#like an empty sketch page

[syluses]

Excited on: part three: love on the brain

The title has me reeling AAAHHHHHHH

The era of pop that produced songs like love on the brain will always be one of my favs ever 😌

[monkeyislandtwo]

can we get a round of applause for people who weren’t “gifted kid burnouts” or “a pleasure to have in class” and instead we’re just straight up dogshit at school. like downright terrible. teachers didn’t like working with you and no accommodations would help you get through highschool.

[somegrumpynerd]

Me when I get a cool idea for a comic I wanna make: :D

Me when I realise that means I have to draw the whole thing: D:

[bonesblubs]

So, I’m working on the 3rd MXTX zine, and I definitely need more MDZS art, it’s a pitiful section right now compared to SVSSS and TGCF 😭

If you have any MDZS related requests, pls feel free to send them!!

[jessenitrogen]

doodle page of Lightningstrike, to try and stay in the swing of things. one of my older tf ocs I dont do much as I'd like to with, but I think shes cool

[stellarsightz]

New sketchbook u know what that means :)) (uses it once a month)

[arolesbianism]

I found some more old eternal gales art today and it was bizarre in many ways but truly the most bizarre thing is how much joy and whimsy I gave Looser in this doodle. Why does he look so genuinely happy that's not allowed

[trashbatistrash]

,

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

[monstermonger]

bit of a silly question here but have you ever gotten afraid to draw in a journal like the one you recently shared? like the idea of using the pages "incorrectly" or "wasting" them (or running out right before you get inspiration that might have been "better" than what you'd jotted down)? your art is INCREDIBLE and I know the best way to improve is to do it, all the time, but I struggle getting started for those sorts of fears, and I want to know if you have tips for overcoming that ^^

I don't think it's a silly question, in fact I think it's one of the Ultimate Art Questions haha

Yes I 100% struggled with that in the past; i'm happy to try my best, sharing some personal tips in journaling, specifically! :D

TECHNICAL SIDE:

>> Small simple sketchbook = less intimidating to fill the pages. (Also, easy to carry around)

5x7in Moleskin, and a pilot pen

>> My journal ISN'T a place to prove that I can make pretty pictures. I have separate sketchbooks for that. I use journals to jot down ideas and notes of things I like. (yes i shared a few pages that happened to look nice, but there were 100+ other pages after all d: )

Spontaneous observation is messy and imprecise. But not in a bad way.

Rather than seeing the messiness as "bad/unworthy imperfection," try to see it as a miraculous insight to how you, a unique human being with your unique thoughts and art experience, sees the things you like

My journal process (in general): doodle a pretty cake I ate, a funny bird I saw, some weird dialogue I overheard, stickers, stamps, a character in a book that I want to draw as a dragon,......... scatter them all over the page, then look at the random blocks of empty paper remaining. Fill those up next with another lil quote, or words about the week, or some pretty vines/flowers :) etc. It's like making a collage.

Draw what you actually LIKE + what actually sounds FUN to draw. u can always take photos/save pics of other stuff if it's overwhelming.

>> Find your comfort tools. I love ink. how it looks, feels, etc; I hardly ever use pencil. A sketch that I need to ink over is usually too much work for my journal. I'm just trying to get down ideas before I get bored or get inspired by another thing LOL

[But yeah: pencils can be the perfect tool for someone else. Regular pencils, colored pencils, watercolor pencils... play around with a bunch of basic tools to find your fav.]

EMOTIONAL SIDE:

I highly recommend Lynda Barry's book "Making Comics." She has some lovely, and deeply empathetic things to say about overcoming fear of making "bad" art.

My journal scribblings/therapeutic studies --- someone with 10x the skill could do it better, sure, but they probs wouldn't focus on the same details, or be interested in the same monsters, or be thinking the same thoughts as me.

They won't have the same things to say about their day, won't see the same spindly tree growing from a crumbling brick wall on their walk. etc!

Also! imo this POV isn't an excuse to feel like I don't need to improve my technical skill, but it keeps me happy, fulfilled, and motivated as I'm on that road of improvement. AND it makes me appreciate others' incredible art as their own reflection of the things they love/their own experiences, rather than view it competitively/jealously.

"Drawing is so much more than Good or Bad. It is a language from another part of you." - Lynda Barry

[hhaechansmoless]

Six Strings, Zero Clues

pairing: mark lee x reader

trope: strangers to lovers, uni au

description: Mark Lee thinks he’s the next big indie artist. You think he’s the reason you have eye bags. After weeks of listening to his 2 AM guitar sessions through your ceiling, you finally snap and put up a very direct complaint on the bulletin board. He, of course, does not take the hint. Now you have to march up there and personally make him stop—except it turns out Mark might actually be kind of… cute? Annoying, but cute.

Part of the Notice Me (literally) series!

warnings: food mentioned, language, second hand embarassment? slander too I suppose

w/c: 7.1k

a/n: phew its here and um this was supposed to be some silly little thing for all the dreamies djsdk (by the time this is up the masterlist for the series will also be out but try to guess who's who!! i've left a few hints hehe) also i dont play the guitar but if a mark swoops in offering to teach me i will not say no.

taglist

The printer whirs, spitting out the paper, and you snatch it up before it even lands in the tray.

“Okay, but have you considered not escalating this?” Giselle asks, sprawled across the common room couch, half-watching you and half-scrolling through her phone.

You don’t bother with a response. Instead, you dig through the mess of random supplies on the bookshelf, hunting for tape.

“Like,” she continues, “what if he’s going through something? What if this is his only coping mechanism? Are you really gonna be the villain in some dude’s healing arc?”

You pause just long enough to glare at her. “Bold of you to assume I’m not the one going through something.”

Giselle hums, tilting her head in consideration. “I mean. Fair.”

You find the tape—buried under a pack of sketch pens—and tear off a piece with your teeth. Giselle doesn’t even blink. You’ve clearly been driven past the point of rational behavior.

The common room is nearly empty at this hour. The vending machine hums in the corner, a lone microwave beeps from the communal kitchen, and some guy is asleep at one of the tables, his face smushed into an open textbook. Outside, the campus is quiet, bathed in the dull orange glow of streetlights.

And above all that—above you—the same godforsaken sound drifts through the ceiling. A soft, melancholic strumming, like the soundtrack of a coming-of-age movie that just won’t end.

Newsflash: we’re not. This is a dorm, not some group therapy tent at a shitty music festival, and I promise you, no one is having a life-changing moment listening to your sad indie ballads through these paper-thin walls. I don’t know what heartbreak you’re working through, but please—either take it somewhere else, invest in some headphones, or play at a reasonable hour like a normal human being. 

You slap the notice onto the bulletin board and smooth the tape with your palm. Giselle huffs as she gets up from the couch to read the piece of paper you’ve put up.

NOTICE: TO INDIE GUITAR GUY

Some of us just crawled out of finals week held together by caffeine and regret, and the only thing we want to hear at 2 AM is nothing. But instead, every night without fail, you’re out here strumming away like we’re all living in some coming-of-age movie where you’re the main character. 

If not, I will personally start hunting you down to cut your guitar strings. Try me, asshole.

“You do realize you could just go up there and knock, right?”

You cross your arms. “And then what? Have a conversation?”

“That is generally how human interaction works, yes.”

You shake your head. “No. If I knock, I have to be nice. And if I’m nice, I can’t say everything I want to say. This is a better solution.”

Giselle gestures toward the board. “Your better solution is an unhinged public rant?”

“Yes.”

She squints at the paper, then snorts. “You threatened to cut his guitar strings.”

“Because if I get my hands on them, I will.” You shove a thumbtack through the top of the page for extra measure, pinning it onto the board with a little more force than necessary. The other notices tremble in protest—flyers for dorm cleaning (which you think would definitely be a scam), someone looking for a new roommate, and a very questionable ad for adopting a cat together.

You furrow your eyebrows at the last one. Whoever put that up actually lacks brain power because pets aren’t allowed in the building and the RA can easily see what’s on this board. 

You turn away from the bulletin board, brushing your hands together like you’ve just solved a great moral dilemma. “Okay,” you say, “I’m going to bed.”

Giselle barely glances up from her phone. “Good luck with that.”

You ignore her and make your way toward the hallway, already fantasizing about the blissful, uninterrupted sleep that will hopefully be in your future. Maybe you were a little dramatic, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And if Indie Guitar Guy has even an ounce of common sense, he’ll take the hint.

And right now, you’re pretty sure you’re experiencing it firsthand.

E

The placebo effect is when your brain tricks your body into thinking something is working, even when it isn’t. Like when people take sugar pills in medical trials and somehow start feeling better just because they believe they got real medicine. It’s mind over matter, proof that sometimes, the illusion of change is just as powerful as change itself.

For the next two days, you sleep like a rock.

The thought of guitar guy reading your notice, and finally stopping his antics makes all your post-exam exhausted brain latch onto the idea like it’s a lifeline. It doesn’t matter how it worked—whether it was shame, guilt, or a sudden revelation that 2 AM concerts aren’t a personality trait. What matters is that it’s quiet. No more strumming drifting through the walls, no more tossing and turning while waiting for him to get tired.

You wake up feeling victorious.

For the first time in weeks, you don’t have to drag yourself out of bed like an extra in a zombie movie. Your coffee tastes better, the air smells cleaner, and even your 8 AM lecture seems bearable. Giselle eyes you over her cereal as you practically float around the dorm, humming to yourself.

“Wow,” she says, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. “I almost forgot what you’re like when you’re not being slowly driven to insanity.”

“You see?” You gesture at yourself. “This is what happens when people respect community living.”

By the third night, you almost forget he ever existed.

But of course, you were being delusional. Stupid, even. Because this dorm not only houses you and your friends, but also stupid boys who would probably not give a flying fuck about notices like the one you put up. 

You rub your eyes vigorously, trying to scrub away the sleepiness. It’s past midnight and you should be cruising through your REM cycles right now. Instead, you listen to the strumming of a guitar somewhere above you.

And because the universe is cruel like that, you actually recognize the damn song.

Why would anyone sane play Mariposa by the Peach Tree Rascals at fucking 1 in the morning? You curse internally before groaning, rolling onto your stomach and shoving your face into your pillow, as if that’s going to block out the sound. It doesn’t. If anything, the acoustics of the dorm—cursed, absolutely cursed—only amplify the soft, lazy strumming. He’s not even playing the full song, just absentmindedly plucking out the chords, like some guy in a movie sitting by a campfire, contemplating life or whatever.

For a brief second, you think, Okay, fine. It sounds kind of nice.

And then you remember that it’s past midnight.

Sitting up abruptly, you push your covers off, jumping off your bed with a newfound motivation. What kind of asshole sees that big notice that you put up and still doesn’t have the decency to stop?

When Giselle hears you shuffling around, she looks up from her econ textbook, shaking her head with a sigh. “You’re going to feel bad when this guy turns out to be, like, the sweetest person ever.”

You scoff, yanking a hoodie over your head. “I’ll take my chances.”

Giselle closes her book and watches you with something between amusement and resignation. “What are you even gonna say?”

You shove your feet into a pair of slides. “I don’t know. Something about common courtesy and how not everyone wants to listen to his fuckass music?”

She snorts. “You’ve already committed to the villain role, huh?”

You jab a finger in her direction. “No. I’m the protagonist. He’s the inconsiderate side character messing up my storyline.”

Giselle slumps into her desk, her voice coming out muffled. “Again, you’re going to feel so bad when this dude is actually, like, a golden retriever in human form.”

You ignore her, grabbing your phone and stomping toward the door. “I highly doubt that.”

And with that, you march out of your room, slamming the door behind and scaring the scrawny but tall kid who lives in the dorm next to yours. His clothes and the corridor smell vaguely of something burnt, but you don’t think too much of it, fully prepared to give Indie Guitar Guy a piece of your mind.

The walk to his room isn’t long, but it gives you just enough time to fully work yourself up. Your footsteps are firm, your hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists like you’re ready to throw hands if necessary. Every tired, miserable night flashes before your eyes.

You knock once. The chords still continue to be played. You knock again. No reaction.

Your eye twitches as you knock again—hard, promising that this is the last and you’ll break his door the next time if you have to. 

The strumming stops. There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of soft shuffling. You hear the doorknob turn and then the door swings open and the entire speech you’d prepared dies in your throat.

He’s cute.

And not in the way you were expecting (not that you were, but still). He stands there, slightly disheveled, hair messy like he’s been running his hands through it, an old hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His guitar pick is still caught between his fingers, and his eyes—dark, warm, blinking at you in confusion—look way too soft for someone who’s been torturing you for weeks.

You forget, briefly, what you came here to do.

Then he scratches the back of his neck, looking at you in confusion. “Hey… Can I help you?”

To your absolute horror, instead of going off on him, the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Um.”

UM?

What happened to excuse me, asshole, do you have no shame? Where the hell did that go?

He looks at you expectantly, still waiting for you to continue.

You swallow hard, mentally scrambling to put yourself back together. “So… I don’t know if you saw, but I put up a notice on the bulletin board?”

He blinks. “What notice?”

You hate how your stomach flips at the way his brows pinch slightly, confused but genuinely curious, like he actually wants to know.

You clear your throat. “Just—about the, uh. The guitar.” You gesture vaguely, as if that explains anything. “At night.”

“Oh.” It comes out almost sheepishly as he looks down at the pick he was flipping in between his fingers, like he’s only now realizing.

You should push. Tell him off right now, stand your ground and speak your mind. But all you manage is to say—

“It’s just, um… really late, y’know?”

Oh my God.

What is this? A customer service complaint? Where is the wrath, and the all-caps shouting you promised yourself on the way up here?

He blinks at you again. Then, slowly, his lips part in realization.

“…Wait,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I the asshole from the notice?”

You stand there, every inch of your body fighting to scream YES. YES, YOU DUMB, SILLY, PRETTY BOY.

“...I mean—I wouldn’t say asshole?” You grimace.

You did. In fact, you didn’t just say it—you typed it out, printed it AND posted it in the common room’s bulletin board. Why didn’t you just scream it out of the windows while you were at it?

“Oh, shit.” He scratches his forehead, “That was you?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I—uh.”

He watches you for a second before exhaling. “Oh, man. I’m really sorry about that,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear, I didn’t see the notice until earlier tonight.”

You should still be annoyed. Should. But the way he says it—so earnestly, with his brows slightly furrowed—makes you forget.

“I thought it was just some general complaint,” he continues, glancing down before hesitantly meeting your eyes again. “Didn’t realize I was the ‘asshole.’”

You feel heat creep up your neck. “Okay, but, like, not seriously—”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Right. Totally.”

Your face burns.

Guitar guy must sense your embarrassment because he quickly clears his throat, straightening up. “Anyway,” he says, voice a little softer, “I really didn’t mean to keep you up. I just—I play when I can’t sleep.” He scratches his forehead, looking almost bashful. “Didn’t think it was carrying through the walls that much.”

Before you can mumble out something incoherent or non-sensible again, he continues. 

“No, yeah. You’re right. I’ll stop.” Then, almost shyly, he glances back at you. “I, uh… I don’t think we’ve met before?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“I’m Mark,” he says, smiling a little. “Since, y’know. You technically already know way too much about my sleep schedule.”

You let out a breathy laugh, more surprised than anything. You hadn’t expected him to be this nice. Or this—

Well. This.

“I guess that’s fair,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a little stupid standing here in your sleep shorts and oversized hoodie.

Mark’s smile lingers. Then, with a little hesitation, he nods toward you. “So, uh. Do I get to know your name, or?”

You hesitate for half a second—because this is not how this was supposed to go, and he is not supposed to be this sweet—but eventually, you sigh, giving him your name.

Mark nods, a small grin on his lips, “Cool, well. I’m really sorry. I’ll stop now, so you can go sleep!”

Maybe it’s because he said he couldn’t sleep, or maybe it’s because you think that in your notice it may have seemed like he’d a bad player (he’s not), or maybe it’s just because your sleepy brain finds him cute that you pipe up, just before you leave.

“I’m sorry if I came off as really rude. It’d just been a hard week.” You sigh, a little hesitant, “And you don’t have to stop playing… I mean—at this time, please don’t. But I wouldn’t mind listening to you some other time.”

Mark blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—uh—really?”

You nod, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. “Yeah. You’re… not bad.”

His ears turn a little pink. “Oh. Thanks.” He scratches his neck, smiling softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a pause.

Then, before you can process it, Mark lifts a hand, pointing his fingers toward you like a finger gun. “Sleep well, neighbor.”

Oh my God.

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Goodnight, Mark.”

And with that, you turn away, fully aware that you’ve just lost the battle. God, Giselle is never going to let you live this down once you tell her.

A

The next morning, you groan as you shuffle out of bed, running on autopilot as you grab your mug and head to the common room, your only goal in life being to reach the sad, overworked coffee machine.

The moment you step in, the sharp smell of burnt coffee greets you—bitter, slightly tragic, but necessary. You yawn, rubbing your eyes as you press the button on the machine, waiting for it to sputter out something drinkable.

“You actually slept last night, right?”

The voice makes you blink. You turn, and standing next to you, looking way too put together for this hour, is Mark Lee.

Oh.

You fight every urge to react. He’s in a hoodie, hair slightly mussed like he just rolled out of bed, his hands shoved into his pockets. He’s looking at you, head tilted slightly, waiting for an answer.

“Uh.” You blink again, processing. “Yeah?”

Mark lets out a tiny breath of relief. “Good,” he says, nodding. “I, uh… I stopped playing. Like I said I would.”

Oh, he’s shy.

Somehow, this is worse. You were prepared for maybe an awkward nod or a "what’s up?". Not this gentle, earnest follow-up on whether you got enough sleep.

“Yeah.” You swallow. “I noticed. Thanks”

Mark nods again, rocking back on his heels. He’s quiet for a second, then gestures toward the coffee machine. “You, uh… do this every morning?”

You shrug. “Unfortunately.”

He lets out a small laugh, and for some reason, you feel stupidly warm.

“There you are.”

You both turn as Giselle enters the room, hair still a little messy from sleep, her own mug in hand. She barely glances at you before heading straight for the coffee machine, too preoccupied to notice the tension in the air.

When she’s finally done shoving your mug out of the way and filling her’s first, she looks up at the two of you.

“Who’s this?” Giselle asks you, voice loud enough for Mark to hear.

You’re about to reply when Mark steps forward instead, holding his hand out for her to shake. She stares at it for a second.

“I’m Mark. Um… the annoying guitar guy.”

“Oh!” Giselle exclaims, a smile making way onto her lips as she shakes his hand. “Good to meet you. Damn, did she yell your ears off yesterday? I tried to stop her, I swear.”

Mark laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, it was fair. I didn’t even realize how loud I was.”

Giselle smirks, nudging you with her elbow. “See? Not everyone’s out to get you.”

You roll your eyes, choosing to ignore her as you finally bring your coffee to your lips. The second the burnt liquid hits your tongue, you wince. “God, this is awful.”

Mark watches, slightly amused. “Yeah, it smells kinda brutal.”

You sigh. “It’s usually bearable. Can’t function without it.”

“You ever try the café across campus?” Mark asks. “Way better than whatever this is.”

You shake your head. “Too much effort. This is closer.”

Giselle hums, sipping her own coffee. “She’s lazy,” she supplies helpfully.

You glare at her, but Mark just chuckles, rocking back on his heels. “Well, if you ever decide to make the trek, let me know. I’ll come with.”

You nod absently, still focused on your coffee. “Mm, noted.”

Mark hesitates for half a second, like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t react, he clears his throat. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.”

“Later,” you mumble into your mug, already preparing for the day ahead.

As soon as he’s gone, Giselle turns to you, staring.

You blink. “What?”

Her lips curl into a slow smirk. “Oh my God.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

She snorts. “Nothing. You’re just an idiot.”

You scowl. “Great. Love to hear that first thing in the morning.”

Giselle just shakes her head, looking far too entertained as she takes another sip of coffee. “No, no. This is fun. Let’s see how long it takes.”

“See how long what takes?”

But she just grins. “Nothing. I’m going to shower first.”

D

The library is quiet, save for the occasional sound of pages flipping and hushed whispers between students. You’re not here by choice. You’d have preferred to sit in the common room, a little more comfortably, but the heated discussion over banning glitter for the upcoming door deco competition isn’t something that you’d sit through either.

