#and therefor they could plausibly hang out

[yieldtotemptation]

PROFESSIONAL ft. Bae

bae x male reader smut

8k words

For those keeping score at home, Bae Jinsol does appear to have the upper hand.

Not just because of who she is—the looks, the celebrity, the whole perfect package of it all; that's a dime a dozen in your line of work.

It’s how she haunts you.

The messages she leaves on your phone. The way she says your name.

The photos.

So, yeah. Despite the fact that you’re ostensibly just her personal trainer, and therefore, ipso facto, the ‘one in charge’; it’s becoming all too apparent that the balance of power in your relationship with Bae is, well, to put it simply, not exactly professional.

Which makes it no surprise that even though you’re at the gym a half-hour early; a black coffee in hand, ready to chase the one already running through your veins—she’s already there.

Stretched out like a cobra; hips to the ground, back arched, chest high.

Her reflection in the mirror greets you with a knowing smile.

Unsurprised. Unbothered.

Like she's been waiting for this—planned it all out. Down to the exact second that you’d walk in, discovering her in the centre of your private gym, splayed out in a pose chosen specifically to make you feel like you're intruding on something intimate.

Showing off the sharp planes of her abs, the muscles of her legs, the curve of her ass, and that dangerous strip of skin that makes you want to—

"Looks like I beat you again, sir."

You swallow. You somewhat regret giving her a personal key.

“Just getting warmed up.” Bae slithers out of the stretch, sinewy and fluid, turning over and around so she can properly face you; so she can properly present herself to you.

A glance—a gawk, really—has you rethinking your earlier assessment. Most of your clients are a dime a dozen. But Bae, looking at you, looking like that. Gorgeous, fit, unattainable yet somehow within your reach and daring you to do something about it—she’s a whole other currency.

She's been here for a while now, you can tell. Beads of sweat have started to slick her skin; over her brow, down her neck, pooling at the crevices of her collarbones. And the show she makes of wiping across her throat with the back of her hand, leaving a glossy sheen.

You ponder licking it off.

Long enough for her to catch you being unprofessional, again. To her credit, Bae just hums a note of amusement, gracious enough to let the moment pass as if it never even happened.

“You don’t need to do that,” you say, which could really be in reference to anything at this point. “We’ve got one hour. Warm-up included.”

“I know,” Bae answers, revisiting a long-standing argument, "But I like to be ready."

“Ready,” you echo, tasting the sound of the word on your own tongue.

“So that we can make the most of our time together,” She continues, twirling a peroxide-blonde curl around her finger, stirring up entirely inappropriate images of Bae, and her hair, and your hands, and oh God. "I only have you for one measly little hour, after all."

She lets the implication hang in the air, planting her flag (bright red, of course). It gives you an opportunity to take a long sip of your coffee; the burn from it sliding down your throat a welcome distraction.

You clear it with a cough.

"Well," you say, setting your mug aside and putting on the face of someone who isn’t severely compromised by Bae's casual, shameless attempts at whittling down your resolve. "Let’s not waste any of those precious minutes."

There's this grin on her face, as endearing as it is infuriating; and you can already hear the reply she’ll make before it comes, the way she’ll twist your honest words into lurid innuendo. Something with enough plausible deniability to keep it from crossing any lines of proper decorum you’ve tried to set, but pointed enough to blur them.

Something like—"Oh, I plan on making every second count."

You emphasise, “Exercising.”

Bae plays along, “What else would we be doing?”

More of this game, presumably.

The one you've been playing for the entire month you've known her, this routine you've established—you trying to keep things on track, do the job you’re actually being paid by her company to do; and Bae pushing back, pushing you as far as she can.

Trying, hoping, to inevitably bring you to that point where you break, where your veneer of professionalism finally slips away and you give her the type of workout she really wants.

You really should know better.

Should know to ignore the innocent requests to 'help stretch her out' or 'massage this cramp in her thigh'. Should know not to indulge the flirty banter; the 'oh, you're so much stronger than me', or worse yet, the blatant, 'but I bet you're not as flexible.'

You should have never let your hands linger, held her close when she asked you to correct her form, taken your time to navigate the curve of her hip, the small of her back, the slope of her legs.

Definitely should not have given her your personal number. Fuck, you should have blocked hers. Not read any messages, not even dreamed of replying. Not opened the photos, not fucking saved them and revisited them night after night after night.

(Because ultimately, the main party at fault is you.

After that first time, that first session; when you excused all the innuendo as coincidence, pretended the flirtations, the touching was just down to Bae being her normal, bubbly, extroverted self.

And then, when she convinced you to come into the shower because she just couldn’t seem to get the hot water to work, well—

Yeah.

Somewhere between making her moan your name and fucking her into the tile walls; you really, really should have known better.)

But today—today won’t be the day you give in.

The first time was a one-off, a fleeting lapse in judgment. Won't happen again.

You’re the trainer. She’s the client.

You have your clipboard, and your workout plan.

