Funny time to come to the realization that all the best art and materials conservation graduate programs in the US are in NYC and like four years long. But also it probably won’t be any less scary to be a future Jew in Seattle in the next few years than in NYC, ppl here are insufferable. Idk
I had/have/will have a lot of stuff that I would like to do or continue doing. As my life moves on day to day and the more busier i get, I realize that I need to learn to make time to do things I rejoice. So, here is my Try, Learn, & Do list. I will cross things off my list as I go and share my experience with it.
TRY (Experiences/Adventure atleast once in life)
Mussels and oysters
Write a book
Visit some countries in Europe with my dad
Horseback riding
Drive a race car
Go on a road trip
Take a train trip from MN to Chicago
Visit Dubai
Visit OCMD
etc
DO (Personal achievements)
Read books within your interests more
More yoga
personal (meaningful) coding projects
expand from tumblr blog to personal portfolio blog
he might not look like he gets bitches, but honey that dick was 11 inches
it was hard not to notice Choso, with his tall frame draped in all black clothes and the heavy silver jewelry adorning his body. and while you noticed him, you wouldn't have considered him your type. but that didn't stop Choso from noticing you.
content: 18+ mdni, dry humping, oral (f receiving), Choso has a tongue piercing, fingering, Choso is down bad, Choso has a big dick (duh)
wc: 6k
a/n: hi everybody! i am alive and back with fic number 2! i am hoping to get these out on a more consistent schedule but no promises lmao. divider credit @cursed-carmine; picture credits: @thatsallitchief and @aransmind
You had never really thought too much about whether or not you had a type. Frankly, there wasn’t much of a point, given that when you weren’t working your ass off academically, you were working your ass off at your job or the gym. You didn’t have much time for extracurriculars, so to speak.
But, if someone asked you to describe your type, you’d probably say tall, muscular, athletic. A good jawline and tattoos were a plus. Perhaps outgoing, good with people and easy to talk to.
Now this wasn’t an end all be all list of traits—you wouldn’t mind a short king or a lanky golden retriever type. At the end of the day, personality was really all that mattered to you. And that was where the average man was lacking most of the time.
So you didn’t really lose any sleep over lack of romantic partners, too focused on school and work for the absence to really be noticed. Sure, there would be a cute classmate or two that would catch your eye, and you’d appreciate them from a distance. They all fit your usual preference of traditionally masculine, athletic guys who were easygoing extroverts. You liked competence, and a potential partner of yours needed to be confident, commanding.
So yeah, maybe you did have a type. Everyone had preferences and you were no different. You didn’t really picture yourself straying from those preferences either, couldn’t picture yourself with someone shy or super introverted. Until now.
He was a transfer student, partway into his sophomore year in the psychology program, same as you, though this was your first year. You shared the same 10 am human development lecture, meaning you saw him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.
You never would’ve considered Choso your type. You’d never really been into the whole emo look. Sure, you’d enjoyed your fair share of Panic at the Disco and Paramore in middle school, but scene hadn’t really been your, well, scene.
You wouldn’t have ever listed all black clothes, smudged eyeliner, painted nails, or heavy silver jewelry in your list of characteristics you typically found attractive. Yes, Choso was tall and muscular. He had tattoos, including an odd line across the bridge of his nose onto his cheeks. These were all things you knew you found attractive.
But for as bold as his style was, he was quite shy. He never volunteered answers in class, only responding when called on in a quiet, almost self-conscious voice. He should speak with more confidence, you would think whenever he gave his answers, given that they were always intelligent and well-said. You never thought you liked shy types, preferring guys that could speak up and could offer up confidence in situations where your anxiety might get the best of you.
However, you couldn’t deny the way your eye was always drawn to him. He sat in the first row on the far right hand corner. You sat a couple rows behind him, more towards the center, meaning you got a fairly clear view of him. When he wasn’t taking notes, he was drawing little doodles in the margins of his notebook. You often found yourself wondering what they were.
He was cute, in his own way. He seemed quite sweet and polite, offering notes to a classmate who'd been out sick or a helping hand when the girl next to him was confined to walking on crutches. You knew some of the other girls in your lecture didn’t view him the same way. You attended a private school, a very elite one. Between your stellar grades and test scores, as well as a fairly high financial need, you had earned yourself a full ride to the university. And while the education and accommodations and features on campus were stellar, you had found that private school meant students with private school money—and the attitude that came with it. Entitled, privileged, and, in the case of the aforementioned girls in your lecture, catty fucking bitches.
You’d heard them whisper and giggle amongst themselves over Choso. Judging his clothes, his hair—you found his short space buns rather adorable—and how he’d sometimes stutter when answering questions. You often found yourself grinding your teeth, wanting to turn and cuss them out over their bitchy remarks. Choso was genuine and unpretentious in the way that pretty much everyone else at the university wasn’t, and you found yourself wanting to defend him. To protect what you were positive was a sensitive, artistic soul.
You often found yourself wondering what he did outside of class. Did he like to draw? You’d seen his little sketches in his notebook, maybe he liked drawing legitimately, in sketchbooks instead of college ruled paper. Maybe he liked to game? He seemed like he would enjoy PC gaming. Despite being outwardly withdrawn, Choso seemed like the type to be intensely dedicated to his interests, and you found yourself wanting to know what they were.
You were delighted to find out that your interest was shared.
It started with a partner project your professor had shared with the class on Monday. Partners were randomly chosen and the rest of class was spent exchanging contact information and planning out a rough timeline and ideas for the project. You had cheered internally when your name popped up next to Choso’s. Sliding into the now-vacant seat next to his, you’d smiled and introduced yourself. Choso had blushed furiously, ducking his head and quietly giving you his name in response.
You formed a theory that day, one that was proven correct by the next class.
Choso had a crush on you.
He was horrible at hiding it, always blushing or stuttering when talking to you, never able to look you in the eye. And despite how protective you’d felt towards him against those judgemental bitches that sat near you in lecture, you couldn’t help but tease him a little bit.
Leaning in and smiling softly when he spoke, not breaking eye contact when you’d prop your chin on your hand to listen intently to what he was saying. His eyes would widen and a furious blush would spread across his cheeks, and he would lose track of whatever he’d been saying. His reaction would prompt an even more mischievous glint in your eye and sharpness in your smile, in turn making him even more nervous. When you suggested meeting up in the library or his apartment, he’d choked on his sip of water. You’d just grinned.
You’d decided the library was probably a better way to ease Choso into spending time with you without him having a heart attack. Baby steps.
The afternoon you two decided to get together for your project was a rainy one. A very rainy one. The brief mad dash from the bus to the entrance of the library had left you soaked, and now you stood in the air conditioned library shivering so hard your teeth clacked.
Your slow, shivering footsteps to the third floor where you and Choso had agreed to meet left wet footprints along the floor. You swore that this floor was even colder, and you tried to wrap your damp cardigan around yourself in attempt to chase away the goosebumps that had covered your skin. Your footsteps faltered, however, when you spotted Choso sitting at a table in front of a window. He was backlit by stormy gray skies and occasional bursts of lightning. He hunched slightly over what he was working on, brows furrowed in concentration. He was drawing, you realized, and you stood there for what was probably a creepy amount of time, but the warmth that blossomed in your chest as you watched him was addicting.
Until the cold that had seeped into your very bones wrenched a violent sneeze from you. Choso startled and looked up, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, which most likely resembled a drowned cat.
“Oh,” he breathed, standing up so fast his chair tumbled back. He scrambled to the chair next to him, wrestling something off the back of it. As he rushed towards you holding a mass of black fabric you realized it was his jacket.
Heavy leather settled over your shoulders and you were suddenly wrapped in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne. His dark eyes were scanning all over your body as if searching for injuries, his brows pulling together in worry.
After a long moment of you two staring at each other, you finally remembered to give him a softly whispered, “Thank you”.
He blushed, ducking his head and abruptly stepping back as if he’d just realized how close you two were standing. His big hand, adorned with heavy silver rings that glinted in the low light, came up to rub the back of his neck.
“I doubt you’d be comfortable studying here in wet clothes,” he said suddenly. “I-if you want we can stop over in my dorm and you can borrow some clothes.” You were quiet for a second, surprised that he’d invited you into his space given how shocked he'd been when you’d first brought it up. Mistaking your surprise for reluctance, he rushed out, “O-only if you want to of course. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He looked adorably horrified at the idea.
Not wanting him to panic any longer, you grinned at him. “I’d love to.”
This time around, you fared a bit better on your journey to the bus stop since you had Choso’s large jacket to shield you from the worst of the rain. You relished in the warmth and the scent of his cologne, and the fact that you were dwarfed by his jacket. You chanced a glance up at Choso and admired the way he towered over you despite the way he hunched his shoulders as if to appear smaller. He had not fared so well in the rain; his hair had fallen out of its knot and the strands stuck to his face, highlighting its sharp lines and angles. His eyeliner had smudged slightly, contrasting with the paleness on his skin. Instead of looking like the dripping mess you had, he looked like he had stepped out of rainy ad for designer clothes or cologne or something. It was rather unfair.
The whole bus ride to his apartment, you could see him stealing glances at you from the corner of your eye and it took everything in you not to grin. You wanted Choso, and you delighted in the fact that he wanted you just as bad, if not more so.
His apartment was small, but tidy and clean. It was well decorated too, but you weren’t too surprised by that. There were pretty paintings and drawings lining the walls, with art supplies and trinkets scattered across nearly every flat surface. You spotted an electric guitar leaning against an amp in the corner.
The smell of his cologne was practically woven into the air in here, and it was all you could do to not gulp down deep breaths of it with every inhale.
As you as you two had stepped inside, Choso had immediately started rambling nervously, apologizing for the mess and letting you know you could borrow any clothes you wanted, and did you need anything? Like a water or a—
“Choso,” you interrupted gently, “do you mind terribly if I hop in your shower?”
“Oh! Of course! Um, let me grab a spare towel and some clothes and—” his voice faded as he started rushing towards his room, and you trailed after him with a soft smile on your face.
You had been about to invite him to join you in the shower before he excused himself to his room and told you to shout if you needed anything. Slightly disappointed, but not discouraged, you’d nodded and headed towards the bathroom.
Little did you know that as soon as the bathroom door closed, Choso was stripping down to his boxers and lying back on his bed, palming his cock through the fabric as he desperately tried, and failed, not to imagine you naked in his shower. Covered in soap and shrouded by steam, looking oh so perfect like you always did.
He tried to stifle the tortured groan that tore out of his chest. His hand was rough over his cock, handling it without finesse as he tried to get himself to stop. He felt so, so guilty, but the mental image of you glistening under the water mere feet away from him made him feel so, so good. Heat tightened in his gut as he fished his dick out of his boxers and started to viciously pump his hand up and down the shaft, biting his forearm to stem desperate cries of your name.
Pressure built in his gut, stomach tensing as he hurtled towards the edge. White covered his vision as he came suddenly and violently, his orgasm ripping through him like a storm. It was only as he laid there trying to catch his breath that his ears stopped ringing that he realized the shower had stopped.
Panic shot through him as he leapt up, blindly searching for clothes and something to wipe the cum off his stomach.
You stepped into the room to find Choso in sweatpants, his chest heaving and looking slightly guilty as his hands wrung together nervously. He opened his mouth to say something, before he registered what you wearing.
His t shirt was huge on you, nearly hanging down to your knees. Your collarbones peaked out from the collar of the shirt, your damp hair hanging down in gentle waves over your shoulders.
This domestic, intimate version of you, standing in his apartment wearing his clothes left Choso speechless and his mind short circuiting. You smiled softly at him and his heart stuttered.
“I, um",” he couldn’t get any words out, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.
“Choso,” you said gently, and his eyes snapped to yours, a guilty flush spreading over his cheeks.
“I’m sorr-” he started, but cut off as you shushed him and stepped closer. His heart damn near stopped as you raised you hand to touch his chest. Your delicate fingers drew graceful lines over the designs of his tattoos, tracing the whorls of ink that covered his chest.
“Did they hurt?” you whisper, transfixed by the sight of how small your fingers looked against the wide expanse of his shoulders and chest.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, hardly daring to breathe in fear of breaking whatever was happening in this moment. He nearly tipped his hand back and groaned when you pressed your entire hand against his chest. He had no doubt that you could feel the way his heart raced under your palm.
Your breathing synced with his, and he tipped his chin down to take in the sight of you standing so close to him with your hands on his skin. This time, as your other hand came up to press against his stomach, he couldn’t stop his groan.
His eyes shut in embarrassment and he opened him mouth to apologize, but you cut him off.
“Choso,” you whispered. He eyes opened and landed on you. The way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing in the room worth looking at, filled you with warmth and confidence.
“Yes?” he whispered back and you grinned.
“You should kiss me,” you told him, and his dark eyes widened.
“What"?” he sputtered in surprise.
“Kiss me,” you repeated and smiled at him.
With another groan, he hand came up to cradle your jaw and he pressed his lips to yours. You were immediately addicted to the taste of him. He worked his mouth over yours feverishly, his other arm coming up to wrap around your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him and trapping your arms between the two of you.
You were expecting something soft. Something shy and sweet from the boy who’d steal glances at you during psych lectures. You were not expecting this.
Choso’s tongue surged into your mouth, making you moan and run your hands up to his shoulders to grasp at him. He was practically curled around you to reach your mouth, he was that much taller than you. You startled when you felt the clack of metal against your teeth, before your pussy clenched at the realization that Choso had a tongue piercing.
He ate at you like he was starving, and the hand at your jaw moved as he crouched down slightly. You pulled away a little, confused and wanting to see what he was doing. Choso gave a displeased grunt at the distance before wrapping that arm under your ass and yanking you back to his mouth.
He now held you in the air like you weighed nothing as you two made out, heavy breaths and wet sounds from your mouths the only thing that could be heard in the room. You curled your hands in his black strands and pulled on them roughly, earning a grunt from Choso.
He spun with you in his arms, blindly walking towards the direction of his bed. Your mouth ripped from his in a soft cry as you two fell back on to the bed, your stomach swooping from the quick drop.
For a moment, Choso hovered over you, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you were really here. You took in your fill of him as well. His handsome face and silky hair. The muscles that bunched at his shoulders and biceps and pecs. The veins that corded his forearms and hands. You couldn’t believe the girls in your class didn’t find him ridiculously hot.
Choso must’ve snapped out of whatever awed trance he’d been in, because he swooped back down to devour your mouth, a muscular arm wrapping around you once more to yank your body to his. Your back arched and you moaned at the feel of hard muscle and hot skin along your bare thighs as you wrapped your legs around him.
He thrust helplessly against you at the sound, as if your moans and cries controlled his body. When you moaned and gasped “Again!” he began grinding against you, grunts and groans of his own leaving his mouth as his tongue traced every inch of your mouth, the cool metal ball of his piercing tracing each path.
Heat had spread through you, and need burned like fire low in your tummy. You were soaked and desperate to show Choso that you weren’t wearing anything under his t shirt.
“Off,” you groaned, yanking at his sweatpants. “all of it.”
At first he didn’t move, as if he couldn’t bear to be away from you even for a moment, but when you tugged on his waistband again he almost tripped over himself as he rushed to rip off his clothes.
Silence descended over the room, with only the sound patter of rain outside softly filtering in.
You knew Choso was a big guy. He towered over you and his shoulders were practically doubled the width of yours. You knew he was muscular, even more so than you’d initially thought as you stared at his naked body. Each muscle was rock hard and defined, as if a sculptor had taken extra care to run a chisel along every line of him.
And you could’ve spent hours looking at and running your hands over his arms, his chest, his back, his thighs; you could’ve spent hours idly tracing your fingertips over every line of his tattoos that lovingly hugged his body. Hopefully some day you would. But now, one thing on his body was stealing all of your attention.
Choso was huge.
Hard and thick and throbbing. So heavy that it hung between his thighs instead of springing up. Veins wound around the shaft towards his head that was already leaking pre. The pretty pink of his dick belied the fact that Choso was packing a fucking monster.
