’ve made it a little personal especially about the implication of pressure and the burnout. T_T thank you for reading! <3

If you want something, you have to burn for it. That's what everyone said. There’s no easy path to get that degree that will help your future. But right now? You feel so stupid ever since you entered college. But you’re not even stupid. That’s the thing. You know you’re smart before you even apply to this university. You know you’ll get accepted, that’s how confident you are. And you have this mantra that you just have to study very well and it will work out very well for you.

Of course, you study. You munch it. You eat it. It’s your soul. Who are you without your academic achievements, right? Because you can’t even celebrate your achievements when it’s probably just one of those normal days where you get something but it will feel like an obligation to your eyes. And you are even doing good in your classes. Professors love you. Students envy you. “Did you review?” someone will always ask you, but someone will interrupt the conversation and say, “She doesn’t need it! She has this big brain that can answer everything.”

Love the confidence because maybe you can answer everything. Almost. But you are good with Human Growth and Development. It’s easy. You can study the whole semester in a short time if you have the whole lesson in your hands, but sadly, you don’t, so you have to sit through the whole class. The professor made all of the students from your block list learn all ten principles, and you listed them all in front without blinking, and you did it fast. But not hurried, they still managed to understand what you were saying.

You even correct your professor mid-lecture when she's talking about neonatal reflexes and she makes you recite and explain them to the whole class. When one of your classmates complained about something in the lecture, you offered help and did it like breathing. And don’t get started with Physiotherapy because you love it as hell. You really enjoyed reading through the patient management model, along with the SOAP notes you need to do. The functional outcome becomes your best friend because you like seeing the case your professor gave you and you make many outcomes that can possibly happen.

And one of your favorites is Psychiatry. You already knew the basics before they taught it. Like Maslow’s hierarchy and you turned in your assigned work too quickly after the professor handed it to the class. You know stress because that’s what you’ve been feeling ever since you started college. You could recite the definition given from the book when your professor asks about psychosomatic medicine. When your professor has a final paper and tells the whole class to just pick any topic from the whole semester? You are unstoppable because you made a whole paper about the whole semester too, not just any topic, and made your professor say, quote, “I’m a little concerned but very impressed.”

This is your pre-med and you don’t slack. You have many study techniques, like Pomodoro or anything that works at the moment. You have sticky notes all over your dorm. It’s full of different colors on the walls. You even have a big ass whiteboard inside. There’s a written “YOU ARE NOT FAILING” on the wall with three exclamation marks. You record lessons while you’re reading them so you can listen to them while brushing your teeth or doing something that can’t make you read, so you will just listen. Your friends say you’re intense; you say you’re surviving. You need to survive everything so you endured not attending social events just for you to review something.

But… there’s this one course. This one course that makes you want to jump. Human Anatomy. This evil one. This is a different beast. It’s not that you are a dumb person. It’s also not because you don’t get it. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s making you crazy. Batshit crazy type. Too many bones, ligaments, fascia, and insertions. Of course, you can point out the easy ones like the iliac crest and gluteus medius, but when it gets harder or the ones sound like a tongue twister, your brain melts.

And the worst part this semester? The muscles. When you study it, you also need to know about OINA which means Origin, Insertion, Nerve, Action. You made flashcards about it using pink colored cards, calligraphy, and glitter pens. You made your own mnemonics to remember everything. It also gets to the point where you have to draw labels on your body. Your must have is having 3D model apps, and let your study app guilt you every time you make a mistake.

But nothing is permanent. It worked until it didn’t. Until everything starts getting into you. Especially when this course has pre and post-lecture quizzes, and there are major long quizzes that have fifty or seventy items you need to take (for prelims, midterms, and finals) before the examination week. It humbled you when you just got scores below 20. Don’t get started with the exam week. It has a hundred-item written exam. There’s the lab exam where you have to label it all.

The worst of them all? The fucking moving exam. Yes. That one. The one with stations but has multiple items. One minute to answer the 5-10 questions before you move into another when the bell rings and you can’t even go back because everyone around you is moving. You once mismatched the muscles and spelled a muscle wrong three times. Ending? You just write sorry on your sheet before you hand it to the professor. It's just sad that you blew up every one of them after studying like there’s a gun in your head. And every time your paper got handed to you, your professor looked at you with pity, as if there’s nothing more you can do. You just smile every time you get it, though, even in your mind, you want to get out of the world.

You just cried when people left and wipe your nose with your sweater sleeves while you can still what your best friend said that maybe you are more of a psychiatry person, but that shit doesn’t feel like a compliment. All of the words from that day keep coming back to your mind like an echo as you sniff, and your breath catches in your throat. Like when your prof suggested earlier to try a study group, but you just nod and didn’t say that they’ve been leaving you out and avoiding you. She also assigned you a study partner because she thinks it will be helpful to your case. It’s Art Donaldson. Yes, that Art Donaldson.

The sporty guy. The one who’s playing tennis. Of course, you know him. Everybody does. Student player and in a health-aligned program? That made the girls wet with the idea. You’ve seen him once in the training room when you walked past it, and he’s wearing a tight shirt that shows off his arms. He’s your batchmate, actually. Well, in the same block, you almost share all the classes together, besides the extra course you want to take. People don’t nknow it, but this physical therapy degree he’s chasing is more likely a fallback in case tennis doesn’t work out well. He already has sponsorships and could just do tennis, but he’s also studying to prevent injury and to know well about his body. You are the opposite because you are studying to go to med school.

The worst part is he’s really a nice guy. Not the performative type of men are nice. Not the fake nice. He’s really nice. He’s soft spoken and shy. People love this personality. You notice how pink his ears get when he talks too much in class discussions. The first time you talk to him about muscles, he already recited the oina about it like an automatic button and he just laughed at your reaction. Now you see him once a week, besides the time you see him from the class lectures, of course, because he’s your tutor and you both review in his dorm. He lets you sit on the floor with the flashcards placed like tarot cards, and tries not to cry over the part you are learning about.