And Bae…

Bae’s biting her lip; blushing at you like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

“So, how do you want me, sir?”

(Bent over, on top, pinned underneath, from behind—you could fill the whole session with your long list of answers; but none of those are on the clipboard.)

You fight the urge to laugh, or scream, or maybe just drop to your knees and surrender.

Instead, you reproach, “Bae.”

“Sir.”

Laying it on thick; the innocence, the arrogance, the knowing in those doe eyes. Something she said to you once rattles in your mind: "Everybody needs an outlet, don't you think?"

Bae swings her legs around, tucking them under her so she’s on her knees. She’s looking up at you, those wide eyes and that even wider smile, sizing up every inch of you through her long lashes.

"I know what you're doing," you try, but it's not enough. Knowing is only half the battle.

"You do?" Bae's playing coy, keeping her tone light and breezy. "And here I thought I was just trying to be a good student."

A finger on her thigh, to dance along the hem of her shorts, peel it back just slightly, only to let it snap back into place.

“Clock’s ticking.”

There's a correct response here, you think, one that keeps you both on the straight and narrow. Not that you get a chance to find it, because Bae's leaning forward, placing her hands behind her back, pushing out her chest and arching her spine just so.

Her top stretches over her, a sports bra that’s somehow both modest and obscenely revealing; clinging to her—she’s filling it out, her nipples poking through like two little darts, demanding your attention.

She tilts her head, smirks, and it hits you like a sucker punch.

That’s the pose.

You’ve seen it; it’s been seared into your brain. The centrepiece of a photo that she so casually sent you in the middle of the day, just to ‘get your opinion on her progress’.

(Only then, all she had on was her smile.)

A sigh, because you know—this is it.

The last exit off the highway, the last chance to say no, to keep things strictly above board and not let this get any more complicated than it already is. But you’re nearing a wreck on the side of the road, and you can’t help but want to stop and look.

Fuck it.

Fuck the clipboard, fuck the workout plan, fuck not giving in. You can always try (and fail) again the next session.

Bae reads your mind. "Time for some cardio, then?"

“Get up,” is your answer. (A command, a plea).

She’s quick to rise to her feet, smugness gone, and in its place shameless glee as she witnesses you crack and concede defeat in real time. 

This is how you'll rationalise it:

There’s only one way to take back control of this situation. At her core, Bae’s an extremely simple person. She sees something she wants; she gets it. She’s a fire—all she does is burn hot, and the only way to keep her from turning your professional life to ash is to feed the flame.

Just enough to manage it.

You step closer, she takes a step back. You follow, each step, each sway of her hips a metronome set to a rhythm that says ‘yes’. She keeps backing up, leading you on until she’s seated on a bench. Placing her hands on her knees, pushing them apart, spreading her legs in a V; an open invitation to the space between.

You're not sure who's training who anymore.

Putting that thought aside—lines can be redrawn, boundaries reset. If you’re going to get some form of authority back, it’s not going to be with words. So, you do the only thing that makes sense in a moment that's lost all logic.

You lean down, take Bae by the chin, and you kiss her.

Something sounding like your name slips from Bae's lips as your tongues meet; as her hands find the back of your neck, pulling you in so she can lick into your mouth and get a taste of your morning.

Eager, greedy, demanding; full of all the pent-up need that’s been festering since that first encounter—when you had her creaming down your thighs and screaming your name. There's little tenderness to be found in the kisses, the licks, the nibbles that follow, you’re both too desperate for any kind of sweetness right now.

Bae’s hands are everywhere; peeling your shirt over your head, tracing the lines of your stomach, digging her nails into the meat of your shoulder. Your own hands are busy too—squeezing her thighs, cupping her ass, drifting up her skintight shorts in search of the heat that’s been keeping you awake at night.

"Took you long enough," she murmurs against your mouth, the words barely discernible but the triumph tinging them crystal clear.

An acknowledgment groaned against her lips, breaking away from the kiss to trail down her neck, licking away that spot you've had your eyes on the whole time. Tasting the salt of her sweat, the sweetness of her skin, revelling in the tang of the forbidden, the vanilla of the inevitable.

It’s some wonder, truly, of how a girl like her—all youthful glow and sharp edges, sculpted by both genetics and sheer force of will—wound up so utterly obsessed with you.

“Because of what you said when we first met,” Bae whispers in your ear, bites on the lobe, and you’re realising that maybe your thoughts haven’t been as silent as you assumed.

“Oh?” Is all you have to offer, because that memory is far gone, and your mind has far too little bandwidth to focus on anything that isn’t her wetness, seeping through the fabric of her shorts and staining your fingertips. 

The dampness—it's a dead giveaway. Yet you still ghost a thumb over her, press down just to confirm, make her inhale, sharp. And sure enough, there it is. Or rather, there it isn't.

The audacity.

There's a giggle from Bae as she feels you discover her secret; that it's just her shorts that are keeping you from being knuckle deep inside of her, and nothing else.