“Holy shit,” you breathed as you stared at his cock. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, partially in arousal and partially in shock.
“Is… is it... okay?” Choso, the poor thing, asked uncertainly. You finally tore your eyes from his throbbing cock to look into his soulful puppy dog eyes.
“You’re huge, Choso,” you said, stating the obvious.
Or not so obvious. To Choso at least, given the fact that he glance down at his own cock and looked back at you and asked, “Is it?”. You almost laughed, before you realized he was genuinely asking. (He was too embarrassed to say that he’d found himself to be about the same size as the dicks he’d seen in porn, apparently not aware that porn stars did not reflect the size of the average population.)
“Yeah baby,” you responded, “you’re really, very big.” At that, Choso whined and grasped at his cock, rutting into his hand as your words made him twitch and leak even more.
“Can I… what do you want me to do?” Choso asked, desperation bleeding into his tone as his hand pumped his cock like he couldn’t help it.
“Come here, Cho,” you whispered, and he lurched towards you as if yanked by a leash. He practically fell over you, one arm catching himself as he planted a knee on the bed, eyes never leaving you.
Slowly, you leaned forward, close enough that you were breathing each other’s air, before you leaned back in order to lift his t shift off your body. Choso made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob as he realized you were completely naked underneath.
“Please,” he whimpered, the hand on his dick squeezing the base violently now to stop him from cumming just from the sight of you.
“Touch me, Choso,” you told him softly, curious to see what he’d do first.
Which, apparently, was to dive face first into your pussy.
You cried out, hands flying down to grip his hair as he swiped his tongue in a fat stripe over the entire length of you. If you hadn’t been so shocked, you would’ve been embarrassed by how loud the wet slurp a single swipe of his tongue had elicited from your pussy due to how fucking soaked you were for him.
He dove the fuck in, practically nuzzling your cunt as he thrust his tongue into you. You groaned, eyes fluttering and back arching. Every time you made a sound or called his name he sucked at you even harder, licked at you even rougher. Every movement of his mouth caused wet slurps and squelches to sound from between your legs, your pussy dripping for him. You could feel his piercing caress you with every swipe of his tongue.
He alternated between long licks and deep thrusts of his tongue inside you, neglecting your poor clit that throbbed for attention. The longer he went, the more desperately it pulsed as wetness poured from you.
“Please Cho,” you begged, using your grip on his hair to pull his face even tighter against you. He was practically smothered in your pussy, not that he seemed to mind. His groan vibrated through you, causing you to groan as well. “Please.”
At your second plea he relented, wrapping those pouty lips around your clit and sucking, hard, the metal of his piercing pressing perfectly into the underside of your clit. You nearly screamed as you came without warning, throwing your head back against the pillows as the dam broke. Heat pulsed through you as your hips rolled against Choso’s mouth. Your orgasm left you so wet you could hear Choso drinking you down as you slowly came down from your high.
You melted into Choso’s bed as he raised his head to look at you. The sight of him, dark shiny eyes looking at your from between your thighs, big veiny hands gripping the fat of your hips so hard you’re pretty sure you’ll find bruises in the morning, made you clench around nothing.
“Your fingers, Cho,” you panted, reaching down to cradle his cheek, “need you to get me ready to take your cock baby.” He gave a tortured groan, burying his face against one of your thighs as he ground his hips into the bed. With a parting kiss to your leg, he leaned back on his haunches and brought a hand to your sensitive, pulsing pussy.
You gasped, stomach heaving as his thick fingers swiped up the seam of you before pressing inside. A single one of his fingers was like two of yours, and you rolled your hips to pull him deeper. He groaned, starting to pump his finger into you roughly, soon adding a second finger.
You could feel the cool metal of his rings against your flushed, burning hot cunt. Each press of his fingers inside made a wet squelch, and when he curled his fingers against your front wall you began crying out. When he slowly eased a third finger inside of you and pressed all three fingers up against that spot, you screamed as another orgasm wracked through you. Your legs shook, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back as you came so hard it almost hurt.
Choso had wrapped an arm around one of your bent legs, pressing a kiss to your knee as he continued to thrust into you gently, slowly spreading his fingers inside of you. Prepping you.
“C’mere,” you slurred, pulling him to your mouth even as his fingers stayed pressed inside you. You kissed him, hot and wet and filthy as you panted into his mouth. Choso slipped his free arm under your shoulders to pull you closer, your bare chests pressing together. He whimpered when you pulled at his hair roughly. You pulled away, a string of saliva hanging between your mouths.
“Please fuck me, Cho,” you whispered.
He couldn’t move fast enough, leaning back and pulling his fingers out of you so fast you cried out. He fumbled at his nightstand, pulling up a drawer to search for a condom. Briefly, you had the ridiculous thought of the poor cashier that had to ring up whatever crazy huge size of condoms Choso needed. The thought quickly vanished and your mouth went dry as you watched him roll the condom on. Despite how relaxed and wet you were for him, you were seriously doubting your ability to take this thing.
As if sensing your nerves, Choso raised his head to look into your eyes. His were big and pleaded, but searching for any sign of reluctance or discomfort.
“Come here,” you said, and he followed obediently, draping his big body over you and letting you pull his lips to yours. Your tongues swiped lazily at each other as you both panted into the other’s mouth. You made a game of searching for Choso’s piercing with the tip of your tongue, which seemed to drive him crazy.
Slowly, you reached down to grab his cock, trepidation seeping in as you grasped at the girth of him. Holy shit.
He whimpered against your mouth as you guided him towards your entrance, and bit at your lip as your pressed the tip of him inside. You had to work him against you for a second, spreading your lips around him until he slipped in with a slight pop. You groaned against his mouth and he froze, terrified that he’d hurt you.
“Holy fuck,” you whispered as you pulled him toward you to take a few more inches. You knew there was so much more left to go but already you were feeling the deep, aching stretch. “You’re so fucking big, Cho.” Your praise made him moan, and he leaned down to hide his face in your neck as his hips jerked forward at your words.
You let him take over, trusting him to watch and listen for any cues from you that you needed to stop, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Choso began to pull back the few inches you had already taken before slowly pressing back into you, feeding you a little bit more of him. He did it again, and again, starting a slow pace of gently thrusting more and more of him inside of you.
You clawed at his back, no doubt leaving stinging red lines behind, as you gasped in his ear. Each slow thrust felt like it was rearranged your insides, the stretch a deep ache that pulsed through your hips. After what felt like an eternity, you felt his pelvis press flush against yours, the hair of his happy trail tickling your tummy.
“Choso,” you gasped out as his shoulders heaved above you. He shook with the restraint it took to stay still, the blissful wet heat of you around him like heaven. He moaned your name in your ear and your body arched to press impossibly closer to his.
Your eyes rolled back as a mini orgasm shivered through you at just the feeling of taking all of him. He gave a helpless little cry and thrust his hips against you as he felt you pulsing around him.
“You can—hah—you can move now, baby,” you panted into his ear, and with a whine he immediately pulled back a few inches and thrust back into you hard. You cried out, fingernails dragging down his back as he did it again. And again. And again and again, until he was slamming into you with his arms wrapped tightly around your back, forcing you to arch into him as he desperately drove his hips forward with his face buried in your neck.
Distantly, you could hear the headboard slamming against the wall, and had the inane thought that his neighbors were most likely not happy campers at the moment.
Those thoughts were quickly knocked from your head at a particularly delicious thrust that had you arching your back and moaning Choso’s name, a breathy exhale into his ear that made him grind forward with a whine.
Veins popped out along Choso’s hands and arms, which were planted on either side of your head. Wrapping your hands around them, you ran them up his arms to feel the dips and curves of the muscles that strained from holding his weight up. He shuddered as your hands traveled up his arms, across his shoulders, and into his hair, tugging lightly.
“Fuck,” he grit out, dropping to one elbow and wrapping his other arm around your back to yank you against him. You could feel the hard lines of his abs against the soft skin of your stomach. And you swear you could feel the slight bulge of him in your tummy press out from inside of you against his abdomen. Your sweaty stomachs slid against each other as he thrust into you. Desperately, he slammed his mouth to yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth. You moaned into the messy kiss, tracing his tongue with yours and feeling the metal ball of his piercing caress it. When you sucked his tongue, his hips slammed forward viciously and you broke the kiss with a cry.
“Choso,” you gasped against his ear, “please.”
He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder and thrust in to the hilt, punching a pathetic little cry from you. The entire length of his inside of you stretched you ridiculously, and you felt him deep in your tummy, your entire body seeming to throb around him. One of your hands fisted his hair while the other dug nails into his shoulder when he started to grind his hips into you, hot and heavy and so, so good.
When your hips jerked up, Choso pulled his back a little, only to snap them forward back into you, as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from your wet heat. Each of his short, powerful thrusts ended with a filthy grind against, making the veins that twisted along his shaft hit every sensitive spot inside you, lighting you up like a live wire.
The arm he had wrapped around your back slid lower, hoisting your hips up in the air. The change in angle meant that his length slid along your g spot with every slick slid in and out. Light flashed behind your eyes and white hot pleasure burst over every inch of you. Your skin felt like it was on fire as your tummy coiled tightly.
With a shout of his name, the pleasure exploded, and you practically sobbed as wave after wave swept over you. Wetness poured from you, coating Choso’s shaft and stomach. You could hear him groan at the sensation and the way his hips stuttered against you at the feeling of you pulsing around him.
With one final, desperate thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and bit down on your shoulder hard as he came. You shivered at the feeling of him throbbing inside you and the heat that spread along his covered cock. Deliriously, you half-wished you could experience the sensation of him cumming inside you without a condom, to have his cum spill out of you when he pulled out.
Your arms were wrapped around each other as you both fought to catch your breath. You could feel his large chest heaving against yours. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet your eyes, the soulful brown bottomless as he gazed wonderingly at you. You lifted a shaky hand to cradle his cheek, warmth spreading in your chest when his eyes closed in bliss and he nuzzled into your palm, turning his head to press a kiss to it.
He mumbled something that was completely muffled by the palm of your hand. You giggled, pulling your hand away in order to hear what he was saying, only for him to nip at your fingers. He grinned dopily at your shriek.
“What did you say?” you asked breathlessly, unable to resist meeting his goofy grin with a smile of your own.
Crimson bloomed across Choso’s cheeks, but he stared you down unwaveringly nonetheless.
“Will you go out with me?” he asked, and despite everything you two had just done together, you could tell he was nervous. And despite everything you two had just done together, his question launched a horde of butterflies in your stomach.
“I’d like that,” you respond, delighting in the wide grin that spread across Choso’s face. You reached up to brush away some of the dark strands of his sweaty hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“But before that, why don’t we hop in the shower?”
The next time your Human Development lecture met, you found yourself in the seat next to Choso’s, sitting close enough for your thigh to brush against his. His right hand was busy handwriting notes (you’d teased him about his refusal to upgrade to typing up his notes, but he’d insisted writing them down by hand was better for memorization), while his left rested on your leg, thumb sweeping idly back and forth across your thigh. You bit your lip to try and contain your grin, focusing intently on typing away at your laptop.
During a brief lull when your professor stepped away to the computer to pull up the next presentation, soft whispers reached you from a few rows back.
“so lame, why does he even—”
“no why he actually bagged—”
“please… doesn’t even look like he could—”
“probably… small dick… pathetic virgin—”
Anger simmered violently through you, and you found yourself clenching your jaw, imagining all the ways you could turn around and tell those fucking bitches to back off—you were pulled abruptly from your thoughts as Choso’s thumb swept of your leg again. You glanced at him and saw him give you a shy, sweet smile before turning back to his notebook.
You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile once again. You settled back into your seat, facing forward as your professor started up his lecture.
Whatever. you thought to yourself smugly. They could think and say whatever they wanted, because at the end of the day, you were the one walking side to side after a night with your emo boyfriend.
summary: you've always been partners in crime. his ride or die. his best friend that just so happens to be in love with him. so when he admits that he has a crush on some you know really well, your heart sinkings knowing it's not you. still, you do anything for him. even if it means setting him up with someone else.
pairing: bestfriend!nicholas x female!reader
warnings/tags: idiots to lovers, slight angst??, alcohol consumption (nothing excessive), smut, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, reader is a little bit of a brat, like one spank, slight choking
word count: 6k
notes: requested! hope you enjoy! likes and reblogs appreciated!
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if there was one thing that was always certain between you and nicholas, it was that you both have always been there for each other. it's been that way since high school.
he was a transfer student. you had heard multiple girls talk about him the day he arrived, but you haven't seen him. it wasn't until he walked into the cafeteria. he took one glance around the room, locking eyes on you while you were reading a book, and the rest was history. he sat down at your side, and he never left. sure, he brought other people into your group, people you now call close friends, but none of them had what the two of you had.
you were there when he got accepted into the college program he had been dreaming of since he was a kid. you were there when he had his first love and first breakup. he was there for you when you fell and broke your leg. he was there when your parents split up.
he was your ride or die which is what your friends always called you two. platonic soulmates, though you didn't want to be platonic.
you didn't mean to catch feelings for him. you've read enough books to know that it's never a good idea for you to develop feelings for your best friend. you had done so good, until the last 6 months. him and maki were having a competition on who had the most 'rizz', and you were the unlucky judge. maki went first before nicholas pulled you onto his lap and rested his chin on your shoulder and turned your world upside down with just a few words.
"we already know who she belongs to, maki. no need to keep trying."
safe to say nicholas won, but he won a lot more than just bragging rights. not that he realized what he managed to do. the worst part was that you couldn't pull away to try to fix things because he was pulling you right back in. you tried, and each time he would say the same thing.
"i can't have you finding another best friend. you're mine."
the only person who knew of your feelings was one of your mutual friends yuma, and that was only because he walked in on you freaking out about him. he's kept your secret, though he never shut up about making you confess to him. he's named himself the unofficial matchmaker for the two of you, but he's failed every time so far.
you had all but given up at this point, which led you to where you were now, suffering in silence. you were at nicholas' place with his other friends for your weekly movie night. the two of you were in the kitchen setting every thing up when the topic of crushes came up.
"do you remember liking brian in high school?" you let out a snort at nicholas' question. "you were obsessed with the guy until he cut his hair."
"i'm telling you. it was the long hair. it just does something to me." your back was turned, so you couldn't see nicholas turning to look at you.
"so are you obsessed with me?" you finally turn at his question, watching as he dramatically runs his hand through his long blonde hair.
you cover up a cough with a laugh. "you wish. you wouldn't know how to handle me."
"babe, if anyone knows how to handle you, it's me." you roll your eyes, quickly turning away to hide the blush on your face. "back to the topic. do you have any crushes right now?"
you were glad your back was to him because your jaw dropped. you quickly thought of a small white lie to tell him. "i don't think so. though me and jamie went to get coffee last week, and the barista was cute."
"that's not a crush." you turn around when he scoffed. this time his back was towards you while he typed something on his phone.
"then what is? do you have one?"
"of course i do." you swear you felt your heart crack at his words. "you know them too."
you swallow harshly. "i do?"
"you know them very well." he answered. that made you conclude they're in the friend group. besides jamie, who had a raging crush on maki, everyone else was a guy. you didn't think he like guys, but who were you to judge? you would support him nonetheless, even if it wasn't you.
"do i get a hint?"
"they chew on their tongue when they're concentrating. and they have a scar on their right hand." you felt stumped at the oddly specific hints. "i was thinking of convincing them to wear a matching halloween costume with me to maki's party. do you think you can get them to agree?"
before you could respond, you heard knocking on the door. "i got it."
you slipped away, almost running out of the kitchen before moving to open the door. not everyone could join tonight so it was just you, nicholas, yuma, harua, jo, and maki. everyone piled into his apartment before making their way to the living room where nicholas was setting everything down on the table.
"have you confessed yet?" you turn at the sound of yuma's voice. he stood right behind you with a teasing smile. one that dropped when he saw the look on your face. "what's wrong?"