You think this is just tutoring, but Art is not even sure if it is. It all started before the professor offered to be your tutor. Maybe it was that time when you were leaning over the sink, and he managed to smell the scent of your perfume, and he forgot that he was supposed to walk and not stop close to you. Or maybe it’s in some seminar the department forced your whole block to attend and you have this unimpressed expression and say something like, “Oh my god, shut up,” and he laughed too hard.

You don’t even see him. You’re not looking at his direction like other girls do. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe not. And you’ve talked to him, but it’s just nothing because it’s always about academic stuff. It’s always about, “What was that nerve again?” and “Do you have the slide from last lesson?” before you look away. To your eyes it��s nothing. Maybe you treat him as someone who’s smart too, especially if he gets the course you don’t like more than you do. Maybe he doesn’t care if you treat him like a walking answer key like others treat you, but he doesn’t really mind it. He just wants to be something. To matter.

How can he not want you when you’re pretty, smart, and talented? You always have your own orbit where you shine and have own lights over your head that make you bright. But he knows you are hiding behind being smart, flashcards, mnemonics, slides, or whatever you do to not show the cracks. Except for him. You don’t know it, but he saw it. He saw you once in the empty lecture hall where you have many textbooks open around you and your head buried in one of them, and your mascara is a mess, your lip gloss that's always on your lips is faded, it’s like you don’t expect to break down that night. So, when did the professor ask him to help you with this course? He said yes faster than a flash because he will grab that chance, and he’s losing his mind over the idea of being your tutor. It’s also okay for him when you show up late at his door today.

Your bag almost slides off your shoulder, and your thumb hooks under the strap, gloss perfect, tank top riding up like it shifted on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it. He lets you inside like his space belongs to you by default. When both of you settled inside, he stayed at his desk and sat there like he had never learned how to relax, with his hoodie casually tossed over the chair. His tortora book is wide open on his thigh, while you’re settling your things in his place. The only things necessary are a book, notes, and pens.

He even let you sit in his bed with your things resting beside you. The moment you start reading is the moment you start complaining to him like this is not helping. You can’t do this today. But he will just shrug it off and stare at you with his eyes rolling. He let you have your moment first. Complain, skim the book, highlighting everything while he talks to you gently, not trying to be a bad tutor to you. He lets you do your own thing in the first fifteen minutes until you groan and say, “This is so much.”

This will be cuter if he’s not your tutor. He can just watch you complain all you want and still be cute, but this is not that moment, so he shrugs off what he’s thinking by chuckling softly and nodding at you. “We don’t have to study all of it in one go.” Which makes sense because both of you will be overworked if you study it all. And as much as he likes to teach you, he’s not as insane like you are in terms of studying, which can go on for hours and hours. “You’re gonna need to go really slow. I don’t get why there are two muscles with one name.”

He quickly looks at you when you say that, and he just sighs, “It’s technically the psoas and the iliacus, but-” You wave your hand to dismiss him. It’s not like you don’t know that two muscles with the same name came from the anterior fascial compartment of the thigh and muscles of the posterior abdominal wall, because you do know it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t hate that idea. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wish they’d give a girl a break.” No smile was found on your face when you said that, but it still sounds funny because he tucks a smile behind his teeth. “Want to walk through it on the diagram?” he asks you before nodding at the chart taped on his wall.

Teeth quickly find the bottom lip when the suggestion set is placed, and it’s not a bad thing, especially if it’s a good chart. It just doesn’t work for you. Eyes flickering back at him, you notice how flushed his neck is, how his chest his getting broader while he softly speaks, and how his hands touch the mattress before he sits down in front of you. Tilting your head, and your voice honey sweet, you say, “…Could I just use you? Like a dummy? A chart?” A smile finds your lips and you feel nervous before you add, “I swear I just learn better with… visuals.”

The words made his breath freeze. He thinks the words stop when you said that you want to use him as a dummy. Words are catching in his throat and he wants to choke. But he sighs and nods, “Yeah. Sure.” Giggles are found in the room when he agrees and you have this bright smile when you settle close to his knees. You feel the air change, but not uncomfortable in your skin. “Okay, thank you,” you murmur, brushing your hair back, “take your shirt off?”

His mouth opens but nothing is coming out other than a choke of surprise he has. Fingers found their way to the hem before pulling the shirt over his head, and he hoped he wasn’t making it weird. Look casual. Look. Casual. When he takes off his shirt, your eyes can’t help but look down at his body. Shit. So this is what tennis will do to you. Muscles are good. Muscles are heaven. You don’t even hate it anymore because your eyes can’t help to track the stretch of his biceps, the tense line of his stomach, the shirt falling as he leans back, chest naked.

You don’t even realize how he’s gripping the mattress tightly because your mouth almost waters at the sight, and you might pray to all the Gods that exist in this world, just not take this view away from you. Also, thank god Art is such a nervous wreck, he didn’t even notice you are staring. When you scoot over, your fingertips immediately hover at the waistband of his sweats. “So…” your voice almost got cut out from you but you just bit your cheek before speaking again, “iliacus is here, right?”

Hand comfortably settled in his body before fingers started to move and slid down to the curve of his hip. The skin of your hand brushes the soft skin above his waistband. Your touch is gentle, it’s like you are scared to touch him even. But that small touch made him tighten his muscles, and it sparked under his skin. His thigh jumps subtly, and his breath just dies down on his throat. “Wait, no… too medial?” you point out that you might be wrong, “Am I poking your guts?” He swallows his saliva before he speaks, and it gets rough, “Almost right. A little more lateral.”

He nods repeatedly for seconds before your fingers move and his palm glides down, and he can feel your hand hot across his abs. It tightens under your touch but you barely notice it does. “There?” He nods, breath catching. His sweat starts to pool at his forehead before he says, “That’s it. Iliacus. Merges with the psoas.” Hum escapes your mouth when he confirms the position is there while you’re being oblivious to the way he grips the mattress.