Bae recites your words back to you, only from her lips they’re far more honeyed, sticky and sweet against your cheek. "You said that you'd—ah—that you’d push me."

She’s sighing, melting into you, hips slowly grinding against your fingers, so achingly close to begging. Turning up the heat, you let your other hand glide up her abs, feel the need radiating from her, the muscles tensing and rolling with every slight movement she makes.

You’re reaching for her sports bra when she finds her voice, continuing through gritted teeth, "You said that you wouldn't take it easy on me."

Her breath stutters as your thumb traces the bottom of her top, fingers digging beneath her bra line. With one swift tug, the fabric's pulled away from her body, yanked over head in a blur of motion, leaving her breasts bare and heaving before you.

They’re small, yes, but the curve, the fit, the weight of them in your hands—just right.

“You said that if I—ah fuck—”

You can’t resist, really, your lack of self-control has been well established. So, you kiss her chest, licking a path through the valley between her breasts, drinking in the sweat that pools there, that little reservoir of desire.

“You said that if I tried hard enough, I’d be—God, yes—I’d be rewarded.”

Words, simple instructions you’ve given to countless other clients, but Bae. Twisting them, hearing what she wants to hear, or maybe what you intended all along? (Who’s to say.)

“You weren’t lying, were you, sir?”

You don’t have a response—what is there to say now, anyway? Any words would just be noise, inconsequential compared to the symphony of gasps and groans playing out between you both.

There’s a dusky pink nipple just waiting for your touch, all swollen and sensitive. You don’t disappoint. It’s in your mouth, rolling between your tongue and teeth, pebbling under the attention. It’s so easy to get lost in them, in their taste and feel, in her hands threading into your hair, pulling you closer, as if you need the encouragement.

You’re indulging in her, yes, but right now, there’s little you wouldn’t do to make her keen. Your other hand doesn’t rest; fingers are at work, pressing down, circling her clit through the nylon, making her arch up into you. These touches, swipes over her stiffened nub; she's falling into you.

Needy little sounds spill from her mouth, sweet nothings and half-formed pleas; bad things, dirty thoughts that most would regret ever even thinking, but of course, Bae only has the best of intentions. You’ve got her right where she wants to be; where she needs to be, and fuck she just takes your breath away.

You look up at her, feel her, and the absurdity of it all is dawning on you. To think someone like Bae would ever need training.

She was already perfect the first time you met her.

The long, pale-white expanse of her legs, all toned muscle and elegance. Her ass, the tight curve of it, fuller, rounder than should be possible on a frame so dainty. Her stomach, her thighs, her arms, (God, did you already mention her abs?), every flawless fucking inch of her.

A work of art, meticulously crafted by some divine hand; there’s nothing to be done by mere mortals except worship.

Let it be known the irony is not lost on you, when you let her nipple slip from your mouth and relay your next instruction: “Get on your hands and knees.”

Bae doesn’t need to be told twice.

With grace that’s far too practiced to be interpreted as anything other than a deliberate tease, Bae swings her body around, shifting her weight until she's on all fours.

Standing before her, watching the muscles in her back flex, her ass peeking out from beneath the elastic of her shorts. They’ll be ripped off entirely in due time.

But first, a kiss for your troubles. Over your sweatpants, branding you through the cotton as hers.

“Finally,” she breathes, making you swell, throb under her gaze.

Fingers hook into your waistband, pulling down your pants with ease. Your cock springs free, slapping across her lips, leaving a wet streak on her gloss. It shines.

A giggle, a raise of her bleached brows—like it’s a surprise. Like she hasn’t been made intimately familiar with your length; felt it buried deep inside her, painting her walls, her throat, with your release.

The tip of her tongue peeks out, just enough to swipe across the slit, to scoop up the pre-cum beading out of it. You hiss through your teeth, hips jerk forward, but Bae’s too quick—draws back with a laugh. She’s enjoying this, this little game of hers. The brat and the trainer, the cat and the mouse, the idol and the grown man who’s supposed to have his shit together.

“Tease,” you groan, your hands finding her hair, tugging gently to remind her of her place.

“Sorry, sir. Couldn’t resist.” 

A wink is all the warning you get, and she’s diving down.

No more preamble, no hesitation at all—Bae’s been waiting for this all fucking month, and she’s dead set on making up for lost time.

She’s taking you in, all of you, all at once; her mouth stretching wide to accommodate the girth. The feel of her, the wetness, the tears at the corners of those big, round eyes, and the question in them—'think you can handle this?'

Fuck.

She’s sloppy; so immediately, noisily sloppy.

Cheeks hollowing out, taking you deep, making your hips buck and collide with the back of her throat for that agonising split second before she retreats; only to do it again. Faster, harder; making you doubt the ability of your knees to hold out.

A fistful of her hair, if only to keep you upright.

She’s all over the place—popping your cock from her lips, kissing down your shaft, licking around the base, a cheeky graze of teeth along your balls, and then back again, swallowing you down until you can feel her nose nuzzling into your groin.