"he just told me he had a crush on someone." you whispered in a panic.
yuma laughed, causing you to glare at him. "yn, that's the oldest trick in the book."
"you're talking to a literal literary major. you don't think i know that?" you question. "i asked him to give me a hint, and he said it was someone who chews the tongue when they're concentrating. and they apparently have a scar on their hand."
once again, his smile fell as he listened to you. "oh no."
"what?"
"look at harua." you did what yuma said. he was sitting on the couch, playing a game on his phone. you opened your mouth to question why when you saw it. he was very clearly doing exactly what nicholas said to you. "everyone knows he does that. i always tease him for it."
"what about a scar?" you ask.
you see yuma nod out of the corner of your eye. "he has on one his right hand. fell as a kid."
"so he really doesn't like me?" you couldn't help but feel upset over the news. you knew the chance was slim, but it still stung.
"i'm sorry." yuma apologized. he took your arm, dragging you to the end of the couch. he made you sit before sitting right beside you, blocking anyone else from sitting by you. "i really though you two were endgame."
"he asked me to get whoever it was to agree to wear a matching costume with him to maki's party." you voiced out, voice cracking at the end. "i don't want to."
"just tell him yes, and i'll handle everything. i'll get jamie to help pick out costumes."
you nod, leaning your head back and closing your eyes to avoid possibly crying in front of everyone. "thanks yuma. can you bring me home after this?"
"of course. i've got your back."
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in the two weeks after nicholas' confession, you did what you couldn't do before and pulled away from nicholas. you made the excuse that you were working extra hours at work for more money, but you could tell he didn't believe you. it was then that yuma stepped in because of your cry for help that he told nicholas that you had the costumes picked out and would spoil it. you had a bad streak of doing that, so nicholas believed him and gave you some space.
you texted him the bare minimum over the 2 weeks, ignoring every time he asked if you were okay. you were fine. completely fine. definitely not heart broken that your best friend didn't reciprocate the feelings that you had for him.
he asked you if you were riding with him, taki, and jamie to the party. you told him no because yuma was picking you up. you fixed your outfit in the mirror before applying the finished touches of makeup.
you went with a classic, a witch. you had on a puffy black off shoulder dress that went to your calf. you did have part of the dress tied up, so your thigh was exposed. on top of the dress, you had on a black corset that you felt was worth the not being able to breath due to the wonders it did to your figure. you paired it with some black heeled boots and a black hat.
yuma joined you with the all black assemble. he had on a pair of cat ears because he didn't want to dress up, but you knew that everyone would say something if not. so you made him be your cat familiar. once you gave him the cat ears he laughed, but he wouldn't tell you why.
"so what did you and jamie end up dressing them as?" you asked as you and yuma walked up maki's driveway. you could already hear the music pouring out of the house. cars lined the streets as people piled into the house.
"woody and buzz." you chuckled at the answer.
"i'm assuming haura is woody?"
"actually no." yuma answered. "we made nicho woody. it was jamie's idea."
you wanted to laugh, but couldn't as you walked up the steps. "i wonder how that's going to play out."
"not good from what jamie texted me. said they both laughed, but she could tell something was wrong with nicho." yuma explained.
"what does that mean?"
yuma shrugged, opening the door for the two of you before you slipped into the kitchen. "hell if i know."
you probably shouldn't have, but you let yuma fix you a very strong drink. you knew you were going to need something thought to get through the night. you also just wanted to stay in the kitchen because neither nicholas or haura were there. you felt like you could breath, but of course it didn't last long. you had just gotten your second drink when you heard someone call your name.
"yn, you look so good!" you turn, faking a smile when harua compliments you. even though you were upset, you had to admit he looked great.
"thanks. so do you." you risk a glance behind him, but don't see any sign of nicholas. "where's your cowboy?"
"right here." you jump when his breath runs over your skin. you turn to see him standing right behind you, cowboy hat tilted forward so only you could see his face. his flannel and jeans fit him a little too perfectly. "a witch, huh?"
you glance down, fluffing out your dress, trying to ignore the tone in his voice. "yeah. you got a problem with that?"
"no problem. just didn't think you'd pick something so basic."
you nearly flinch at his words. basic. is that what he thought of you? you had spent the whole month talking about how excited you were when you found this dress, and he hyped you up. now he calls you basic. did he think that the whole time and just didn't tell you?
"basic." you hear a scoff. yuma not so subtly moved between you and nicholas, putting his arm on your shoulder. "you're literally one of the most basic characters there is."
nicholas looks over at yuma, eyes locking with the black cat ears on his head. "oh. i didn't realize we were all doing couple costumes this year."
"well, i didn't want to dress up, and the person yn wanted to match with didn't want to. so it all worked out i guess." yuma answered, looking over at you with a smirk. now you get why he laughed when you gave him the cat ears.
"who'd you want to match with?" harua asked, leaning on the counter.
you shook your head. "doesn't matter. i don't think they would've like my costume idea anyway. apparently, they're not a fan of classics."
before anyone could respond, you heard the music stop from the living room, and you knew what that meant. maki had chosen a winner for the costumes. you wanted to stay in the kitchen, but yuma dragged you out to see the winner. maki was standing on the table wearing a joker costume.
"alright, it's time for me to announce the winners of this years costume contest, though i think we all know who the winners are." he paused for dramatic effect, letting the people surrounding you to cheer. "the winners are... buzz and woody!"
you force yourself to smile and clap as nicholas and harua move to the front to grab the medals. nicholas throws his arm over harua's shoulder as he smiles wide. he moves his gaze to you, almost knocking the air out of you.
"i'd like to thank my best friend for putting together the costumes."
the emphasis he put on the word best stings harder than you liked. maybe he was reminding you of what you were to him. nothing but his best friend. nothing more.
"that's what i'm here for." you respond, a smile that he could clearly tell was fake. you turned, handing yuma your drink. "i'm going to the bathroom."
you slip though the crowded room, ignoring everyone around you as you climb up the stairs. you walk right past the bathroom when you heard your name being called.
"yn!"
your stomach tightens, anger coursing though you at the sound of his voice. you don't make any attempt to answer, reaching the room where you normally slept in when you stayed here. you quickly opened and closed the door, locking it right as nicholas got there. your head falls back against the door as you let out a breath as your vision becomes blurred with tears.
"yn, open the door." nicholas pleads. you hear him try the door, cursing when he realizes it's locked.
"don't you have a partner to get back to."
"don't do this."
"i'm not doing anything." you tell him. "go away."
"come on, babe." he tries to coax you, and if you weren't so mad, you would probably open the door. "be the good girl i know you are and open the door, so i don't have to track maki down at get the keys."
your jaw drops at the words. good girl? that was something you didn't mean to tell him. the two of you were drinking when you said that what you liked in the bedroom. he laughed but never brought it up again, and now he's using it against you?
"go fuck yourself!" you snap, voice almost trembling with anger. you move away from the door with shaky legs as you sit on the edge of the bed.
"you're really enjoying this, aren't you?" you look at the door at nicholas' question. you could hear the amusement coming from him like this was some game to him. "hiding behind some door like some little brat?"
you scoff. "i am not a brat!"
"not a brat, huh. then how do you explain this?" he asks. "locking me out, cursing at me, and i know your cheeks are flushed how the normally are when you're mad."
he was right. you didn't normally curse at anyone, especially not him. you knew he was enjoying this too. "you do realize you being an asshole isn't going to make me open the door, right?"
"i know." he answers. the door creaks when he leans against it. "i'm not going anywhere though. not when you're like this. sitting in there all mad and stubborn. maybe a little turned on too."
your jaw drops as your face flushes. "nicholas!"
"come on, babe." he laughs. "i know your thighs are clenched as you sit on the bed. your hands are gripping the sheets while you debate if you want to hit me or kiss me."
you look down, shocked to see how right he is. your thighs were clenched and your hands were in fact gripping the sheets beneath you. you don't answer him, now too wrapped up in what he was making you feel to keep yelling.
"you know." you glance over to the door at the sound of his voice. "i keep thinking about this little habit of yours. chewing your tongue when you're deep in thought. it's so distracting, and i don't even know you do it. i bet you're doing it right now."
you freeze when you realize that you were in fact chewing on your tongue. was this a coincidence that you had the same habit as harua?
"and that little scar on your right hand. just below your thumb." he continues. you lift up your hand to see that you had a scar you didn't even realize you had. "i swear i noticed it ages ago. funny how no one, not even you, noticed it but me."
everything suddenly clicks. the hints. it was never about harua. it was always about you. you were the one he had a crush on, and you ruined it by thinking it was someone else.
you hear him call your name again, tone teasing. you could imagine the smirk on his face now that he's said that. now that you know he never like harua, only you.
you let out a shaky sigh as his words fully hit you. "you are such an asshole."
you hear him laugh through the door. "you love it though."
you stand up, feeling all of the anger you has towards him disappear. though you hesitate to open the door. once you open it, all your feelings were going to be out in the open, not like they already were with the way you stormed off.
you unlock the door and open it, seeing him leaning in the door frame with a smirk. "took you long enough."
"you're lucky i even unlocked it, woody." you mock his costume. you hear his deep chuckle as he steps into the room, brushing against you as he moves to shut the door. once he locked it, he turned to look at you.
"now that i've got you alone, my little witch, want to tell me why you're matching with yuma?"
you roll your eyes. "he didn't want to dress up, and i had the extra costume because i was going to ask you to match with me."
"and why didn't you ask me?"
"because you wanted to match with your crush." you answered, watching as he raised his brows. "don't look at me like that. it's not my fault you give horrible hints."
he shrugs. "i think they were great hints. shows you how much i pay attention to my little witch."
"oh, would you stop with the nickname." you groaned. "and they were terrible hints because they matched someone else."
"maybe, but he's not you." your breath hitches when he steps closer, hand under your chin as he guides you to look up at him. "why could i have him with i could have you? even though you are a brat."
even though you blush at his words, you push him back, stepping away from him. he follows you, reaching you in a few steps before pulling you into his arms. he pulls you flush against his chest as he pushes you against the door, completely blocking any escapes.
"nic-" you whisper, stopping when he leans down.
"yes?" you open your mouth to respond, but you stop when his hand ghosts up your side. you jerk when he just barely grazes your breast before his hands cup your jaw, thumb trailing over your lip. "didn't i tell you you were mine?"
"yes, but-"
"no buts baby. unless it's this one." you gasp when his other hand grabs your ass giving it a squeeze as he chuckles at your reaction. "I told you you were mine, and you matched with someone else. be honest. were you trying to make me jealous?"
you shake your head. "honestly, it didn't cross my mind. though i'm not upset that it did."
"you really are a brat." you yelp when his hand comes down on your ass enough for it to sting through your dress. "tell me who you belong to."
you shake your head, smiling when you hear him groan. "make me."
he pushes you harder into the door as his lips latch to yours. you gasp into his mouth at the feeling of his soft lips against yours, them feeling nothing like you could've imagined. there was a faint taste of alcohol as his tongue mingled with yours.
his hands moved to your thighs, gripping them as he pulled you into his arms. you whimper into his mouth when his jeans brush against your core- the thin material of your underwear allowing you to feel everything.
he smiles against your lips before moving, trailing his lips down your jaw and neck. his teeth nip at your skin, leaving red marks for everyone to see. you let out a soft moan as his hips roll into yours. his hands tighten on you as he pulled away to look at you, eyes dark and swollen lips.
"it sounds like my little witch needs some relief." your lips brush against his as you nod. "then tell me who you belong to."
"you, nicho."
"good girl." his lips find yours as he pulls away from the door and moving towards the bed. he sits on the end of the bed, keeping you in his lap. "but first we need to fix something."
his hand reaches up, taking off the hat that you were shocked stayed on your head. he throws it on the floor before reaching for his. he smirks as he sits the cowboy hat on your head before looking at you.
"much better."
"is this because i was matching with yuma?" you ask, confused to why he put it on your head.
"oh, baby. do you not know the rule?" he questions. you shake your head making him chuckle. "wear the hat. ride the cowboy."
your eyes widen, face flushing as you slap his shoulder. "nicholas!"
you try to take the hat off, but he stops you. "keep it on."
you roll your eyes but do what he says. he smiles as he pushes forward, locking his lips with yours. you groan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as his hands move along your body. they graze the corset that you were wearing, and you feel his fingers move along your bare back as he undoes it, leaving your lips just long enough to take it off.
now that the corset wasn't in the way, his hands found your breasts, squeezing them. you gasp in his mouth at the feeling of his hands on you. your mind was hazy, letting his hands and lips roam over your skin when his hands grabbed your wrists, leading them to his shirt.
your fingers were shaky as you unbutton his shirt. the break of his touch allowed you a moment where you got stuck in your head. he notices your slow speed, stopping you when you were halfway done. "are you okay, baby? we don't have to do anything if you're not comfortable."
"it's not that." you mumble, looking back up at him. "are you sure you want me? i feel like i'm not-"
you stop talking, a gasp falling past your lips when nicholas' hand wraps around your neck, silencing you. "i wouldn't finish that sentence if you want to be able to sit properly for the next week. do you want me?"
"i do."
"and i want you. you're all i've thought about, plaguing my every thought." your eyes widen at his confession. "seeing you in this outfit took my breath away even though you weren't matching with me. and then seeing you with yuma, i just lost it."
you look down at your outfit. "so it's not basic?"
"no, baby. nothing about you is basic. i was just upset. i'm sorry." nicholas apologized. "will you forgive me, my witch?"
you nod your head, letting him kiss you softly before you spoke. "i'm sorry i didn't realize you were talking about me. the last thing i wanted to do was hurt you."
"maybe i should've pick better hints." you chuckle at him. "at least i'm spending halloween in the perfect place."
you tilt your head. "and where is that?"
his hands grip your bare thighs. "between these luscious legs. and i'll be here all night if you let me."
"what are you waiting for then?"
nicholas groans at your answer as his lips find yours. his hands bunch up your dress before lifting it up, moving away from you as he lifted the dress over your head. it left you in a matching black set. it was one of your favorites, and you could tell it was one of his too. the thin lace barely covered anything- your hardened nipples apparent through the material.
"you could've warned me you looked this good in black." he licked his lips, letting his eyes slowly take in every inch of you. you blush under his stair, moving your arms to cover you when he stops you, pinning your arms behind your back with his hand. it had your breast popping out even more for him. "none of that, baby. let me admire my beautiful girl."
"nicho." his name left your lips in a breathy whisper. he smiled as he looked up to you.
"patience, my little witch. we have all night."
"i really hate that nickname." you grumbled. he laughed has his hand traveled down your neck, tracing along the lace of your bra.
"and i hate that i almost didn't see what you were hiding under your costume."
his hand let go of your wrists as his other hand undid the clasp to your bra, letting it slide down your arms before you tossed it behind you. his eyes take in your bare chest for a moment before he pulls you close to him. you let out a gasp when his lips wrap around your nipple, tongue swirling around the bud. you melted into his touch, back arching as his mouth continued to bruise your skin.
you could tell he was enjoying it too. his eyes were shut, soft sighs leaving his lips at the taste of you. his arms were wrapped tightly around you to try to keep you from squirming, but it didn't work. he could feel how soaked you were for him through his jeans, how much you wanted it. wanted him. it drove him to the point he couldn't take it anymore.
you let out a shocked yelp when your back hit the mattress. your legs were still wrapped around nicholas as he kneeled back to look at you. his eyes never left yours as he finished unbuttoning his shirt before discarding it. you barely had a chance to gaze at his body before he was back on top of you, lips pressed against yours.
his hands ghosted down your body, feeling as you jerk when his hand trails along your underwear. his touch was slow, teasing as his fingers ran along your heat, feeling the damp material. "god, baby. you're soaked for me, aren't you?"
you whimper against his lips when his fingers press down, finding your clit through your underwear. his strokes are slow, steady as he watches your reactions. your hips shift into his hands, desperate to find relief, making him chuckle against your lips.