Your hand didn't stay in one place like it's some sort of traveler. It’s firmer and you kinda enjoy mapping his body like you are studying him, Art, not the lesson you have to remember in order to pass that course. It drifts even lower, actually. The soft material of his sweats finds your palm when it grazes towards the inside of his thigh near the crease of his groin. “Pectineus?” you ask, still unsure. “Or it’s gracilis?” His throat clears, shaking his head to the second muscle you mentioned, “N-no- you’re right. Pectineus.” He didn’t even mean to stutter, but help him, God, your hand is so close where he wants you right now.

Sometimes you are just stupid, despite being smart in academics, and can’t pick up what’s happening. It applies right now when your hand presses a little harder where your hand is placed before your eyes meet his. “You’re tense,” you comment, just telling how his thigh feels. “Are you flexing?” The air gets thicker as he feels his throat bob. He tries to look away, but you are so close and looking at him, so he just let out a quiet laugh. Nervous and embarrassed, “Trying not to.”

Knee brushes against his when you move closer, your thumb traces the curve of his glute, and drags it towards the seam of his leg like you really have to do that. “This is the obturator internus,” you say softly, but not really confident with your words considering you don’t like what you are studying. “Through the lesser sciatic foramen, right?” He hums at what you said as he feels his breath leave him. “Yeah. External rotation.” A grin forms on your lips along with a chuckle. “God, I’m so smart.”

Art's jaw tightens and his body is betraying him. Blood thrumming every time you touch him. He’s so fucked. So fucked. He feels the drag of your hand behind him, across his waist, and settles at the base of his spine. “Quadratus lumborum… or too low?” His hand hovers at your wrist before guiding it, “A little higher.” Your hand settles there for a moment while he’s doing all his best to hold his breath and not just pin you down on his bed.

After long enough to touch, your hand moves in a slow, kneading sweep, gliding down his thigh. “Sartorius,” you say, voice softer. “Longest muscle in the body.” A quiet giggle, but your hand moves carefully, palming his thigh from hip to knee, squeezing gently. “Sexy muscle,” you tease, not noticing how his grip on the mattress tightens. “Hip flexion, knee flexion, lateral rotation,” he mutters, shaking. “Show off muscle.”

From there, you lift up your hand up and put and rest it on his shoulder. Your thumb presses it there, rolling the muscle slightly. “Deltoid,” you say, “Obvious.” Thumb keeps flickering and brushing on the skin, and you notice him exhaling sharply, breath tearing out. “There are three parts to it, though. You’re on lateral,” he breathes out before his eye looks at your hand resting on his deltoid- or shoulder rather. But your hand has its own life, so he let it slide down to wrap his upper arm. “Biceps brachii,” you murmur, squeezing softly. His muscles are flexing. He has good biceps, and they’re thick too. “All this? Just muscle?” A thumb drags along the vein. “It has two heads,” he says, voice wrecked.

Giggles escape your lips and nods as your fingers skim up again but now settle on his throat, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is sternocleidomastoid,” you whisper, guiding him to turn his head. His throat moves, Adam’s apple jumping, the moment shifting from endurance to surrender. “Two origins,” he murmurs just to add another information, ragged. “Inserts at the mastoid.”

A smile curves on your lips as you fold your legs beneath you like nothing happened, glowing with soft pride. “Did I pass?” you tease. Art stares, mouth parted, ears heating, hands gripping his thighs so hard the tendons shake. He looks like he might be sick, or come, or cry, or all three. No answer comes, because you didn’t pass. You mess him in the head.

Art quickly leaves the bed when you finish playing dummy on his body and he walks so fast to the kitchen to get something. There’s a dent on his bed from where he stands, shape still warm and fresh. He’s thinking so hard not to think about how you almost sit on his lap just to check a muscle on his body. His hand is shaking while he’s opening the refrigerator to get a juice bottle so he can give it to you, but he’s holding it like it might explode.

The room smells of clean detergent and boy, and the scent drifts around you while you yawn, stretching your arms above your head, shirt sliding up, socks mismatched and peeking. Nothing in you cares to fix your clothes, not when comfort and carelessness go hand in hand, not when the soft sprawl of your body says you trust him enough to let yourself sink into his space.

You hear the fridge close as the sheet rustles when you kick your feet, humming under your breath, calling out without calling him over. “These sheets are so soft,” you say to the ceiling, casually and lazily. “I’d fail every class if I had these.” He almost drops the bottle, chest pulling tight at the thought of you here too often, close enough to fuck him up entirely.

Pillow creases line your cheek as you grin. “This smells like you,” you tease, giggling softly like it’s nothing, and Art swallows hard, forcing himself not to drop to his knees just to keep you here longer. He moves to you, steps stiff, eyes dragging over the flash of your stomach, your tank top riding higher with every stretch, your shorts creeping up your thighs. “You gonna give it to me,” you tease, sleepy smile glinting, “or just stand there like I’m part of a gallery?”

That shook him up to go back to reality. He clears his throat, handing over the bottle with both hands like it’s fragile, breath stuck somewhere in the space between you. The cold plastic brushes your fingers, the cup is already opened for you, and you just have to drink it up. “Mmm,” you sigh, licking gloss from your lips, “I was about to start eating your notes.” His laugh is thin, strangled. “Wouldn’t be your weirdest study technique.”

“Exactly,” you beam, a spark in your eye. Juice slides down your throat while the silence between you thickens, and your head tilts. “So, continue? Still my turn, or yours?” Art sits down, closer than he’s ever dared, like the air itself has weight, like the world shrinks between you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “my turn.” Knees fold under you, soft thighs pressing together, eyes bright as you watch him, unaware of the small shifts that undo him every second.

His hand is gentle when it finds its way towards you. The room feels quiet and the tension is burning you both alive and it’s breathing between your inhale and his. “This is where gracilis lies. Remember moments ago when you mistakenly pectineus as gracilis?” he murmurs, hand finding your inner thigh, not indecent, not innocent, pressing warmth into soft skin and also showing you where it really is since you mentioned it earlier. “It adducts the thigh in and helps bend the knee. It’s also long and sensitive.”