So now, you’re here, settled at a table near the corner, your laptop open, coffee beside you. You don’t even realize someone is sitting a few seats away until you stretch, glance up—

And Mark Lee is looking right at you.

Oh.

Your brain stalls for half a second before you lift a hand in a casual wave.

Mark grins, like he was waiting for you to notice, and—without hesitation—grabs his stuff and moves over.

"Hey," he says, plopping down across from you.

You blink at him. "Hey?"

He gestures vaguely. "Thought I’d say hi."

You squint. "Didn’t look like you were studying."

Mark laughs, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, well… he’s having roommate trouble right now, and I’m a great listener."

It takes you a second to register that he’s talking about the guy still sitting at his old table. When you glance over, you realize—oh. Renjun.

You nod as you glance back at your laptop. You vaguely remember seeing the notice that he needed a roommate, but it’d probably been taken down a few days ago. 

“Has he not found one yet?”

“Worse. He forgot to mention that he’d only room with guys,” Mark sighs, glancing at him before shaking his head, “And now he’s living with a girl that he’s definitely starting to like.”

You almost laugh out of disbelief. “Is co-ed rooming even allowed?”

“Nope,” Mark pops the p. “But he’s a fucking goody-two-shoes and the RAs love him, so honestly, even if they find out, they’ll give him a good notice period for either to move out.”

“I can hear you two.” Renjun hisses, before shrinking a little as he looks around, hoping no one was bothered.

You clear your throat. “So, what, are you just here for moral support?”

Mark grins. “Kind of. I keep them sane.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Right. Naturally.”

He leans in slightly, chin resting on his palm. “But, you know, the library’s not so bad.”

You shoot him a skeptical look. “Didn’t take you for the type to hang out here for fun.”

Mark shrugs, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a dedicated academic weapon.”

You exhale. “Right. And I’m the dean of the university.”

He gasps. “Wow. No faith in me at all? For all you know, I could be topping my classes.”

You hum, unconvinced.

Mark watches you for a second, then leans in just a fraction closer, voice lowering slightly. “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong then.”

You blink at him, caught off guard, but before you can say anything, Renjun finally looks up from his laptop, fixing Mark with a withering stare.

“Can you prove it somewhere else?” he mutters. “Some of us are actually trying to study.”

Mark grins, completely unbothered. “See? Told you he’s suffering.”

G

You’re halfway through filling your water bottle when you hear a loud clatter followed by an equally loud “Shit!”

You whip around just in time to see Mark Lee standing in the dorm kitchen, staring at the floor like it personally betrayed him. A broken instant ramen cup lays at his feet, noodles spilled across the tiles in a sad, soupy mess.

“…Do I even want to know?” you ask.

Mark looks up, startled. He must not have noticed you walk in. His hood is halfway up his head, and his sweatpants are hanging loose at his hips, like he just rolled out of bed to grab food.

“I—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought I could grab it before it hit the counter.”

You raise an eyebrow, stepping closer to assess the damage. “And?”

He sighs. “And I could not.”

You try to hold back your laugh, but it slips out anyway. Mark groans, crouching down to clean up the mess, and you, feeling slightly bad for him, grab some napkins to help.

“Appreciate it,” he mutters as you both start wiping up the broth.

“No problem. Midnight disasters seem to be a running theme in this dorm,” you joke.

Mark huffs a small laugh. “Tell me about it. Last week, Jisung nearly set the toaster on fire.”

You pause, still crouched down. “Is that the kid that lives next door to me? I swear that the night I came and complained—” You shoot a slightly guilty look at him. “—to you, he smelled like burnt stuff.”

“Probably,” Mark shakes his head, “I mean, I’m not the best person to teach him how to cook, but he’s got a few friends. The kid’s just too stubborn and a little bit of an airhead to ask for help.”

The two of you continue cleaning in comfortable silence for a moment before you stand to toss the napkins in the trash. When you turn back, Mark is still crouched on the floor, gathering the last of the noodles into a pile. His hood has slipped back slightly, revealing the messy strands of his hair, and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show his forearms.

Not that you’re looking.

Mark groans as he tosses the ruined noodles into the trash. “Man, this sucks. I was really looking forward to eating that.”

“You could just make another one?”

He hesitates, then sighs. “That was my last cup.”

You frown. “That was your only food?”

Mark scratches the back of his head, avoiding your gaze. “…Maybe.”

You stare at him. “Mark.”

“I meant to get groceries,” he mutters. “I just forgot.”

“For how long?”

“…A while.”

You let out a long sigh before turning toward the fridge. “Alright, come on.”

Mark blinks. “Huh?”

“You’re not starving on my watch,” you say, pulling out a container. “I made extra earlier.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Wait—really?”

“Don’t make it weird.” You shove the container into his hands before you can think twice.

Mark stares at it for a second before looking back up at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re kind of nice, huh?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Don’t spread that around.”

He hums as he pops open the lid. “Guess I owe you one now.”

“Damn right you do.”

Mark laughs, leaning against the counter. “You know, if you ever wanna cash that in, we could go grab real food sometime.”

You snort. “Yeah, sure. In exchange for a half-eaten bowl of ramen.”

He grins, scooping up a bite. “Deal.”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle before heading back to your room.

You twist the cap back onto your water bottle just as Giselle walks in, kicking off her shoes with a sigh. She doesn’t even look at you before flopping face-first onto her bed.

“I give up,” she mumbles into her pillow.

You glance at the clock. “On what? Life?”

“Basically.” She groans, turning her head just enough so her voice is no longer muffled. “I ran into my ex on the way back. He saw me trip on the dorm steps. I don’t think I can recover from this.”

You snort. “You literally dumped him. Why are you embarrassed?”

She lifts a hand in the air, shoving her middle finger at you. “I have my reasons.”

Shaking your head, you take another sip of water. “You could always poison his meal plan or something.”

“Maybe.” She turns onto her side, finally looking at you. “What about you? You were out late.”

You shrug. “Just went to get water.”

She narrows her eyes slightly. “And?”

“…And Mark was there.”

That gets her attention. She sits up properly now, leaning forward. “Oh?”

You frown. “What?”

She tilts her head at you. “Nothing. Just…interesting.”

You roll your eyes. “He spilled his ramen. I helped clean it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sigh, climbing into bed. “What?”

“Nothing.” She flops back, pulling her blanket over her legs. “You just seem to run into him a lot.”

You pause for a second. “He lives upstairs.”

“Mhm.”

You throw your pillow at her before slumping into your bed as well, switching your lamp off with a sigh.

It’s not weird.

Mark lives upstairs. You’ve only run into him a couple of times. Completely normal, considering the dorm isn’t that big. Still, as you stare at the faint outline of your ceiling in the dark, you think back to the way he laughed, how he leaned against the counter, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

He’s cute. That’s just a fact. In an endearingly clueless way, with his messy hair and his habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he talks. Objectively cute. Universally acknowledged cute. Annoyingly cute, even.

But it’s not like that. Obviously.

You roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tighter around you.

Just a coincidence. 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, but for some reason, you can still hear his voice in your head. The soft laugh, the way he said we could grab real food sometime. The casualness of it.

Not an invitation. Not really. Right?

You huff, pressing your face into your pillow.

Whatever. You’ll probably forget about it by morning.

B

You hear the music before you see him.

The common room isn’t empty, but it’s quieter than usual—just the occasional shuffle of someone flipping through a textbook, the distant hum of the vending machine. And then there’s him.

Mark is curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under him, guitar resting easily against his chest. He’s not playing anything loud—just soft, absentminded strumming, like he’s working through a song in his head.

And you should keep walking. You really, really should.

But instead, you hesitate, shifting from one foot to the other just enough that the floor creaks under you. Mark glances up at the sound, fingers faltering slightly over the strings.

“Oh,” he says, blinking like he wasn’t expecting company. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you say back, already regretting this.

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smile. “You look like you were about to turn around.”

You scoff, stepping fully into the room. “I was just—” You pause. What were you doing?

Mark tilts his head, waiting.

“I needed a break,” you sigh.

He nods, adjusting the guitar in his lap. “Good timing.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps playing, and maybe that’s your cue to leave—but your feet carry you toward the couch anyway. You sit down—not next to him, but close enough to see the way his fingers move over the strings.

You watch for a second, then glance at his face. “You play in the daytime now?”

Mark exhales a quiet laugh. “Only because I’ve been feeling considerate towards a certain someone.”

You’re sure that there’s colour rising to your cheeks now, but you try to mask it off by laughing. “Wow. Growth.”

He shakes his head, letting out a soft hum under his breath, but he doesn’t deny it.

For a while, there’s no talking—just the sound of the guitar, the occasional scrape of his pick against the strings. You don’t realize how much time has passed until you catch yourself fully zoning out, elbows resting on your knees, watching his hands like an idiot.

Mark notices.

He doesn’t call you out for it, but his fingers slow slightly, like he’s suddenly aware of the attention.

You snap out of it immediately, shifting your gaze. Nope. Absolutely not.

Mark clears his throat, tapping his thumb against the body of the guitar. “You play?”

“What?”

“The guitar,” he says, nodding toward it. “You don’t play, do you?”

“Oh.” You shake your head. “No.”

Mark hums, considering. “Do you want to?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, adjusting his grip. “I could teach you something. If you want.”

You hesitate. You could say no. You should say no.

But Mark is already tilting the guitar toward you, his brows raised in a quiet ‘well?’

You fumble with it, your fingers slipping against the strings as you try to mimic the way Mark holds it. It feels unnatural, like trying to write with your non-dominant hand.

And against all logic and reason, you reach for it.

The guitar is heavier than you expected.

“Here,” Mark says, shifting closer on the couch. His knee brushes against yours, and you stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. He reaches over, adjusting your grip. “You’re holding it like it’s gonna bite you.”

“Maybe it will,” you mutter.

Mark laughs, low and warm, and you try not to focus on how close he is. His fingers guide yours to the fretboard, pressing down on the strings. “This one’s the B,” he says, plucking it. A soft, clear note rings out.

You frown. “Sounds like every other string.”

“Wow.” He feigns offense, clutching his chest. “And here I thought you had an ear for music.”

“I have an ear for silence at 2 in the morning,” you deadpan.

Mark grins, “Fair.” He leans back slightly, but his knee stays pressed against yours. “Okay, try pressing here.” He taps a spot on the neck.

You attempt it, but the string vibrates pathetically under your finger.

“You’ve gotta press harder,” he says.

“I am pressing hard.”

Mark hums, skeptical. Then, before you can react, he reaches over and presses his finger on top of yours, adding pressure. “Like this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused from playing. And he’s so close you can smell his stupid laundry detergent—the one that everyone else in this dorm uses.

You swallow. “...Right.”

Mark doesn’t move his hand. “You got it?”

"Yep." Your voice cracks slightly.

"Sure?" His thumb brushes against yours as he adjusts your positioning - just for a second, but it's enough to make your pulse jump.

"Positive." You stare very hard at the guitar's soundhole.

Mark finally pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are pink. "So, uh. That's... the basics."

You strum all the strings at once. It sounds like a trash can falling down stairs. "I'm a prodigy."

"I wouldn't say no to, like. Coffee instead." He says it too fast, then backtracks. "I mean—not like—just caffeine helps with—"

Mark snorts. "Yeah. Next Ed Sheeran right here." He fiddles with his pick. "We could... keep practicing sometime. If you want.”

You shrug. "I mean, I guess I owe you for not murdering me over that notice."

"Mark."

"Yeah?"

"You're rambling."

His shoulders hunch. "Right. Sorry."

You hand the guitar back. "But yeah, coffee's fine. The dining hall swill is killing me anyway."

Mark brightens instantly. "Remember that place across campus? Their cold brew is actually decent and they've got these chocolate croissants that—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "I mean. If you're into that."

"But I'd commit crimes for a good chocolate croissant," you add.

"Cold brew gives me heart palpitations."

"Oh." His face falls. "We could find somewhere else—”

Mark's smile returns, slow and warm. "Tomorrow? I'm free after two."

"Sure." You stand up, completely missing the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the guitar body. "Don't be late."

"I won't!" It comes out too eager. He cringes at himself. "I mean. Yeah. Cool."

As you walk away, you don't see him slump back against the couch, dragging a hand down his face. You definitely don't hear the quiet, frustrated whisper of: "Smooth, Lee. Real smooth."

E

You're lacing up your sneakers when Giselle walks out of the bathroom, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. She pauses mid-step when she sees you.

"Where are you going?"

"Getting coffee with Mark." You tighten the knot on your shoe.

She stares. Then, very deliberately, looks you up and down.

You're in a hoodie (a slightly wrinkled one), sweatpants, and the same sneakers you've been wearing for three years.

"...Dressed like that?"

You frown. "What?"

She gestures vaguely at your entire existence. "You're just going out like that?"

You scoff. "Dude. We’re just hanging out."

Giselle presses her lips together like she’s trying very, very hard not to lose her mind.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You glance up. She's watching you in the mirror, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp.

You narrow your eyes. "What."

She exhales sharply. "Okay, tell me this: how many times has Mark asked you to ‘hang out’?"

You shrug. "I dunno. A few times? Haven’t really been able to go."

"And these ‘hangouts’—" she makes little air quotes, "—were they things like, ‘Hey, wanna grab food?’ or ‘Hey, wanna get coffee?’ Or, oh, I don’t know, ‘Hey, wanna come sit really close to me while I teach you how to play guitar?’"

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Because, yeah. That is... exactly how it’s been.

Giselle sees the realization hit. "Oh my God," she says, dragging a hand down her face. "He’s been asking you out this entire time!"

You blink. "What? No. He hasn’t—he’s just been nice."

Giselle shoots you a deadpan look. "Nice?"

"Yeah!" You wave a hand. "Some people just—invite other people to do stuff! It’s normal!"

Giselle rubs her temples. "Okay. Let’s say, for a second, that I believe you. Do you think Mark has asked anyone else to ‘just hang out’ like this?"

You open your mouth. Pause.

Giselle’s smile is way too smug. "Mhm. Exactly."

You shift uncomfortably. "Okay, but—but what if you're wrong? What if this is just his personality?"

Giselle flops dramatically onto her bed. "Then I will personally apologize to you for enabling your delusions." She waves you off. "Now go. And if he confesses, don't let your dumbass panic and run into traffic."

You scowl. "That happened one time."

Giselle is already onto her dressing table, raking through her makeup brushes.

You check the time. Mark’s already waiting.

Your stomach flips.

You swallow. "I'm gonna go."

"Yeah," Giselle sighs, rolling onto her side. "Go figure your shit out."

—

You’re definitely overthinking this as the two of you walk around campus.

Mark walks beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed. He kicks a stray pebble down the sidewalk, eyes mostly on the ground. Meanwhile, you are internally spiraling.

Because Giselle’s words won’t leave you alone.

"He’s been asking you out this whole time."

And the more you think about it, the more obvious it feels.

The coffee. The late-night talks. The stupid guitar lesson where his hand had covered yours, warm and steady.

You sneak a glance at him. He looks normal. Maybe a little cold, but not like someone who’s been trying to ask you out for weeks.

You fidget with your sleeves. Just ask. It’s Mark. It’s not like he’s gonna laugh in your face. Right?

“…Hey.”

Mark glances over. “Hm?”

You swallow. “So. This whole, uh. Hanging out thing.”

His brows lift slightly, like he’s waiting for you to continue.

You take a deep breath. “You—you weren’t, like. Asking me out, were you?”

Mark stumbles.

Not dramatically, but just enough that his shoe drags weirdly on the pavement.

You immediately regret everything. “Never mind! Stupid question, forget I—”

“What?” Mark fully stops walking.

You stop too, face burning.

Mark turns to you, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “…Why would you ask that?”

You die internally. “Giselle said something,” you mumble.

Mark blinks. Then he shifts from one foot to another. “What… exactly did she say?”

You stare very hard at the sidewalk. “Just. That you might’ve been, um. Subtly. Asking me out this whole time.”

Silence.

You dare to look at him.

His ears are so red.

“Oh,” he says, voice sounding a bit strung, higher than usual.

You panic. “You don’t have to say anything! I just—”

“I mean,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, looking very interested in a nearby streetlamp. “I… kinda was?”

Your stomach flips.

Oh.

Oh.

Mark winces. “Not in, like, a weird way! Just—” He exhales, rubbing his temple. “I thought you were cool. That night when you came up, i thought you were like…really pretty. And I figured, if you weren’t interested, we could just keep hanging out and it wouldn’t be—” He gestures vaguely. “A thing.”

You nod. Maybe too much. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

Mark watches you carefully. “So, uh. Is it weird now?”

You pretend to think, but you already know your answer. You can see Mark’s shoulders shrinking with every waiting second.

“No.”

Mark’s shoulders relax. “Oh. Cool.”

You fidget with your sleeve. Your breath stutters.

“I think I like you too,” you admit, voice way too soft.

Mark stares for a few seconds, like he almost didn’t hear you, before his whole face lights up.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Uh. That’s—that’s cool.”

You laugh, nervous. “Yeah?”

He nods, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

When he looks at you again, he’s still flushed, still blinking like he’s trying to process this in real time.

“So, uh,” he starts, “what now?”

You don’t really know how to answer that.

You rock back on your heels. “I mean… we’re still getting coffee?”

Mark lets out a soft laugh, like he hadn’t even considered otherwise. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

The two of you start walking again, a little slower this time. The air between you is different now—not awkward, but buzzing, like a chord just on the verge of ringing out.

You steal a glance at him. His hands are jammed in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, but there’s something almost relieved in the way he carries himself now. Like he wasn’t expecting this to go well.

You bite your lip, hesitating.

“You know,” You begin, “I thought you were cute too.”

“What?” Mark lets out, a little too loudly.

It almost makes you giggle. “That night when I came up to complain. I was supposed to go all out on you and make sure you’d never play your stupid guitar again. I was quite serious about cutting your strings off.”

Mark shakes his head sheepishly with a small laugh. 

“But when you opened the door, I kind of forgot all of that.”

He stares at you, lips parted slightly like you just short-circuited his entire brain.

You shrug, suddenly feeling way too exposed. “I dunno. You just—looked cute.”

Mark drags a hand over his face, groaning. “What the hell.”

You blink. “What?”

“That’s so unfair,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You showed up looking all pissed off and intimidating, and I was standing there in, like, the ugliest shirt I own.”

You snort. “It wasn’t that ugly.”

Mark groans again, looking up at the sky, almost too embarrassed to meet your eyes. “This is crazy.”

“What is?” you ask, still laughing.

“That you thought I was cute!” He gestures wildly. “Like. That doesn’t happen!”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach is doing so many flips. “Shut up.”

Mark looks at you for a second, then exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. The tips of his ears are still bright red. “I was really nervous that night, you know,” he admits.

Your brows lift. “Really?”

He nods. “You were just—you had this whole, like, ‘I will end you’ vibe, and I was trying so hard not to make it worse. But then you kinda—” He stops, mouth twitching. “You hesitated. Just for a second. And I thought, ‘Oh. She’s not actually as scary as she looks.’”

You gasp, shoving his shoulder. “Wow. Rude.”

Mark laughs, bumping into you slightly. “Sorry, sorry. But I was right, wasn’t I?”

You purse your lips. “Debatable.”

Mark hums, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll have to spend more time with you to figure it out.”

Your heart does a weird little jump.

You don’t let yourself overthink it.

Instead, you nudge him back, eyes flicking forward to the coffee shop just ahead. “You better buy me the best chocolate croissant they have.”

Mark grins. “Deal.”

And when his fingers brush yours, just briefly, you don’t pull away.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Sol is the academy’s golden boy—a perfectionist and top-tier artist everyone knows. His art is known for being insanely good. But now? He’s stuck, completely out of ideas for his final project.

The pressure’s crushing him. Nothing he draws feels right. His professor, noticing how frustrated he is, suggests he should try a chill sketch workshop somewhere off-campus. 

Sol’s skeptical, but he goes anyway. That’s where he sees them—someone who looks like they walked straight out of a painting. There’s something about them that hooks him instantly. For the first time in forever, his pencil starts moving on its own.

A muse, the spark he’s been waiting for.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: This story was requested by a college friend and a certain someone in my inbox. It features a female reader characterized by a curvy, classical beauty of ancient Greek depictions: a round face, full breasts, and soft, rounded curves. I've kept the second-person point of view, using "you/they/them" for inclusivity and gender-neutral readers!