"you sound like you need me, my little witch."
you nod your head at his words. "please, nicho. i need you."
his lips found yours one last time before he shifted. his hands pull down your underwear, leaving you bare beneath him. his hands held your legs open for him when you tried to shut them as he stared down at you. "do you know how many times i've dreamed of having you like this? beneath me, screaming my name? you're not leaving this room until the only thing you can think about is me."
he kissed the inside of your thigh as he settled between your legs, getting higher and higher until you could feel his warm breath on your heat. his dark eyes met yours, full of lust, for just a moment before his mouth was finally on you. he let out a groan as soon as he tasted you like he had been waiting forever to do so. you moan out his name, hands tangling in his hair, keeping him close to you.
"fuck, you taste so good." he said, tongue flicking your clit causing you to moan. "you're never getting rid of me."
"my god-" you groan, back leaving the bed as his lips wrap around your clit. his hand held you open for him as his other fingers trailed along your slick, coating his fingers before slipping inside of you. "nicho!"
"that's right, baby. scream my fucking name." he feels you tighten around his fingers, stretching to fit them. "i'm going to ruin you. no one will ever make you feel like this. only me."
his fingers gained pace, moving deep inside of you until you were squirming against his hold. you felt him curl his fingers inside of you right as he started sucking your clit, nearly making you see stars as you cry out his name. his tongue and fingers working in perfect unison, thighs trembling around his head. "look at you. so perfect. so mine."
you felt dizzy, the pleasure of his lips and fingers almost too much for you. you shifted, trying to pull away from him when his hand pushed on your lower stomach. "you're not going anywhere until you come all over my face and fingers. so come on, my good girl. i know you're close."
you almost scream his name as you unravel for him. your thighs tighten around his head, almost cutting off circulation, but he didn't care. he kept moving, licking until you were trembling in his hold. you collapsed back against the bed as nicholas pulled away from you, cleaning his mouth and hand before sliding up your body, trailing kisses along your skin as he went.
"you're unreal, baby." he mumbled against your lips, stopping when you pulled him to you. he groaned as he kissed you with everything he's got. your hands trailed along his shoulders, feeling ever dip and grove of his muscles before stopping at his jeans, almost hesitating. "please tell me you want me too, baby."
"i do." your response was instant, almost pleading. "i want you so bad."
he kissed you before sitting up, resting on his knees as he unbuckled his jeans. he slide out of them with ease before slipping out of his boxers, leaving him bare in front of you. this time he was unhurried, letting your eyes roam every inch of his body as you tried to memorize it. your mouth parted as your eyes landed on his cock, thick and red, begging for release. you sat up just a little, and that sent nicholas moving, kissing you before resting his head against yours.
"i believe i owe you something." you tell him, watching as his brows furrow in confusion. "lay down."
it took him a second to understand you, but he smirked when he did, laying down on the bed before dragging you on top of him. he bites back a groan when he feels you grind down on him. "fuck, baby. i guess i really should thank you for the costume."
"i would take credit, but it wasn't my idea."
"who's was it?" he asked.
"jamie's." you answer. "i was too upset by the fact you didn't like me, so yuma told jamie to pick outfits for you."
he raised a brow. "and how did that work out?"
"considering where i am right now, pretty good." he chuckles at your words.
"brat." he grumbles, groaning when you grind against him again. this time, you lift your hips up, and he gets the message, sliding into you slowly. "fuck."
his hands grip your waist tightly, holding on while you stretch around him. you whimper at the feeling of him inside of you, moving until there wasn't any space between you two. he fit inside of you perfectly, like he was made for you.
"you're so perfect." he groaned, trying to be patient as you adjusted to his size.
you rested your hands on his chest as you roll your hips. you started out slow, almost torturously slow as you grind against him. his hands dug into your skin, moving to squeeze your ass before he moves you, helping you speed up. you get the message, speeding up until you were bouncing, moaning his name at the feeling.
"fuck, nicho."
"just like that, my girl." his hips jerked, meeting yours halfway, listening to a moan fall past your lips. "let me hear how much you want me. how much you need me."
he continued his movements, meeting yours with a devastating speed. your head was spinning, only thinking about how good nicholas was making you feel, and why did it take so long for you two to get here. your hips stuttered, lost in pleasure though he could feel your thighs shaking. you threw your head back, feeling your stomach tighten when nicholas bucked up into you. you lot your balance, falling forward onto his chest. his lips latched onto yours, grabbing your hips as he bucked up into you.
"nicho- please." you beg, nails digging into his shoulders.
"i've got you, sweet girl." you cry out when his hand finds your clit, feeling as you tighten around him as he picks up his speed. "fall apart on my cock. show me how bad you need it."
your body went rigid above him, eyes rolling back as you fell apart again. he held you through it, whispering compliments into your ear before rolling over, towering over you once again. he slipped himself back into you, watching as you cry out his name. your legs were jelly, but you were still able to wrap them around nicholas as he thrusted into you.
"look at you. exhausted but still wanting more." he almost growled against your lips, snapping his hips to yours and watching you fall apart again for him. "what am i going to do with you?"
his lips pushed to yours, drowning out all of your sounds as his hips drive into yours, harder with every passing second. he groaned as he pulled away from you, lips latching to your neck, biting and sucking every inch of skin his lips could reach.
"fuck. are you going to let me make you mine? that way you'll never doubt how much i want you. how much i need you." he panted, thrusts becoming erratic as his high nears.
you nod your head, desperate for another release. "yes, nicho. please. make me yours."
he moaned into your neck, hips stuttering as you felt him spill inside of you. the feeling made you fall over the edge again, gripping him tightly, a groan falling from his lips at the action. his body collapsed onto yours, sweaty and spent. his breathing hits your neck as he recovers, lips finding yours as soon as he does.
he gets up, sliding off of you before cleaning you up. he pulls back the covers and helps you before getting in next to you, smiling when you cuddle into his warm body. his hand finds your cheek, tilting your head up before kissing you.
"you did so perfect for me, baby." you smile against his lips. "you're so fucking perfect."
"i-" your voice trembles with both need and feelings. he's patient running his hand through your hair as he waits. "i've spent so long wanting this. wanting you. i just never thought you felt the same. and i was too scared to say anything."
"you have no idea how long i've wanted to hear you say that. what it does to me to hear you say that." his voice soft, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "i was scared too. i didn't want to mess anything up."
"guess we're both stupid then." nicholas pinches your side at your words, feeling as you jerk in his hold. "that was mean."
"so was making me match with someone else. next halloween, you're matching with me. no more woody and buzz nonsense." you laugh at his words, tilting your head up to look at him.
"okay. but i get to pick out the costumes." he nods his head, kissing your forehead as you lay your head back down.
includes: HELLA NSFW at the end (MDNI); oral (f receiving), p in v, both sunoo and reader are teases, they talk a lot during too idk why I did that but we’re learning, they take turns getting shy and nervous, grumpy x sunshine in a way, there’s probably something I’m forgetting.
you tutor sunoo in calculus despite everyone telling him you’re bad news and he develops a major crush on you after each session until he does anything about it.
♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱𓆩^._.^𓆪♱⋆ཐི˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱
Your name comes up, and some people narrow their eyes and lean away from the person who mentioned it in the first place.
No one has ever seen you with a group of friends, and you’ve never been the type to get spotted at the school’s library or cafes.
It’s like you materialize in your seat at a class and disappear into thin air the minute it’s over.
But how bad could you really be?
Apparently, you have a habit of sleeping in your classes, yet you’re one of the highest-performing students in almost all of them.
And Jake, who’s part of a peer-tutor-program for the school, knows about you enough to tell Sunoo that he’d prefer to tutor him himself in a subject he’s never studied if it meant Sunoo could avoid you.
But Sunoo is too nice for that.
The arrangements were made, and an agreement to see you at one of the school’s libraries was set for that following Friday.
And even if there was something off about you, he wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.
After all, it was your professor who asked you this as a personal favor, so there had to be more to you than what people think there is.
Yet, as he settles into a chair in front of you, he can’t help but feel uneasy.
You don’t really smile, and you have really heavy eyes that are made more prominent by the bags under them.
And your hair and clothes might look clean, but everything about you is messy; from the way your hair is pushed up to how baggy your clothes are.
It’s childish and maybe a little ridiculous, but he can see where the rumor about you being a ghost came from.
He’d already introduced himself, so what are you waiting for?
“Professor Kang mentioned you took his class last semester, are you his TA this semester?” He asked, trying to find something to start a conversation with.
“I am,” you answer simply, a small nod.
You don’t make it easy to talk to you, but there’s no getting out of this now.
“So-“ he begins, but you speak first and don’t stop to do that little thing where people go back and forth to let the other speak.
“Can I see your midterm?” You ask, staring at him almost blankly.
“R-right…” he sighs softly.
He’s both embarrassed by what you’re about to see and also awkwardly trying to adjust to you.
He slides a paper towards you and sits there quietly while you analyze his exam.
“Do you…watch videos on the subject instead of reading the textbooks or studying the lecture notes…?” You ask, looking up at him with a slight crease in your brow.
How you were able to tell this just by looking at his exam is freaky, and you might just be some kind of psychic ghost stuck haunting a university.
“How did you…” he trails slightly. Maybe he should just be honest and take what he can from this one session.
“You wouldn’t say Professor Kang speaks too fast?” He quickly follows up, trying to find something plausible that you could also relate to.
“That doesn’t change the fact that your understanding of limits and continuity is based off the wrong type of calculus.” You explain.
Your words could be taken as blunt or even a little rude, but Sunoo can recognize that you’re just trying to do what you were asked to do.
You spend the next two hours just on this one topic alone.
And in that time, he found that you’re not so hard to be around.
The longer he spoke to you, the more he learned that you’re not as stiff or intimidating as you initially seemed.
And he did learn a lot from you—so much so that he ended the session asking when you’d be able to tutor him again despite originally believing he’d just attend one.
Honestly, you could have been worse.
You could have been pretentious, maybe a little snobby; but instead, you were helpful and straightforward, which is hard to get from people seeing as everyone’s always trying hard to impress those around them.
The more he saw you, the more people asked him about you.
Mostly asking if he could confirm or deny the rumor that you were a cheater and didn’t actually know the material you studied.
Or if he’d learned anything about you and could tell them if you had a relative in the school who was altering your grades for you.
It sucked that no one believed him when he only ever answered that you were just as smart as your record said you’d be.
Actually, it only looked like Sunoo was being let in on your secrets to pass classes and he had no intention of sharing.
And, after his opinion of you changed, it never went back to what it used to be.
Especially not after he started to realize that your appearance and way of behaving was a consequence of your exhaustion.
After he learned that you work two full-time jobs in addition to being a full-time student, it made sense why you looked the way you did.
And now that you’d gotten closer through your tutoring sessions, he started doing little things to say thank you and also to look out for you.
If he found out you hadn’t eaten by the time you got to him, he’d treat you; if you dozed off, he didn’t wake you, not until he had to; and he worked around you and your schedule, even if it meant meeting you very late at night, sometimes even in your apartment.
It got to a point where his friends were questioning the nature of your relationship.
Surely he’d learned enough, why did he still need to see you even after his retake happened?
“You’re going out…?” Jake asked, nudging Ni-ki who was tapping Heeseung to look up.
“Yeah…just a little last-minute check on an assignment I have to submit.” Sunoo explained, stuffing his laptop into his backpack.
It’s the truth; you might not be tutoring him in the traditional sense, but you’re helping Sunoo rebuild his previous understanding of calculus and he can’t help but ask for your help even with small things.
“It’s 11 p.m.” Heeseung pointed out.
Now that his shoes were on, he straightened up and finally looked at his friends directly.
“I mean, I doubt you’ll be asleep by the time I get back,” he shrugged.
“Right, but you do realize how this looks, right?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know why it matters what I go do on my own time. I don’t think I’ve ever questioned any of you where you go at night.” Sunoo says, crossing his arms as he shakes his head.
“Just…be careful.” Ni-ki says, slightly annoyed that Sunoo continues to ignore his friend’s warnings.
“I will.” Sunoo huffs, turning to leave it at that.
He doesn’t care to explain himself further when people barely believe what he says first, and if it costs him a friendship then so be it; if anyone needs a friend, it’s you, and he wants to be that if nothing else.
Despite being standoffish a moment ago, he’s all smiles once you open the door.
Some days you look better than usual; mostly when you’ve had a few days of good rest and proper meals at the right time of day.
Today is one of those days, which relieves Sunoo more than it should when he sees you like this.
“Hey” he says, entering your apartment once you step off to the side to let him in.
“Hey” you repeat, your voice softer than usual.
It’s something he’s picked up on more recently; you seem to be more comfortable around him, but only in the sense that you’re quick to answer things, even those that might not have anything to do with calculus.
You walk side by side towards the living room; he’s been by enough times to know where everything is and also know that you’re probably doing your own homework and assignments at this hour.
And he was right, because laid out on your coffee table were your notebooks and laptop, along with some takeout you seemed to have pushed off to the side.
“Do you want anything to drink?” You ask, wanting to take care of that before you sat down.
“Water is fine, thank you” he nods, removing his backpack to take up the space beside your things while you go.
As straightforward as you are, you get to business almost immediately.
And Sunoo can only sit nearby and drink water while you analyze the work he’s set to turn in the following morning.
Also more recently, he’s become more awkward around you; he won’t admit it, but the amount of praise and affirmations he receives from you do much to make him see you differently.
Have you always been this…attractive?
“You should use less vocabulary from the text, it’ll look AI generated.” You say softly, skimming through the rest of it.
“Aww…” he sighs, but secretly he’s glad, now he has a reason to stay longer.
“It’s not a bad thing though, I’ll probably end up grading it so I’ll do so with your efforts in mind.” You shrug, lowering his notebook slightly.
“You grade my work?” He asks, his expression nothing short of surprised.
You smile a little, and he finds it hard to be upset that you hadn’t told him this before.
“Professor Kang has two TA’s this semester, if it isn’t me it’s him, and I know him well enough to tell him that your work is your own.” You explain, reassuring him gently.
“So when I submitted my mock final— the one where I had a detailed explanation of why my work was incorrect and where I went wrong— was that you?” He asked, almost offended.
You purse your lips slightly, holding back a laugh.
“You’re the only one I’ve done that to.” You admit, your smile widening slightly.
“You taught me that formula— I spent hours listening to you repeat it over different equations until you burned it in my mind!” Sunoo began, a little frustrated.
“And yet you forgot to double-check that—”
“Forgot to check it with the power rule…I read your graded paper.” He scoffed, crossing his arms as he sulked.
“You still passed the mock, you’ll pass the class this semester.” You assured, a small nod.
“You think so?” He asked, looking over at you playfully.
“I do.” You answer so surely—and maybe he’s reading everything too intensely, but he isn’t making it up when he realizes that you’ve gotten much closer in the last few minutes.
“I guess that means you won’t need to tutor me anymore…” he says softly, his gaze moving lower for a bit before it picks back up.
“I mean, we share a major, we’ll always be taking the same classes…you could always call me if you’re having trouble in those…” you shrug.
Sunoo can recognize that he’s getting too close to lines that exist for multiple reasons, but you don’t seem to mind that he’s getting ready to cross them with no real conversation beforehand.
“I’m having trouble with something…not related to uni…think you can still help me?” He asks, hands now on either side of your legs as he pauses at a distance that has you just inches apart from each other.
Now your gaze shifts, and you’re picking up everything he’s trying to put down.
“I can try…” you say, less sure of yourself, and it’s the first time he’s seen you nervous.
Sunoo takes that as a hint to make a move; just a kiss to start, and he isn’t so overbearing with it that you can push him away without any real effort whenever you want to.
And when you don’t?
When the kiss progresses a little more into your hands coming up the sides of his arms before wrapping around his neck, he feels he can push a little more.
Sunoo is a great kisser, but it’s almost expected that he’d be good at something so small and that he’d be able to drag it out so it’s much more intimate than simply being a lead-up to what could be.