You blink, then smile. “Sensitive,” you repeat, legs shifting unconsciously, shorts pulling higher. Of course he notices, it's almost like he memorizes every twitch of your thigh as he slides his hand higher, thumb at your pelvis, fingers almost shaking. “Here- uh, this muscle…” The voice comes out more ragged while his thumb is still pressing into your body and your breath becomes still. “Adductor brevis. It’s… it helps with hip adduction, moving your leg inward. You’d, uh, use it walking, pivoting, even just… standing steady.” He hates how his voice sounds and how flushed and nervous he is. “Feel that?” he asks, and you nod, small.

“Wait- show me again?” And with that, he presses his hand deeper, it’s like his palm is molding to the shape of your thigh while he feels every twitch under his touch. But there’s a pause between the two of you, a little heavy, and he just moves his hand because setting it there for too long would mean something else. From there, he slides up his hand up to the nape of your neck. Fingers tracing under your skull, just settling there. “Levator scapulae,” he whispered, breath brushing in the shell of your ear. “You tilt your head when you think.” You nod without realizing, your neck open and almost offering to him.

Your eyes are traveling when he moves his hands around your body to show which part of the muscle he’s pressing to and your heart is surely beating so fast that you might want to end this week's session quickly. And his fingers are on the move again. His hand drifts from the back of your neck to slide down over your shoulder. His hand feels warm when it brushes along the neckline of your tank before slipping beneath, but he rested his hand on your neckline first before doing that just to see if you will be comfortable to continue.

It feels like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you give him a nod. When you do, his shoulder drops from relief and his hand slips under your tank top. His hand is warm against the ribs, while his thumb is caressing softly like he’s getting you comfortable with the feeling. “Pectoralis minor,” he says, voice low, like he’s reminding himself to continue and breathe like a normal person. “It’s placed right here, under the big chest muscle.”

You shrug and blink, trying to track, brows pinching. But… yeah. If it’s about anatomy, you are always confused so you ask, “Which one’s the big one again?” You kinda feel genuinely lost right now which makes you a little anxious because you don’t want to look dumb. There’s a quiet laugh that slips out of him. It’s breathless, and shaky. “The… major,” he says, “that’s the one you can see. This one’s under it, helps pull the shoulder blades down.” And you just nod and hum while he explains like a puppy. “Oh.” You look down, but his hand is in the way, and your eyes go back up to his face. “That’s… a lot.”

Hum escapes from his lips before he breathes out an “It’s okay,” from his mouth. You feel his thumb rub a small circle over your skin, comforting without thinking. “You’ll get it. Just think… breathing, shoulder movement. That’s enough for now.” His hand stops for a moment and it lingers before you hear him clear his throat. He looks away for seconds and just the blink of an eye, it’s already back to you. “So,” he stated, voice soft. “Uh, I’ll move my hand to the back now, yeah?”

You nod at his head up and his hand starts to move from your chest to your back. Fingertips touch your spine and it's a soft trail that causes your breath to hitch. He swallows and his throat bobs before he speaks again, “You can find multifidus here,” he teaches you. His fingers gently tracing lightly along your back, “it’s smaller and tiny compared to other muscles, but it helps you stand straight. It’s still a big help because it keeps your spine stable.”

There’s a silence after that and his fingers just hover there while looking at you. It’s like he’s checking you to see if you follow what he’s telling you. “Hmm.. to make it simple, you can think of it like it’s the spine’s little helpers because they keep you upright when you bend or twist.” His thumb presses more on the area to show you how it works. “You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. A small hum leaves your lips as your back arches into his touch without meaning to. “Tiny stabilizers,” you echo, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I could count them,” quieter still, like he’s speaking to himself. His hand stills just under your waistband, featherlight.

“So the next is gluteus minimus,” he says, voice careful. “This one is hard to isolate,” he explains first, not even touching anything yet and his hand is not on your body right now. “What does it do?” you ask, trying to sound casual but really? You want to pass out now because you’ve been feeling hot since that stupid dummy idea of yours happened. There’s a shaky breath he lets out before he states, “Well. It, uh, helps abduct your hip- moving your leg to the side. Keep your pelvis level when you walk.” He adds, “It’s actually important even if it's small.”

“Is it… Okay, if we keep going?” he nervously asks while he looks at you, and after he said that, the silence is too loud while he waits for your answer. You swallow, and your hand clutches on the soft material of his bed and tries to calm down the feelings in your chest and stomach. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice quiet but there is certainty to your answer. “I trust you.” After you said that, his hand latches on to your hip and it slips underneath your waistband. You could feel his fingertips grazing the crest of your hip, but now directly and touching your skin. “Here,” he whispers. “This is it.” You blink once, twice, or thrice before you can catch your breath. You don’t even realize your hip- body is leaning towards his hand.

And like what he’s doing the whole time his turn started, his hand doesn’t linger long because staying will make things awkward. So he pulls his hand away, and he smiles at you, even though his hand is trembling, and he doesn’t even want to leave. To control himself, he sits straight, but his eyes are still glued to you with want, and he’s in limbo, thinking about being just your tutor or doing something more… He lifts his hand, hesitates, and tucks your hair behind your ear with a trembling hand.

Fingers brush against the side of your neck and stop just right at your collarbone before he finds your pulse point. “Scalenes,” he pointed to the muscle he’s touching while you can’t even recover from the action he made. How can he tuck your hair and proceed quickly to the next muscle? “They help you breathe,” he explains and there’s silence again because he’s about to get bold with this, “They also help you tilt your head, like when you look at me like that.”

Lips parted from his words and breath stuck in the throat, eyes meeting his, and your cheeks are burning. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but he quickly shakes it off from his mind, and his throat bobbing as he swallows. His voice is thin when it comes out, “That’s, um…” His eyes look at your body from up to down before he goes back to your face. “That’s all for today.” Words hang like uncertainty, but it needs to be done, or else he might do something more than teach you anatomy.

“You’re breathing faster,” he says anyway, almost to himself. You chuckle and lick your lips before you try to control it. “Am I?” you tease him, and your voice is soft. It almost sounds like you are shy. Art pulls away from you and sits closer to the edge instead of in front of you. You stretch your arm and your tank top shifts up when you do that. Your skin flushes, thighs opening just enough and you are unaware of the effect you are having on him. A breathless giggle, “Thanks for today’s session,” slips out like none of it mattered, like your body isn’t mapped in his hands. You didn’t even notice how your strap slipped off your shoulder when you stretched and it will be an unforgettable sight to him.