You’re a mess of sensations, pleasure coiling in your stomach, a knot inside you tightening with every wet sound she makes.

It’s her enthusiasm that does it, really. She’s not trying to be good at this, not trying to impress you with her skills. She’s just plain desperate for it.

Her moans vibrate through you, muffled by the thickness of your cock. She’s saying something, words that you can’t quite make out, that takes a moment to translate: "Needed this," she gasps around your length, "Missed it so much."

An admission: you’ve really fucking missed it too.

“This beautiful, beautiful cock,” Bae slurs, sliding your cock out of her throat to catch her breath, so she can take a break to wonder. “How many has it ruined, hm?” Her tongue flicks out, scooping the globs of saliva and pre-cum hanging from the head. “All those pretty little girls you train.”

There’s envy there, and you’re barely managing to groan out, assuage her, “Just you.”

“I find that so fucking hard to believe, sir.” Bae says, resting your cock on the edges of her cheeks. “Those tight cunts, those eager mouths and asses, and you're telling me—" she swipes her tongue along your shaft, leaving a wet trail in her wake "—that it's just me?"

Her voice, her fucking words; too, too much. It’s all you can do to not just grab her by the neck and fuck her face raw. (A dream for her, probably. To have you grab her throat and made her choke on you).

“Well, if you say so,” she’s unconvinced; not that it does anything to slow her down. Back at it, back at making her eyes water, at needing these panted, desperate gulps of air between mouthfuls of you.

The little things—her lips glued around your shaft, her throat a tight, warm fist, and her eyes. Looking up at you like she's afraid if she doesn't, if she stops moving and averts her gaze, you'll pull away.

As if.

“Bae, you’re so fucking good at this,” you’re blurting out, because she is. She really, really is.

Wet and filthy and so fucking delighted to let you know, “All for you, sir.”

And you believe it—she makes you believe it.

Everything’s for you, even when she’s not supposed to be. The sound of her, choking and gagging, the wet, slobbering noises of her devouring you, echoing off the empty gym walls.

The sight of it all; tearing your attention to a million different places. There’s the Bae in front of you, focused entirely on your cock, on letting you use her mouth like a toy, plunge your length deep down her throat to make her cry, to make her cheeks flush.

Then there’s the Bae in the mirror, the reflection bouncing off the polished chrome surface behind her. Her ass, rising and falling, in time with the bobbing of her head; and that soaked spot right at the centre of her shorts, the bullseye growing and growing with every second that passes.

Fucking amazing, incredible, too good, too much to handle; spilling out of your mouth as those pouty pink lips of hers slide up and down, drool pooling around your base, slipping down your thighs, a wet mess dripping onto your floor.

“And to think you wanted to stop this from happening,” she’s chiding, offended really, voice raspy with the effort of speaking around your cock.

There’s no argument to make, not when you’re too busy taking in the sight of your cock disappearing back into her mouth. She’s impatient now, not letting up, not even for air; just taking you in deep, deep, so deep she’s trying to swallow you whole.

You’re sliding down, down her throat, and she’s got you; this suction around you that holds you there and it’s a sheer miracle that haven't completely dissolved inside her. Your hips are thrusting forward of their own accord, your hand still in her hair, but not pulling anymore. Just holding on.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, the gym spins around you; the lights, the equipment, everything blurs into a sea of white noise, and all that remains is the wet sound of her mouth and the hotness of her throat, the fistfuls of her blonde hair, her eyes, these pretty drops of chocolate brown; and it’s all building and building and tightening and tightening, until—

"Stop."

It’s a pain to say, but necessary; if you still want a fighting chance to make it out of this with at least some of your dignity intact.

A gentle tug of her hair has your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pout; leaving the warmth of her lips for the sudden chill of the gym’s regulated air. Bae looks up at you, panting, lips swollen and shiny, drops of you smeared from your base to her chin.

“Something wrong?”

A pause until the room stops spinning, so you can collect yourself and wonder why you’re even here. “I need—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. What do you need? To not fuck your client? To try to keep your job? Or to hear her scream your name, have her beg and beg and beg, drill her into every surface possible—every bench, rack, wall, fuck even the elliptical if she’s game.

Coherence comes and goes, and Bae remains seated on her heels, supplying her own suggestions. “Need to stretch me out? Make me really sweat?”

"Still with that?"

"Tired of the wordplay?" She laughs, and you can't even be mad—you're the one who gave her the opening.

"What do you think?"

Bae takes her sweet time looking you up and down, greed in her gaze, as she takes in you; straining from the effort of holding back. From your chest, down your stomach, landing on your cock, still painfully standing at attention.

"I think," she says, drawing out that word, sliding it over her tongue like a piece of candy, "That I regret not asking you to send me any photos back."