If this were anyone else, he’d wait a little longer to do anything like this; but there’s this overwhelming need to take care of you and bask in the aftermath where he hopes you’ll praise him then too.
Still, even if it seems like you’re on the same page, he has to make sure.
After all, this is sudden.
“Wait…” Sunoo says softly, pulling away with smaller kisses to lead up to the complete stop.
“Is this okay?” He asks, looking down at you with a flush starting to creep up his ears.
“Y-yeah…I like this…” you assure, goosebumps formed around his palm where it slid up your shirt and was resting on your low back.
Sunoo isn’t so active that he’s confident he can do all of this without being a little slow, and he’s struggling to really take over even if it’s what he wants to do.
“Here…?” He hesitates slightly.
“Maybe…we could go to my room?” You suggest, just as carefully as he’s being.
“I think I have a…” he trails, pulling away from you for a bit just to grab his backpack.
He isn’t the type to carry one in his wallet, but hopefully he has one in his backpack…the embarrassment of having to stop even just for a little to go to whatever store is nearby is too great for him to be able to face you again.
You watch as he rummages; you aren’t so active either, but girls don’t usually carry them anyway.
But just before you can suggest that he go to the convenience store nearby, a small pack is pulled out from his backpack.
For the sake of keeping things spontaneous and fun, you two try to get in your room as quickly as you can after finding this.
How he’s able to continue being respectful even as he’s undressing you is beyond you, and the whiplash you feel watching Sunoo become a different person altogether is incredible.
You expect him to be sweet, maybe a little painfully slow; but he’s actually quite eager in a way.
“Please…if you want me to stop, don’t hesitate to tell me…” he says, but he doesn’t wait much longer now that your shirt is off.
He’s doting; taking time to appreciate your body with soft kisses to your chest, your abdomen, and your stomach—and as he trails down your upper body, he’s pushing you on your back.
“Can I take this off?” He asks, his breath fanning against your stomach.
Sunoo looks pretty like this.
The way he’s looking up at you while he lays his head on your thigh, and holds it with this soft but firm hold, while the flush in his ears has started to come down his neck…god knows what he did when he created him.
You can only nod, quick to lay back flat on your back if it meant you could avoid looking at him too directly.
You brace yourself in a way, tensing up slightly once you’re laid out bare in front of him; his hands tighten around your thighs for a moment, but before you can think to be self-conscious, he gets to work.
You flinch against him, first away from him but then into him once his hands push down to keep you still.
He’s good at this too; his tongue is never in the same motion for too long, first it’s slow like he’s trying to learn you, and then he focuses on your clit once he’s sure he found it.
A shiver ran down your spine once his tongue started moving in these tight circles around it, and the minute you started relaxing beneath him, he pushed a little more.
You didn’t notice it first because he’d just started to switch between licking and sucking, but one of the last times you’d looked down at him, one of his hands had come off you to palm himself through his pants.
Only then did you realize how long he was taking on just this, and you didn’t want him to think he had to.
“S-sunoo…” you called out, softly at first; he thought nothing of it, thinking you’d just said his name mindlessly.
So he ignored it and started doubling down on his efforts.
And when your legs started to shake around his head, he was sure he could get you over in a bit if he just kept this rhythm.
“Sunoo!”
This time, you were a little louder as you slid your fingers through his hair.
You meant to push his head away, but he placed his hand over yours and buried his face in you more.
And now that you were getting close, you couldn’t help but press your hips into his face a little.
Though, it wasn’t until after you started coming off it that you realized you’d finished once just like this.
Not until you felt him cleaning you up as much as he could with his mouth.
Just who was this guy between your legs? Where was Sunoo?
“You taste…really good…” he says, moving up your body slowly.
The way he says it implies he expected it to taste differently or that he’s tasted differently, and you can’t be upset at that when he’s telling you that you’re better than what he’s had before—now you have to meet the standard you’re raising.
Now hovering above you, Sunoo has settled between your legs and is so close to pressing his hips into yours even with his clothes on for any kind of friction.
“I didn’t take you as the type to take his time with this part…” you say softly, a hand coming up to tug at his shirt.
“No? What did you think would happen?” He asked, teasing you lightly as he leaned to kiss your neck.
“I was hoping you’d be a little selfish…get into it right away…” you admitted, your voice a little shaky.
You can’t let him take over completely, not without a little fight.
So to make up for how affected you are, you move your hand lower, wanting to affect him the same way by touching him slowly through his jeans.
“You’re not what I expected either…can’t even wait a little to touch, can you?” He whispers, grabbing your wrist to stop you for a second.
“Come on…take your clothes off...” You whine, tugging at his shirt again.
He chuckles a little, removing his clothes with your help and eventually settling between your legs again.
You only saw it for a moment, now it’s pressing against your inner thigh, warm and hardening up more by the second.
“Here…help me put this on…” he says, leaning into his elbow as he hands you the condom.
This isn’t established, and he feels like he has to prove and show that you can trust him; if that means getting you to put this on him, he doesn’t care.
Now that you have a better reason to look and touch, you sit up slightly, just enough to see what you’re doing.
He’s much bigger than you expected him to be; long and with a slight curve upwards—and he’s clean, which you did expect.
And while you’re analyzing, Sunoo is grabbing fistfuls of the sheets beneath you; why you chose to roll it over his length this slowly is beyond him—you were eager just moments ago.
“L-lay back…” He stammered, trying to retain some sort of control over himself and the situation.
You smiled a little, how sweet was it that he never really demanded?
You aren’t going to overlook the fact that he might let you get away with more if you played with him just a little more.
For now, you let him continue to think he’s in charge and lean back until you’re lying on your back like he asked you to.
He sits back on his knees, hooking your legs over his arms as he pulls you down towards him.
“Are you still sure…?” He asks, looking up at you with a strained expression from how much he’s holding himself back to make sure.
“Yes.”
Now that he has that, he shifts his hips up so the tip presses against you, then he pushes in; slowly and just enough to stretch you out but not fill you.
A soft whimper slips out of him, but it’s more embarrassing that he’s struggling to keep himself up when the feeling of how tight you are makes him want to collapse.
“Fuck…” you sigh softly above him, arching your back slightly and pushing your hips into his.
His hand finds your hip quickly, holding you down just for now.
“D-don’t move.” He says, giving another inch.
For a moment, he stays still with less than half of himself inside you.
“M’gonna move…okay?” He says softly, coming up just to meet you.
You nod, and he pulls out just a bit before pushing back in; it’s slow and he starts kissing your jaw as he moves.
Sunoo sinks deeper with each thrust until his hips are flush against yours, and then his hips roll into you with each thrust, the curve hits something inside you and he has you digging your nails into his shoulder to keep yourself from getting too loud.
“Look at me, please…” he begs softly, moving a little faster as he hooks your leg over his hip.
You pull him closer, looking up at Sunoo and trying your best to hold the eye contact is much harder than it should be, especially when he looks like that.
His hair is falling over his eyes if it isn’t sticking to his forehead; and every time he bottoms out, his jaw tightens with a soft groan.
Is it too bold for him to want to try and get you to finish again before he finally does?
Maybe he isn’t doing enough to meet that goal.
He can’t spare his hands, so his mouth will have to do; but he’s too shy to continue asking, so he tries leading up to it by kissing down your neck, leaving bites along the way, before he settles on your chest.
You get a little louder then; one of your hands slides up into his hair and you push him into your chest, wrapping your legs around his waist then as well.
Between his mouth on you and his thrusts, you start blanking out to focus on the feeling; he can’t remember what it was that he did exactly, but one thrust forward had you throwing your head back as you moaned his name.
He looked up at you as he pushed in that same spot with a bit more force, trying to find where it was that he hit before.
And when he found it, he knew he needed to stay with it.
“There?” He asks, feeling his own start to build up.
“Y-yeah—“ you cried out, fluttering around him.
Whatever energy he’d been saving before is spent hitting this spot over and over with each thrust hitting deeper than the last.
He isn’t sure how much longer he can hold out, but he doesn’t want to look at you if he finishes before you.
So for the last few pumps, he hides in your shoulder, swearing softly into your skin as he tries to hold out for as long as he can in hopes that you finish first.
You do it together without meaning to; at least, you think you do—sunoo let go the moment you tried to say you were coming.
Too confident in the thin barrier between you and him, sunoo buries himself inside you and spills into the condom.
You lay completely still, feeling him pulse inside you and stay even after he starts to soften.
And as your breathing starts to even out, and as you’re both coming off it, you realize how late it is and how you have an early shift tomorrow.
Why does that have to be the first thing you can think of after having such a good time with him?
“Sunoo…” you call out softly, you know he’s conscious because you can feel him rubbing circles into your hip, but why he hasn’t moved is beyond you.
“Mhm…?” He hums, staying in your shoulder.
“Are you staying?” You ask, looking up at the ceiling to ground yourself on something and not back out.
“If it’s okay…” he says, voice slightly muffled.
“Yeah…” you assure, “so…you wanna pull out?” You add, not wanting to admit that you need to go to sleep now if you want to wake up with enough energy tomorrow.
To your surprise, he shakes his head.
The truth is, he doesn’t want to leave; you’re warm and he likes how you feel.
But also, he’ll get hard again if he moves out too quickly.
“Just stay like this a little longer…please…” he says, tilting his head to look up at you to try and convince you to let him stay.
Aftercare wise there wasn’t a lot to do, especially since he’d used a condom that he just had to throw away.
But he did hold you the entire night and let you wear his shirt so you weren’t completely naked.
And when you woke up the following morning, he woke up with you, but stayed in bed after you told him to.
“You don’t have to leave now, you can go back to sleep and take a shower before you go.” You said.
Sunoo nodded, burying half of his face into the pillow you were using that was still warm.
“Talk to you later…?” He asked groggily, a little nervous about what this meant for your relationship now.
“Yeah…” you replied, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see you smiling like an idiot.
“Have a good day.” He called out softly, a small smile even as he kept his eyes closed to go back to sleep.
He looks good the morning after too; you almost contemplated staying, almost.
summary: Everyone expects you to get it. Because you are smart enough to get into this program and smart enough to stay. The overachiever. The one who never needs help. The people who expect don’t need to review because you know it. And they’re not wrong. You’re not dumb and never have been. So why does anatomy make you feel like you are? And what's worse could happen if you start tutoring and leave your lip gloss at his place?
warnings: 9.5k words. mature themes. masturbation. sexual fantasy. use of personal item (lip gloss). anatomical touching. unspoken power imbalance. edging. read responsibly.
note: hello! this fic is based on a request I received. i know anon didn’t really give specifics and just said “tutor,” so i built it from there, and my mind immediately jumped with what if they’re both student pt? well, i ended up relating it a lot to the program i’m currently in. i might’ve made it a little personal especially about the implication of pressure and the burnout. T_T thank you for reading! <3
If you want something, you have to burn for it. That's what everyone said. There’s no easy path to get that degree that will help your future. But right now? You feel so stupid ever since you entered college. But you’re not even stupid. That’s the thing. You know you’re smart before you even apply to this university. You know you’ll get accepted, that’s how confident you are. And you have this mantra that you just have to study very well and it will work out very well for you.
Of course, you study. You munch it. You eat it. It’s your soul. Who are you without your academic achievements, right? Because you can’t even celebrate your achievements when it’s probably just one of those normal days where you get something but it will feel like an obligation to your eyes. And you are even doing good in your classes. Professors love you. Students envy you. “Did you review?” someone will always ask you, but someone will interrupt the conversation and say, “She doesn’t need it! She has this big brain that can answer everything.”
Love the confidence because maybe you can answer everything. Almost. But you are good with Human Growth and Development. It’s easy. You can study the whole semester in a short time if you have the whole lesson in your hands, but sadly, you don’t, so you have to sit through the whole class. The professor made all of the students from your block list learn all ten principles, and you listed them all in front without blinking, and you did it fast. But not hurried, they still managed to understand what you were saying.
You even correct your professor mid-lecture when she's talking about neonatal reflexes and she makes you recite and explain them to the whole class. When one of your classmates complained about something in the lecture, you offered help and did it like breathing. And don’t get started with Physiotherapy because you love it as hell. You really enjoyed reading through the patient management model, along with the SOAP notes you need to do. The functional outcome becomes your best friend because you like seeing the case your professor gave you and you make many outcomes that can possibly happen.
And one of your favorites is Psychiatry. You already knew the basics before they taught it. Like Maslow’s hierarchy and you turned in your assigned work too quickly after the professor handed it to the class. You know stress because that’s what you’ve been feeling ever since you started college. You could recite the definition given from the book when your professor asks about psychosomatic medicine. When your professor has a final paper and tells the whole class to just pick any topic from the whole semester? You are unstoppable because you made a whole paper about the whole semester too, not just any topic, and made your professor say, quote, “I’m a little concerned but very impressed.”
This is your pre-med and you don’t slack. You have many study techniques, like Pomodoro or anything that works at the moment. You have sticky notes all over your dorm. It’s full of different colors on the walls. You even have a big ass whiteboard inside. There’s a written “YOU ARE NOT FAILING” on the wall with three exclamation marks. You record lessons while you’re reading them so you can listen to them while brushing your teeth or doing something that can’t make you read, so you will just listen. Your friends say you’re intense; you say you’re surviving. You need to survive everything so you endured not attending social events just for you to review something.
But… there’s this one course. This one course that makes you want to jump. Human Anatomy. This evil one. This is a different beast. It’s not that you are a dumb person. It’s also not because you don’t get it. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s making you crazy. Batshit crazy type. Too many bones, ligaments, fascia, and insertions. Of course, you can point out the easy ones like the iliac crest and gluteus medius, but when it gets harder or the ones sound like a tongue twister, your brain melts.
And the worst part this semester? The muscles. When you study it, you also need to know about OINA which means Origin, Insertion, Nerve, Action. You made flashcards about it using pink colored cards, calligraphy, and glitter pens. You made your own mnemonics to remember everything. It also gets to the point where you have to draw labels on your body. Your must have is having 3D model apps, and let your study app guilt you every time you make a mistake.
But nothing is permanent. It worked until it didn’t. Until everything starts getting into you. Especially when this course has pre and post-lecture quizzes, and there are major long quizzes that have fifty or seventy items you need to take (for prelims, midterms, and finals) before the examination week. It humbled you when you just got scores below 20. Don’t get started with the exam week. It has a hundred-item written exam. There’s the lab exam where you have to label it all.
The worst of them all? The fucking moving exam. Yes. That one. The one with stations but has multiple items. One minute to answer the 5-10 questions before you move into another when the bell rings and you can’t even go back because everyone around you is moving. You once mismatched the muscles and spelled a muscle wrong three times. Ending? You just write sorry on your sheet before you hand it to the professor. It's just sad that you blew up every one of them after studying like there’s a gun in your head. And every time your paper got handed to you, your professor looked at you with pity, as if there’s nothing more you can do. You just smile every time you get it, though, even in your mind, you want to get out of the world.
You just cried when people left and wipe your nose with your sweater sleeves while you can still what your best friend said that maybe you are more of a psychiatry person, but that shit doesn’t feel like a compliment. All of the words from that day keep coming back to your mind like an echo as you sniff, and your breath catches in your throat. Like when your prof suggested earlier to try a study group, but you just nod and didn’t say that they’ve been leaving you out and avoiding you. She also assigned you a study partner because she thinks it will be helpful to your case. It’s Art Donaldson. Yes, that Art Donaldson.
The sporty guy. The one who’s playing tennis. Of course, you know him. Everybody does. Student player and in a health-aligned program? That made the girls wet with the idea. You’ve seen him once in the training room when you walked past it, and he’s wearing a tight shirt that shows off his arms. He’s your batchmate, actually. Well, in the same block, you almost share all the classes together, besides the extra course you want to take. People don’t nknow it, but this physical therapy degree he’s chasing is more likely a fallback in case tennis doesn’t work out well. He already has sponsorships and could just do tennis, but he’s also studying to prevent injury and to know well about his body. You are the opposite because you are studying to go to med school.