One of his secrets today is that when you stretch, he gets a glimpse of your nipples beneath your thin cotton, which is unintentional, and your top has a padded bra, so… it’s killing him right now because of what he saw. Art doesn’t look, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor, pretending not to notice so you don’t have to feel shy. And he’s letting you right now fix your lip gloss while you hum and toss all the notes and things you pulled out in your bag like you are finally concluding this session over. You tug down your top and fix your strap after you close your bag, and your shorts roll back into place, a quiet sigh your only commentary. “Thanks again!” chirps from your lips, casual lightness in your step as you leave, gloss forgotten on his bed and you don’t even realize you didn’t put it back in your bag. Then you’re gone, and Art remains, kneeling, head bowed, lungs finally allowed to exhale, your shape still carved into the room.

For a moment, he stays in the same place when you're already gone but your perfume is still there. There's still a dent in his sheet from the shape and weight of your body from sitting too long in his bed. Like a damn fool he is, still catching all things happening like it didn't happen in front of him because he's too stunned. The air is heavy, and still, like the room is waiting for him to acknowledge what happened. It's almost like he can even feel your soft body against his palms or he might be getting crazy at this point.

And on the corner of his bed, there's your forgotten lip gloss. He notices it too quickly when he turns his head to the side and it's sitting on the nightstand. It's pink and looks soft. It’s the kind of pink that’s just enough to make your lips not look pale. The cap is silver and shiny, it catches the soft light of his room and it’s expensive, he thinks. There's a Dior logo so it must be expensive, right? When he picks it up, it looks small in his palm and the it's not really light and kinda feels heavy, maybe because of the tube or because it's still not halfway gone.

He actually almost texts or calls you to tell you that you left it in his place. Almost hid it inside his drawer. Almost opened it and brought it to his nose to smell the gloss like some sick freak. But instead, he just put it back in the nightstand beside his phone. He tells himself that he's just going to give it personally and keep it safe, but the truth is he doesn't really want to give it back to you.

Slowly, he settled comfortably again in his bed, back pressing against the headboard and just leaning. Sweat pooling in his forehead, jaw clenched, hands still trembling a little in his lap, and still not over by the feeling of your soft skin and flesh. Could still feel your thigh twitching, your breath against his hand when he's touching your neck, and when you trust him to touch you and don't move away from him. His whole body is burning, and body throbbing, cock been hard for long- maybe since you touched him to his thigh.

He didn't even realize he was still shirtless because you asked him to take it off earlier. Your voice echoes in his head like he's having some hallucinations and his abs tightening each breath with his cock twitching painfully inside his sweats. Words from earlier just keep repeating and hearing them, especially the “I trust you” and “Did I pass?” while his hands were still warm from touching your skin. Frustration filled his body he could just cry, come, or scream. He's not even picky and could be anything from the three, but all he does is whisper, “Fuck.”

Gaze remains in his hands while just sitting there and he might pass out if he doesn't do something soon. He's so… pent up, but even touching himself while thinking about you feels like crossing the line, even though you'll never find out about it. But he's also so worked up right now… and the guilt just shatters away when his hand starts palming himself through the fabric. It's slow, hesitant, and unsure if he's even allowed to feel it. The first few movements his hand made sent shivers down his spine and made him tip his head back against the wall. Lower lip bitten between his teeth when he moves his hips up and grind into his palm like a fucking teenager that needs to cum for the first time. He repeats it again and the drag of fabric is good because of the friction. His cock twitches, and he swears, jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.

Your laugh stuck in his mind. It’s teasing, and sweet. Leaning in closer than you need to, fingers skimming his abs, and asking, “Is this the pectineus, or am I just touching your dick?” You never said that, he knows. It’s also not how you will say it. But it is now. His hips jerk up helplessly, groaning at the sick, sharp pleasure, every part of him wired to want, to take, to keep this feeling that’s you and only you. He strokes himself through the fabric, sucking in air that doesn’t feel like air with vision blurring with the tension building under his skin.

He could finish like this, quick, dirty, fists the sheets, and gets it over with, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He edges himself, lets the pleasure fester, building tension with slow, sick care, palming, grinding, squeezing until he’s leaking down his thigh, sweats are soaked, and he doesn't care because he’s liking the mess, wanting to drown in it, and wanting to suffer for it. Maybe this is his own way to guilt himself because he touched himself. After all, you don’t even do anything at all. You don’t know this lingering feeling he has. You don’t know that even you just smile, talk, and look at him? He’s going to be a wreck.

Can’t even stop hearing right now how your voice works in that tone- sweet, innocent, oblivious like you don’t really know what you are doing at all. And with that he felt his cock twitch when he stroked himself harder. His chest is starting to sweat- his whole body is even sweating because he’s keeping himself on edge until he’s having a hard time with his breathing, his vision is glassy because of the tears, and his teeth are biting on his tongue to stop himself from moaning pathetically. He’s dizzy, legs shaking, locked in a holding pattern between control and collapse, when his eyes flick back to your lip gloss. It’s still there, cap closed, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

Hand reaches for it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s breakable. Like it’s a treasure. Like he found it and decided it would be one of his most beloved things he owned because he can treat it like proof that you were really here. That you’ve been inside his space and are comfortable. His fingers wrap around the tubed gloss carefully and his throat catches his breath. It’s warm in the room. Expensive and glittery, stupidly soft pink. But holding it does something to him. Splits him open, quiet and humiliating. Shameful that he’s the kind of guy who got fucked up by merely having your lipgloss left his dorm. Like he’s always been the kind of guy… sick and freak.