That brings a smile to your face; and it’s enough to clear the fog from your head. You steel your resolve, give her the one thing she’s been craving, from the moment she saw you walk in:

A firm order: “Stand up. Take those shorts off before I rip them off myself.”

You give her room to lift herself off the bench, legs unfurling one at a time and stretching beneath her. She wiggles her hips in this dance as she kicks off her sneakers and shimmies out of her shorts; the nylon clinging to her skin before it’s peeled away to reveal… nothing.

Just her bare, naked flesh—pink and perfect.

Tearing away from her momentarily, from the living canvas of long legs and naked anticipation, ignoring the fucking twirl she does for you, because yeah, she’s fully, adorably aware of just how insanely, lights-out good she looks.

You turn to the bench, kick up the backrest from a flat to an incline; doing your best to pay no mind to Bae, waiting. Rather impatiently, bouncing restlessly on the balls of her feet. The teacher’s pet, so needy for a morsel of attention.

Back to her, unable to suppress the smirk spreading across your face as you take a seat. “Squats.”

Her face. The amusement, the excitement, the acknowledgment that you’re now completely on board with this derailment of a training session—it's all there, painted across Bae's features in glorious, full-colour high definition.

She takes a step forward, sauntering over, one hand sliding down to trace over her mound, to tease herself; tease you. And when she’s close enough, she swings her legs over your thighs, straddling your waist, taking hold of your shoulders and bracing herself against you.

Dripping already, cunt barely kissing the tip of your cock, the heat of it all; it’s a living, breathing entity in the room—thick, heavy, making the air feel charged.

And then, without another word, she sinks down.

A long, hot breath from Bae's mouth: “Fuuuck me.”

Slow, delicious torture has you groaning, has her biting down on her lip. The way she takes you in, the way you push into her, inch by inch—feeling every little twitch of her walls, every throb of your cock; it’s all just so fucking perfect.  

“Good girl,” you find yourself saying when she bottoms out, when your cock completes her, turns her into something beautifully obscene.

“God, you’re just so,” she starts with, but the words get lost somewhere between the shallow gasps and harsh breaths that follows.

She’s staring at you, deep into you, and there’s this satisfied grin playing at the corners of her mouth that makes you want to do everything she hasn’t had the breath to ask for.

"Thank you," she manages instead.

And then she’s moving. Slowly, so goddamn slow, taking her time to feel every ridge, every vein; making sure she’s got you all to herself. Her chest heaves up and down, her tits bounce dangerously close to your lips. You spy past her, enamoured with her reflection, how her back flexes and tenses, how her spine curves with each descent, how her ass cheeks clench each time you fill her whole. 

It’s these tight little squats, this wonderful rhythm she’s setting, these squeezes of her pussy around you, the juices of her cunt slapping against your thighs as she bounces.

“Creaming everywhere, so fucking messy.” You’re taking stock of her; of this mess she’s leaving, all over herself, all over you, all over the bench and down to the ground. You can’t even be mad because, “It’s a good look on you, Bae.”

From a distance she’d be the purest depiction of innocence; the sweetest angel, the kind that would be painted on stained glass and prayed to by the masses.

But here, up close, biting down on your shoulder, devouring your cock with her cunt, moaning in your ear things that would make the Old Testament blush; she’s fucking pornographic.

Yet, she says, “Sir, I can’t handle this—”

You pause, holding her by the hips, eliciting this whine from her lips. “Too much?”

“No, not that, it’s—ah. It’s too slow,” Bae whines, emphasising her point by slamming her hips down onto your thighs, the slap of skin on skin bouncing off the mirrored walls. “I need it fast. And hard. Like you said, I need to sweat. It’s there—I’m right fucking there—so, can we—fuck, can we just go?”

Bae, Bae, Bae.

She makes your blood sing and your cock throb.

Makes you give it to her, just like she asked.

Fingers dig into her hips, thumbs pressed into the softness of her flesh, and you lift her slightly, only to pull her right back down. Like she asked: fast, hard, and you’re thankful you shelled out extra for benches that could take punishment.

“God—” Bae cries out, high-pitched, a scream that has her shaking; not because you’re hurting her, there’s no pain to be found here. It’s all just bliss, pure, unbridled bliss.

So, you lean in, suck one of those pretty little peaks into your mouth, swirl your tongue around, and she’s jolting, her cunt clamping down on you, so tight, so fucking tight.

Every part of her, from the top of head to the tips of her toes, is tuned to this frequency of need. Her nipples, especially so; they’re so sensitive, so attuned to your every touch. They tighten to pebbles with the slightest swipe of your tongue, when your teeth dare to graze them—any pressure from your lips and she shivers.

"That’s—fuck—that’s so much better," she’s panting, “Isn’t it, isn’t it so fucking good?”

You rumble something of an affirmative into her chest, too occupied to bother with words, too busy mapping out her chest, her breasts, that lovely dip between, with your tongue and teeth and hands.