The worst part is he’s really a nice guy. Not the performative type of men are nice. Not the fake nice. He’s really nice. He’s soft spoken and shy. People love this personality. You notice how pink his ears get when he talks too much in class discussions. The first time you talk to him about muscles, he already recited the oina about it like an automatic button and he just laughed at your reaction. Now you see him once a week, besides the time you see him from the class lectures, of course, because he’s your tutor and you both review in his dorm. He lets you sit on the floor with the flashcards placed like tarot cards, and tries not to cry over the part you are learning about.
You think this is just tutoring, but Art is not even sure if it is. It all started before the professor offered to be your tutor. Maybe it was that time when you were leaning over the sink, and he managed to smell the scent of your perfume, and he forgot that he was supposed to walk and not stop close to you. Or maybe it’s in some seminar the department forced your whole block to attend and you have this unimpressed expression and say something like, “Oh my god, shut up,” and he laughed too hard.
You don’t even see him. You’re not looking at his direction like other girls do. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe not. And you’ve talked to him, but it’s just nothing because it’s always about academic stuff. It’s always about, “What was that nerve again?” and “Do you have the slide from last lesson?” before you look away. To your eyes it’s nothing. Maybe you treat him as someone who’s smart too, especially if he gets the course you don’t like more than you do. Maybe he doesn’t care if you treat him like a walking answer key like others treat you, but he doesn’t really mind it. He just wants to be something. To matter.
How can he not want you when you’re pretty, smart, and talented? You always have your own orbit where you shine and have own lights over your head that make you bright. But he knows you are hiding behind being smart, flashcards, mnemonics, slides, or whatever you do to not show the cracks. Except for him. You don’t know it, but he saw it. He saw you once in the empty lecture hall where you have many textbooks open around you and your head buried in one of them, and your mascara is a mess, your lip gloss that's always on your lips is faded, it’s like you don’t expect to break down that night. So, when did the professor ask him to help you with this course? He said yes faster than a flash because he will grab that chance, and he’s losing his mind over the idea of being your tutor. It’s also okay for him when you show up late at his door today.
Your bag almost slides off your shoulder, and your thumb hooks under the strap, gloss perfect, tank top riding up like it shifted on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it. He lets you inside like his space belongs to you by default. When both of you settled inside, he stayed at his desk and sat there like he had never learned how to relax, with his hoodie casually tossed over the chair. His tortora book is wide open on his thigh, while you’re settling your things in his place. The only things necessary are a book, notes, and pens.
He even let you sit in his bed with your things resting beside you. The moment you start reading is the moment you start complaining to him like this is not helping. You can’t do this today. But he will just shrug it off and stare at you with his eyes rolling. He let you have your moment first. Complain, skim the book, highlighting everything while he talks to you gently, not trying to be a bad tutor to you. He lets you do your own thing in the first fifteen minutes until you groan and say, “This is so much.”
This will be cuter if he’s not your tutor. He can just watch you complain all you want and still be cute, but this is not that moment, so he shrugs off what he’s thinking by chuckling softly and nodding at you. “We don’t have to study all of it in one go.” Which makes sense because both of you will be overworked if you study it all. And as much as he likes to teach you, he’s not as insane like you are in terms of studying, which can go on for hours and hours. “You’re gonna need to go really slow. I don’t get why there are two muscles with one name.”
He quickly looks at you when you say that, and he just sighs, “It’s technically the psoas and the iliacus, but-” You wave your hand to dismiss him. It’s not like you don’t know that two muscles with the same name came from the anterior fascial compartment of the thigh and muscles of the posterior abdominal wall, because you do know it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t hate that idea. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wish they’d give a girl a break.” No smile was found on your face when you said that, but it still sounds funny because he tucks a smile behind his teeth. “Want to walk through it on the diagram?” he asks you before nodding at the chart taped on his wall.
Teeth quickly find the bottom lip when the suggestion set is placed, and it’s not a bad thing, especially if it’s a good chart. It just doesn’t work for you. Eyes flickering back at him, you notice how flushed his neck is, how his chest his getting broader while he softly speaks, and how his hands touch the mattress before he sits down in front of you. Tilting your head, and your voice honey sweet, you say, “…Could I just use you? Like a dummy? A chart?” A smile finds your lips and you feel nervous before you add, “I swear I just learn better with… visuals.”
The words made his breath freeze. He thinks the words stop when you said that you want to use him as a dummy. Words are catching in his throat and he wants to choke. But he sighs and nods, “Yeah. Sure.” Giggles are found in the room when he agrees and you have this bright smile when you settle close to his knees. You feel the air change, but not uncomfortable in your skin. “Okay, thank you,” you murmur, brushing your hair back, “take your shirt off?”
His mouth opens but nothing is coming out other than a choke of surprise he has. Fingers found their way to the hem before pulling the shirt over his head, and he hoped he wasn’t making it weird. Look casual. Look. Casual. When he takes off his shirt, your eyes can’t help but look down at his body. Shit. So this is what tennis will do to you. Muscles are good. Muscles are heaven. You don’t even hate it anymore because your eyes can’t help to track the stretch of his biceps, the tense line of his stomach, the shirt falling as he leans back, chest naked.
You don’t even realize how he’s gripping the mattress tightly because your mouth almost waters at the sight, and you might pray to all the Gods that exist in this world, just not take this view away from you. Also, thank god Art is such a nervous wreck, he didn’t even notice you are staring. When you scoot over, your fingertips immediately hover at the waistband of his sweats. “So…” your voice almost got cut out from you but you just bit your cheek before speaking again, “iliacus is here, right?”
Hand comfortably settled in his body before fingers started to move and slid down to the curve of his hip. The skin of your hand brushes the soft skin above his waistband. Your touch is gentle, it’s like you are scared to touch him even. But that small touch made him tighten his muscles, and it sparked under his skin. His thigh jumps subtly, and his breath just dies down on his throat. “Wait, no… too medial?” you point out that you might be wrong, “Am I poking your guts?” He swallows his saliva before he speaks, and it gets rough, “Almost right. A little more lateral.”
He nods repeatedly for seconds before your fingers move and his palm glides down, and he can feel your hand hot across his abs. It tightens under your touch but you barely notice it does. “There?” He nods, breath catching. His sweat starts to pool at his forehead before he says, “That’s it. Iliacus. Merges with the psoas.” Hum escapes your mouth when he confirms the position is there while you’re being oblivious to the way he grips the mattress.
Your hand didn't stay in one place like it's some sort of traveler. It’s firmer and you kinda enjoy mapping his body like you are studying him, Art, not the lesson you have to remember in order to pass that course. It drifts even lower, actually. The soft material of his sweats finds your palm when it grazes towards the inside of his thigh near the crease of his groin. “Pectineus?” you ask, still unsure. “Or it’s gracilis?” His throat clears, shaking his head to the second muscle you mentioned, “N-no- you’re right. Pectineus.” He didn’t even mean to stutter, but help him, God, your hand is so close where he wants you right now.
Sometimes you are just stupid, despite being smart in academics, and can’t pick up what’s happening. It applies right now when your hand presses a little harder where your hand is placed before your eyes meet his. “You’re tense,” you comment, just telling how his thigh feels. “Are you flexing?” The air gets thicker as he feels his throat bob. He tries to look away, but you are so close and looking at him, so he just let out a quiet laugh. Nervous and embarrassed, “Trying not to.”
Knee brushes against his when you move closer, your thumb traces the curve of his glute, and drags it towards the seam of his leg like you really have to do that. “This is the obturator internus,” you say softly, but not really confident with your words considering you don’t like what you are studying. “Through the lesser sciatic foramen, right?” He hums at what you said as he feels his breath leave him. “Yeah. External rotation.” A grin forms on your lips along with a chuckle. “God, I’m so smart.”
Art's jaw tightens and his body is betraying him. Blood thrumming every time you touch him. He’s so fucked. So fucked. He feels the drag of your hand behind him, across his waist, and settles at the base of his spine. “Quadratus lumborum… or too low?” His hand hovers at your wrist before guiding it, “A little higher.” Your hand settles there for a moment while he’s doing all his best to hold his breath and not just pin you down on his bed.
After long enough to touch, your hand moves in a slow, kneading sweep, gliding down his thigh. “Sartorius,” you say, voice softer. “Longest muscle in the body.” A quiet giggle, but your hand moves carefully, palming his thigh from hip to knee, squeezing gently. “Sexy muscle,” you tease, not noticing how his grip on the mattress tightens. “Hip flexion, knee flexion, lateral rotation,” he mutters, shaking. “Show off muscle.”
From there, you lift up your hand up and put and rest it on his shoulder. Your thumb presses it there, rolling the muscle slightly. “Deltoid,” you say, “Obvious.” Thumb keeps flickering and brushing on the skin, and you notice him exhaling sharply, breath tearing out. “There are three parts to it, though. You’re on lateral,” he breathes out before his eye looks at your hand resting on his deltoid- or shoulder rather. But your hand has its own life, so he let it slide down to wrap his upper arm. “Biceps brachii,” you murmur, squeezing softly. His muscles are flexing. He has good biceps, and they’re thick too. “All this? Just muscle?” A thumb drags along the vein. “It has two heads,” he says, voice wrecked.
Giggles escape your lips and nods as your fingers skim up again but now settle on his throat, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is sternocleidomastoid,” you whisper, guiding him to turn his head. His throat moves, Adam’s apple jumping, the moment shifting from endurance to surrender. “Two origins,” he murmurs just to add another information, ragged. “Inserts at the mastoid.”
A smile curves on your lips as you fold your legs beneath you like nothing happened, glowing with soft pride. “Did I pass?” you tease. Art stares, mouth parted, ears heating, hands gripping his thighs so hard the tendons shake. He looks like he might be sick, or come, or cry, or all three. No answer comes, because you didn’t pass. You mess him in the head.
Art quickly leaves the bed when you finish playing dummy on his body and he walks so fast to the kitchen to get something. There’s a dent on his bed from where he stands, shape still warm and fresh. He’s thinking so hard not to think about how you almost sit on his lap just to check a muscle on his body. His hand is shaking while he’s opening the refrigerator to get a juice bottle so he can give it to you, but he’s holding it like it might explode.
The room smells of clean detergent and boy, and the scent drifts around you while you yawn, stretching your arms above your head, shirt sliding up, socks mismatched and peeking. Nothing in you cares to fix your clothes, not when comfort and carelessness go hand in hand, not when the soft sprawl of your body says you trust him enough to let yourself sink into his space.
You hear the fridge close as the sheet rustles when you kick your feet, humming under your breath, calling out without calling him over. “These sheets are so soft,” you say to the ceiling, casually and lazily. “I’d fail every class if I had these.” He almost drops the bottle, chest pulling tight at the thought of you here too often, close enough to fuck him up entirely.
Pillow creases line your cheek as you grin. “This smells like you,” you tease, giggling softly like it’s nothing, and Art swallows hard, forcing himself not to drop to his knees just to keep you here longer. He moves to you, steps stiff, eyes dragging over the flash of your stomach, your tank top riding higher with every stretch, your shorts creeping up your thighs. “You gonna give it to me,” you tease, sleepy smile glinting, “or just stand there like I’m part of a gallery?”
That shook him up to go back to reality. He clears his throat, handing over the bottle with both hands like it’s fragile, breath stuck somewhere in the space between you. The cold plastic brushes your fingers, the cup is already opened for you, and you just have to drink it up. “Mmm,” you sigh, licking gloss from your lips, “I was about to start eating your notes.” His laugh is thin, strangled. “Wouldn’t be your weirdest study technique.”
“Exactly,” you beam, a spark in your eye. Juice slides down your throat while the silence between you thickens, and your head tilts. “So, continue? Still my turn, or yours?” Art sits down, closer than he’s ever dared, like the air itself has weight, like the world shrinks between you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “my turn.” Knees fold under you, soft thighs pressing together, eyes bright as you watch him, unaware of the small shifts that undo him every second.
His hand is gentle when it finds its way towards you. The room feels quiet and the tension is burning you both alive and it’s breathing between your inhale and his. “This is where gracilis lies. Remember moments ago when you mistakenly pectineus as gracilis?” he murmurs, hand finding your inner thigh, not indecent, not innocent, pressing warmth into soft skin and also showing you where it really is since you mentioned it earlier. “It adducts the thigh in and helps bend the knee. It’s also long and sensitive.”
You blink, then smile. “Sensitive,” you repeat, legs shifting unconsciously, shorts pulling higher. Of course he notices, it's almost like he memorizes every twitch of your thigh as he slides his hand higher, thumb at your pelvis, fingers almost shaking. “Here- uh, this muscle…” The voice comes out more ragged while his thumb is still pressing into your body and your breath becomes still. “Adductor brevis. It’s… it helps with hip adduction, moving your leg inward. You’d, uh, use it walking, pivoting, even just… standing steady.” He hates how his voice sounds and how flushed and nervous he is. “Feel that?” he asks, and you nod, small.
“Wait- show me again?” And with that, he presses his hand deeper, it’s like his palm is molding to the shape of your thigh while he feels every twitch under his touch. But there’s a pause between the two of you, a little heavy, and he just moves his hand because setting it there for too long would mean something else. From there, he slides up his hand up to the nape of your neck. Fingers tracing under your skull, just settling there. “Levator scapulae,” he whispered, breath brushing in the shell of your ear. “You tilt your head when you think.” You nod without realizing, your neck open and almost offering to him.
Your eyes are traveling when he moves his hands around your body to show which part of the muscle he’s pressing to and your heart is surely beating so fast that you might want to end this week's session quickly. And his fingers are on the move again. His hand drifts from the back of your neck to slide down over your shoulder. His hand feels warm when it brushes along the neckline of your tank before slipping beneath, but he rested his hand on your neckline first before doing that just to see if you will be comfortable to continue.
It feels like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you give him a nod. When you do, his shoulder drops from relief and his hand slips under your tank top. His hand is warm against the ribs, while his thumb is caressing softly like he’s getting you comfortable with the feeling. “Pectoralis minor,” he says, voice low, like he’s reminding himself to continue and breathe like a normal person. “It’s placed right here, under the big chest muscle.”
You shrug and blink, trying to track, brows pinching. But… yeah. If it’s about anatomy, you are always confused so you ask, “Which one’s the big one again?” You kinda feel genuinely lost right now which makes you a little anxious because you don’t want to look dumb. There’s a quiet laugh that slips out of him. It’s breathless, and shaky. “The… major,” he says, “that’s the one you can see. This one’s under it, helps pull the shoulder blades down.” And you just nod and hum while he explains like a puppy. “Oh.” You look down, but his hand is in the way, and your eyes go back up to his face. “That’s… a lot.”
Hum escapes from his lips before he breathes out an “It’s okay,” from his mouth. You feel his thumb rub a small circle over your skin, comforting without thinking. “You’ll get it. Just think… breathing, shoulder movement. That’s enough for now.” His hand stops for a moment and it lingers before you hear him clear his throat. He looks away for seconds and just the blink of an eye, it’s already back to you. “So,” he stated, voice soft. “Uh, I’ll move my hand to the back now, yeah?”
You nod at his head up and his hand starts to move from your chest to your back. Fingertips touch your spine and it's a soft trail that causes your breath to hitch. He swallows and his throat bobs before he speaks again, “You can find multifidus here,” he teaches you. His fingers gently tracing lightly along your back, “it’s smaller and tiny compared to other muscles, but it helps you stand straight. It’s still a big help because it keeps your spine stable.”
There’s a silence after that and his fingers just hover there while looking at you. It’s like he’s checking you to see if you follow what he’s telling you. “Hmm.. to make it simple, you can think of it like it’s the spine’s little helpers because they keep you upright when you bend or twist.” His thumb presses more on the area to show you how it works. “You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. A small hum leaves your lips as your back arches into his touch without meaning to. “Tiny stabilizers,” you echo, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I could count them,” quieter still, like he’s speaking to himself. His hand stills just under your waistband, featherlight.