He uncaps it with trembling fingers. The scent hits him fast- sweet and fruity. It smells like berries. He close his eyes when his cock twitched hard again. There’s also an idea in his little fucked up mind and he’s fighting himself not to do it. But… it won. He opens his eyes, while his hand brings the applicator up close to his mouth until the applicator touches his lips. Swipes it across his bottom lip. Then his top. Then again, thick and shiny, shameful, smeared like a kiss he’s trying to fake. His mouth tingles, lips pressed together as he breathes through his nose, eyelids fluttering at the taste and it makes him feel insane.

But that’s not enough. Not even close. He pulls out his cock from his sweat using his free hand. Giving it a few strokes before he lets it go. Eyes glaze down to his open hand and he drags the wand down across his palm, painting a wet streak from heel to finger, then another, and another until it’s enough. The stickiness clings to his skin, glossy, pink, and so wrong. He caps it again gently using one hand, like he didn’t just use it for something unspeakable, and sets it back on the nightstand. Then he spits into his palm, letting it mix there. It’s warm, humiliating, and slicking the gloss down until it’s perfect.

His hand wraps that hand around his cock and he starts stroking it. It’s slow at first, and he’s feeling the drag of slick over aching heat: obscene and hot, so stupidly close to real he could cry. The contrast is too much- sticky, wet, hot, like a simulation of your mouth. His head tips back as a moan breaks, loud, cracked, desperate, hips jerking, body flexing. The friction is obscene, the sounds alone making him feel deranged. Throat raw and keep bobbing down inside the sick feeling because it feels like you. Almost. Or that’s what he likes to think. He’s fucking into his fist now, messy and fast, thighs trembling.

His other hand moves to his mouth without thinking, thumb smearing across his bottom lip like he’s trying to feel your mouth there. Like he’s imagining you are kissing him because he has your gloss on his mouth and he feels it tingling, and he doesn’t care. He wants to feel kissed. He wants to pretend. And he does. Because suddenly, it’s not just gloss on his hand he’s imagining- it’s you. Your mouth, glossy and warm, stretched around the head of his cock while you blink up at him, all eyelashes and no idea what you’re doing to him.

What makes things worse is that you probably don’t know what you are doing. Maybe it’s just in his head you are this… studious and he has never ever seen you with someone. Dating or hearing about you hooking up with someone else. In his mind, you’d be humming something, maybe, or you’d be giggling like you’re not sure you’re doing it right. Hand loose around the base, glossy lips working messily over the tip. Sticky and pink smearing down his cock like you’re sucking an ice pop, glitter in your spit, sparkle on his skin, that stupid gloss painting him in your mouth.

He groans loudly because he can feel it like it’s real, like you’re there. Cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched, and still wearing the sweet lotion clinging to his sheets. Warm smear of gloss drags down his cock. It’s wet and sweet. Lips pressing to the vein like it’s something to taste, to learn, not even teasing, just curious. He almost can hear your soft little whines while his hand smearing the sticky pink gloss as he thrust up and fucking his hand. That’s when it slips out, cracked and hoarse: “Yeah,” breath catching, hips stuttering, “like that, baby…”

His hips continue to move up into his fist, another moan- louder, like he’s not alone, like he’s too deep in the fantasy to come back. “You gonna lick it off too?” he said out loud like you are really here with his eyes shut. “You gonna swallow for me? Yeah? Gonna let me fuck your throat, pretty girl?” His hand moves faster, spit and gloss mixing like the sickest fantasy of having your mouth. His thighs are trembling with his stomach tight, and every part of him is clenching to hold the moment.

There’s the edge to drag it out, and to make it last because if he opens his eyes you’ll be gone from this little fantasy of his with your voice in his head whispering with a soft and perfect voice: “Wait… am I doing it right?” That’s the trigger. That’s the red buzzer that was pressed. He comes like it’s his first time doing that. It’s loud and gut-deep. Legs shaking and his cock twitching as his cum paints his stomach, thighs, and his palm.

Free hand flying back to his mouth like he’s choking on the sound, but the moan rips out of him anyway. It’s high, broken, and full of your name. Then it’s quiet, breathless, and shame-drenched. He’s still throbbing with how badly he wants you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he just breathes. Wrecked and still half-naked, chest flushed, abs sticky with come. Not so long after, he quickly wipes himself off with the shirt he was wearing earlier, and he throws the shirt on the floor as if it offends him.

Must be going crazy because he can still your laugh in his room and the shitty part is your gloss still shining on his mouth. He can’t stop thinking of the way your thighs almost cradle him when you are going through his body to check which muscles you are touching. He stares at the ceiling, breath catching, heartbeat slowing, remembering how you had to feel how he was shaking when you touched his thigh, the way he swallowed when you leaned in. You weren’t dumb. You knew. And you still kept going.

“Could I just use you? Like a dummy or something?” God. You said that as if it’s the best idea in the world. His cock twitches again, and he groans, rolling onto his side, arm flopping over his eyes like it will block out from thinking about what happened. You wanted to use him. You chose him over diagrams and other visuals, said it helped, smiled like he made it easier, like you felt safe, or comfortable, or- shit. He swallows, brain foggy, stupid, and desperate.

Fuck, you have to like him, right? At least a little. Who does that with someone they don’t feel at least a little attracted to? You said thank you like you meant it, touched his chest with that soft smile, looked up at him like- like- goddamn. A beat passes, then another. The ceiling doesn’t answer. The silence creeps in slowly, sick, suffocating, and it all feels different. Too quiet. Too much. You touched him like it meant nothing, he thinks.

When he came to his senses with eyes blinking up like he just did a murder he just realized it was wrong while sitting up, and chest sticking where it wasn’t wiped thoroughly. His face grimaces at the same time his shame hits, which feels hot and itchy in his bones. A hand rakes through damp hair, his breath shallow, and his chest tight. Of course, you didn’t like him. You're just being nice, trying to study, trying to pass the quiz you both have to take next week. God. He fucked up, again. Got in his head, thought too much, made it weird.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and thumbs through his contacts. Not you, though. Can’t text you. Would say something too much, and you’d know. So he texted Patrick instead.

Art: You free to hit rn?

He waited for a few minutes and then:

Patrick: Yeah. You good?

Art: Just need to clear my head.