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: artist! sol X model! reader, sub! sol, Dom! reader. teasing, slow burn, muse/artist dynamic, fluff with lots of spice, smut, such as oral (giving)

The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the art classroom, casting golden beams across the scattered supplies and half-finished canvases. The room smelled of oil paint and charcoal, a mix that usually comforted Solivan Brugmansia

Or Sol for short.

Today, though, it only reminded him how empty his sketchpad still was.

Sol sat at the back of the room, leaning over his desk. His black turtleneck and rolled-up sleeves made him look effortlessly polished, though faint smudges of graphite clung to his fingers.

His sharp jawline tensed in concentration, reddish-orange eyes scanning the page as if willing something to appear.

A mop of unruly black hair with green streaks fell across his forehead, and he absentmindedly pushed them back with an ink-streaked hand.

The classroom around him felt still, almost frozen in time. Easels stood in disarray, some tipped at odd angles like sentinels watching over the room. The wooden floor creaked faintly whenever Sol shifted in his seat, the only sound other than the occasional scratching of his pencil.

He’d tried everything: sketching a basket of fruit, copying the faces of students in old pictures pinned to the corkboard, even closing his eyes, and drawing lines inspired by the music playing softly from his phone. Nothing worked. Every line he made felt lifeless, every attempt another failure.

Sol exhaled sharply and leaned back, staring at the mess on his desk. 

Dozens of crumpled sheets surrounded him, almost like it was drowning him. His reputation as the academy’s best artist was a double-edged sword. Everyone expected perfection, and he… well, he expected even more from himself. He thought back to when art had felt easy. As a kid, he could sketch for hours, losing himself in the flow of it. Now? 

Now, it felt like dragging ideas out of a dried-up well.

“Focus,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. The final project wasn’t just another assignment. It was supposed to represent everything he’d learned at the academy, the culmination of years of work. His professor had called it a reflection of their souls.

Sol wasn’t sure he had any soul left to reflect.

The sunlight shifted, painting the room in amber hues. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a glass cabinet filled with old brushes and paint tubes. To anyone else, he probably looked calm, and collected, like the golden boy he was rumored to be.

But inside? Inside, he felt like he was drowning.

His chest felt tight, as though the air in the room wasn’t enough. His fingers drummed nervously against the edge of his sketchbook, the sound barely audible but enough to betray his growing frustration. He glanced down at the blank page in front of him and frowned. It was infuriating—how could he be surrounded by so much potential inspiration and yet feel nothing?

Sol closed his eyes and tried to picture something… anything. A scene, a figure, a feeling. But all that came was the same oppressive emptiness, the weight of expectations pressing down on him like a stone. He opened his eyes with a sigh, leaning back and staring up at the high ceiling.

That was when the door creaked open. Sol turned his head, and there she was—Professor Lenox, stepping into the room. Her sharp eyes, framed by cat-eye glasses, immediately landed on him.

A petite woman with an air of authority, her silver-streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who’d seen it all and still cared deeply for her students.

“Solivan,” she said, her voice warm but firm. She tilted her head, taking in the scattered papers and the furrow in his brow. “You look like you’ve been trying to wrestle with a ghost.” Sol let out a small, bitter laugh.

“Feels like it.” She walked closer, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. “I’ve seen that look before,” she said, setting a hand gently on the edge of his desk. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sol looked up at Professor Lenox, her knowing gaze piercing right through him. He let out a huff, trying to disguise his frustration as a nonchalant sigh. “Guess I’m just having a block, Prof,” he said, the familiar excuse slipping off his tongue far too easily.

“Can’t seem to draw a damn thing,” he added with a shrug, though his clenched jaw betrayed his agitation. His eyes flickered to the empty page in front of him, the barren canvas almost mocking him.

Professor Lenox observed him, immediately sensing the tension. 

With a gentle hum, she decided to take a closer look at his sketchbook. “Interesting,” she started. “So it’s true that the perfect artist seems to have a creative block. Quite a bind, hm?”

Sol’s lips curled into a dry smile at her observation. The fact that he was known as the ‘perfect artist’ only added to the pressure weighing on him. “Guess even the perfect ones can have their off days,” he mused, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice.

He watched as she flipped through his sketchbook, her slender fingers tracing over the blank pages and scattered attempts, like a judge examining an unfinished painting.

Professor Lenox hummed softly in both understanding and intrigue. Her eyes darted across the drawings, pausing on each failed attempt, each aborted project.

“Ah, I see,” Professor Lenox said quietly, her fingers still tracing over the pages. “Sometimes perfection can be... overwhelming. Expectations pile up like stones, weighing down on one’s creative soul.” She turned to look at Sol, her expression a mixture of sympathy and curiosity.

“It seems your mind is trapped in an internal battle... Tell me, did something happen that might have caused this creative block?”

Sol’s shoulders tensed, his eyes darting to the side as Professor Lenox’s gaze drilled into him. He was good at keeping his emotions in check, but her uncanny ability to read him was always unsettling. “Nothing specific,” he said shortly, his voice almost a mumble.

The truth was, he couldn’t very well tell her that his mind was occupied with someone else—someone who had consumed his thoughts like a fever. 

Raising an eyebrow, her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Nothing specific, you say. But your tension tells a very specific story," she chuckled softly, her tone dipping slightly. "Sometimes, the best way to deal with a wall is to figure out what's holding it up."

Sol felt heat creep into his cheeks under Professor Lenox's sharp gaze, his usual mask of indifference threatening to crack. His hand fidgeted with the pencil, rolling it between his fingers like he could shift his unease away. "It's... personal," he muttered, his voice tighter than he intended. He glanced at her briefly, then looked away. Her perceptive eyes felt too much like an interrogation under the guise of kindness.

Lenox leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Personal, huh? Sounds like there’s someone in the equation." Her smile widened ever so slightly, teasing yet calm as if she already knew the answer.

Sol’s breath hitched, caught off guard by her bluntness. He tried to play it off with a scoff, running a hand through his hair, but his tight grip on the pencil betrayed him. "It’s not like that," he muttered quickly. "I’m just... under a lot of pressure for the final project. That’s all."

"Ah, the 'pressure'," Lenox repeated, her voice laced with subtle sarcasm. "And this 'pressure' doesn’t happen to have a name? Or a certain face?"

Sol's face burned, and his fingers gripped the pencil tighter. "It’s not... it’s nothing major," he whispered, looking down at the empty page in front of him. "Just... a crush." Lenox laughed softly, not unkindly.

"A crush, is it? How refreshingly human of you, Solivan," she said with a small, wistful sigh. "Ah, the simplicity of youth... But don’t let it eat you alive. You need space to breathe, not just in life but in your art." 

Her tone softened as she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a card, sliding it onto his desk. "Here."

Sol blinked, his fingers stilling their nervous rhythm as he picked up the card. His eyes scanned the details, confusion flickering across his face. "What’s this?" he asked, glancing back at her. "Your next assignment," Lenox said smoothly.

"Take a break. The deadline isn’t for two weeks, Solivan. You’re tying yourself into knots for nothing." Her smile lingered as she gestured to the card. "There’s a workshop class tonight. I’ll be hosting it off-campus. You should come."

Sol stared at her, caught between skepticism and curiosity. A workshop? During crunch time? It sounded counterproductive. "A workshop? For what?" he asked cautiously.

"To sketch, to breathe, to find your spark again," Lenox said simply. "You might even surprise yourself. Sometimes, inspiration doesn’t live in the places we expect it." She stepped back, her knowing smile intact. "Consider it, Solivan. You could use the change of scenery."

And with that, she turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet space.

Sol looked down at the card again, his mind stuck. 

A workshop to find inspiration... or a distraction? 

He let out a slow breath, tapping the edge of the card against the desk. The sunlight dimmed further, bathing the classroom in muted gold. Sol’s gaze drifted to the blank page on his desk. He didn’t want to admit it, but maybe—just maybe—Lenox was right.

Once the late evening came, a chill bit through Sol’s jacket as he stepped off the bus, holding the card in his gloved hand. The address was printed neatly on the thick paper:  

404 Veridian Avenue, Studio B  

No other information. Not even Professor Lenox’s name. It felt odd, cryptic even, but she had always been one for theatrics.  

Sol glanced down at his phone as it guided him through the upscale part of the city. Towering brownstones and boutique storefronts lined the streets, their windows glowing warmly with light.

But then, the directions veered sharply. Sol frowned at his phone as it prompted him to turn down a narrow alley tucked between two artisan bakeries. Hesitating for a moment, he shoved the card back into his pocket and followed the path.  

The alley was clean but hardly lit, the faint hum of distant streetlights and muffled voices bouncing softly against the old brick walls. It felt like stepping into a hidden pocket of the city, secluded and unassuming.  

Halfway through, Sol spotted a door set into one of the walls, unmarked except for its heavy iron frame and chipped black paint.

A small group of people stood just outside, some holding large carrying cases that likely contained sketchbooks, canvases, or other art tools.  

Their clothes caught Sol’s attention: loose, relaxed layers—hoodies, oversized scarves, and joggers—practical for movement but seemingly unfazed by the brisk air that nipped at Sol’s nose. He adjusted his own coat, feeling slightly overdressed as his breath puffed in front of him.  

Another person opened the door, holding it just long enough for the rest of the group to slip inside. Warm light spilled out momentarily, revealing a cozy, well-lit space before the door clicked shut again, leaving Sol alone in the chilly alley.  

He stared at the door for a moment, the faint murmur of voices from within reaching his ears. With a deep breath, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and stepped forward, his fingers brushing the cold iron handle.  

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.  

Sol immediately felt the warmth hit him, a stark contrast to the chilly night outside. He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over his arm as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The interior was unexpectedly massive, far larger than the unassuming door in the alley suggested. It felt like he’d stepped into an entirely different world.  

The building had the structure of an old warehouse, its industrial bones softened by creative touches.

Hallways stretched out in multiple directions, some leading to what looked like additional rooms beyond the so-called "studio." The hum of conversations and faint clatter of art supplies filled the air, weaving together with the low whir of the heating system.  

Sol's boots tapped against the worn wooden floors as he walked further in. Around him, people clustered together in small groups, their faces illuminated by warm light.

Makeshift classes appeared to be scattered throughout, each space marked off with folding dividers or chalked-out sections. Artists of all kinds shared their work, their voices overlapping with excitement as they critiqued and admired one another’s pieces.  

He scanned the faces quickly, wondering who was in charge here. Based on the relaxed atmosphere, it seemed like the actual instruction had already wrapped up, but that didn’t faze him. Professor Lenox hadn’t mentioned a time, and Sol was relieved he hadn’t missed whatever this was supposed—workshop case.  

As he wandered deeper, Sol noticed small signs on the walls beside the doors. Each bore a number, marking rooms like compartments on a train. He passed a few before spotting what he was looking for:

404.  

He hesitated at the door, his fingers brushing the edge of the frame. Leaning just slightly inside, his eyes widened at the sight before him.  

The room was grand and moody, the kind of space that could easily intimidate or inspire. Easels were arranged in neat rows, their dark frames catching the dim lighting that spilled from old-fashioned overhead fixtures.

The floors were a deep, polished wood, worn in places but still gleaming faintly. Across the walls, streaks of black paint gave the room a raw, expressive edge, as if the building itself were part of the art.  

People milled about inside, chatting as they prepared their tools—brushes, pencils, and charcoals scattered across shared tables. The soft scratch of graphite on paper and the faint aroma of turpentine filled the air. It felt like the calm before the storm of creation, a space alive with anticipation.  

Sol exhaled softly. Good, he wasn’t late for whatever this class workshop was, it hadn’t started yet.  

“Ah, Solivan Brugmansia, you came.”  

The voice made him jolt slightly, the smooth cadence instantly familiar. He turned, his heart sinking and soaring at the same time. Speak of the devil.  

Professor Lenox stood by the doorway, arms loosely crossed and a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She looked every bit as composed as ever, her sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “You didn’t mention a time,” Sol said dryly, recovering enough to give her a half-hearted glare.  

“And yet, here you are. Punctual as always,” Lenox replied, her smile widening just enough to make him wonder if she’d planned it this way. She tilted her head toward the room, motioning him inside.  

“Well, don’t just stand there. Go find your place—your easel is waiting.”  

Sol let out a low, almost inaudible sigh, his gaze lingering on the familiar figure of Professor Lenox, who had the uncanny ability to stir up a storm of emotions within him. He’d spent the entire day both dreading and anticipating this moment, knowing the workshop class would be a mixture of excitement and unease that would take him by surprise.

As he stepped into the room, the atmosphere hit him immediately—almost tangible in its intensity. The soft, ambient glow of the dim lighting and the gentle hum of students preparing their materials all combined to amplify the tension in the air. It was the kind of space where creativity was about to erupt, and it had a way of making him feel both energized and apprehensive.

A few students glanced up as Sol walked past, their eyes lingering for just a moment on his dark, alternative appearance before they returned to their work. His presence was always an anomaly in places like this, but it never failed to intrigue.

He paused briefly at the easel, adjusting it to a more comfortable angle, then reached for his bag, pulling it closer. With a soft thump, he placed his supplies—a set of pencils, paints, and his worn sketchbook—onto the table.

"Ready for today's class?" a voice suddenly asked, causing Sol’s heart to skip a beat. He wasn’t used to anyone speaking to him, let alone initiating conversation. He looked up in surprise, his eyes meeting a familiar, unexpected face.

"Hyugo?" he said, his voice edged with shock.

Hyugo Sugimoto, his best and only friend, stood before him, looking just as youthful and carefree as ever. Hyugo had an oval-shaped face, still carrying the remnants of a babyish look, and sky-blue eyes that glimmered with a youthful sparkle.

His hair was a striking shade of teal, short on top with shaggy layers at the back, and an unexpectedly long rat tail that hung down to the side. His outfit was simple but effortless—an untucked white short-sleeve button-up and tan pants that looked like they hadn’t been ironed in days. 

"What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?" Sol asked, still reeling from the surprise.

"Duh, Professor Lenox asked me to," Hyugo replied with an easy grin, nonchalantly reaching for his supplies. Sol furrowed his brow. "Really? You're not even an art student."

Hyugo placed a hand dramatically over his chest, feigning offense. "You’re so hurtful. I might not be an art student, but I’ll have you know that my love for art knows no bounds."

Sol raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You skip class every time, though."

"Shhh," Hyugo said, putting a finger to his lips, and motioning toward the front of the room. "Professor Lenox is about to start."

Sol rolled his eyes, but his attention was already slipping back to his tools. His mind, however, was still racing with anticipation. He couldn’t help but glance over at Professor Lenox, who stood at the front of the room, her presence commanding attention as the chatter around the room gradually died down. Her voice, calm and measured, filled the space as she began the introduction for the evening’s class. 

“Welcome, everyone,” she said, her tone warm but professional. “This space is yours for the night. A place for you to step away from the chaos of the outside world and dive into your artistic process. You’re here to create, to explore, and to find inspiration.” She paused, giving the students time to absorb her words, her gaze sweeping across the room, landing briefly on Sol and Hyugo before continuing. 

“I want to remind you all that this is a closed-off environment, so no phones, so make sure they are fully turned off,” she said, her smile knowing. “This is a space where you can truly relax, embrace your creativity, and push past the boundaries of what you think you know about art. Tonight, we will have models to work with, so you can let your instincts guide you, without judgment or interruption.”

At that, a murmur of curiosity passed through the room. Some students looked around, eager to begin, while others seemed more hesitant, unsure of what was to come. Professor Lenox continued, unphased.

“And,” she added with a playful tilt of her head, “I’ve arranged for a little something extra to help ease the tension. Over at the back, you’ll find some wine. Feel free to pour a glass if you feel the need to loosen up.” 

Her eyes flicked to the back corner of the room where a small table had been set up with a few bottles of red and white wine, along with empty glasses. A few of the students exchanged the idea of sipping wine while working on their art, adding an intriguing layer of comfort to the evening.

“Solivan, Hyugo,” she called out, directing a casual nod toward the pair, “You’re in the perfect spot to begin. Let the space guide you. And remember, this is not just about technical skill—it’s about finding a muse. Inspiration is all around you, and tonight, you might just discover yours.”

Sol nodded slowly, still processing the warmth of her words, but something in her tone made the anticipation in his stomach tighten further. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the night, but he had a feeling it was going to be something that would push his boundaries.

With a final glance toward the class, Professor Lenox moved toward a nearby door at the side of the room. She placed her hand on the handle and paused. The room fell into a near silence, everyone waiting.

“Everyone ready?” she asked, her voice carrying an air of mystery. A few seconds of stillness passed before she slowly opened the door with a soft crack, revealing what lay beyond.

Sol’s breath caught in his chest. He stared at the scene unfolding before him, his eyes wide with shock. Hyugo’s face mirrored his own, both of them turning an unmistakable shade of red as their minds raced to process the unexpected turn of events.

Standing in front of them, poised and graceful, were several nude models, each with a calm and confident demeanor. The room seemed to shrink around Sol as the reality of the situation sank in. 

This wasn’t just any drawing class—

this was a nude figure drawing class.

The models, completely at ease with their vulnerability, stood in various poses, their bodies illuminated by the soft light spilling from the open door.

“Oh wow,” Sol muttered under his breath, still unable to fully grasp what was happening. He turned to Hyugo, his expression one of stunned disbelief. “Never thought it was... this.”

Hyugo, equally flustered, had his hand pressed to his forehead in a mix of embarrassment and surprise. His usual playful demeanor was replaced with wide eyes and a nervous chuckle. “I—I didn’t know either,” he stammered, the reality of the situation settling in like a heavyweight.

Sol couldn’t stop looking at the models, his face still burning with embarrassment. He had known the class would push him creatively, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of intimacy.

The thought of drawing a nude model—especially with Hyugo standing right next to him—was enough to make his mind race and his heart thump faster. This workshop was not going to be anything like he’d expected.

“What’s wrong my dear,”  

The soft yet insistent whisper came from Professor Lenox, who stood near the doorway, her voice barely audible over the hum of quiet conversation in the studio. Sol turned his head, seeing her gently coaxing someone to step forward.

“This isn’t the first time, you know,” she said, her tone light but persuasive. “Are you sure you’re still okay with this? You don’t have to, especially with our setup tonight.”  

A voice answered from the shadows, earnest but firm. “Please, ma’am,” it begged softly.  

Lenox sighed, a patient smile spreading across her face, tinged with understanding. “All right,” she relented, her voice warm. “Just make sure to claim your spot in the front middle area, where the lighting is softer. That way, you won’t feel all the eyes on you at once.”  

“Okay,” the voice agreed quietly.  

Moments later, Professor Lenox stepped aside, gently guiding a young woman into the room. Her long hair cascaded around her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and in her hands, she held a simple white cloth, which she adjusted carefully over her frame.

The fabric clung to her like a second skin, highlighting her figure while leaving just enough to the imagination.  

Sol’s breath caught in his throat. His jaw slackened as his heart kicked into overdrive, thudding against his ribs with almost painful urgency. His pulse quickened, each beat a deafening drum in his ears.  

It was you.  

You stood there, illuminated by the soft glow of the studio lights, the faintest hint of warmth blooming across your cheeks. The delicate white cloth accentuated every curve, and yet your posture exuded a mix of confidence and vulnerability that was utterly arresting. 

Sol’s grip tightened on the edge of his easel, his fingers digging into the wood for stability. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, his gaze roaming over you with equal parts disbelief and awe. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of the moment, but words evaded him entirely.  

You noticed him immediately, of course. How could you not? 

Sol’s stunned expression was impossible to miss. A knowing smile curved your lips, subtle yet tinged with amusement, as though you were fully aware of the effect you had on him. Your eyes met his, narrowing slightly in a playful challenge.  

“Caught you staring. Is there something on my face?” your look seemed to tease, your head tilting just enough to give the impression of indifference. Yet the faintest flicker of pride glimmered in your expression, betraying a sense of satisfaction at his reaction.  

Before Sol could stammer out a reply—if he could even form one—Professor Lenox’s voice broke through the haze.  