“So the next is gluteus minimus,” he says, voice careful. “This one is hard to isolate,” he explains first, not even touching anything yet and his hand is not on your body right now. “What does it do?” you ask, trying to sound casual but really? You want to pass out now because you’ve been feeling hot since that stupid dummy idea of yours happened. There’s a shaky breath he lets out before he states, “Well. It, uh, helps abduct your hip- moving your leg to the side. Keep your pelvis level when you walk.” He adds, “It’s actually important even if it's small.”
“Is it… Okay, if we keep going?” he nervously asks while he looks at you, and after he said that, the silence is too loud while he waits for your answer. You swallow, and your hand clutches on the soft material of his bed and tries to calm down the feelings in your chest and stomach. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice quiet but there is certainty to your answer. “I trust you.” After you said that, his hand latches on to your hip and it slips underneath your waistband. You could feel his fingertips grazing the crest of your hip, but now directly and touching your skin. “Here,” he whispers. “This is it.” You blink once, twice, or thrice before you can catch your breath. You don’t even realize your hip- body is leaning towards his hand.
And like what he’s doing the whole time his turn started, his hand doesn’t linger long because staying will make things awkward. So he pulls his hand away, and he smiles at you, even though his hand is trembling, and he doesn’t even want to leave. To control himself, he sits straight, but his eyes are still glued to you with want, and he’s in limbo, thinking about being just your tutor or doing something more… He lifts his hand, hesitates, and tucks your hair behind your ear with a trembling hand.
Fingers brush against the side of your neck and stop just right at your collarbone before he finds your pulse point. “Scalenes,” he pointed to the muscle he’s touching while you can’t even recover from the action he made. How can he tuck your hair and proceed quickly to the next muscle? “They help you breathe,” he explains and there’s silence again because he’s about to get bold with this, “They also help you tilt your head, like when you look at me like that.”
Lips parted from his words and breath stuck in the throat, eyes meeting his, and your cheeks are burning. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but he quickly shakes it off from his mind, and his throat bobbing as he swallows. His voice is thin when it comes out, “That’s, um…” His eyes look at your body from up to down before he goes back to your face. “That’s all for today.” Words hang like uncertainty, but it needs to be done, or else he might do something more than teach you anatomy.
“You’re breathing faster,” he says anyway, almost to himself. You chuckle and lick your lips before you try to control it. “Am I?” you tease him, and your voice is soft. It almost sounds like you are shy. Art pulls away from you and sits closer to the edge instead of in front of you. You stretch your arm and your tank top shifts up when you do that. Your skin flushes, thighs opening just enough and you are unaware of the effect you are having on him. A breathless giggle, “Thanks for today’s session,” slips out like none of it mattered, like your body isn’t mapped in his hands. You didn’t even notice how your strap slipped off your shoulder when you stretched and it will be an unforgettable sight to him.
One of his secrets today is that when you stretch, he gets a glimpse of your nipples beneath your thin cotton, which is unintentional, and your top has a padded bra, so… it’s killing him right now because of what he saw. Art doesn’t look, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor, pretending not to notice so you don’t have to feel shy. And he’s letting you right now fix your lip gloss while you hum and toss all the notes and things you pulled out in your bag like you are finally concluding this session over. You tug down your top and fix your strap after you close your bag, and your shorts roll back into place, a quiet sigh your only commentary. “Thanks again!” chirps from your lips, casual lightness in your step as you leave, gloss forgotten on his bed and you don’t even realize you didn’t put it back in your bag. Then you’re gone, and Art remains, kneeling, head bowed, lungs finally allowed to exhale, your shape still carved into the room.
For a moment, he stays in the same place when you're already gone but your perfume is still there. There's still a dent in his sheet from the shape and weight of your body from sitting too long in his bed. Like a damn fool he is, still catching all things happening like it didn't happen in front of him because he's too stunned. The air is heavy, and still, like the room is waiting for him to acknowledge what happened. It's almost like he can even feel your soft body against his palms or he might be getting crazy at this point.
And on the corner of his bed, there's your forgotten lip gloss. He notices it too quickly when he turns his head to the side and it's sitting on the nightstand. It's pink and looks soft. It’s the kind of pink that’s just enough to make your lips not look pale. The cap is silver and shiny, it catches the soft light of his room and it’s expensive, he thinks. There's a Dior logo so it must be expensive, right? When he picks it up, it looks small in his palm and the it's not really light and kinda feels heavy, maybe because of the tube or because it's still not halfway gone.
He actually almost texts or calls you to tell you that you left it in his place. Almost hid it inside his drawer. Almost opened it and brought it to his nose to smell the gloss like some sick freak. But instead, he just put it back in the nightstand beside his phone. He tells himself that he's just going to give it personally and keep it safe, but the truth is he doesn't really want to give it back to you.
Slowly, he settled comfortably again in his bed, back pressing against the headboard and just leaning. Sweat pooling in his forehead, jaw clenched, hands still trembling a little in his lap, and still not over by the feeling of your soft skin and flesh. Could still feel your thigh twitching, your breath against his hand when he's touching your neck, and when you trust him to touch you and don't move away from him. His whole body is burning, and body throbbing, cock been hard for long- maybe since you touched him to his thigh.
He didn't even realize he was still shirtless because you asked him to take it off earlier. Your voice echoes in his head like he's having some hallucinations and his abs tightening each breath with his cock twitching painfully inside his sweats. Words from earlier just keep repeating and hearing them, especially the “I trust you” and “Did I pass?” while his hands were still warm from touching your skin. Frustration filled his body he could just cry, come, or scream. He's not even picky and could be anything from the three, but all he does is whisper, “Fuck.”
Gaze remains in his hands while just sitting there and he might pass out if he doesn't do something soon. He's so… pent up, but even touching himself while thinking about you feels like crossing the line, even though you'll never find out about it. But he's also so worked up right now… and the guilt just shatters away when his hand starts palming himself through the fabric. It's slow, hesitant, and unsure if he's even allowed to feel it. The first few movements his hand made sent shivers down his spine and made him tip his head back against the wall. Lower lip bitten between his teeth when he moves his hips up and grind into his palm like a fucking teenager that needs to cum for the first time. He repeats it again and the drag of fabric is good because of the friction. His cock twitches, and he swears, jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.
Your laugh stuck in his mind. It’s teasing, and sweet. Leaning in closer than you need to, fingers skimming his abs, and asking, “Is this the pectineus, or am I just touching your dick?” You never said that, he knows. It’s also not how you will say it. But it is now. His hips jerk up helplessly, groaning at the sick, sharp pleasure, every part of him wired to want, to take, to keep this feeling that’s you and only you. He strokes himself through the fabric, sucking in air that doesn’t feel like air with vision blurring with the tension building under his skin.
He could finish like this, quick, dirty, fists the sheets, and gets it over with, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He edges himself, lets the pleasure fester, building tension with slow, sick care, palming, grinding, squeezing until he’s leaking down his thigh, sweats are soaked, and he doesn't care because he’s liking the mess, wanting to drown in it, and wanting to suffer for it. Maybe this is his own way to guilt himself because he touched himself. After all, you don’t even do anything at all. You don’t know this lingering feeling he has. You don’t know that even you just smile, talk, and look at him? He’s going to be a wreck.
Can’t even stop hearing right now how your voice works in that tone- sweet, innocent, oblivious like you don’t really know what you are doing at all. And with that he felt his cock twitch when he stroked himself harder. His chest is starting to sweat- his whole body is even sweating because he’s keeping himself on edge until he’s having a hard time with his breathing, his vision is glassy because of the tears, and his teeth are biting on his tongue to stop himself from moaning pathetically. He’s dizzy, legs shaking, locked in a holding pattern between control and collapse, when his eyes flick back to your lip gloss. It’s still there, cap closed, and suddenly, nothing else matters.
Hand reaches for it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s breakable. Like it’s a treasure. Like he found it and decided it would be one of his most beloved things he owned because he can treat it like proof that you were really here. That you’ve been inside his space and are comfortable. His fingers wrap around the tubed gloss carefully and his throat catches his breath. It’s warm in the room. Expensive and glittery, stupidly soft pink. But holding it does something to him. Splits him open, quiet and humiliating. Shameful that he’s the kind of guy who got fucked up by merely having your lipgloss left his dorm. Like he’s always been the kind of guy… sick and freak.
He uncaps it with trembling fingers. The scent hits him fast- sweet and fruity. It smells like berries. He close his eyes when his cock twitched hard again. There’s also an idea in his little fucked up mind and he’s fighting himself not to do it. But… it won. He opens his eyes, while his hand brings the applicator up close to his mouth until the applicator touches his lips. Swipes it across his bottom lip. Then his top. Then again, thick and shiny, shameful, smeared like a kiss he’s trying to fake. His mouth tingles, lips pressed together as he breathes through his nose, eyelids fluttering at the taste and it makes him feel insane.
But that’s not enough. Not even close. He pulls out his cock from his sweat using his free hand. Giving it a few strokes before he lets it go. Eyes glaze down to his open hand and he drags the wand down across his palm, painting a wet streak from heel to finger, then another, and another until it’s enough. The stickiness clings to his skin, glossy, pink, and so wrong. He caps it again gently using one hand, like he didn’t just use it for something unspeakable, and sets it back on the nightstand. Then he spits into his palm, letting it mix there. It’s warm, humiliating, and slicking the gloss down until it’s perfect.
His hand wraps that hand around his cock and he starts stroking it. It’s slow at first, and he’s feeling the drag of slick over aching heat: obscene and hot, so stupidly close to real he could cry. The contrast is too much- sticky, wet, hot, like a simulation of your mouth. His head tips back as a moan breaks, loud, cracked, desperate, hips jerking, body flexing. The friction is obscene, the sounds alone making him feel deranged. Throat raw and keep bobbing down inside the sick feeling because it feels like you. Almost. Or that’s what he likes to think. He’s fucking into his fist now, messy and fast, thighs trembling.
His other hand moves to his mouth without thinking, thumb smearing across his bottom lip like he’s trying to feel your mouth there. Like he’s imagining you are kissing him because he has your gloss on his mouth and he feels it tingling, and he doesn’t care. He wants to feel kissed. He wants to pretend. And he does. Because suddenly, it’s not just gloss on his hand he’s imagining- it’s you. Your mouth, glossy and warm, stretched around the head of his cock while you blink up at him, all eyelashes and no idea what you’re doing to him.
What makes things worse is that you probably don’t know what you are doing. Maybe it’s just in his head you are this… studious and he has never ever seen you with someone. Dating or hearing about you hooking up with someone else. In his mind, you’d be humming something, maybe, or you’d be giggling like you’re not sure you’re doing it right. Hand loose around the base, glossy lips working messily over the tip. Sticky and pink smearing down his cock like you’re sucking an ice pop, glitter in your spit, sparkle on his skin, that stupid gloss painting him in your mouth.
He groans loudly because he can feel it like it’s real, like you’re there. Cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched, and still wearing the sweet lotion clinging to his sheets. Warm smear of gloss drags down his cock. It’s wet and sweet. Lips pressing to the vein like it’s something to taste, to learn, not even teasing, just curious. He almost can hear your soft little whines while his hand smearing the sticky pink gloss as he thrust up and fucking his hand. That’s when it slips out, cracked and hoarse: “Yeah,” breath catching, hips stuttering, “like that, baby…”
His hips continue to move up into his fist, another moan- louder, like he’s not alone, like he’s too deep in the fantasy to come back. “You gonna lick it off too?” he said out loud like you are really here with his eyes shut. “You gonna swallow for me? Yeah? Gonna let me fuck your throat, pretty girl?” His hand moves faster, spit and gloss mixing like the sickest fantasy of having your mouth. His thighs are trembling with his stomach tight, and every part of him is clenching to hold the moment.
There’s the edge to drag it out, and to make it last because if he opens his eyes you’ll be gone from this little fantasy of his with your voice in his head whispering with a soft and perfect voice: “Wait… am I doing it right?” That’s the trigger. That’s the red buzzer that was pressed. He comes like it’s his first time doing that. It’s loud and gut-deep. Legs shaking and his cock twitching as his cum paints his stomach, thighs, and his palm.
Free hand flying back to his mouth like he’s choking on the sound, but the moan rips out of him anyway. It’s high, broken, and full of your name. Then it’s quiet, breathless, and shame-drenched. He’s still throbbing with how badly he wants you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he just breathes. Wrecked and still half-naked, chest flushed, abs sticky with come. Not so long after, he quickly wipes himself off with the shirt he was wearing earlier, and he throws the shirt on the floor as if it offends him.
Must be going crazy because he can still your laugh in his room and the shitty part is your gloss still shining on his mouth. He can’t stop thinking of the way your thighs almost cradle him when you are going through his body to check which muscles you are touching. He stares at the ceiling, breath catching, heartbeat slowing, remembering how you had to feel how he was shaking when you touched his thigh, the way he swallowed when you leaned in. You weren’t dumb. You knew. And you still kept going.
“Could I just use you? Like a dummy or something?” God. You said that as if it’s the best idea in the world. His cock twitches again, and he groans, rolling onto his side, arm flopping over his eyes like it will block out from thinking about what happened. You wanted to use him. You chose him over diagrams and other visuals, said it helped, smiled like he made it easier, like you felt safe, or comfortable, or- shit. He swallows, brain foggy, stupid, and desperate.
Fuck, you have to like him, right? At least a little. Who does that with someone they don’t feel at least a little attracted to? You said thank you like you meant it, touched his chest with that soft smile, looked up at him like- like- goddamn. A beat passes, then another. The ceiling doesn’t answer. The silence creeps in slowly, sick, suffocating, and it all feels different. Too quiet. Too much. You touched him like it meant nothing, he thinks.
When he came to his senses with eyes blinking up like he just did a murder he just realized it was wrong while sitting up, and chest sticking where it wasn’t wiped thoroughly. His face grimaces at the same time his shame hits, which feels hot and itchy in his bones. A hand rakes through damp hair, his breath shallow, and his chest tight. Of course, you didn’t like him. You're just being nice, trying to study, trying to pass the quiz you both have to take next week. God. He fucked up, again. Got in his head, thought too much, made it weird.
He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and thumbs through his contacts. Not you, though. Can’t text you. Would say something too much, and you’d know. So he texted Patrick instead.
Art: You free to hit rn?
He waited for a few minutes and then:
Patrick: Yeah. You good?
Art: Just need to clear my head.
Patrick didn't reply after that, which probably means he's on his way now while Art is lying back on his stomach and head pressed against the pillows. Screaming one more time. Second. Third, before he looks at his nightstand again where your gloss is standing. This pink and sticky and innocent, staring back at him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, guilt tightening in his stomach. He feels he used you, or used the idea of you, the version in his head that laughs like you’re already his. So fucking gone.
By the time Patrick shows up, the sun's dipped low against the blinds. The room still carries that faint scent of cum and your glass. The guy walks inside like this is his own fucking dorm and drop his tennis bay so loud. “Jesus Christ,” comes out of him, “what the fuck happened in here?” He could give him the real answer. Or make something up. Or just smiles at him but there's no answer. Head down, eyes nowhere. While Patrick is already snooping, picking up everything he sees like a crime scene.
It's like he already knows what happened with the tangled sheets, messed up shirt on the floor. And then the nightstand. Patrick sees it. Steps closer and he’s too stunned by the sight. “…No fucking way.” He picks it up like he's grocery shopping, holding it between two fingers. “Bro. Did she leave this here on purpose, or are you just keeping her shit like a stalker?” Patrick looks at the pink gloss and goes back to him. It’s the same gloss you always reapplied before leaning over the notes like it helped you focus.
Art heard Patrick open the cap and sniff the scene before saying, “Smells like a fucking strawberry jam.” He presses his knuckles to his lips while he's ignoring Patrick's comments, like maybe he can force himself to stop thinking about it. Because he knows what Patrick doesn’t. Knows it wasn’t forgotten. You dropped it there mid-study, barely noticing, even though you should, since this lip gloss is something you always use. You didn’t even kiss him, and still, it feels like the most intimate thing in the room. Patrick scoffs, drops it back, and lets it roll into place beside the lamp. “You need a hobby,” Patrick says. “Or a blowjob. Or both.”