Patrick didn't reply after that, which probably means he's on his way now while Art is lying back on his stomach and head pressed against the pillows. Screaming one more time. Second. Third, before he looks at his nightstand again where your gloss is standing. This pink and sticky and innocent, staring back at him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, guilt tightening in his stomach. He feels he used you, or used the idea of you, the version in his head that laughs like you’re already his. So fucking gone.

By the time Patrick shows up, the sun's dipped low against the blinds. The room still carries that faint scent of cum and your glass. The guy walks inside like this is his own fucking dorm and drop his tennis bay so loud. “Jesus Christ,” comes out of him, “what the fuck happened in here?” He could give him the real answer. Or make something up. Or just smiles at him but there's no answer. Head down, eyes nowhere. While Patrick is already snooping, picking up everything he sees like a crime scene.

It's like he already knows what happened with the tangled sheets, messed up shirt on the floor. And then the nightstand. Patrick sees it. Steps closer and he’s too stunned by the sight. “…No fucking way.” He picks it up like he's grocery shopping, holding it between two fingers. “Bro. Did she leave this here on purpose, or are you just keeping her shit like a stalker?” Patrick looks at the pink gloss and goes back to him. It’s the same gloss you always reapplied before leaning over the notes like it helped you focus.

Art heard Patrick open the cap and sniff the scene before saying, “Smells like a fucking strawberry jam.” He presses his knuckles to his lips while he's ignoring Patrick's comments, like maybe he can force himself to stop thinking about it. Because he knows what Patrick doesn’t. Knows it wasn’t forgotten. You dropped it there mid-study, barely noticing, even though you should, since this lip gloss is something you always use. You didn’t even kiss him, and still, it feels like the most intimate thing in the room. Patrick scoffs, drops it back, and lets it roll into place beside the lamp. “You need a hobby,” Patrick says. “Or a blowjob. Or both.”

A long, low exhale through the nose. A laugh that will sound too much like a cry while Patrick waits for a punchline. “You good?” he asks, and this time, it’s real. He just gives him a quick nod, before standing and putting his shirt and sneakers on. “Let’s go,” he said since his tennis bags are already full of what they need for this quick hit. And god, when they got into the court, the feeling stayed. There's still the burning inside his system.

It's not because of the fucking color. Or how pink it is. How fruity the smell. Or not the shape or the size of the tube is. Maybe it's more like he's going crazy about the lingering touch that happened earlier really meant nothing at all. And it's fucking everything up. His movements on the court feels shitty. Each step he made was late. It’s like he doesn't have a sense of reaction. Or the serves are mid or maybe not him at all.

Patrick quickly clocks it, grinning like he’s watching from a television show. “Bro,” he said after a missed backhand, “are you playing on two hours of sleep, or are you showing how much of a loser you are?” No answer. His sweat wipes down his face, salt stinging, pulling the memory closer. Your laugh, your hands on his waist, the glow of where you touched him still hot under the skin. The ball bounces once, twice, too hard. “She touched my fucking sartorius,” slips out, hoarse.

“The what?” Patrick’s racket lowers. “Muscle in the thigh. Long one goes diagonally. She… she followed it with her finger like she was tracing a line only she could see.” Art sees Patrick look at him like he's insane then bursts out laughing. “You’re unwell,” he says. “Actually sick in the head.” It earned him a glare from Art with that comment he did.

His next serve is tossed, missed. Racket dangling, and eyes gone far-off. “She kept doing it,” voice raw and frustrated, “naming muscles, pressing on pressure points, said she needed visuals. She sat between my knees and touched every inch my body like it was a fucking test review.”

A low whistle. “You gonna cry or jerk off mid-set?” And there's this quiet, and honest confession: “Need to fuck her. Need to get her out of my system.” His hands dropped to the side before his free hand ran to his sweaty hair. Silence. Then laughter, sharp, incredulous. “That bad, huh?”

Art’s jaw flexes, grip shifting on the racket like it’s your wrist, or your throat. “She touched my iliacus,” slipping out, “just inside my waistband, looked up at me, asked if she was pressing on my kidney.” He starts pacing around while he's thinking about it, remembering the feeling too. How tense he was. How warm your touch is. Patrick chokes, wheezing. “What the fuck?”

Eyes close. “I couldn’t breathe. Hard the entire time. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. I don’t know. It was worse,” he adds before his eyes snap back to Patrick who looks like he needs a good laugh and he's giving him one. “Jesus.” Patrick nearly drops his racket from laughing. “You’re in love with a girl who doesn’t even know she’s edging you. That’s fucking tragic.”

He didn't laugh in return. Eyes on the court, ready to scream or collapse or call you to finish what you started. “Can still feel her lip gloss on my mouth.” Patrick shakes his head. “You need to get hit by a bus.”

Art nodded like he had just heard a very good idea and was ready to do it. “Or a concussion.” Patrick throws a new ball over. “Or a rebound. Come on. Play like you’re not actively being haunted by her hands.” And there's a clean hit, but the ball lands wide. He cursed under his breath, racket lowering, sweat dripping down his spine. This isn’t getting out of his system anytime soon. Not when the system is entirely yours now.

He slump onto the bench, wrist draped over a knee, shirt clinging, chest can't calm the fuck down. It’s deeper than the match, like something lodged under the ribs, like he spent the last hour trying to outrun the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Patrick tosses a water bottle with a lazy grin. “You play like someone who came into his own bed and never recovered.” He didn't respond because what Patrick just said is true.

“You know you were grunting louder than usual, right?” Patrick leans on his racket, smirking. “Thought you pulled that long muscle she touched. What was it? Sartorius?” His snap up, flat, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs before he gave him the finger to say fuck you.

There's a smirk on Patrick's mouth and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever is happening with Art. “Just saying, if her little med school routine gets you that distracted, what’s gonna happen when she actually wants something from you? You gonna fold again? Or bust in your shorts and text me again for a hit?”

“Patrick,” he groans. It's almost like a kid having a tantrum over something they didn't get, like candy or something. He's acting like that right now, keeps complaining but doesn't do anything about it. The grin doesn’t leave. “You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.” No argument there and just a swipe of the hem of his shirt across the face. Both hands are dragging through hair. Breathing like he has a mind map of you, on your knees, asking if you could use him, calling it studying, touching him like it meant nothing.