“Solivan, are you comfortable with this?” she asked gently, her gaze flicking between you and him. “I should have checked before starting. I completely understand if you’d prefer not to be included in this exercise. It’s no problem if you’d rather step out.” Sol blinked, torn from his trance, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

He glanced back at you—standing there, wrapped in the thinnest veil of white, every line of your posture a quiet declaration of grace—and then back to Lenox, her expression patient and concerned.  

He could barely hear his thoughts over the roar of his heartbeat. To stay or to leave—it should have been an easy choice. Yet, with you standing there, radiating a mix of poise and playful defiance, nothing about this moment felt simple.

Sol could feel the heat crawling up his neck, spreading to his cheeks like wildfire. His heart pounded so violently in his chest that he was convinced the entire room could hear it drumming in rhythm with his spiraling panic. Swallowing hard, he tried to steady his breath, but his voice betrayed him the moment he opened his mouth. “N-No, I’m… I’m fine. Really. I just…” His words faltered, slipping through his fingers like sand. He trailed off, his mind blank as the weight of the situation pressed down on him. “He’s perfectly fine, Professor Lenox!” Hyugo chimed in smoothly, his tone light and confident as he cut through the awkward tension. 

You and the professor exchanged skeptical glances but eventually moved on, leaving Sol to deflate with a long, shaky sigh. Before Sol could even think about pulling himself together, Hyugo grabbed his arm and tugged him behind their easels. “Sunny, you need to calm down,” Hyugo said in a low voice, casting him a sidelong glance that bordered on exasperation.  

“I’m calm,” Sol lied, gripping the edge of his easel as though it might ground him. But the rapid rise and fall of his chest betrayed him. His breathing was erratic, “Yeah, sure. Totally calm,” Hyugo replied with a smirk, folding his arms. “You’re about two seconds away from passing out. What’s got you so rattled anyway?” 

Sol’s eyes darted to you across the room, a storm of emotions swirling in his gaze. He quickly looked away, as if the act of staring at you too long might somehow incriminate him. “I… I can’t help it,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Hyugo raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess,” he said, his tone dripping with knowing sarcasm. “It’s the model.”  

Sol swallowed hard, his face burning as Hyugo hit the nail on the head. “Yes! Okay? Yes, it’s them,” Sol admitted in a hushed, desperate tone. “They’re just—look at them! How am I supposed to not…” His voice cracked, and he gestured vaguely toward you, unable to finish the thought. Hyugo stared at him, utterly unimpressed.  “Yeah, yeah, they’re beautiful or whatever. But you need to dial it back like now,” he said, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna embarrass yourself in front of literally everyone. And I mean, everyone.”  

Sol rubbed his temples, willing himself to breathe slower. “I know, okay? I know! I’m trying!” Hyugo’s smirk widened into a grin that could only be described as mischievous. “Trying? Sol, you’ve been staring at them like a starved man at a buffet. Seriously, just don’t get a boner. I will personally kill you if you do.”  

Sol’s eyes widened in sheer mortification. “What?!” His voice pitched higher, and he instinctively shifted his weight, his hands flying to adjust his pants in a panic. “Relax,” Hyugo said with a laugh, leaning casually against the easel. “You’re good. For now. But seriously, do whatever you need to do to calm down—and I don’t mean anything weird.”  

“Hyugo!” Sol hissed, his face practically glowing with embarrassment. “Shut up! You’re making it worse!”  

“I’m making it worse?” Hyugo’s grin was almost predatory. “You’re the one ogling like a creep. Look, just... breathe. Count backward from ten or something. But for the love of God, stop looking like you're gonna faint.”  Sol shot him a glare, equal parts annoyed and amused despite his humiliation. “You are insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, taking another shaky breath. “Fine. I’ll... figure it out. Just stop talking.”  

Hyugo smirked, giving him a mock salute.

“Whatever you say, lover boy.”  

With one last exasperated groan, Sol leaned back against the easel, doing his best to avoid looking in your direction. But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts refused to cooperate, still spinning in chaotic circles around you.  

Sol’s heart raced, each thud echoing louder in his ears as he watched you stand at the center of the room. His eyes followed every movement, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. He swallowed hard, trying to pull his thoughts together, but the reality of the situation had a firm grip on him. 

There you were, right in front of him, standing on a platform where the light caught your skin, drawing all attention to you.

Professor Lenox’s voice cut through the haze of Sol’s mind. “Chin up, my dear.” He gently tilted your head, adjusting the angle to capture the perfect light. Sol’s breath hitched as he watched Lenox carefully drape the cloth around your body, ensuring it hugged your curves with meticulous care, emphasizing the fullness of your breasts and the soft shape of your lower body.

It was an artful, almost reverent display, and Sol couldn’t tear his gaze away, despite the deep embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“Perfect,” Lenox murmured as he took a step back, inspecting the pose from various angles. He gave you one last look, making sure the fabric was properly positioned and the light illuminated you just so, before turning to the class.

“Okay, class. Start your drawings,” he announced, his tone clear and commanding. “I’ll be starting my work as well. Happy drawing, and make sure there’s no loud talking.”

The room went quiet as pencils met paper, the sound of sketching the only noise now filling the space. Sol’s hands gripped the edge of his easel tighter, fighting to keep his focus. He tried to breathe slowly, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

His eyes kept drifting back to you, to the way the cloth wrapped around your body, the delicate curve of your neck, the subtle tension in your posture. It was like trying to ignore a flame in front of him, drawing him in.

Hyugo’s voice was a low whisper beside him. “Sunny, I don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending you’re fine. You’re staring at them.”

Sol’s face burned hotter than it had before. His mouth went dry, and he looked away, but the image of you, poised and serene on the platform, lingered in his mind. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, hoping his body wouldn’t betray him further. The cloth wrapped around you, the soft curves it accentuated—everything about the scene was etched into his brain.

"I can’t help it," Sol muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "How am I supposed to ‘not’ look?" 

Hyugo, however, wasn’t buying it. He shot Sol an exasperated look, his tone flat. "Just control yourself. Seriously, no one’s judging you for being a normal human, but don't make it so obvious. Everyone’s here to draw, not to gawk."

Sol gritted his teeth, attempting to focus on anything but you. The sound of pencils scratching against paper and the faint murmur of hushed voices all blurred together as he tried to calm his mind. But it was impossible. 

You were right there, a living, breathing work of art.

Professor Lenox’s voice echoed again, breaking the tension in the room. “Remember, class. Focus on the form. Capture the essence of the figure. Don’t get distracted by details.” Sol wasn’t sure if he was hearing Lenox’s words or his thoughts, but they did little to quiet the storm raging inside him. He glanced back at you, his gaze lingering longer than it should have, only to be met with Hyugo’s pointed stare. He quickly looked away, his breath shaky.

"Just relax, sunny,” Hyugo muttered, almost sympathetically. "This isn’t that complicated." Sol clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly. 

It wasn’t that complicated... right? Then why did it feel like everything was spiraling out of control?

You, on the other hand, noticed Sol in your peripheral vision, your observant gaze picking up every minute change in his facial expressions. A smirk tugged at your lips as you watched the battle play out in his mind—focus versus distraction. It amused you to be the cause of such turmoil. Your attention briefly shifted to the young man beside him, murmuring words of encouragement. “…Is he always like this?" you muttered softly, more to yourself than anyone else.

As the minutes ticked by, your amusement grew. You decided to test just how far you could push him, curious about his reaction. Turning your head ever so slightly, you let your eyes meet Sol’s directly for the first time. The subtle smirk on your lips grew wider, just enough to let him know you had noticed his struggle—and that you were fully aware of the effect you had on him.  

Sol froze. His pencil slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor, breaking the silence of the room. A few heads turned in his direction, including Professor Lenox, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing, returning to his work. Hyugo stifled a laugh, leaning toward Sol and whispering, “Smooth move, Casanova.”  

You couldn’t help but bite your lip to suppress your laugh, your confidence emboldened by the flustered look on Sol’s face. There was something oddly satisfying about watching him squirm, and you decided to take it one step further. Shifting slightly in your pose, you adjusted the fabric draped around you, enough to subtly enhance the curve of your shoulder and the line of your neck. It wasn’t overt—just enough to catch his attention again. You rested your chin on your hand, your expression composed but your eyes sparkling with playful mischief.  

Sol’s breath hitched audibly, and Hyugo nearly choked on his laughter this time. “Dude, pull yourself together,” Hyugo muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.  

Feeling bold, you decided to push the boundary even further. You cleared your throat softly, loud enough for Sol to hear but quiet enough that it didn’t disturb the rest of the class. His head snapped up instinctively, his eyes meeting yours once more.  

“Everything okay over there?” You asked, your voice low and teasing, laced with just enough sweetness to send his pulse skyrocketing. The question hung in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop for Sol. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he stared at you, his face turning a deeper shade of red than you thought humanly possible. 

The room had fallen silent again, and now all eyes were on Sol. 

Hyugo leaned in, whispering just loud enough for the class to hear, “I think you broke him.”  

Afterward, once the class wound down, Sol tried his best to keep his head down, busying himself with packing up his supplies. His face was still hot from the humiliation of earlier. Despite his best efforts, it felt like the entire class had noticed his wandering gaze and the weight of their silent judgment pressed heavily on him.  

Professor Lenox approached, her warm, professional demeanor as composed as ever. “Good work tonight, Solivan, Hyugo,” she said, her voice calm and encouraging. “Feel free to join us again in the future. You’re both talented, and I’d be happy to see how your skills develop.”  

“Thanks, Professor,” Hyugo said casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder.  

As Lenox turned to leave, she glanced back at Sol, her expression thoughtful. “Oh, and Solivan,” she added, a hint of curiosity in her tone. “Have you found your muse yet?”  

Sol stiffened, his throat tightening. “Uh... no. Not yet,” he replied quickly, avoiding her knowing gaze. She simply smiled and wished them both a good night before stepping out of the classroom. Hyugo grinned, nudging Sol with his elbow. “Your muse, huh? I think I know exactly who she’s talking about.”  

“Shut up,” Sol mumbled, his face reddening again. He hastily folded his easel and packed his supplies, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “So... what do you feel like eating tonight?”  

“Pizza. Or maybe tacos.” Hyugo shrugged. “But—” He stopped mid-sentence, his smirk growing wider as he glanced over Sol’s shoulder. “What?” Sol frowned, but before he could turn around, he heard your voice.  

“Oh wow…”  

Sol froze, his heart plummeting to his stomach. Slowly, he turned to see you—fully dressed, thank god—standing near his easel. Your eyes were wide, taking in the sketch he’d been working on all evening. The drawing on the canvas was breathtaking in its detail. Every line and curve captured your form with remarkable precision, from the way the fabric draped around your body to the soft shadowing along your jawline. It was almost reverent in its artistry, a clear testament to how closely—and how intently—he had been studying you.  

You blinked, your gaze shifting from the drawing to Sol. “This is... amazing,” you said softly, genuine admiration in your voice.  

Sol felt like the floor was going to give out beneath him. “Uh—thank you,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He could feel Hyugo’s grin boring into the side of his head. Hyugo, ever the opportunist, seized the chance to make things as uncomfortable as possible. “So, you’ve seen Sol’s muse now, huh?” he said, his tone thick with teasing amusement.  

Your head tilted slightly, a curious smile playing at your lips as you glanced between the two of them. “Muse?”  

“Ignore him,” Sol said quickly, his voice sharper than intended as his wide, reddening eyes darted to Hyugo. His glare was enough to threaten, but not silence, his friend. Sol cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I’m Solivan Brugmansia—or you can just call me Sol. And this idiot is Hyugo.”  

You smiled, introducing yourself in return. “It’s nice to meet you both. You’re really talented, Sol. I didn’t even realize you were paying such close attention during class.” The white lie slipped off your tongue effortlessly, but it wasn’t fooling Hyugo. He coughed, his shoulders shaking as he stifled a laugh. Sol shot him another heated look, silently begging him to shut up.  

“I, uh... yeah,” Sol mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. His usually composed voice had softened, almost shy. “I guess I just got... caught up in the details.” A pause stretched between the three of you, though the weight of the evening hung mostly between you and Sol. His nervous energy was almost endearing, and his reddish-orange eyes and central heterochromia reflecting were striking. 

For a fleeting second, it seemed like the colors shifted into heart-shaped pupils, though you brushed it off as your imagination playing tricks.  

Breaking the silence, you smiled again, leaning in ever so slightly. “Well, if you ever need a muse again... come back here and let me know.” Sol’s breath caught in his throat, and the faintest spark of hope flickered in his expression. But before he could formulate any kind of response, you turned and walked away, casting a playful glance over your shoulder that left him frozen, utterly dumbfounded.  

Hyugo let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Well, that just happened. Anyway, about those tacos?” 

Later that night, as Sol and Hyugo sat in a booth at their favorite taco joint, Sol replayed your parting words on an endless loop in his head. 

‘Well, if you ever need a muse again... let me know.’

The memory of your teasing smile and those parting words made his chest tighten in a thrilling and terrifying way. Hyugo, of course, noticed. He always noticed. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Thinking about someone?” His voice was as smug as ever; his words were muffled slightly by a mouthful of carnitas taco.  

“Shut up, gogo,” Sol muttered, though the blush crawling up his neck betrayed him. Hyugo leaned back in his seat, smirking like the cat who’d caught the canary. “Sunny, just admit it. She got under your skin, didn’t she? You’re not even denying it.”  

Sol sighed, his fingers threading through his hair. “It’s not that,” he said, though his tone was unconvincing. “I just... I want to take more classes. You know, to work on my technique.”  

Hyugo snorted, nearly choking on his drink. “Your technique? Sure. And it has absolutely nothing to do with seeing her again, right?”  Sol focused on his plate, refusing to dignify Hyugo’s jab with an answer. But the truth was glaringly obvious. 

He did want to see you again. 

He needs to see you again.

There was something about the way you’d looked at him—like you could see straight through his facade, past his nerves and awkwardness—that was both unnerving and exhilarating. It left him wanting more, even if it scared him to admit it.  

The next morning, Sol found himself standing outside Professor Lenox’s office, nervously clutching his sketchbook. He had debated with himself the entire walk over, unsure if he was making a fool of himself by even being there. But eventually, he took a deep breath and knocked.  

“Come in,” Professor Lenox’s voice called from inside.  

He stepped into the cozy office, filled with canvases, art supplies, and books stacked haphazardly on every surface. Lenox looked up from her desk, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose. “Solivan. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, setting aside her work.  “I, uh...” Sol hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I was wondering if I could attend more of your classes. I really enjoyed the one last night, and I think it’d be good for me to keep practicing.”  

Lenox raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Interesting. And here I thought you spent most of the evening struggling to focus.”  

Sol’s cheeks burned, but he pressed on. “I want to get better,” he said earnestly. “Your class made me realize how much I have to learn.”  Lenox studied him for a moment before sighing. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m not teaching tomorrow. I’m not teaching regularly at all—I only do this to help artists find their inspiration.”  

“Oh,” Sol said, his heart sinking.  

“But,” Lenox continued, “the studio doors are always open for well-known artists or those who are serious about improving. There are early afternoon sessions that you’re welcome to attend if you want to work in a quieter, more relaxed environment.”  

Sol’s heart lifted at her words. “Really? Thank you, Professor Lenox.”  

She smiled warmly. “Of course. Just remember, Solivan, art comes from a place of honesty. If you keep chasing after something—or someone—you might just find your muse after all.” Her words struck a chord, and Sol left her office feeling both inspired and anxious. He couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of seeing you again, and the thought filled him with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.  

The following day, Sol arrived at the studio earlier than planned, his heart racing with anticipation. He was dressed more intentionally today—black boots clicking softly on the wooden floors, his baggy black pants paired with a crisp oversized white button-up shirt, a slim black tie, and his leather jacket draped over his shoulders. His hands clutched his sketchbook like a lifeline as he navigated the quieter halls, each step fueled by a mix of hope and nervous energy.  

As he neared the back of the studio, he passed smaller classrooms, the few occupants inside focused intently on their work. The vibrant energy from the previous night was gone, replaced by a serene hush. It was a different atmosphere—intimate, contemplative.  

And then he saw you.  

Sol’s breath caught in his throat as his gaze locked on the familiar figure seated before the easel. There you were, poised in that effortlessly graceful manner he had come to recognize—cross-legged and grounded, yet with a certain quiet intensity to your posture that suggested focus and purpose. Your hair cascaded down your shoulders in a wave of silk, catching the soft light that filtered through the window.

The only sound in the room was the faint rustle of your pencil against the paper, a rhythmic whisper that made the air feel thick with stillness.

For a moment, Sol stood paralyzed in the doorway, heart thundering in his chest. His grip on his sketchbook tightened instinctively as if the weight of the book could somehow steady the storm churning inside him. You hadn’t noticed him yet—or perhaps you were deliberately ignoring him, utterly absorbed in your work, your eyes fixed on the canvas before you. The room seemed to hold its breath in the silence.

The tension stretched until, at last, Sol took a hesitant step into the room, the soft creak of the door hinge betraying his entrance. You didn’t turn to face him immediately, but your voice, cool and composed, sliced through the quiet. “Can I help you?”

There was a sharp edge to your tone, though it was not unfriendly. It sent a shiver down his spine, but it also made his pulse race in a way he couldn’t fully explain. As your eyes met him, the brief flicker of curiosity that flashed across your features caught him off guard. The usual smirk he had come to expect from you was absent, replaced by an almost unreadable expression—a look that didn’t give away much, but left a sense of mystery hanging in the air.

Sol swallowed, his throat dry, the weight of his sketchbook now feeling impossibly heavy in his hands. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, words failing him as he tried to gather his thoughts. 

"I—I'm sorry to bother you," he stammered, his voice a little too quiet and uncertain. "I just... I mean, I wanted to..." His words faltered, trailing off as his gaze involuntarily flicked to the drawing on the canvas before you. 

His breath caught again. He hadn’t meant to be so distracted, but it was impossible not to be—your work was stunning. It was raw and detailed, every line intentional, every shadow perfectly placed. 

"U-uh, you're really good," he blurted out, his voice betraying his awe. The words came out sharper than he’d intended, cracking slightly, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

You didn’t miss a beat. Your eyebrow arched in silent question, and your eyes flicked to your canvas briefly before returning to him. The faintest trace of amusement danced in your gaze, and it made him feel both flustered and strangely mesmerized. 

“I’m skilled at more than simply standing naked,” you remarked dryly, your tone biting yet strangely warm. It was the kind of remark that could have sounded cold to anyone else, but with you, it carried an unspoken familiarity. You set your pencil down, your fingers lingering on the edge of the canvas for a moment before you gestured at it. “It’s a work in progress, of course.”

Sol’s face flushed even deeper, and he scrambled to recover from his misstep. “I mean, yes, obviously," he mumbled, his words tumbling over themselves. “It’s—uh—detailed. You have a good eye for, um, composition.” 

His voice trailed off, hoping that somehow, his awkwardness wouldn’t be too glaring. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to interrupt your process like this, but now that he was here, he found himself at a loss for how to make this less uncomfortable.

A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of your lips, a flicker of amusement lighting your eyes. “So,” you began, your voice calm but faintly teasing, “I see you’ve returned after all,” You leaned back slightly in your seat, arms crossing over your chest with deliberate ease. “What brought you back so soon?”  

Sol’s mouth opened as though he had an answer ready, but no words came. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment before pressing together in frustration. “I-I just…” His voice faltered, his gaze darting between your face and the floor as if seeking an escape. Finally, he muttered, “I wanted to draw, I guess. It helps me think. And I...”  

Your head tilted ever so slightly, your curiosity piqued by the nervous energy practically radiating off him. You studied him like one might a particularly puzzling sketch, your tone both patient and coaxing. “And you...?” you prompted, one brow arching in silent encouragement.  

“I…” Sol’s voice broke off again, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “I thought... maybe... I’d see you here.”  

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, leaving him frozen, his eyes widening in panic. He clutched the edge of his sketchbook like it might shield him from the weight of his confession, his fingers tightening until his knuckles turned white.  

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his candor. The faint smirk from earlier found its way back to your lips, but it softened, less guarded, less sharp. “Well,” you said, your tone balanced between neutrality and intrigue, “you’ve found me.”  

“I guess…” he mumbled, his confidence faltering under your steady gaze.  

Leaning forward slightly, you rested your chin in the palm of your hand, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You guess? That doesn’t sound particularly sure of your motives.”  