And you’re suddenly having trouble remembering, or forgetting altogether—what was it really that was stopping you from doing this sooner? What could possibly make missing out on this, missing out on Bae’s sighs and moans, missing out on the blistering heat of her cunt and the tightness wrapped around you worth it?

Sure, you had her (had each other) in the shower—slippery, steamy, illicit—but it had been so fleeting. Just a glimpse into what had been begging to happen since she first entered your domain, all smiles and sly glances.

Now that she's in your lap, taking your cock like such a good little slut, you can’t stop the images flooding your mind, feeding your imagination with every conceivable scenario.

Tasting every inch of her, exploring every crevice with your tongue, every peak and valley with your fingers. Spending hours just learning her. In due time, in due time; not now, when she’s riding you like she’s trying to break you—or at least, break the bench.

“This, exactly this,” Bae breathes into your neck, her nails raking over your shoulder blades, leaving these angry red crescents that burn and sting. “Fuck, fuck, I want it just like this—"

Getting more erratic, louder, closer.

So, you lean back, content to let her do all the work, watch her climb that peak. You could take all the time in the world, watch her waste away the very expensive fee you’re charging her company for your time. It’s what she wants, and isn’t that how it goes—the customer is always right?

"This is exactly what I want to do, exactly what we're going to do every session from now on," Bae’s instructing, voice a whip crack in the quiet of the gym. She’s getting braver with each moan that escapes, each grind of her hips that sends you deeper. "You’re going to fuck me, hard, rough, just like you fucking promised."

You can't help but laugh, the situation absurd, the words rolling off her tongue like she’s rehearsed them. "Every session, huh?"

"Every. Single. One," she confirms, her eyes fluttering shut as she starts to bounce faster, her pussy swallowing you up in a wet, delicious rhythm. “No more hiding, no more pretending. Just me, you, and this gym, as much as we need, whenever we want. Fuck, doesn't even have to be scheduled, I'll just call you and you better be here ready to fuck my brains out."

"Alright, Bae," you grit out, something inside you tightening at the thought of her calling you, begging for it like she is now, "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

It’s a contract, signed and sealed with the slickness of her cunt, the heat of your skin, the promise in her eyes that she’ll be good, so good for you—or at least, good enough to get more of this.

"But remember," you say, unlatching yourself from her tits, making sure to catch her eyes. "I don't do easy. You want this, you're going to work for it."

Bae bites her lips, “Yes. God yes.”

You correct her. “Yes, who?”

“Yes,” Bae grins, “sir.” 

Something shifts; the dynamic swinging for the first time in your direction, and it’s clear now. Clear to you, to her, that from now on as long as you’re taking her—pushing her—to that precipice, you’re the one calling the shots.

So, you guide her, guide her hips with your hands; setting a new pace. One that’s demanding, borderline violent, that has her chanting—“yes, yes, yes”—the syllables falling from her lips like sweet little prayers to some depraved deity.

She’s coming apart, leaving herself so vulnerable and bare, like she'd just die on top of you if you didn't stop fucking her back to life. It’s so, so painfully lovely, you’re seeing the most beautifully crafted sculpture crumble into dust. You’re in awe of her. You’re in—

Fuck you might be falling for her.

That’s a revelation to keep tucked safely away, because you couldn’t think of a less appropriate time for confessions. No, now’s the time for grunts and groans, for the sound of her wetness and the smack of her ass colliding with your thighs.

"Am I good for you?" Bae mewls, "Am I good for you, sir?"

She’s so, so good. So fucking good that your answer is a knee-jerk reaction. “Fucking incredible, Bae. Such a good slut. Getting fucked like this, used. Taking it so fucking nicely.”

Red colours her cheeks as they flush at the praise, a silent plea for more. And so you give it to her, pushing harder, faster, showering her with these gems of depravity that only someone like Bae could bring to the surface.

“You’re just loving this, aren’t you? Getting so close. So desperate to give it to me,” you’re taunting, feeling her walls closing in around you, feeling her body coiling up tight. “It’s okay, let go. You can let go.”

So close to the edge she’s practically dancing on it. She’s fighting it, fighting against the wave, her cunt spasming around you, her breaths hitching and coming in these sweet desperate little pants.

You can taste it; she just needs that extra push, that hard fucking to bring her there. A demand: “Cum. Cum for me now, Bae. Show me how good you can be, show me how much you want this.”  

And finally, a gasp, “Say my name. Call me by my name, please.”

A hand at the back of her neck, bringing her ear to her lips, so you can whisper the name you’re fucking her hard enough to forget. “Jinsol.”

It’s fucking immediate.

The words leave your mouth, and she shatters. Fine china thrown against a brick wall.

Waves of it hitting her, a shudder at first, then a fucking tsunami; ripping through her, stealing away any last semblance of bodily autonomy she might’ve had left and leaving her as a puddle of trembles and shivers and pure need.

You keep pumping, calling her every dirty name in your book—whore, slut, your little toy, your good girl, just Jinsol—again and again until all she knows is your voice.