Then his phone buzzes.

“Hey, sorry if I left my gloss at yours?? :(”

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[quillver]

The plot: barely alive.

The vibes: immaculate.

You ever open your draft like it’s a hospice patient.

You’re not fixing anything.

You’re just sitting beside it.

Holding its hand.

Whispering “you were so beautiful once.”

[moonqz]

WITH YOU : Choi Su-Bong / Thanos x reader

pairing : choi su-bong x fem!reader

genre : fluff

description : Cutting your boyfriends hair in the stillness of your apartments bathroom, but hyou cant stop teasing each other as a love language.

warnings : dirty jokes hidden,

this is lowkey bad but it’s okay!

The afternoon sun slips through the frosted window, painting soft patterns on the tiled floor. You sit on the closed toilet lid, scissors in hand, while Su-bong crouches on a stool in front of you with a towel draped around his shoulders. He grunts as he shifts,

“I swear if you mess this up,” he mutters, eyeing your hands in the mirror.

You smirk. “You begged me to do this.”

“I didn’t beg. I said the barbershop’s closed today.” He defended, his voice low and his head trying to stay completely still, but failing miserably. The poor boy couldn’t stay still for too long in his life.

“You literally texted me ‘pls cut hair or I’ll look like a scarecrow’.”

“‘s not begging baby,” he grumbles, but you catch the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You card your fingers through his freshly dyed purple hair, longer than usual, soft at the ends, beginning to gently cut off little bits to make sure it stays even, you knew how protective of his hair he was.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you say, amused.

He doesn’t deny it.

“You’re taking forever,” he muttered, arms crossed and shoulders stiff. “Are you even cutting anything or just playing with it?”

You leaned forward a little, scissors in one hand, the other tilting his chin just slightly. “I’m trying not to ruin your hair, babe. Maybe if you stopped twitching like a toddler, this would go faster.”

He smirked. “You just like touching me baby. Admit it.” He teased with a small smirk

You laughed, brushing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck slowly, lovingly. “Maybe I do,” you whispered near his ear. “You’ve got a good head. Shaped like a delinquent who thinks he’s hot stuff.”

Su-bong gave a sharp snort. “That’s ‘cause I am hot stuff. Ask anyone sweet.”

You snorted right back. “I don’t need to ask anyone. I’ve seen you snore, drool, and wear socks with holes in them. That illusion’s long gone out the window baby”

He turned a little to glance at you, clearly biting back a smile.

“Yeah, but you still love me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your hands stilled for a second. That same look crossed his face, half cocky, half searching, the one he wore when pretending he didn’t need reassurance but secretly craved it.

“Your lucky I do babe,” you said simply, tugging his head gently back to position. “Even when you leave hair all over the sink.” He breathed out a small laugh, but didn’t respond for a beat, just let you work in silence. His eyes fluttered shut, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing under your touch.

“My mom used to cut my hair,” he said quietly, voice rough in the stillness. “When I was a kid.”

You paused, scissors hovering in your steady hand. “Yeah?” You gently replied, stroking the top of his hair where you just cut.

Su-Bong nodded lightly, keeping his eyes closed. “She’d sit me down like this. Used to scold me for fidgeting.” A faint chuckle. “Guess not much has changed.”

You gently raked your fingers through his now much-neater hair, soft and slow. “She’d probably like how it turned out today.”

“She’d probably like you,” he mumbled, almost as if he was talking to himself. He’s been trying to get a relationship with his mom back for a while now and it broke your heart everytime she judged him for his past, when she doesn’t know the full story. How could she? It would break her to hear.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and bent down, brushing a soft kiss to his temple.

“I hope so.”

Su-bong leaned back into you a little, just enough to let you rest your chin on his shoulder. For a guy who acted like affection made his skin crawl, he sure melted fast when it came from you.

“You like being pampered, don’t you?”

Su-bong hums. “Not pampered. Just… like this. You. Touching me like I’m not a total bastard.”

You pause for a second. Your fingers still in his hair.

“I don’t think you’re a bastard,” you say softly.

He snorts. “You’re the only one then baby”

“Then I guess I’m lucky. I get to see the side no one else gets.” Your answer made him stay quiet for a mere moment. Shocked that there’s a rare moment where he doesn’t make a snarky remark.

You lean down and press a kiss to the crown of his head. He goes still for a second, just a second. And then he shifts to lean back slightly, so his shoulder brushes your knee. Not much, but enough to make

“You always kiss my head after you insult me,” he mutters. “Weird habit.”

“You like it.”

“…Don’t stop, then.”

Your chest warms. You keep trimming in comfortable silence. Every so often, you catch him watching you in the mirror. His eyes are soft. Not worried what you’re doing to his precious hair, not a mere innocent glance.

Pure love and trust in the way his eyes locked with yours through the mirror that desperately needing cleaning after today, smeared with hair dye, condensation, and lipstick that Su-Bong stole to write something dirty on the mirror this morning as a joke, meaning you spent ages trying to clean up the remnants of it.

When you finish, you dust hair off his neck with utter gentleness and run your hand down his back. He stands, shakes his head out, looks in the mirror.

“Damn. I look kinda hot.”

You laugh. “You looked hot before. But now you look dangerously handsome.”

“Say that again.”

“Dangerously. Handsome.”

He grins and turns around, stepping into your space. “I’ll pay you in kisses.”

“I don’t take bribes.”

He cups your face, presses his forehead to yours. “Too bad girl”

The kiss is warm, slow. The kind of kiss that says thank you, and I love you all at once.

“Next time, I’m cutting your hair,” he murmurs, his lips against your cheek now in a gentle kiss.

“You’ll ruin me.” you giggle softly, his favourite sound.

He grins against your cheek. “I ruin you every night baby.”

You snort. “So charming.”

But you don’t stop smiling as he wraps his arms around your waist and sways you gently, the sound of your laughter echoing against the tile.