“I—I am sure,” he said quickly, his voice betraying a touch of desperation. His eyes flicked to the sketchpad in his lap, and then back to you. “Your motives are questionable too, though. For someone who can clearly draw, why do you pose as a model?” The question was sudden, almost accusatory, but you could hear the nervous curiosity beneath it.  

A soft laugh escaped you, an amused smirk curving your lips. You lifted a hand to your chin, pretending to consider his inquiry with mock seriousness. “Well,” you said at last, your voice playful yet thoughtful, “one reason is simply that I can, I suppose.” You shifted slightly in your seat, settling into a more comfortable position. “It’s not exactly a taxing job, and it pays the bills well enough. Being stared at by a roomful of aspiring artists for a couple of hours? A decent price to pay.”  

Your gaze met his again, this time with a glint of mischief. “Besides,” you continued, your tone taking on a teasing edge, “you should let Professor Lenox know that I’m still banned from the classroom when I’m not... appropriately dressed. Being a non-art student has its quirks, doesn’t it?”  

Sol blinked, his blush deepening as the weight of your words hit him. His grip on the sketchbook tightened, but this time it wasn’t panic—perhaps just the overwhelming mix of fascination and confusion that you always seemed to inspire.

“So,” Sol began, his arms crossed tightly as he approached, his footsteps deliberate, the faint clink of his belt buckle barely audible against the quiet hum of the studio. He stopped just beside your easel, his gaze flickering over your canvas before settling on you. “You work as a model to pay the bills—and also to listen in the lectures, particularly Professor Lenox's, right?”  

You nodded, your head propped in your hand, your eyes following him as he drew nearer. His presence was magnetic, yet you maintained your poise, the faint smudge of charcoal on your thumb brushing against your cheek as you shifted slightly.  

“That’s correct,” you replied evenly, your voice calm but deliberate. There was an air of challenge in your tone as you met his eyes. “It’s not exactly the most conventional setup, but it works for me.” You hesitated, letting the words hang, before glancing down at your sketch and then back up at him. A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Care to take a turn?”  

“A turn?” Sol’s voice wavered slightly, his composure momentarily faltering. He straightened up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “At what... exactly?”  

“To model,” you clarified with a tilt of your head, your expression a perfect blend of mischief and composure. “You know, sit over there and let me stare at you for a while. It’d be a nice change.” Your tone was light, but the faint glimmer of amusement in your eyes hinted at something more. “Unless…” you added, leaning forward just slightly, “you’re scared?”  

His reaction was immediate. Sol’s eyes widened, his breath hitching as he quickly tried to mask his nerves. “Scared?” he repeated, a weak laugh escaping him. “Of course not. Why would I be scared of… posing and sitting?”  

You raised a brow, not bothering to hide the amused disbelief in your expression. “It’s harder than it looks, trust me,” you said, gesturing casually toward the standing platform in the center of the room. “But by all means, give it a try.”  

The challenge in your voice lingered, and Sol felt it wrapping around him like a taut string, compelling him toward the platform. His pulse quickened as he hesitated, caught between the discomfort of being under your sharp, unrelenting gaze and the strange, exhilarating allure of it. His breath hitched, and finally, with a faint quirk of his lips that didn’t quite mask his nervousness, he said, “All right.” His voice was quieter now as he stepped forward. “Let’s see if I’m any good at this.”  

You leaned back slightly on the stool, crossing your arms with a satisfied smirk as you watched him ascend the platform. His movements were unsure but determined, a fascinating contrast to the cool confidence he usually projected.  

Sol shrugged off his jacket, setting it and his ever-present sketchbook carefully on a nearby chair. His heart pounded against his ribs as if trying to claw its way out. He’d never been in this kind of position before—literally or figuratively—but something about the way you looked at him like he was an enigma you were intent on unraveling, made the challenge impossible to refuse.  

Climbing onto the platform with a slightly awkward shuffle, he hesitated before settling. One leg crossed over the other, then shifted again, his movements stiff and deliberate as though his limbs were tangled in an invisible net of overthinking. 

Finally, he landed in a seated position where he clearly intended to look relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Like this?” he asked, his voice raspier than usual as if the words had caught on a snag in his throat. “Do you want me to pose or…?”  

“Just do whatever feels natural,” you replied, your tone calm but your gaze sharp.  

“Natural,” he echoed under his breath, the word thick with doubt. His fingers twitched against his knee, and he shifted slightly again, searching for an ease that refused to come.  

Your eyes swept over him, deliberate and discerning. His cheekbones, sharply defined, caught the light in a way that begged to be sketched; the strong line of his jaw, pale skin, framing lips that tightened nervously. The metallic glint of his piercings—small but undeniably striking—added a flash of rebellion to his otherwise restrained expression. His thick brows knit together in thought as he adjusted his posture yet again, while waves of long, unruly black and green streaks hair tumbled across his shoulders. 

The strands caught the faint light, a halo of disarray that only accentuated his stark, quiet beauty. But it was his eyes that held you captive. That deep, smoldering reddish-orange—like embers glowing under ash—seemed to see straight through you, even as he struggled to meet your gaze.  

For a long moment, you said nothing, letting your artist’s instinct take over. Every angle, every shadow, every unique detail of his face etched itself into your mind like lines on a canvas. Your focus was so intense it felt tangible, like a weight pressing between you.  

He froze under your gaze, his breath catching audibly as his pupils widened. The rise and fall of his chest quickened, and a faint pink flush began creeping up his neck, betraying his discomfort—or perhaps something else.  

“Uh…” he managed to croak, his voice faltering. Clearing his throat, he tore his gaze away and looked to the side, his hair falling forward as if to shield him. “Sorry, I’m not… used to being looked at like that.” His gaze found its way back to you, his cheeks still tinged with the faintest hint of pink. “It’s just… different,” he muttered, his voice low and uncertain. “You’re so focused. Makes me feel like I’m under a microscope or something.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance as you fought to ignore the way his words tugged at something inside you. “Relax. It’s just me. Besides, I’ve caught you staring at my so-called ‘boring’ face and body plenty of times before. What’s the big deal?” You quoted your fingers.

His brows furrowed slightly, the tension in his expression melting into something more resolute. “Your face or body isn’t boring,” he said, his words spilling out with a startling clarity that left no room for misinterpretation. His voice had shifted, dropping into a tone softer yet somehow more intense. 

His eyes met yours, half-lidded and darkened with something unreadable—something that made the air between you feel heavier. “Actually… I think you’re very beautiful.”

The confession hung in the room like an uninvited guest, its weight pressing against your chest. For a moment, you forgot to breathe. Your smirk faltered, slipping away as quickly as your composure. Heat rushed to your face, and you tore your gaze away from his, cursing softly under your breath.

“Don’t say silly things and stay still,” you snapped, your tone sharp and biting in a desperate attempt to mask the erratic thrum of your heartbeat. 

You hoped your words would deflect the moment, push it back into the realm of casual banter where you felt safe.

But Sol wasn’t so easily deterred. 

His smirk returned, slow and deliberate, curving his lips with a maddening confidence that made your stomach twist in ways you refused to name. This time, he didn’t look away. Instead, he held your gaze, his eyes gleaming with an audacity that only deepened the warmth spreading across your cheeks. 

“Whatever you say,” he murmured, his voice dipped in teasing amusement, the cadence of his words like a soft challenge. He leaned back slightly, finally settling into the pose you’d asked for, though the sly glint in his expression made it clear this game was far from over. “You’re the artist, after all.”

His words hung in the air, tantalizing and weighty, the space between you charged with a mix of unspoken defiance and an invitation. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Really now? Giving me such power… ” you said, your voice cool, though it couldn’t quite mask the ripple of intrigue threading through your tone. “…That’s bold of you.” 

Without waiting for a reply, you rose with quiet determination, each step purposeful as you approached the platform. 

The sound of your footsteps echoed faintly in the stillness, heightening the tension that hung between you and Sol. He didn’t shift, didn’t flinch—his body perfectly still—but his eyes were anything but passive. They tracked your every move, sharp and calculating, as though trying to decipher your intentions. 

You met his gaze head-on when you stopped just in front of him, close enough for the air between you to hum with unspoken words. There was a challenge in your look, a spark of intent that burned through the cool mask he wore. Without hesitation, your hands moved to adjust his posture, the touch both commanding and oddly intimate. 

Sol’s heart thudded against his ribcage, a steady beat that betrayed the calm facade he clung to. He felt the heat of your fingers through the fabric of his sleeves, the deliberate pressure of your guidance igniting a flurry of sensations he wasn’t entirely prepared for. Despite himself, his body responded to the gentle assertiveness of your hands—his muscles tensing, then yielding as though obeying your unspoken command. 

You shifted his arms, your palms grazing over the sinew and strength beneath the fabric of his shirt as you brought them to rest on his thighs.

The moment lingered, charged, as his skin seemed to hum under your touch. Moving closer still, you placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of your fingers grounding him yet sending a strange, exhilarating tension down his spine.

He inhaled sharply when your other hand found his chin, tilting his head upward with a deliberate precision that left no room for resistance. 

His face was now fully illuminated under the studio’s glow, the soft light casting angular shadows along his features. It caught on the sharp line of his jaw and the gentle curve of his lips, still holding the ghost of a smirk. 

Yet his expression had shifted—there was something deeper now, a quiet intensity that danced in his eyes as they locked with yours. The teasing glimmer was still there, but it was layered beneath something more vulnerable, more raw, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Good enough,” you murmured, your voice low and almost reverent. 

It was as though the word carried more weight than you intended. Your voice sent a shiver coursing through him, subtle but enough to make his body respond once more. His breath hitched, his pulse quickened, and for the briefest of moments, he wondered if you could feel it too—the energy pulsing in the space between you, fragile yet undeniable.

You step off the platform, your shoes clicking softly against the floor, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. Bending down, you retrieve your tablet from where you left it nestled inside your bag, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as you stand.

Turning back toward Sol, you cradle the tablet in one arm and pull out the stylus magnetically attached to its side. Settling onto the stool once more, you balance the device on your lap, letting out a soft sigh of focus as you power it on.

Sol watches you with a curious tilt of his head. His gaze shifts between your hands and your face before he speaks. “You draw on digital?”

Without looking up, you raise a hand to motion him still, your voice steady but commanding. “No moving, sir. I need you to stay still.” A small smirk tugs at your lips as you glance at him. “And to answer your question, yes—both traditional and digital. I usually sketch on paper first, then refine and detail digitally. But this time…” You trail off, focusing on calibrating your pen. “This time, I’m sticking entirely to digital.”

“Ah,” Sol murmurs, nodding slightly before catching himself and freezing again. “How long do I have to sit like this?” His tone carries a mix of genuine curiosity and playful impatience.

“That depends…” you reply distractedly, your eyes narrowing as you angle the screen to the perfect position. Picking up the pen, you glance up at him, tilting your head slightly to study his posture. “What I really need,” you say slowly, tapping the pen against the edge of the tablet, “is to study the male form.”

Sol raises an eyebrow, intrigued but wary. “The male form?” 

“A naked form,” you clarify, your voice calm but matter-of-fact. You meet his gaze without hesitation, a hint of mischief in your expression as the weight of your words settles in the room. 

For a moment, the room feels heavy with unspoken words, the quiet between you almost crackling with tension. Sol shifts uneasily at your request, his heart racing so fast it feels like it might burst.

His fingers tighten against the fabric of his clothes, a subconscious attempt to ground himself. The thought of being naked in front of you—someone he hardly knew but felt inexplicably drawn to—stirred a mix of emotions he couldn't quite name.  

He felt a knot of nerves in his stomach, but it was tangled with a strange thrill that sent a shiver up his spine. His mind couldn't stop racing, picturing how the moment might unfold, the weight of your gaze tracing every inch of him.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as he caught the playful glint in your smile. It was as if that single expression stripped away any sense of control he thought he had, leaving him flustered, exposed, and completely captivated.

You chuckle softly, leaning forward, pen poised over the tablet’s smooth surface. “Relax. Let’s think of it as a challenge. First, remove your shirt,” Smirking, you turn your attention back to the screen, the rhythmic scratching of your pen against the glass filling the quiet tension between you. "You're not getting cold feet, are you?" you tease, your voice light yet laced with challenge. 

Sol feels his chest tighten as your words sink in, his mind racing with the weight of their implications. He wants to push back, to say something sharp, but there’s an undeniable pull in the way you speak so boldly, like peeling back a layer he didn’t even know existed. 

The idea of you looking at him—not just seeing, but seeing—sends a hum of a familiar feeling through him, equally unsettling and thrilling. "No," he replies, his voice laced with a forced confidence. "No, I’m not getting cold feet.”

You snort softly, a crooked smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "Of course, you’ll say that, you say, your tone dismissive but carrying a trace of something deeper. Sol exhales, surrendering to the moment’s vulnerability with a small, lopsided grin. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Smirking again, you lower your gaze to your work, the pen moving in deliberate strokes. “You have no idea,” you murmur, voice tinged with playful arrogance. Then, without missing a beat, you glance up at him, your eyes catching his. “So is that a yes or a no?”

Sol’s laugh comes unbidden, a mix of exasperation and admiration. He shakes his head slightly, unable to ignore how disarmed he feels by your unapologetic nature.

Your bluntness is unnerving, like staring into the sun, but it’s also magnetic, pulling him further into your orbit. His mind raced with thoughts and images, the idea of baring himself to you both thrilling and nerve-racking.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with a faint grumble like he was trying to brush off the weight of the moment.

Sol inhaled deeply, steadying himself. His hands removed the black tie and then moved to the hem of his shirt, his fingers brushing the fabric as he unbuttoned it.

The cool air of the studio prickled against his skin, making him shiver slightly as the shirt slid off. Now exposed, he stood still for a second, his chest rising and falling a little quicker than normal. His heart raced, caught between nerves and a flicker of excitement, pounding loud enough that it felt like it might echo in the room.

His chest was a work of art in itself, lean and toned with subtle, defined muscles that hinted at strength without overwhelming bulk. His shoulders were broad yet refined, tapering down to a sculpted torso that seemed both effortlessly strong and meticulously maintained.

The faint outline of his ribs shifted subtly with each breath, and the curve of his collarbone caught the soft light of the studio, adding to the striking image.

He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see in your reaction—

Approval? Admiration? ...Maybe both?

You barely noticed your tablet slipping slightly in your hands as your eyes were drawn to him, your breath hitching for a fraction of a second. His physique was captivating and demanded attention without trying.

The sharp lines of his chest and the gentle shadow cast by his abs seemed to hold a magnetic pull, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but take it all in.

Something stirred deep inside—desire, curiosity, or maybe just awe—but you quickly masked it behind a composed expression. Still, there was a flicker in your gaze, a momentary slip that hinted at how much the sight had caught you off guard.

And Sol caught that flicker and his breath hitched, too, a small surge of confidence sneaking in alongside the nerves. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for any other sign of what you were feeling.

“Who would’ve thought an artist such as you is so… toned,” you said, glancing up briefly from your tablet, a teasing lilt in your voice as your hand kept moving.  

Sol’s breath hitched for what felt like the hundredth time. Your compliment hit him harder than he expected, making his cheeks warm as a faint blush spread across them. He stayed in his pose, trying to appear unbothered, but his eyes betrayed him, sneaking a glance at the tablet to watch as the lines you drew began to come to life.  

It was strange, having someone look at him like this. Your gaze wasn’t casual or fleeting—it was sharp, and intense, as if every detail mattered. It made him feel exposed but… special. He shifted slightly, his muscles starting to ache from holding the pose.

But you didn’t seem to notice his struggle. Instead, your attention stayed fixed on him. "Don’t get cocky," you said with a playful smirk, breaking the silence as your eyes swept over him again. “You might be a good model; it has nothing to do with my tastes."  

Despite your attempt to play it cool, your gaze told a different story. It lingered on him, studying every line of his body—the curve of his chest, the dip of his waist. You were meticulous, your eyes narrowing thoughtfully as you followed the contours with your pencil.  

“...Hm,” you murmured suddenly, your tone thoughtful.  

The sound sent a shiver down Sol’s spine. It wasn’t just the noise itself but the way it carried meaning like you were deep in thought about something specific. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his heart thudded painfully in his chest. “Hm?” he echoed, his voice slightly rougher than before, betraying his nerves.  

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes shifted downward, your focus slowly drifting lower until…  

Sol froze. Your gaze landed unmistakably near his pants, and though your expression remained neutral, the implication was impossible to miss. A wave of heat rolled through him, pooling low in his stomach, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.  

"Ah..." His voice cracked slightly, and he immediately hated himself for it.  

You smirked then, your lips curving up just enough to make his heart stutter. “Relax,” you said, but the mischievous gleam in your eyes made it clear you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “I’m just thinking about the… practicalities here.” Your tone was casual, almost too casual, but the way your eyes flickered back to his face told him you were enjoying this far more than you let on.  

Sol could only nod stiffly, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to hold the pose for this long, but at this point, he didn’t trust himself to move without giving something away. 

Sol's throat felt tight, his breathing quickening in sync with the rush of heat creeping up his face. His cheeks burned, not just from embarrassment but from a hint of excitement he could neither deny nor fully understand.

You were toying with him, your words deliberate and your smirk teasing, enjoying the way you made him squirm under your gaze. 

And the worst part?  

He liked it.

No, he loved it.

His hands fidgeted nervously, but he willed his voice to stay steady, though it wavered slightly as he asked, "Practical aspects... what do you mean, exactly?" You didn't look up from your sketchpad, your pencil gliding smoothly across the paper with practiced ease. Yet your eyes, sharp and narrowed, never left him. "Well," you began casually, “…there’s the matter of certain distractions that could arise during the modeling process."  

Sol blinked, his heart hammering in his chest as he struggled to decode your words without letting his imagination spiral. He swallowed hard and pressed on, his voice quieter this time. "Distractions… how, exactly?"  

Your smirk widened, your gaze turning into a playful challenge as if daring him to figure it out. The moment lingered, the air heavy with tension until you set down the sketchpad and took a step closer to him. Your finger tapped against the tablet stylus in your other hand as if considering whether to explain or let him squirm further.  

"Oh, you know," you said, your voice lilting into a soft, teasing drawl.  

He shifted uncomfortably, every nerve on high alert as you pointed the pen toward him like it held the weight of your playful accusation.  

“Like… involuntary reactions," you continued, your tone light but laced with meaning. "The kind the male body sometimes has when it’s being observed so closely, especially you…”  

His stomach flipped, your words hanging in the air like a loaded secret. Sol couldn’t decide whether to shrink away from your teasing or meet it head-on, his thoughts muddled between mortification and something far more dangerous: the undeniable thrill of it all.

His voice was a bit hoarse as he mustered a response. "I see… I don't think.. that’ll be a problem," he said, his voice not entirely convincing.

You suppressed a small, amused laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to keep it from escaping. Pausing in your sketching, you raised an eyebrow at him, your eyes gleaming with a playful edge. "Oh, really?" you asked, your tone laced with a teasing mockery that dared him to hold his ground. 

Setting your tablet aside but still holding the pencil lightly between your fingers, you stepped forward, deliberately and slowly. With every movement, you closed the space between you, your figure now standing on the platform before him. Hands-on your hips, you tilted your head, your gaze fixed on him with narrowed intensity.  

"You know," you began, your voice soft but loaded with challenge, "it's perfectly natural for the body to react in such a way. No need to pretend otherwise."  

Sol’s composure, usually so steady, was unraveling at an alarming pace. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, the rhythm echoing in his ears. His breaths came quick and shallow, the proximity between you making the air feel heavier. You were so close now that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from you, smell the soft, floral undertone of your perfume lingering between you. 

It was all too much. 

It was perfect.

His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning white as if grounding himself could somehow mask the tempest of emotions raging inside. Pride and vulnerability waged a silent war within him, his resolve teetering precariously. "I'm… I'm not pretending," he managed to protest, though his voice cracked under the strain, betraying him.  

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, and you took another step closer, your gaze trailing down. "Are you sure about that?" you asked, your tone dripping with mockery as if the answer was already written in the very air around you.  

"Yes… I'm sure," he insisted, but the lie was painfully evident in his voice, thin and wavering.  

Your eyes lingered on his torso, noting the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he leaned back slightly in the chair under the bright light. The tension in his muscles was unmistakable, every inch of him taut like a tightly wound spring. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the gap further, your legs brushing lightly against his.  