Each name you give her, it’s a spark that sends her higher, makes her cum harder, and she just goes and goes and goes.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuuuck," Bae whimpers, eyes squeezed shut so tightly you can see the veins pulsing at her temples. And you keep going, you keep pushing her, because you can't get enough of this—of her, of the power she's given you, of the way she's so obviously yours in this moment.

You want to mark this occasion, leave a sign that it was real, that you really did fuck her to oblivion. It has you kissing into her neck, sucking at the pale flesh, biting down just hard enough to make her whine.

"You're mine," you burn into her, in that nook between her neck and shoulder. "You're all mine."

Ragged huffs signal the end of it, the come down from the high—but you’re hardly done with her. You can’t be—not when you’re still this hard, not when she’s still so fucking wet around you, not when you’re feeling like this, like you could drown in her without ever needing to come up for air.

"So good, so fucking good.” She collapses, her body folds into yours, and she’s giggling, all breathless and boneless.

Of course she’d be like this, over the fucking moon. She’s got what she wanted, what she needed; made you promise to keep giving it to her whenever she wanted.

She reaches for you, fingers trace the line of your job, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, smudging a bit of her own gloss there. "I knew you’d be perfect," is what she says, right before she kisses you, "Perfect for this."

The tangling of your tongues, the taste of mint and sweat, and the smiles you’re sharing against each other’s lips when you flex your cock inside her.

“I’m not done yet,” you remind her, pulling back from her kiss, pulling your bottom lip out from her teeth. “Far from it.”

“Not going to let me catch my breath?” Bae teases, acting like this isn't entirely her fault. Like she wasn't the one that pushed you this far, that dug underneath all your layers of professionalism and responsibility until she found someone that could match her appetite.

“No.”

You’re up, pushing yourself up to your feet, keeping her impaled on you, fucking her up into the air and forcing her to wrap her legs around your waist.

And then, with a strength fuelled by lust and want and a need to just fucking cum in this slut; you drop her on her feet, spin her around, and plant her hands against the mirror.

No warning, no easing her in; she’s still so wet, cunt slick and slippery. Just slide back in, slam into her from behind, watch her come apart.

It’s all in front of you, all playing out across her pretty reflection: her face twists, her tits jiggle, her abs, God how they tighten and release all at once.

Taking back a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to claim her neck; all these sweet things—"watch yourself get fucked, Bae, look how pretty you are for me.”

And she laughs, she actually laughs, because it’s all she can do when you’re gripping her hair so tight, scraping your teeth across her neck, making her feel you all thick and hard inside of her.

A hard buck of your hips sends her forward, presses her cheek to the mirror, staining the glass with the heat of her breath.

“Look,” you demand, “look how perfect you are taking my cock like this.”

She obeys; staring at herself in the mirror, watching herself get fucked, get filled, get taken. It’s just too much. She’s too much. You’re too much. This whole fucking situation is just too much.

"Fuck it's so—you're fucking me so—"

"Didn’t you say you could take it?"

Bae's response is a whine, a clench of her cunt around you. "I can, I can take it, sir," she gasps. "Whatever you have for me. But you're just too..."

You lean in, eager to hear her confession. "Too what?"

"Too much! Too big, too good, too everything."

A fucking compliment and a challenge all rolled into one. "Is that so?"

"Y-Yes—I’m just so—just need you to—please fucking cum," she groans, barely audible over the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together. "Do whatever you want to it, to me, to my pussy, please, just please, please, please."

You're breaking her, turning her into this teary mess of moans and whimpers, tapping into something innate inside her, something that wants to be bent to your will, to be used by you, to be treated like the slut she craves to be in this moment.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

"You're going to scream my name.” You’re telling her, telling her how the rest of this situation, how the rest of your entire relationship is going to play out. "You're going to cum all over my cock again, and then you're going to tell me how much you love it."

"I will, sir," she nods furiously to you, to herself in the mirror, "I'll do anything you say."

You just can't wipe the grin off your face.

Thrusting into her, fucking her like you've never fucked anyone before. Like you own her, like she's nothing more than your toy to play with—to use and abuse and enjoy.

She’s screaming your name—no, not your name—“sir, sir, sir, fuck me, sir”—and—“more, sir, please, pretty please.”

More for her—a hard smack to her ass that makes her jump, makes her eyes water. But it also has her push back against you, fucking you back, more frantic than ever. A second smack cracking through the gym, and already there’s red blooming on her skin, marring the perfect pale flesh.

"Sir, please," she cries out, her voice high and tight. "More, more, more."

You oblige, your hand coming down again and again, painting her ass with the sting of your palm. Each smack has her pussy clenching around you, her lips begging for more.

"I love this," she admits, shakily. "I love it."

You slap her again, and again, and again—each hit punctuating her moans. "Say it," you demand. "Say it louder."

"I love it, sir," she cries, the filthy fucking admission bouncing off the walls. "I love it, I love it, I love it!"