A long, low exhale through the nose. A laugh that will sound too much like a cry while Patrick waits for a punchline. “You good?” he asks, and this time, it’s real. He just gives him a quick nod, before standing and putting his shirt and sneakers on. “Let’s go,” he said since his tennis bags are already full of what they need for this quick hit. And god, when they got into the court, the feeling stayed. There's still the burning inside his system.
It's not because of the fucking color. Or how pink it is. How fruity the smell. Or not the shape or the size of the tube is. Maybe it's more like he's going crazy about the lingering touch that happened earlier really meant nothing at all. And it's fucking everything up. His movements on the court feels shitty. Each step he made was late. It’s like he doesn't have a sense of reaction. Or the serves are mid or maybe not him at all.
Patrick quickly clocks it, grinning like he’s watching from a television show. “Bro,” he said after a missed backhand, “are you playing on two hours of sleep, or are you showing how much of a loser you are?” No answer. His sweat wipes down his face, salt stinging, pulling the memory closer. Your laugh, your hands on his waist, the glow of where you touched him still hot under the skin. The ball bounces once, twice, too hard. “She touched my fucking sartorius,” slips out, hoarse.
“The what?” Patrick’s racket lowers. “Muscle in the thigh. Long one goes diagonally. She… she followed it with her finger like she was tracing a line only she could see.” Art sees Patrick look at him like he's insane then bursts out laughing. “You’re unwell,” he says. “Actually sick in the head.” It earned him a glare from Art with that comment he did.
His next serve is tossed, missed. Racket dangling, and eyes gone far-off. “She kept doing it,” voice raw and frustrated, “naming muscles, pressing on pressure points, said she needed visuals. She sat between my knees and touched every inch my body like it was a fucking test review.”
A low whistle. “You gonna cry or jerk off mid-set?” And there's this quiet, and honest confession: “Need to fuck her. Need to get her out of my system.” His hands dropped to the side before his free hand ran to his sweaty hair. Silence. Then laughter, sharp, incredulous. “That bad, huh?”
Art’s jaw flexes, grip shifting on the racket like it’s your wrist, or your throat. “She touched my iliacus,” slipping out, “just inside my waistband, looked up at me, asked if she was pressing on my kidney.” He starts pacing around while he's thinking about it, remembering the feeling too. How tense he was. How warm your touch is. Patrick chokes, wheezing. “What the fuck?”
Eyes close. “I couldn’t breathe. Hard the entire time. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. I don’t know. It was worse,” he adds before his eyes snap back to Patrick who looks like he needs a good laugh and he's giving him one. “Jesus.” Patrick nearly drops his racket from laughing. “You’re in love with a girl who doesn’t even know she’s edging you. That’s fucking tragic.”
He didn't laugh in return. Eyes on the court, ready to scream or collapse or call you to finish what you started. “Can still feel her lip gloss on my mouth.” Patrick shakes his head. “You need to get hit by a bus.”
Art nodded like he had just heard a very good idea and was ready to do it. “Or a concussion.” Patrick throws a new ball over. “Or a rebound. Come on. Play like you’re not actively being haunted by her hands.” And there's a clean hit, but the ball lands wide. He cursed under his breath, racket lowering, sweat dripping down his spine. This isn’t getting out of his system anytime soon. Not when the system is entirely yours now.
He slump onto the bench, wrist draped over a knee, shirt clinging, chest can't calm the fuck down. It’s deeper than the match, like something lodged under the ribs, like he spent the last hour trying to outrun the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Patrick tosses a water bottle with a lazy grin. “You play like someone who came into his own bed and never recovered.” He didn't respond because what Patrick just said is true.
“You know you were grunting louder than usual, right?” Patrick leans on his racket, smirking. “Thought you pulled that long muscle she touched. What was it? Sartorius?” His snap up, flat, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs before he gave him the finger to say fuck you.
There's a smirk on Patrick's mouth and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever is happening with Art. “Just saying, if her little med school routine gets you that distracted, what’s gonna happen when she actually wants something from you? You gonna fold again? Or bust in your shorts and text me again for a hit?”
“Patrick,” he groans. It's almost like a kid having a tantrum over something they didn't get, like candy or something. He's acting like that right now, keeps complaining but doesn't do anything about it. The grin doesn’t leave. “You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.” No argument there and just a swipe of the hem of his shirt across the face. Both hands are dragging through hair. Breathing like he has a mind map of you, on your knees, asking if you could use him, calling it studying, touching him like it meant nothing.
I know this is a big and complicated topic, so feel free to say that it's too big an ask etc, but I've been following the conversation on this blog with a lot of interest as a secondary level educator, and I was wondering-- in your view, what would a more disability friendly university look like? What needs to be put in place?
I remember seeing accomodations (including for myself w ADHD) for extra time, flexible due dates, and scribes and such, but these were tweaks that often didn't significantly help myself or the peers I talked to. (And this is based on limited experience, I would not be surprised at all if there were people these were essential for!) What would make these structures more accessible? Or do you advocate for something completely different?
Thank you for taking the time to answer!
this actually gives me an opportunity to make a post that I had been wanting to make anyway, which is to describe how my high school worked, and why that was what enabled me to actually succeed and graduate when in any other school environment I absolutely would have failed.
I think that one of the difficult things about this is that a good disability support system in a school cannot be the sole purview of the special ed department. it has to be baked into the structure of the way the entire school works. so when I say that... I went to a school that was an alternative public school. which isn't like a charter school, it was a sort of magnet school that you got into via lottery. and it was created on purpose to be a smaller school that would be able to give kids more one-on-one attention and resources in a district where the other high schools all had between 2,000 and 3,000 kids in them. it's also an alternative high school in the sense that it follows a certain set of guidelines which were developed in the '70s and I will link to the wikipedia article about this because that is in fact its own whole thing haha.
in general, I think that the way things are structured for this sort of 70s style alternative high school is just... better. for a lot of reasons, but one of the main ones is that they are really built on the idea that students should be active participants in their own learning and that students should be given as much responsibility for their education as possible. so, one of the cornerstones of this is community education & programs where kids are allowed to design their own classes. that's when students find someone who is an expert in something in their community (sometimes these were even other students!) and network that person in with the community education office in the school to design a curriculum. some of these classes were recurring and you could sign up for them even if you hadn't designed them yourself, and then some of them were just classes that a student would design once just for themselves one on one.
another element of this is that the attendance policy at my school was... there wasn't one. kids could be late to class, they could miss class, they could get up in the middle of class and walk out, all without explanation or justification or permission. if this happened enough that it was impacting their performance at school, teachers would express concern about it the interdisciplinary learning center (which was what they called essentially our special ed program,) and that team of people would schedule a meeting with the student to try to determine what was going on in their life that was causing them to miss so much school. and then, depending on what the answer to that question was, they would build a plan to try to help the student be better able to participate in their own schooling.
so basically a lot of it is that you have to treat students like they are adults. you have to treat students like they are human beings who have valuable perspectives and who are able to bring important ideas to the table regarding their own education. and that has to be baked into the whole way that the school functions. it's really not compatible with a top-down authority structure that is based on a bunch of hard and fast rules that have hard and fast consequences attached to them that aren't ever personalized for an individual's particular circumstances. if you have an institution that is built like that, you just can't adequately accommodate either disabled students OR students who are going through a variety of different things the impact their education. for example, one of the kids in my ILC class was a girl who had gotten pregnant, and she needed extra support to be able to succeed in school while she was going through that. so, while the ILC supported disabled kids in specific ways based on what we needed, it also made sure to support kids who were going through things outside of school that would impact their learning.
I remember very distinctly being in my ILC class and having the woman who ran it, Ellen, check in with this girl regularly about how she was feeling, and often would bring her snacks from the vending machines to make sure that her blood sugar didn't crash. Ellen took guidance from this student about how open she wanted to be with the rest of us about the pregnancy and what she wanted to tell us about it and whether she wanted us to acknowledge it or not, and she said she wanted to tell us and that she thought it would be nice if we had a baby shower for her. so one of my fondest memories from high school actually is sitting with all the other special ed kids having a baby shower in the ILC room with the teacher aides and everyone and it was just really nice and joyful. and I know that circumstances for kids that get pregnant in high school are usually nothing like that, and it really breaks my heart because I saw just how well a school could potentially handle that, and it didn't even take that much more effort... it was all just about the school's values and what they prioritized.
which brings me to a more specific exploration of the woman who ran our ILC! her name was Ellen and she was amazing. she coordinated all of the 504 plan meetings and IEPs and all of that stuff. and the main thing that she did actually was advocate aggressively for every student. she would put herself between us and teachers, and she would put herself between us and administrators, and she would even put herself between us and parents. she fundamentally respected every student and understood their needs and she would fight for them. and here is where the model of the school is important: everyone listened to her. teachers were not allowed to override her. she had the final say on what happened to ILC students in almost every circumstance I can think of. the administration of my high school wanted to kick me out because I was sent to brain jail for a year, and when I came back they wanted to make the argument that I was no longer enrolled and would have to go to one of the larger high schools instead. and Ellen jumped in and said "absolutely not, I will not let you send this student to a larger high school, if you send this student to a larger high school she will fall between the cracks and it will ruin her life" which was of course correct. and the administration actually listened to her and they let me come back.
so the thing is that you have to have an institution where people like Ellen are given the freedom and authority and trust to be able to make these decisions, even if other faculty do not agree with them. you have to let the people like Ellen have full reign of their departments. You can't have some upper level administration people overriding the Ellens because they think that they know better and they are technically "above" her in rank or whatever. which ties back into: you really really absolutely cannot have a hierarchical system and support disabled students or students who are struggling in any way. you just can't. it's not possible.
now that I have gotten that out of the way I can tell you how they handled accommodations! I think that the most successful thing that Ellen did with accommodations is that they were very flexible. so I had some accommodations that were listed in my 504 plan that were across the board, but also Ellen was given the power to decide at any time that I needed other specific accommodations in specific classes or even just for specific assignments. if there was a specific assignment I was struggling with, I could come to her and tell her why I was struggling with it, and she would set up a meeting between me and that teacher and we would all discuss ways to alter the assignment so that I could do it more easily. an example of this is that I really struggled with writing essays in high school for a variety of executive functioning reasons and also just because it's not an intuitive way for me to express the things that I have learned. so one of my accommodations was that I was allowed to have a private meeting with the teacher where they would ask me questions and I would answer them, and we would have an in depth verbal discussion about the material that we were learning so that the teacher could determine that I had adequately understood and synthesized the information we were being taught. I would be marked on how well they thought I understood that information and how well I was able to communicate my ideas and opinions about it. funnily enough right now I am actually writing this using voice to text because it's easier for me to express concepts like this verbally. :')
basically, most of my accommodations were things that started with the understanding that 1. I was very involved and engaged as a learner, and 2. I had a whole lot of trouble proving that I had learned the things we were learning and understood them when that was being evaluated in traditional ways.
so, we would come up with non-traditional ways for me to show the teachers that I was engaging with the material and that I understood it and was able to think critically about it and form and express ideas and opinions about it clearly.
other ILC students had many other accommodations; they were all tailored for each individual student and what they needed in each individual class with each individual assignment.
the main thing that we all had was a block of time in our day where we would go to the ILC classroom and sit down with teacher aides who would help us look at all of the school work that we were meant to be doing and help us in breaking that work down into manageable chunks, help us with understanding things we were struggling with, and also just giving us a dedicated space and body doubles to sit with us while we worked on homework. that was really essential for me because like mooooost neurodivergent kids, I had a huge amount of trouble doing homework at home.
so I think unfortunately the answer to this question is not as simple as "what accommodations should we give kids across the board" because it's that model of education that is the problem to begin with. and I really honestly truly did not have an answer for how best to serve disabled students within the structure of an education system that is hierarchical, top down, and inflexible. fundamentally I don't believe that it's possible to truly serve your students in an institution like that. I think that the best that teachers can do in those circumstances is what some of us have talked about here, in terms of just being as kind as you can and making exceptions and offering all the extra help you can whenever you are able.
that's really really long and if you have made it all the way to the end, thank you for reading this, and I hope that everyone has learned some things about alternative models of education! I am really passionate about this and I feel so so fortunate that I was able to benefit from this style of school. it was not without its flaws, absolutely for sure (many of these flaws are documented in the wikipedia article I linked previously,) but if I had gone to one of the other public high schools there's absolutely no way I would have graduated. I feel like there's so little awareness that alternative models of education EXIST AT ALL, much less what they can look like. so. enjoy :)
Here, community members can find afterschool programs, career development, and health and wellness resources.
"Across the country, thousands of public schools face closures due to low enrollment.
But Detroit, Michigan-based nonprofit Life Remodeled is welcoming vacant schools into a new era.
The organization, which has invested $51 million in revitalizing Detroit neighborhoods, primarily works to purchase vacant properties and work with dozens of area organizations to provide life-changing resources to community members.
Its first remodel — the Durfee Innovation Society — opened in 2023. A former elementary and middle school, the building is now what the organization calls “an opportunity hub,” providing resources like after-school programs, career preparedness, and support in accessing healthcare, financial literacy, and more.
“The Durfee Innovation Society is an Opportunity Hub,” Brandy Haggins, the director of the project, told CBS News. “We call it that because we’ve taken an old school building that probably would have set back vacant, and we housed it with the best and brightest nonprofits in Detroit.”
She continued: “An Opportunity Hub is a place where individuals can come and get opportunities that they deserve, that they probably otherwise would not have access to.”
The building is home to over 35 organizations, including Nursing Detroit, Big Brothers Big Sisters, and Starfish Family Services.
Since it opened, the Durfee Innovation Society has provided 3,400 Detroit students with after-school programming, 5,600 with job opportunities, and 13,400 children and families with resources and support.
Ultimately, the organization says, 22,000 Detroiters take part in Durfee’s programs every year.
These numbers represent exciting milestones, but they are also in competition with what Life Remodeled is up against.
According to the organization, 88% of third graders in Detroit read below grade level. 30% of Detroiters can’t access the healthcare they need. And Detroit residents’ median household income is 50% less than suburban residents.
School closures impact low-income communities hardest, with low enrollment rates causing school districts to consolidate resources — and infrastructure.
In 2017, Durfee Elementary School merged with a local high school, and Life Remodeled swooped in to save the space.
“It’s not just community history; It’s personal history for a lot of people,” Haggins told CBS News in 2024. “What better way to work with the community than to reopen their school building into something that still belongs to them?”
The services available at the hub are free to anyone in the community. Nonprofits housed there pay for their space “at cost,” meaning they only pay what it takes to keep the building up and running.
It’s a model that seems to be working.
“The best part about being involved is seeing the actual change be made,” Charles Spears, the youth alliance president for Durfee Innovation Society, told CBS News. “You know, a lot of people talk about it. But when you get to see first hand, you actually see what is happening. It’s just like, wow, there is literally opportunity for all.”
Now, Life Remodeled is onto their next project: another “opportunity hub” on the east side of Detroit. The new property, formerly Winans Performing Arts Academy, is a 90,000-square-foot space that plans to open in December of 2025.
It’s called Anchor Detroit, and it’s located in the Denby community — an area in which residents “face significant poverty and lack access to opportunities related to educational attainment, job opportunities, and health and wellness resources,” according to a press release from Life Remodeled.
More than 50,000 square feet of the space will be leased by nonprofit partners, who will bring more after-school youth programs, workforce development initiatives, and health resources to the area...
Anchor Detroit is currently being renovated to prepare for its reopening and will reportedly include a “significant presence” for arts and culture programs.
Once it opens, Life Remodeled estimates the new space will support 18,000 community members per year.
“This should be a nationwide model for other schools that have closed across the country,” Haggins told CBS News. “I think taking a school building, or any historical building that means something to a community, and repurposing it into something that’s for the community — that’s huge and necessary.”"