Then, with a fluid motion of your wrist, the tip of your stylus brushed against his skin. The coolness of the dull plastic drew a deliberate line across his chest, its path leaving a trail of searing awareness in its wake. Sol’s breath hitched audibly, his body betraying him as a shiver ran through him. He clenched his jaw, his reddish-orange eyes fixed on yours, burning with a mixture of desire and defiance. 

Your indifference only heightened the tension, your focus locked on his form as though he were nothing more than a canvas, a sculpture to be refined under your touch. Each stroke of your pencil seemed to amplify. His breaths quickened, and his fists trembled slightly at his sides, caught between resisting and surrendering.  

You moved with precision, pausing as you reached the midline of his stomach. There, you allowed your fingers to brush gently against his skin, the feather-light touch sending a jolt through him. His body reacted before he could control it, his muscles twitching at the contact.  

Glancing up, you met his gaze, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous curiosity. "Your heart," you murmured, voice velvet-soft, "it's beating so fast. Tell me…" You tilted your head, the question hanging between you like a dare.  

"Are you nervous… or excited?"  

The corner of your mouth curved upward in a teasing smirk, and at that moment, it felt as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for his answer. Sol's breath caught sharply as your fingers grazed his skin. The warmth of your touch, so light yet deliberate, sent an undeniable spark through him. His body betrayed him immediately, shivering under your gentle touch while his stomach tightened reflexively as if bracing for the next move.  

For a moment, he closed his eyes, desperately trying to steady himself, to calm the wild rhythm of his heartbeat that seemed to echo in his ears. When he opened them again, his gaze met yours. He could see it—the playful glint in your eyes—and knew you were fully aware of the effect you had on him.  

"Both," he confessed at last, his voice low and strained, like it took every ounce of effort to get the word out. "Definitely both."  

Your lips curved into a knowing smile, the sight of him struggling to maintain his control only adding fuel to the fire. You didn’t miss how his body responded with every little movement, each subtle touch pulling him deeper into your game.  

Your fingers wandered over his skin again, this time tracing the defined lines of his abdomen with a slow, teasing motion. He inhaled sharply as your touch ventured lower, stopping right at the edge of his waistband. The anticipation was written all over him—his breath unsteady, his body taut like a string about to snap.  

Pausing just above the fabric, you tilted your head, your gaze still fixed on his flushed face. The way his eyes flickered between restraint and surrender was intoxicating.

He met your stare once more, the tension in his body was evident as he struggled to stay composed. The way you toyed with him, teasing and testing his limits, drove him mad. Desire and helplessness waged war inside him, each longing glance a silent plea he refused to voice.  

“Seeing you like this,” you mused, your voice soft but laced with teasing amusement, “you could never be a nude model… unless, of course, this happens with everyone.”  

Your words, light and playful on the surface, carried a deliberate weight that struck Sol like a thunderclap. His breath hitched, and though he tried to mask his reaction, the deep flush spreading from his cheeks to his chest betrayed him entirely.  

He swallowed hard, struggling to find his voice amidst the chaos in his mind. “It’s not—” he stammered, his words faltering as you tilted your head, watching him with that devastating smirk that seemed to peel away his defenses.  

“It’s not what?” you pressed, leaning in slightly, your gaze never leaving his. Your hand, steady and deliberate, drifted lower, brushing against his stomach. His muscles tensed under your touch, his entire body reacting to the feather-light pressure.  

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost a gasp, as your hand slid lower still. Without hesitation, you cupped him through his pants, the action firm enough to make his knees buckle slightly but not enough to ground him. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as he fought to stay composed, to keep from completely unraveling under your touch.  

“N-No,” he finally choked out, his voice raw and trembling as though the admission itself was being ripped from his chest.

“It’s… it’s just you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise flickering across your face for a split second before it was replaced by something else—something sharper, more triumphant. You sighed softly, the sound almost indulgent as you leaned in closer.  

“Just me, huh?” you murmured, your tone carrying the faintest edge of mockery. One hand traced idle, teasing patterns over his stomach, while the other remained where it was, pressing just enough to keep him on edge. “So, I’m the one who does this to you,” you mused, your voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register, “and only me?”  

He nodded faintly, his breath hitching again as his gaze darted away, unable to hold yours for long. “Yes,” he whispered, the words barely audible, his voice a fragile thread threatening to snap. “Only you. No one else.”  

You arched an eyebrow, your smirk widening. “Interesting.” Your hand moved slightly, your touch maddeningly deliberate, enough to make him gasp again.

“And yet,” you continued, your voice laced with playful condescension, “you’re not doing a very good job of it. Look at you—shaking like a lost puppy. As a nude model, you’re supposed to have composure. No trembling, no reacting like this—”  

“—I can resist,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction, the words trembling as much as he was.  

You paused and then tilted your head, amusement glittering in your eyes. “Oh?” you said, your tone a mix of mockery and curiosity. You leaned in even closer, your movements slow, as if savoring every second of his unraveling. “You can resist?” you repeated, the words slipping from your lips like a challenge.  

Sol’s breath hitched again, his gaze snapping back to yours. For a moment, his resolve seemed to waver, but he forced himself to hold your gaze, his jaw tightening as he struggled to muster a response.  

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, the word more a plea than a statement.  

Your smirk deepened, and a soft, bemused laugh escaped your lips—a sound that sent another jolt through him, making his knees feel weak. “Hm, okay then…” you began, tilting your head and letting your eyes meet his with an almost innocent softness, “Now second then you won’t mind taking off your pants." Your tone was light, teasing, but your words carried an undeniable weight. "Please?" 

The flush on Sol’s face deepened, and for a moment, he seemed frozen as though caught between disbelief and desire. His breath hitched, and his voice came out strained, almost a whisper. "Yes… I can… do that.”  

You bit your lip, fighting back a smirk at his visible struggle. His ragged breathing, the way his eyes flicked between your face and the floor, and the tremor in his hands as they moved toward his waistband—all of it betrayed just how tightly wound he was.

Wordlessly, Sol removed his belt then hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pants and slid them down over his hips, letting the fabric pool around his ankles. His legs were tense, his body taut like a string pulled to its limit.  

Your gaze swept over his now mostly exposed form, lingering on the shape outlined beneath his boxers. The fabric clung to him, leaving little to the imagination. Your eyes traced the curves and planes of his body with deliberate slowness, moving up from his legs, across his hips, and finally settling on his flushed bewildered expression.  

"Very good, Sol," you purred, your voice low and smooth as if coaxing him to relax despite the tension crackling in the air. You reached for your tablet, turning it on with practiced ease.

You heard his shallow breaths as though he were struggling to keep himself from unraveling. He obeyed, though, again sitting down stiffly as you began sketching. Your fingers glided over the tablet, sketching the outline of his body with precise, fluid movements.

You focused on the task, but you could feel his gaze burning into you, intense and unyielding. “Sol,” you said suddenly, your voice breaking the charged silence. His body jerked slightly at the sound, his name on your lips hitting him like a spark. "Y-yes?" he stammered, his voice hoarse and shaky.  

You looked up, meeting his wide, unsure eyes. “Third remove your boxers," you said softly, the words almost hesitant but still carrying an undeniable firmness.  

The room seemed to be still as the words hung in the air. 

You searched his face, watching as his eyes widened further, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His lips parted as though he wanted to protest or question, but no words came. “Relax,” you added, your voice soothing now, as though coaxing him into compliance. "It’s for the art, after all."  

His breathing quickened again, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if he would comply, he was frozen in place. The thought of being completely exposed in front of you was as thrilling as it was terrifying. But the way you looked at him—with such intensity as if you were examining him not just physically but emotionally—kept him rooted to the spot.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a vulnerability in his tone that surprised even him, a quiet plea for reassurance.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment before offering a small, almost mischievous smile. “Of course. This is about trust. Being a nude model and If you want to improve as an artist, you need to understand vulnerability—how it feels to be seen, truly seen.” Your voice was gentle yet firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

Sol's breath hitched as he hesitated, his hands trembling at the waistband of his boxers. His pulse was thunderous in his ears, every fiber of his being tense and alive with apprehension.

The room was silent save for the sound of his shallow breaths and the subtle creak of the floorboards beneath him. He met your gaze once more, and something in your expression—a mixture of calm, focus, and the faintest trace of amusement—steadied his resolve.  

You watched him intently, the weight of the moment sinking in. There was a thrill in the balance of power, in knowing that his vulnerability was yours to witness and guide.  

With a shaky exhale, Sol slid the fabric down his hips and stepped out of them, standing completely bare before you.  

For a moment, time seemed to stretch endlessly. His manhood, larger than you might have expected, stood pale but flushed a deep red, betraying his nervous arousal. You couldn’t help but glance briefly before pulling your gaze upward, schooling your expression to remain professional—though your heartbeat betrayed you, pounding in your chest like a drum.  

Sol’s face burned hotter than ever, his entire body tingling under the weight of your scrutiny. Instinctively, his arms moved to cross over his chest, a reflexive and almost boyish attempt to shield himself, as though your gaze could unravel him entirely.  

“Wait,” you said firmly, your voice steady and composed. “Don’t cover yourself. I need to see everything if I’m going to capture this moment fully.”  

Your words lingered in the air, carrying a gravity that left no room for argument. It wasn’t harsh, but there was a quiet authority in your tone that demanded obedience. Sol froze for a moment, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. Hesitantly, his arms dropped to his sides, the motion slow and deliberate, as though the act of surrendering himself to your observation required every ounce of his courage.  

His fingers twitched faintly, betraying his nerves, and he shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He stood tall, but the rise and fall of his chest with each uneven breath revealed the turmoil roiling beneath his calm facade.  

“Good,” you murmured, your lips curving into a subtle, approving smile as you adjusted your grip on your tablet. Your eyes swept over him methodically, drinking in every detail—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the tautness in his jaw, the subtle play of muscle beneath his skin. But it wasn’t just the physical form you noted. Your gaze seemed to pierce deeper, observing the tension in his shoulders, the fidget of his hands, and the faint pink that climbed his neck and painted his ears.  

“Now,” you said softly, your tone easing yet still retaining that unshakable command, “sit back in the chair for me. Let your body relax. Let go of the tension.”  

Sol nodded, almost imperceptibly, before moving toward the chair. His movements were stiff, each step measured as if the very air around him had become too thick to navigate. When he finally lowered himself into the chair, his posture was painfully rigid—his back straight, his hands gripping the armrests tightly enough that his knuckles whitened.  

“Relax,” you repeated, more gently this time, the sound of your voice threading its way into his fraying composure.  

He exhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment as he tried to ground himself. With each breath, his shoulders began to loosen, and his hands slackened their grip. Slowly, his body sank into the chair, shedding the tension bit by bit. When he opened his eyes again, they locked with yours.  

You were closer now. 

Not seated at the platform as he had expected, but standing before him, leaning in just slightly as if to examine every shift in his posture. Sol stiffened again at your proximity, but you didn’t retreat. Instead, you stepped around him, beginning to circle him like a predator studying its prey.  

Your eyes moved with meticulous precision, your tablet in hand as you captured the essence of his form with quick, purposeful strokes. You murmured something under your breath—a note to yourself, perhaps—but Sol didn’t catch the words. His thoughts were too loud, a cacophony of embarrassment and awe.  

He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at you, watching the way your gaze never wavered, the way your hands moved deftly over the screen. How did you handle this so effortlessly? How could you endure the stares of an entire class with such composure? And yet here he was, unraveling under the scrutiny of just one pair of eyes.  

This was too much. 

For someone like him, the vulnerability was suffocating, the intimacy almost unbearable. And yet, as you stepped around him again, your presence so calm and assured, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

"Sol, you’re still staring at me. Be still," you said, your tone calm yet cutting, carrying just enough authority to make him freeze.  

"Right," he croaked, his voice rough with embarrassment. "Sorry."  

You circled behind him, the quiet tap of your shoes on the floor echoing faintly in the space. Sol sat stiffly, his muscles tense as he felt you hovering nearby, the air between you charged. He heard the faint scratch of your stylus against the tablet, your measured, deliberate movements creating an unbearable anticipation.  

"You were doing so well," you murmured, a soft, teasing lilt in your voice. Then, with a quiet laugh, you added, “…how can I stop this..?” You mumbled to yourself.

Sol’s cheeks burned hotter as your words pierced through his fragile composure. Before he could respond, a soft sound of movement caught his attention—something small being picked up off the floor. Turning his head slightly, he saw you standing there, holding the black tie he’d earlier discarded with little thought.  

Your gaze locked with his, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. You slowly began wrapping the tie around your hands, the fabric gliding through your fingers with a measured precision that made his pulse quicken.  

"How about last we cover those eyes of yours?" you suggested, stepping closer, your voice both playful and commanding. "At this rate, with you watching me like that, I’ll never get my drawing done in time." 

Sol’s breath hitched audibly, his eyes widening as you advanced. His throat felt dry, and his heart pounded so loudly he was sure you could hear it. 

“Wait, I… I'm sorry," he stammered, his words tripping over each other. "I'll try to be good." 

Your head tilted, an amused glint in your eyes as you took in his flustered state. "Being good isn’t enough for me, Sol. I need you to listen.” He swallowed hard, nodding quickly as if afraid to disappoint. "I'll listen," he whispered, desperation lacing his voice. "I'll do whatever you want."  

The corners of your lips curved into a sly smile. His eager compliance was endearing, but you weren’t going to let him off easy.  

"Good," you murmured, stepping closer, your eyes never leaving his. The tension in the air was palpable as you gently draped the tie over his face, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Now, I want you to hold still for me. No interruptions. And if you are a ‘good boy,’ you’ll stay exactly like this."  

The world went dark for Sol as the tie was secured over his eyes, shutting out all light and robbing him of sight. His breathing quickened as he felt the soft pressure of the fabric against his skin, the sensation heightening his awareness of everything else—the faint rustle of your clothes, the warmth of your breath as you leaned in, and the lingering heat from where your fingers had grazed him.  

You took a step back, admiring the effect. Sol sat rigid, his hands gripping the edge of the chair as though it were his only anchor. Without his sight, every sound, every touch, became amplified, and you could see the struggle for control etched across his features.  

"Perfect," you purred, your voice low and velvety, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.  

Moving silently, you circled to his side, the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air as you leaned closer. With deliberate slowness, you traced the tip of your stylus along his arm, the light contact sending a shiver through him.  

“Ah…” Sol couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped his lips, his jaw tightening as he fought to remain still under your touch. He was hyper-aware of everything—the sound of your voice, the warmth of your presence, the way his skin tingled where the stylus had glided. It was overwhelming and intoxicating all at once.  

Your gaze lingered on his face, watching the subtle tremor of his lips as he tried and failed to steady his breathing. His hands gripped the edge of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his entire body taut with the effort to maintain control. The satisfaction coursing through you was almost intoxicating—you had him completely under your spell, and he didn’t even realize how thoroughly you were leading this dance.  

“You know,” you began, your voice smooth and deliberate, “I was planning on getting my lick back, but this... this is something else.”  

His head tilted slightly toward you, confusion etched into his features. “What... what are you talking about?” Sol’s voice cracked, betraying the shaky composure he was trying so hard to hold onto.  

A sly smile curled your lips. “Asking you to model for me? That was payback. For yesterday,” you said, stepping closer. You leaned down slightly, ensuring your words reached him like a velvet blade. “You weren’t as subtle as you thought, staring at me in Professor Lenox’s class.”  

His body went rigid, the weight of your words sinking in like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened slightly, and his head dipped as though to escape the scrutiny of your gaze. You could see the dawning realization in the way his shoulders hunched, the embarrassment rolling off him in waves.  

“I... I didn’t mean to stare,” he stammered, his voice small and thick with mortification. “I’m sorry. I just—”  

“—I’m your muse?” you interrupted, your voice low and challenging.  

Sol froze, his breath hitching audibly at your words. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the truth was clawing its way up his throat, leaving him no choice but to let it out.  

“Yes,” he admitted, barely more than a whisper. “God, yes. You’ve always been my muse. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you hold yourself... I can’t help it. I’ve always watched you, every little thing you do.” 

There was a rawness in his voice, a vulnerability that caught you off guard. He swallowed again, his words thick with emotion. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring if I tried. You’re... mesmerizing.”  

For a moment, you were still, his confession hanging in the air like the lingering notes of a haunting melody. What had started as a calculated game now felt like a slow, deliberate unraveling of something far deeper. You stepped closer, closing the space between you with quiet, deliberate movements. Standing behind him, you leaned down, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, your breath brushing against his ear. “Sol,” you murmured, your voice like silk, “you say such lovely things. Do you really mean them?”  

The effect was immediate. Sol’s body reacted as though struck by lightning, shuddering slightly under your touch. His breath caught, “I mean every word,” he rasped, his voice thick with longing. “Every. Single. Word. You’re breathtaking, you’re captivating... you’re everything. You’re my muse.”  

Your fingers traced lazy patterns along the curve of his shoulder, each touch deliberate and calculated. You could feel the tension thrumming beneath your fingertips, the way his body reacted to you as if drawn by some unseen force.  

“You really are a sweet boy, aren’t you?” you whispered, your lips just grazing the shell of his ear. The shiver that coursed through him was almost palpable, and you relished the power you held in that moment.  

Without warning, you shifted away, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet space. Each step was slow, deliberate, the faint click of your shoes against the wooden floor a metronome to Sol’s growing anticipation. He couldn’t see you, blindfolded as he was, but his other senses sharpened, following the faint swish of fabric and the nearly imperceptible stir of air as you moved.  

You circled him, your presence like a magnetic pull he couldn’t resist. His body reacted instinctively, the tension in his shoulders rising and falling with each subtle sound, every shift in the atmosphere signaling your movement. His hands flexed at his sides, gripping the edge of the platform, as though bracing himself against the unknown.  

Then you stopped, directly in front of him once more, your silence louder than any words. For a moment, you simply watched him—his head tilted slightly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, the vulnerability in his posture stark and raw. He was exposed, not in the physical sense, but in a way that made him feel stripped bare nonetheless.  

“You’re quite the artist, Sol,” you said, your tone light but carrying an edge that made his stomach twist.  

As you spoke, you moved again—graceful, deliberate, your body fluid as you sank to your knees in front of him. The sound of your descent was soft, a whisper against the platform, but it struck him like a thunderclap. His breath hitched, his muscles going taut as a bowstring as your hands settled lightly on his thighs.  

The touch was featherlight, innocent in its simplicity, yet it sent a jolt through him so sharp it felt like fire racing under his skin. He clenched his jaw, his head tilting downward as if trying to pierce the darkness of the blindfold and see you.  

You leaned forward, the warmth of your body emanating through the small gap between you. Then, gently, you rested your head in his lap, the soft weight of it pressing against him in a way that felt at once grounding and utterly electrifying. The heat radiating from you seeped through his skin, igniting a slow-burning ache that spread through him with every second that passed.  

He froze, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to move or stay still, caught in the intoxicating tension of the moment.  

“You...” His voice was barely audible, rasping and unsteady. “What are you doing?”  

You tilted your chin upward, the motion languid and intentional, your gaze locking onto him with quiet intensity. Though his eyes weren’t on you, he seemed to sense the weight of your stare—an invisible force that reached out to him, palpable enough to make his breath hitch.  

“Like I said,” you murmured, your voice soft and laced with a teasing challenge, “you’re an artist.” A faint smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned forward slightly, your words dropping lower, more intimate. “But let’s see if you can capture me properly... without looking.” 

The words sent a shiver through him, their weight sinking into his chest like an anchor. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mind a chaotic mess of sensation. The thought of being able to touch you, to paint you, without even seeing you was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. He forced himself to speak, his voice a strained whisper. “Okay…” He breathed out.

"Hm," you murmured, your gaze briefly dipping to the prominent hard-on. The sight was almost amusing—who would’ve thought that something as simple as your touch and attention could elicit such a response? 

This man must not get any action if he’s this sensitive.

You reached for his cock slowly, the space between you crackling with unspoken tension. As your hand brushed against him—firm beneath your fingers, he stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath. The contact, though light, sent a jolt through him, and his entire body went rigid as if frozen by the shock of your touch. 

You tilted your head, observing his reaction with a faint smirk. “Interesting…” you murmured, your voice low, almost a whisper, as your hand began a slow, deliberate movement. Up, then down, tracing the contours with a featherlight touch. His body reacted like a tightly coiled spring, quivering beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat against your palm.

His breath came unevenly now—harsh, shallow gasps escaping him as if he couldn’t quite catch it. His hands hovered near you, trembling with the urge to reach out but hesitating, caught in the fragile tension between desire and restraint. 

Your touch traveled further, deliberate and teasing, like a current of electricity that surged through his body with every gentle graze of your hand. He exhaled shakily, his chest rising and falling as if the simple act of breathing had become a challenge. 

Blinded to the world around him, his other senses sharpened, magnifying every sound, every shift of your presence. He wanted so desperately to remove the blindfold, to see you, to understand the expression behind your careful movements. But for now, he was completely at your mercy, powerless to do anything but react to you. 

Your hand paused briefly, and you leaned in, your breath ghosting against his ear. “…How you feel?” you asked, a note of playfulness in your tone, before your fingers resumed their agonizingly slow exploration, testing the limits of his composure. His body betrayed him with another quiver, and his resolve teetered on the edge, ready to shatter at any moment.

Sol's entire body was on fire. 

He had never felt anything like this before - the sweet, electric sensation of your touch, combined with the helplessness of being blindfolded, was driving him insane with need. All he wanted was you - your touch, your presence, your everything. He struggled to find his voice, his breathing ragged and desperate as he managed to gasp out a response.*

"I... I feel... like I'm going insane," he panted. "Please... please don't stop."

The sight of him, struggling to keep himself under control, the way his body trembled beneath your touch, the way his voice shook when he spoke, all of it sent a thrill through you. You relished in his vulnerability, in his dependency on you, in his desperate need to be good, to be obedient.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his cock. "You're doing so good," you murmured, your voice a sultry purr. "Such a good boy for me."

"Please," he begged, his voice hoarse and strained. "Anything... I'll do anything for you. Anything."

You relished in the desperate pleading tone, the way he begged for you, the way he was so eager to please, to do whatever you asked. It was all too easy, now, to have him wrapped around your finger like this. 

You were in complete control, and he was at your mercy.

You continued to touch him, to tease him, your hands roaming over his body with torturous slowness. "Anything?" you echoed, your voice a seductive whisper. "Careful now. Those are dangerous words to use with me.”

You notice the way he’s already lost in the pleasure you’re giving him, and it only fuels your need to tease him further. It’s so easy to get him all hot and bothered, a single touch is enough to have him completely at your mercy.

He feels the way the tip of his cock glistens with precum, beads of the white liquid pilling up and siding down his red cock.

You pause, your hands still on his body, feeling the way he trembles beneath your touch. Your voice is a low sultry whisper as you speak. "That's it, good boy. You're so pretty like this."

Sol's heart thundered in his chest at the sound of your voice; the praise sent a shiver of pleasure through his body.

"Just for you," he gasped, his voice roughened by desire. "Please... I need you. I... I can't take much more of this." It's just so tempting to continue tormenting him when he looks so absorbed in the pleasure you're inflicting on him. You can have him completely at your mercy with just one touch and have him all hot and bothered.

You can't help but smile as you hear the desperation in his voice and the way he trembles beneath your touch. It's so easy to tease him like this, to keep him on the edge, begging for more.

Your fingers wrapped over his cock, tracing over the sensitive, tender skin. You lower your head, your lips just barely touching his tip, and whisper, "Just a little longer... can you be a good boy for me? Can you hold on a bit more?"

He gasps as you touch him, his body arching into your hand even as he struggles to maintain control. A low whine escaped him as you spoke, the desperation in his voice growing even stronger.

"I... I'll try," he gasped, his voice hoarse with effort. "For you, I'll try. But it's... it's so hard... you're driving me crazy."

A part of you wanted to take pity on him, to finally give him the release he's aching for. But another, slightly darker part of you takes pleasure in his torment, in the way he's writhing and begging beneath your touch.

Your lips brush against his cock again, your voice a sultry whisper as you speak.

“Hush now,” you murmured softly, your hand gently brushing against his trembling cheek. “I’ll take care of you, but first, I want to hear you say it. Say it for me, my good boy.”

Sol’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to gather himself. His mind was a storm of burning desire, each pulse of need crashing against the next. His voice, when it came, was thick with desperation, barely more than a hoarse whisper. “I... I’m your good boy,” he rasped, the words escaping with a raw, pleading edge. “Please... please, just... I need you. I need you so badly.”

A thrill shot through you, a rush of heat, as his voice cracked with such vulnerability. The raw need that echoed in his words made your heart race, sending a pulse of desire through you. He was so open, so exposed beneath your touch, completely under your control. The power you held over him—how it reduced him to this—was intoxicating.

You couldn’t suppress the soft hum of approval that escaped your lips, a low, satisfied sound that reverberated through the still air between you. His words hung there like a fragile, desperate melody, each syllable soaked in the longing that gripped your chest. His voice, trembling with vulnerability and need, seemed to wrap around you, igniting a shiver that raced down your spine.

The thought that you could draw this raw, unfiltered emotion from him—that your presence alone could unravel him so completely—sent a surge of power through you. 

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You tugged it over your head with a smooth motion, the fabric slipping away to reveal your skin beneath.

It wasn’t long until he felt your skin. His breath hitched audibly. Quietly cruising the blindfold covering his eyes still, he can only image his eyes tracing the curve of your form, lingering like a caress. 

“Be still for your reward,” you murmured, your voice soft but steady, commanding without being harsh.

Leaning in closer, he felt something warm rubbing agasint his cock, your breath ghosted over the warmth of his cock, the sensation of it almost tangible as you pressed against him. You let your voice drop to a low, sultry purr, a sound rich with desire. “Look at you—so obedient, so eager to please. I adore how needy you are, how much you long for me."

Sol was lost in the sensation of your touch, the sound of your voice driving him wild with need as you caressed his skin and whispered sultry nothings in his ear. Every word you spoke seemed to awaken something inside of him, a burning need that only you could satisfy.

Your eyes were half-lidded, wordless, you lean your head down to his cock, the tip of your nose nearly brushing creamy pre-cum on his tip and almost missing your mouth. The movement is smooth, and very deliberate as you push forward. Sol freezes for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden, unexpected gesture, he can feel you taking all his length, making his hips shake.

Your nose nuzzles up against his pubic hair clit as your tongue sides under the cock, bringing your head back so your tip can lick pre-cum leaking from the tip. In a little time, you moved your head in cadence with your hand beneath at the base and could feel the slight shivering he did from keeping him inside.

“I… I’m so close, please… please…” His voice trembles with desperation as he pleads, his tone strained and urgent. “Can I… can I cum? Please… I need to… I want to so badly…”

He exhales sharply, the words coming out almost as a whisper but heavy with need. “Will you let me?” His body is tense, every muscle straining as he waits for your response.

God, he sounds so broken.

Your gaze shifts up, meeting Sol's face, and what you see is a powerful mixture of exhaustion and longing. 

He looks even worse off.

His head is down, his breathing erratic and shallow, each inhale a desperate attempt to steady himself. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing lines down his cheek, some strands of his hair clinging to his face from the effort, making him appear even more vulnerable than ever as you suck him deeply inside of your mouth, his tip bumping the back of your throat.

You swallowed lightly, savoring the cock as it melted against your tongue. Your grip instinctively tightened around it, feeling the warmness seeping through your fingers. With one more deliberate lick, he came, small rivulets making their way down your throat.

In one fluid, decisive motion, you lifted your arm closer to Sol, your hand gently brushing against his face as you untied the blindfold. His lashes fluttered as the fabric fell away, revealing eyes that widened in surprise.

The flickering light of the room played across your form, catching his attention as his gaze dipped. His breath hitched, his composure faltering when he saw you shrug out of your shirt. The deliberate movement revealed your breast, smeared with streaks of his cum that trailed teasingly along your skin. 

The mess, equal parts playful and provocative, brought a flush to Sol's face. 

For a moment, he seemed unsure where to look, his gaze torn between the soft expression on your face and the curve of your figure. The redness deepened across his cheeks, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. 

You withdrew with deliberate slowness, a sly smirk playing on your lips as you stuck out your tongue, catching the remnants of his cum. The salty sweetness lingered on your taste buds.

He couldn’t help but watch, captivated, as his cum dripped lazily down from your tongue, a tantalizing trail marking his trace that was now nearly gone.

With an air of playful confidence, you swiped your tongue across your lips, gathering the stray drops clinging to your skin like the final act of savoring something utterly decadent. Your gaze lifted deliberately to meet Sol’s, your movements unhurried, almost languid, as if savoring his unraveling. His face was slack and flushed, his sharp features softened by the haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure. 

His eyes, slightly unfocused and glassy, clung to yours like a lifeline, betraying the intoxicating high he was riding, leaving him utterly exposed to your teasing whims.  

A slow, teasing smile curled your lips, deliberate and knowing, as you tilted your head ever so slightly, the picture of predatory amusement. You reached out with one hand, fingers brushing his jawline, the touch featherlight but deliberate enough to make him flinch—just a little.  

“Such a good boy,” you purred, your voice dripping with honeyed sweetness, every syllable designed to tug at the fraying strings of his composure. The words sent a visible shudder through him, his breath catching as his shoulders slackened further, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.  

Leaning in close, your lips hovered near his ear, the warmth of your breath tickling his skin. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more inspired,” you murmured, your voice low and rich, words spilling like a secret.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes again, your gaze alight with mischief.

“How about I be your forever muse? You’ve earned it.”  

Your moment of reverie was interrupted as you began to rise gracefully to your feet. The cinematic flair of the moment was undeniable—until the pins-and-needles sensation in your knees hit like a tidal wave, reminding you of the position you’d been in for far too long.

You stumbled slightly, your balance teetering precariously, before catching yourself with an awkward, self-conscious laugh.  

“Oh, for—damn it,” you muttered under your breath, brushing nonexistent dust off your pants with a huff. The sudden break in your cool, composed demeanor was enough to elicit a chuckle from Sol, the sound deep and warm, grounding the moment with a shared sense of ridiculousness.  

Still recovering from his own haze, Sol’s voice was soft but tinged with amusement as he replied, “My muse, huh? …You’re something else.”  

You straightened, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “You didn’t think you were getting rid of me that easily, did you?”  

Sol shook his head with a wry grin, his cheeks still faintly pink. “Not a chance,” he murmured, voice low, but there was something deeply genuine in his tone that made your heart skip a beat.  

‘Thanks, Professor Lenox,’ you thought, your gaze softening as you looked at Sol. ‘This might just be the best muse you offer to me.’

[zyoojis]

"YOUR SECRET'S SAFE WITH ME, NERD."

(edited) warnings. 18+ content, mdni. fem! reader but interpret this as however you want. slightly suggestive nsfw content, nsfw hcs, drabble. might be ooc. aged-up characs! izuku x reader x slight! katsuki.

izuku is such a pervert. he knows it. no one else seems to notice, but deep down, he's fully aware.

how could he not be? he grew up with the internet at his fingertips, exposed to all kinds of media from a young age. he's seen things. learned things. and now as a hormonal teenager, it's not like he can just turn it off.

especially not when it came to you.

you're the kind of girl who turns heads the moment you walk into a room. the one everyone has a crush on—of course you are. you move with confidence, like you know exactly how good you look. and god, do you look good.

your lips are always glossy, teasing like you've just licked them. your scent clings to the air, sweet, intoxicating. and that uniform—it's driving him insane. the way your blouse clings to your curves, buttons straining to keep everything contained.

oh, and that skirt? way too short. every step you take, it rides up just a little, flashing more of your thighs, drawing his eyes to the way your thigh-highs press against soft skin.

it's maddening. you're maddening.

and izuku? he's obsessed.

which is why he keeps that notebook.

filled with nudity sketches of you. written notes of your likes and dislikes. your kinks, desires. he writes it all down, lets himself imagine. it's horrendously wrong, he knows it is, but fuck, how can he stop?

that's when things took a turn.

after school. the halls are mostly empty, the classroom eerily quiet. katsuki is being a usual major asshole, shoving izuku around, mocking him. the same routine.

and to his absolute horror, the notebook ended up falling into the blond's hands.

he should've just left it at home. but his mom has been doing more room checks lately, and class was so boring today. he kept sneaking glances at you from across the room, indulging in his own twisted little word, scribbling away.

which is why it got katsuki hooked, too. the hell's gotten into that nerd, it's pissing him the fuck off. he thought it's another one of the nerd's dumb "hero analysis for the future" that he gets to blow up again.

but they don't know that this notebook isn't about heroes.

but as katsuki continued flipping the pages, his crimson eyes took in the contents of the notebook so intently that his friends in the back are urging him to read it out loud, unaware of what's actually inside the notebook.

izuku braces himself. this is it. katsuki is going to destroy him. to screech and look at him in disgust. rat him out. get him expelled. call him a creepy, sick fuck. maybe even kill him.

but that's not what happened.

instead, katsuki's gaze flickers toward the window. izuku's eyes followed his, pulse hammering.

there you were, laughing with your friends as you walk out the school gates, completely unaware of the catastrophe unfolding in this classroom.

then, to izuku's bewilderment—katsuki smirks. and without a word, he shoves the notebook into his own bag.

izuku's stomach drops. what the hell just happened?

katsuki doesn't say anything. he just turns on his heel and walks away, his friends trailing after him, pestering him about what did he read. he ignores the lackeys. but not before flashing deku with an all-knowing look with that smug smirk.

like izuku just got away with something.

because now, it's a secret they both share.

© zyoojis 2025. do not repost, copy or steal my works. interested for more? comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated!

[acosmicbee]

Spirit World

(This is inspired by Spirited Away and is an edited version of the original oneshot from my Wattpad)

It was strange to walk around a town that seemed completely abandoned, but had no signs of the associated deterioration to match. The buildings looked to be in perfect condition and restaurants with tables full of steaming food lined every street. 

Despite all of that, since you, your parents and siblings had arrived, you'd seen no one. It had been eerily silent, with only the occasional bird call, and something was clearly very wrong here. Despite that, your parents and siblings had laughed it off, easily plopping down at one of the many booths full of food.

You had decided to wander a little, despite the creepy feeling of being watched. You held your backpack, which contained your sketchbook, art supplies, and a snack or two, close to yourself as you skeptically watched every restaurant. There were no workers, customers or anything in between. Your gut was screaming at you to run but you weren't sure where to go and didn't want to leave your family behind.

The feeling was so unsettling that you unconsciously wandered towards the edge of the restaurant district, where you stumbled across a road leading to a large, traditional bath house. Deciding not to wander too far, and still unsettled by the emptiness of it all, you settled down on a large rock beside the path.

From your backpack you withdrew your sketchbook and pencils, deciding to try and draw the majestic bath house. You forced away the lingering anxiety and put your pencil to paper. After all, you probably wouldn't get halfway through your sketch before you heard your parents calling for you and you wanted to remember this.

You let your mind lock into your work, focusing only on the page in front of you. You had just finished the bare outline of the sketch and were about to start on the finer details when someone cleared their throat beside you.

You jumped, whirling around to see a boy. He looked a bit older than you, maybe 16 or 17? He was watching you from the path leading from the bath house. He almost looked like a normal teenager with messy black hair and a bored expression on his face that was starting to morph into one of subtle intrigue. However, his clothes were traditional and expensive looking, and your gut was screaming at you that something was wrong with him.

"You seem a little young to be on your own. Are you lost?" He asked. His voice was friendly enough, and it was clear he was trying not to scare you, but you just shook your head and went back to your drawing. The boy didn't seem to get the hint that you were done interacting as he didn't move on. 

"It would be wrong of me to leave a child all alone." He said, when you finally gave in and glanced back up at him.

"I'm not a child." You huffed, comparing your sketch to the building in front of you. The boy just grinned, stepping off the path and gracefully settling down on the grassy ground between you and the path.

"Sure, sure. So, 'not-a-child', what's your name?" He asked.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." You answered, getting a bit annoyed. Clearly the boy had no intention of leaving you alone. But, the unease you had felt at the desertion of this place was starting to fade, so you weren't entirely opposed to him staying there.

"Well, my name is Aspen. I live with my father and brother and our family owns the bath house." He said. He started talking about random things while you finished up the details on your sketch.

When you were finally happy with the sketch, you placed down your sketchbook and stood up to stretch. Aspen stared up at you from where he lay on the grass, watching as you dug around in your backpack. When you finally found the snack you had packed for yourself you joined him on the grass.

It quickly became clear that the grass was way more comfortable than the rock you'd been sitting on. The sun was warm but the breeze kept everything a perfect temperature. You opened your snack, pausing when you saw Aspen staring at you.

"Why would you go for that," he gestured at your snack. "When there's food all around? I'm sure you saw all the restaurants down there. I can attest that the food is quite... divine."

"I'm good." You said, enjoying your snack away from the emptiness of the food district. Even if the scent of the food still wafted over when the wind blew just right, it was too strange of a situation for you to feel comfortable. 

Your answer seemed to entrance the boy who tilted his head in curiosity. However, he quickly went back to his aimless chatting as the both of you enjoyed the nice afternoon. Unfortunately, the tranquility couldn't last forever.

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When the sun began to set your unease at the silence returned tenfold. You still hadn't heard anything from your parents or siblings and were beginning to think that they had forgotten about you. So you decided to be the bigger person and go looking for them.

Aspen watched with curiosity as you tucked your sketchbook and pencils back into your bag and stood from your spot on the grass. You'd finished all your snacks in the time you'd been sitting there as well as completing your drawing and having time to color it in.

Aspen caught up to you as you began to walk, gently grabbing ahold of your arm. 

"The... locals... aren't the fondest of outsiders," he explained. "So I'll walk with you. They should leave you alone then."

So, you let him walk with you. The sun had fully disappeared and the moon was rising. The smell of delicious food grew stronger the closer you walked but you didn't look up from your feet until a light came on.

One by one, the booths all around you lit up. The light seemed welcoming but the patrons and staff told a different story. Some of them looked human, with some extra limbs or tails or twitching animal ears. Others...? Other's were nothing even close, a strange shadow with eyes like stars staring out of a black void.

They went about their business, chatting and sitting at the booths and being served food while you looked on in horror. It was Aspen squeezing your hand that snapped you out of it and you turned to him, eyes wide.

He still looked human for the most part but two delicate looking fox ears had appeared on top of his head and several bushy tails sprouted from his lower back. His eyes, once a regular hazel, seemed to glow golden in the dim lighting. He grinned at you, his mouth full of sharp teeth.

"You're quite the lucky little human, aren't you?" He asked. He was practically dragging you along at this point, navigating the marketplace with ease. His grip on your arm grew firmer as you started to struggle but never tight enough to hurt you. "So smart and cute, you'll make the perfect little sibling. I'm sure father will love you! Micah as well, but his opinion doesn't matter."

"W-Wait-! Let me go!" You were struggling with all your might but nothing was working. The only thing being accomplished was tiring yourself out more and more.

"See, we spirits don't like sharing what we believe to be ours. We're very possessive like that. So, when it comes to food most of it is cursed!" Aspen finally stopped in front of a restaurant. Sitting at one of the tables were four giant pigs, scarfing down plate after plate of food. You got the insinuation as icy cold fear shot through your body.

"M-Mom? Dad?" You whispered. You wanted to approach them, to see that this was all some elaborate prank. You wanted to prove that your parents and siblings weren't the pigs you were seeing in front of you, but when you moved Aspen's pulled you back.

"I wouldn't approach them right now. Transformation magic, especially curses, are rather finicky when they first take effect. Seeing as you are a full blooded human right now, you could find yourself under it's influence as well with just a touch." He said, sending your formerly human family members a look of distain.

A low gong rang through the district and all the spirits stopped and looked up. You were shaking in fear as a large shape with giant wings flew overhead, directly towards the bath house. Aspen smiled, tugging you back in the direction you'd come from.

"Seeing as you can't be left alone, you are a child after all, I'll take you to father! Besides, it's almost dinner time!"

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Seeing as it was cursed food that turned your family into pigs, and the adrenaline rush you were having was making you want to run away as fast as you could, you weren't looking forward to dinner. Aspen had carried you all the way to the bath house after your attempt at dragging your feet had caused you to trip and scrape your knees.

He'd plopped you into a fine velvety chair at a tall dining table. There were three other chairs, and he'd taken the one beside you. He was rambling on again, the same way he had while you were drawing earlier, only now it felt more sinister. 

You jumped when the giant door to the dining room slammed open and another boy strode in. Instead of being part fox, he seemed to be part wolf. He looked older than Aspen by a few years and he did an almost comedic double take upon seeing you at the table.

"Aspen. Why is there some small human at our table?" He growled out. You shrank into yourself, which wasn't helping any allegations about your size.

"It is fine, Micah. The human child may stay and enjoy a meal with us." A deeper voice rumbled from behind the wolf spirit. The voice belonged to a giant man who exuded a regal and powerful aura. His eyes were the color of melted gold but his hair was the same pitch black as Aspen's. He took his position at the head of the table while Micah sat across from Aspen. 

"What is your name, human?" The man asked, smiling at you kindly. Despite this, you couldn't shake the fear away.

"Y-Y/N..." You answered quietly. Your hands shook in your lap, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"That's a beautiful name. You may call me father." He tapped his knife against a opulent golden goblet causing a spread of food to appear on the table in front of the four of you. 

"Well then, dinner is served. I hope you enjoy it."

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Dinner was painfully silent. You sat in your seat, clutching your backpack close as you stared at the plate of food in front of you. Would it turn you into a pig as well? Was it cursed to do some other horrible thing? Your anxiety and adrenaline had killed any appetite or hunger you may have felt.

Your companions didn't seem as emotionally dampened. Aspen and Micah were enjoying their food, bickering with each other about something you weren't paying enough attention to catch. Father had already finished eating and was drinking a cup of something steaming. Your own food seemed to be magically warmed because it had never stopped emitting steam. 

"Are you alright, child? I believe young humans require many meals throughout the day." Father asked you. He set down his cup, of what you assumed to be some kind of tea, not that you could see the color. 

"I'm fine." You whispered, holding your bag closer. Food was the last thing on your mind right now. You weren't sure if you would ever see food the same again. Or if you would ever see your parents and siblings alive and human again.

"Hmm... you seem rather pale." Father noted with a frown. From his seat beside you Aspen finally looked up from his meal.

"Father is right. You look way worse than when we met this afternoon. You should eat something." He gently encouraged. You grimaced and looked away, wishing to be left alone.

That didn't sit right with Father who stood up with a frown. He walked over to where you sat, towering over you. From there, he gently picked you up before he sat in your chair, placing you onto his lap like a baby.

"Come here, child. I must've underestimated how young you are if you are unable to eat by yourself. My apologies, I've never been around human children before." Father hummed, picking up your fork for you.

"I- I can feed myself! I'm not a child!" You protested. If it was between feeding yourself or being fed you'd pick the former.

Father merely chuckled, holding the fork out of your reach. "It is nothing to be embarrassed about, dear. I remember when Aspen and Micah were still young."

At the sound of their names both boys choked on their food, turning to father with panic in their eyes. "Father, you don't need to tell them about-!"

"I remember this one time when Aspen was still a small fox spirit, unable to hold a human form, he tried to take down a wild turkey. It was quite adorable and very entertaining. Then, there was Micah. Micah could hold a human form quickly but any sudden shock would make him change back. He'd sneeze and suddenly there'd be a little wolf in his place." Father recounted to you. The way he told embarrassing stories so casually reminded you once again of your own family.

"Father, the child still needs to eat." Micah reminded, though he was noticeably flushed and he looked a bit more grumpy. 

"Right, thank you Micah." Father said. "Let's get you fed, yes?"

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One humiliating experience later and you'd finished half a plate of the food. Though, that was only after being reassured multiple times that the food wasn't enchanted in any other way than to keep it warm. Even then, the food felt like a rock in your gut.

"It's rather late. Though that is quite normal for most spirits and we tend to be nocturnal, it must be rather hard on a human. Especially for one so young." Father said. He stood from the table, picking you up again.

While you tried to squirm, he easily overpowered you and carried you out of the dining room. Aspen and Micah trailed behind you, bickering about something or another. Father carried you to a giant doorway which he opened. Behind it was a room full of pillows and toys with a giant bed in the middle.

"It's been a while since I've needed the nursery." He said, mostly to himself. He walked over to a large wooden chest of drawers and opened the top one, shifting his hold on you so you could see. "Would you like to pick your sleepwear?"

You hesitated, not wanting to give in to anything that these people wanted of you. At the same time, they held your life in their hands. For that reason alone you picked up a random pajama set, just wanting to be left alone.

Father let you have some privacy to change, which was a simple folding screen. He did ask if you needed help numerous times though and seemed to be fussing over the pillows when you finally emerged from behind the screen.

Your old clothes were magicked away somewhere while you clutched onto your backpack as you were once again picked up and set on the bed. With a wave of Father's hand the lights dimmed and a faint melody began to play. Little stars, swirls and moons danced across the ceiling and walls from some enchantment cast over the room. 

"Good night child." Father said, tucking you in. Aspen and Micah watched from the doorway as father kissed you on the forehead. Instantly, the strength and adrenaline faded from your body and you began to fall asleep. "I'm sure it will be a joy to have a little one running around again. Do not worry, Y/N. You're in very capable hands."

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It had been a few weeks and all you felt was sick. Every waking moment was filled with nausea and light headedness. You knew it had something to do with Father and the strange magic that surrounded you every day. Aspen and Micah would often perform little tricks for you when they weren't helping to oversee the bath house. 

However, it had gotten to the point where you barely left the room dubbed 'the nursery'. You spent every moment curled up under your sheets, miserable and dizzy. You could barely even eat sometimes, refusing food for hours on end. Father had taken to sitting at your bedside every second he was free with Aspen and Micah checking on you routinely. 

Despite how achey and fevered you felt, you knew that this place was the reason behind it. For that reason, you'd began stumbling down the halls of the bath house the second you were left alone one day. Even if you wanted to give up, you'd lost the nursery in the endless intersecting halls and pathways. 

You weren't sure how much time had passed, or if someone was looking for you yet. All you knew is that when you finally found your way outside, the sun was beginning to rise. A cool wind easily chilled you through the pajamas you were wearing which only increased your instability.

Eventually you stumbled off the path into a cool patch of grass, the same area where you'd met Aspen when you first arrived here. You feverishly leaned against a rock in the clearing, closing your eyes as you breathed heavily.

The sun was slowly becoming stronger and stronger as it rose in the sky. When your stomach stopped doing flips you opened your eyes to watch as the sky turned pink then orange then blue. Your eyes fell closed when the once cold breeze started to feel nice on your warm skin.

It was unintentional, but you were just so tired... Your eyes stayed shut just a second too long and suddenly you were asleep.

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"There you are!" You slowly opened your eyes, looking up at Father. He stood over you, two large wings protruding from his back. His hair was disheveled and he was panting as if he'd run a marathon. It was strange since he normally looked so composed. 

You closed your eyes again, just wanting to go back to sleep. You were still tired and felt sick, both of which you wouldn't notice if you were alseep. Father didn't seem to get the message as he placed his hands on your shoulders and shook you awake again. 

"Y/N, I am talking to you. Why did you leave the nursery? Or, more importantly, why did you leave the bath house?! It isn't safe for you yet!"

When you didn't respond again, Father finally sighed. He kneeled down next to you in the wet grass, looking into your hazy eyes.

"You are very lucky that you aren't in the right mind at the moment. I'll let this slide this time because you are ill and I doubt you knew what you were doing. Next time I won't be so lenient." He pulled you up with him, taking you into his arms. 

You couldn't have resisted if you wanted to, your body weak as another wave of nausea washed over you. You just lay there and watched as the wings on his back flared, propelling the both of you into the air as he soared back to the bath house. The cold and serious demeanor he was attempting to put on fully shattered when he noticed you staring at him.

"Ah, I don't suppose you've ever seen my wings before. Similar to Aspen and Micah, I too have an animal form. Only, instead of a fox or wolf, my form is that of a dragon." You could barely comprehend the words he was saying as one of your hands weakly gripped at his shirt, willing him not to drop you. 

"I wonder what your form will be, now that your humanity has started to burn away." He mused to himself. You gripped his shirt tighter, your eyes immediately forced open as you registered his words. "Apologies, I don't think any of us mentioned the reason behind why you got suddenly ill. Poor dear, I suppose we forgot to consider how frightening this must be to a human, especially one of your age. No wonder you were trying to get some fresh air."

Father gently touched down on a balcony of the bath house, carrying you into a grand bedroom. From there he seemed to linger by a door before changing his mind. Instead, he lay you down on what you guessed was his bed. 

"I would bring you back to the nursery, but I feel it's best if you remain within my sight for a while. As for your symptoms... I'll let you finish your nap. Take all the time you need, little one." With that, he leaned over and gave you a kiss on the forehead. Like every other time, his magic stole away the last of your strength as your eyes fell closed.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 🦊🐉🐺 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

"Y/N. It's time to wake up." Someone's hands were running through your hair. Slowly your eyes opened and you found yourself staring up at Father. He smiled down at you, helping you to sit up against the headboard.

A teapot and two cups appeared on the bedside table and Father poured the both of you a cup. After he was sure you wouldn't drop the cup he took a sip of the tea. A lazy smile adorned his face as he watched you carefully drink the tea. It was ginger tea and he'd been giving it to you regularly to help with your nausea and keep you hydrated.

"You remember when you first came here, yes? How Aspen told you about some of the properties of spirit food?" You nodded, setting your now half empty tea cup back on the bedside table. "Well, there is one property that we did not mention. One that happens when willingly given spirit food is ingested by someone who is fully human."

"What did you do to me?" You whispered. Father just smiled, placing down his tea cup to pull up the blankets around you. 

"If willingly given spirit food is ingested by a full blooded human for long enough, the magic will start to burn away their humanity, leaving behind their spirit." Father looked at you with a gentle smile. "You, my dear, will make a lovely addition to my family- our family. Trust me, the boys will love finally having another sibling. You'll fit in perfectly."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 🦊🐉🐺 ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

There were many regrets you had. Some were small and others were large. Your biggest regret was not dragging your family as far away from this spirit town as you could. However, your regret couldn't change the past. All you could do was try and make the best of your future with your new family.

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Dude I got u for bg3 requests-

So like imagine a tav that can draw and they’re just sketching whatever and astarion comes up behind them like “lol who’s that twink do u have a crush or something?” And everyone loses it cuz it’s him.

I’ve seen some like these where they’re all angsty and some fluff but I think everyone would lose their shit. Specifically picturing Gale choking in the background because astarion is making fun of tavs dreamy portraits of himself.

Ive never done an ask before idk how these work I give u full creative liberty 😚

Summary: Reader likes drawing Astarion, who is oblivious to the fact that it's him! Campmates lose it and try to play matchmaker a little bit.

Genre: Pure tooth rotting fluff

Warnings: Astarion things

Credits: All characters are from Bg3, Vampire fang divider- animatedglittergraphics-n-more on tumblr, Blood divider- strangergraphics on tumblr

A/n: Ahhh! I'm so excited to be your first ever request! I hope this is to your liking and I apologize for it taking me so long to get around to it

Thank you so much for requesting!!

During the long trip to Baldur's Gate, finding ways to keep your mind occupied when you stopped became a necessity. Thankfully, pretty early into your travels you managed to get your hands on a (mostly) empty drawing journal after finding it abandoned along with some helpful supplies. It didn't take long for you to find that you had some sort of muscle memory for drawing, even if you couldn't consciously remember ever being an artist, your brain seemed to. You started out just drawing what you saw. Flowers, buildings, landscapes, etc. But pretty soon you drifted to drawing your campmates as well. At first it was a little mix of everyone, but as your trip carried on you couldn't help but be drawn (hehe) to a certain fluffy haired rogue. As your mind lingered on him more and more, so did your pencil. You had filled numerous pages with sketches and doodles of him. Sometimes he'd catch you staring at him while trying to get a good reference, and he'd of course smirk and say something like "Enjoying the scenery, darling?" To which you would flush red and bury your face back into your sketches.

Every now and then, someone would glance over your shoulder to see what you were scribbling (usually Karlach) and tease you for how full your sketchbook had gotten with just him. You didn't mind them watching you draw, sometimes it felt nice to have someone admiring your skills.

This however, was not one of those times.

"My, who is that handsome devil?" Astarion's voice rings out from behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut as you realize you've been caught and curse yourself for not hearing him sneak up behind you. Astarion is now leaning against your shoulder, studying the pictures in front of him. "Now darling, I know I say this about every gorgeous stranger but would." He lazily flips the page and lets out a little giggle "And you would too by the looks of it," He returns back to your current page and sits beside you. "So, will you tell me the story or will you make me beg? You know I'm an expert on romance." It's only then do you realize he genuinely doesn't realize that you are drawing him. You thought before he was just being smug, but it does make sense. When was the last time he saw himself? 300 years ago? Surely the memory is a bit fuzzy. You try to act as nonchalant as possible as you mutter "Mm...Maybe some other time..." Astarion scoffs and you pray to any god willing to listen to help you out. Your prayer is answered when Gale makes the call for dinner being done. You quickly shove the book into your pocket and (perhaps a bit too swiftly) walked over to the fire.

The topic is seemingly dropped by Astarion until Shadowheart remarks that "Your face is redder than Karlach's," Astarion is quick to interject. "I caught them drawing some shirtless man and they're being a big baby about it." He rolls his eyes dramatically before adding "Trust me darling, I've seen worse." Gale chokes on his stew, Halsin's brows raise and Shadowheart lets out a small gasp. The camp is deadly quiet, save for Astarion making snarky comments about how the man looks like something a 13 year old would find incredibly romantic. Karlach is the one to break the silence, "Fangs, do you really not know who that is?" He raises a brow "Of course not. What, is he famous or something?" Lae'zel lets out a scoff. "Chk. It is a wonder how you survive being so clueless. That is you, you k'chakhi."

The silence, once again, is incredibly loud. This time though, Astarion has seemingly lost his witty remarks. You have long since had your head down, afraid to see his face. He, however, is more confused than anything. After a moment he speaks again, "Is it really?" They all give some form of approval, a nod, a grunt, etc. He is quiet again, but only because he is taking a moment to grin. "Well no wonder there are so many! Obviously it's me. No face other than mine fit to take up so much space in our dear Tav's book. Let me see another, I haven't beheld my beauty in so long!"

[st7rnioioss]

could you maybe write a little fic about brothersbsf!matt looking in sweetheart!reader's diary and seeing what she wrote about him!!

(idk if i got the au name things right!)

❛❛DEAR DIARY❜❜

⋆ ˚ .ೃ ࿔ * pairing... sweetheart!reader x brothers bsf!matt

𓂃 ֹ ᮫ in which... matt sneaks into sweetheart!readers room, expecting to find her, but to his surprise, she's not home. but something catches his eye immediately--her diary. part two here

warnings... most suggestive stuff is all fiction!!! (literally lol), mentions of fingering, mentions of unprotected sex, mentions of kissing, implied masturbation (m)

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ the door to your room twisted open, the faint and high pitched creaking filling the empty room. you weren’t in there, the room was pitch black, and almost cold from the absence of your presence.

confusion settled in matt’s chest. huh? he’d snook away from your brother, telling him he just really quickly had to use the bathroom, but you weren’t there. he stepped inside when the confusion was replaced with curiosity, flicking on your bedside lamp to see where he was walking.

your room was pretty, but eerie when you weren’t there. matt’s eyes trailed over your decoration—the small trinkets, your bedsheets, the few posters you had up. god, it just screamed you. he chuckled to himself, his gaze finally landing upon the pretty little diary you always kept close to yourself.

oh, he knew it was wrong, very wrong. he didn’t have any sisters, but a diary was like.. a girl thing. but he took seat on the edge of your bed, your diary playing flat in his lap.

matt thought about it for a second, awkwardly flicking some hair out of his eyes. frightened to be caught, he listened intently for your brothers footsteps, but none could be heard. so, he continued to slowly turn the front, due to the lack of lock, seemingly one that used to be there but fell off.

matt’s eyes skimmed the front page where you had neatly written your name, along with a few doodles, and sweet words. he smiled to himself, before curiously flipping through the pages. some were filled with sketches and drawings, others going on for page after page about school drama, which he carefully read through, even gasping because some of the hidden information.

but one page caught his eyes, rather a page with his name caught his eyes. there wasn’t a certain title or description, just straight up words you had blurted out onto the paper. his heart started racing when he read through the page, his ears turning read.

“dear diary, i think i have a crush on my brother's friend matt. i’m not sure, but i think he’s really, really sweet, and sometimes he even says hi to me. i think it’s mainly because he’s trying to be kind to me. after all, my older brother is his friend, but i really hope it’s more than that. he’s really cute too. he’s got blue eyes, and this dark hair i really wish to run my fingers through every time he looks at me. and his lips are always pink, and they look so soft.”

and that was it. his heart drummed in his ribcage, nervously fiddling through your diary to find more.

and oh boy, did he find more. it was like your diary had taken this sharp turn, going from girl gossip, and rants about your favorite movies, to all being about him. matt couldn’t believe his eyes, his heart nearly beating out of his chest when his eyes picked up on the naughty sentences.

“dear diary, today matt came into my room to say hi. or at least that’s what happened, but i think he wanted to do more. i was just showing him around, when he suddenly stood so close to me, i swore he could hear my heart, and just as he was about to kiss me, my dumb brother walked in!!! gosh, i just wish he could’ve kissed me without any interruptions. i wonder how he’d kiss. if he would be gentle, and soft, or he would be rough, and fill the kiss with desire. maybe he’d do both. i don’t know. i dream about his fingers running down my waist, hooking under my shirt to pull it off, how he would run them through my hair. would he yank my hair, or carefully twirl it?? or maybe he’d wrap his fingers around my neck while kissing, i don't know. i dream about his tongue licking over mine, tasting and claiming me. anyways i gotta go.”

matt’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, groaning when he felt his cock harden from just the ink on paper, that you had written in the silence of your own room. in shock he dropped the diary between his legs, quickly picking it up again. he couldn’t stop, he wanted to read more. he needed to.

matt quickly flicked through the pages upon pages, searching for his name like before, but suddenly all he could seem to find was gossip. but he found another one, this one much more recent, seemingly the last one your written just the night prior.

“dear diary, gosh i need matt. like really bad. i don’t even understand how i’m writing right now, but i had to, i can’t tell anyone else. it’s so stupid. i think about him all the time, when i’m in school, when i’m in the shower, eating dinner or breakfast, when i’m in bed. i wish i didn’t. every time i touch myself, it’s like an image of him pops up, and i can’t make it stop. it’s so wrong, but it feels so right and good when i imagine him doing the stuff i do to myself. i get so wet thinking about it. how i wish he would just sneak in here one night, kiss me, and then take off my clothes without us feeling guilty about it, and anyone finding out.i can almost feel it, how he would push his fingers inside me while kissi”

it looks like you stopped right there, and matt could only imagine what was going on behind the diary, behind the pen on paper, what you were doing. he let out a low growl, an obvious tent forming in his pants from how vividly he was imagining you laying in bed, grasping your pen while ignoring the ache between your legs, before you’d give up and tug your panties down your pretty legs, easing your smaller and slender fingers inside your slick walls.

matt frantically searched for a pen, his mind going wild as he let his thoughts roam freely. the diary laid open on your bed when matt finally found a ballpoint pen, brushing the pages to the last one you had written on, before writing;

“i would kiss you down your chest, admire your body while i touch you after your sweet noises to get it right, my fingers sticky. then i would let go of you and take off my own clothes, leaning over you to push my dick into you, listen to you gasp and moan. i would take my time with you, wait until you allowed me to start fucking you, doing it gentle and slowly. i’d hold your hands, kiss you down your beautiful face and body, eventually going faster and harder. you have no idea how bad i wanna sneak into your room every time i’m hanging out here. i’m not even here for your brother anymore.”

matt let go of the pen, his hand nearly cramping from how concentrated and neatly he’d been with the filthy note, his cock aching hard and throbbing in his pants from imagining just how well you’d take him, and how adorable you’d look. “goddamn it,” he groaned, leaving the diary on your bedside table before turning off the lights, immediately heading to the bathroom.

more sweetheart!reader x brothers bsf!matt here!

˚𝜗𝜚 notes... #need that

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