Her orgasm builds again, her body tightening around you, a vice. The tension in the air is suffocating, you’re fucking in for it now, dooming yourself to this delicious cycle of sin with every thrust.

Bae, your Bae, all pure white and angry red now, the beauty still standing despite your best efforts to bring it to ruin.

She's there, and you're done waiting.

"Now."

It's that fucking easy.

That's what you think as you watch Bae unravel all over again, all over you; slipping into that sweet, sweet oblivion that you’ve coaxed out of her.

"God, sir, fuck!"

Hammering into her, fucking her apart; through the pain, through the ruinous pleasure, pressing her up against the mirror, squishing her tits into the cold glass.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir, fucking me so good, making such a mess, you’re—" But that sentence dies before it even can get started, and all that tumbles out of her mouth is, “fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck—”

She’s fucking gone.

Bae crumbles against the mirror, and you fall into her, keeping your body glued to her back. The clenching, the shivering, the twitches and the gasps; the patchwork of bruises and bites and crimson you’ve left all over her.

You follow.

Something dark, a guttural grunt, and you pull out of her, this sloshing noise from her cunt as you do.

Without your cock Bae just falls to the ground, bracing herself against the wall while she gathers herself—twists her body into something beautiful.

Before you can even process what she’s doing, what’s happening at your feet, she’s in position; that pose again. And you realise what it was: the kneeling, the hands behind the back, the tits out, mouth wide open, tongue waiting.

A preview. A promise. An invitation.

“Sir, your cum, if you please—"

A sledgehammer to your fucking soul—that's what it feels like when you finish.

One, two, three pumps of your cock and your vision goes white, like someone's shone a fucking flashlight right into your eyes, and the only thing you have left is the intense, throbbing release all over Bae.

Ropes of it spurt from your cock, painting her face with thick, white streaks. There’s more sirs, more thank yous and pleases and fucks, (you swear you catch a daddy in there as it hits her); but she doesn't flinch—no, she opens her mouth wider, needy for every drop.

The first shot hits her square in the forehead, sliding down the bridge of her nose and into the waiting cavern of her mouth.

Another shot goes wide, spattering across that dark freckle on her cheek. Another hits her chin, another ruins her hair, the last sprays over her tits; all these shots just covering her, turning this fucking idol into your personal cumslut.

“God, yes, sir,” she slurs through the cum, earning every single drop, “I’m just covered in it. So, fucking much. It’s so good.”

A stumble back on your feet, a step away to assess the damage as you slowly stop pumping your cock. Bae on her knees before you, just drenched with your cum. Bae your client, if she still can be called that anymore.

What else could she be? Your lover, your sub, your obsession, your… what? You’re not quite sure what to call it, call her, other than a big fucking mess.

But, as you watch her happily lick your cum off her own skin, you can’t resist giving a final instruction. “Swallow.”

“Yes, sir.”

You are so, so fucked.

Bae, sweet and obedient, takes her finger, scooping up every trace of you from her cheek, her tits, all along the ridges of her abs. All this hot, hot white you’ve expended on her, marked and branded her with.

It all happens in slow motion; she laps it up, paints it over her lips, pushes it into her mouth. Sticking out her tongue, presenting it to you in one big sticky glob, making sure you're seeing nothing but her be such a good girl for you.

And down her throat it goes.

"Good enough, sir?"

You lean down, wipe the last drop off her temple with your thumb. She opens her mouth, helps you push it in, sucks on it greedily as if it’s the last taste of you she’ll ever get.

There’s a thought to give her more, to fill her mouth until she’s addicted to your flavour. But you don’t—not yet.

You must save some things for later.

Bae’s content to stay there, kneeling, cheek resting your thigh, utterly cum-drenched; fingers idly dancing along your softening cock, toying with the last few drops of cum that still cling to your shaft.

You break the silence with a sigh. “Guess I should get used to this, huh?”

Bae sings, “Every single session.”

“Christ.”

That draws a chuckle from her, and you shoot her a warning look as she dares to kiss your cock once more. “Care to show me how the shower works again?”

You roll your eyes.

“I mean, only if we have the time.”

At this point, you’d give her your every waking hour if you could. A glance at the digital clock on the wall has you guesstimating—"It'll be a squeeze."

Bae, never to miss an opportunity, “Isn’t that how you like me?”

“I thought we were going to stop with the wordplay."

"Can't help it, sir." Bae's arms snake around your leg, sidling just that inch closer. "You just bring it out of me."

"Ah, so it's my fault."

"Of course. This whole thing is your fault," she tells you, donning the expression of a saint; all wide-eyes and sweet smiles. "You just had to make me yours."

"Mine?"

"From now on, yes."

“In that case—” You bend down, lifting Bae up, hoisting her up in your arms as easily as any other weight in the gym. She giggles into your neck, her body fitting into yours like you've been doing this for years. The warmth of her, the press of her breasts into your chest, her legs looping around your waist—it’s all so natural. “While we still have some time left.”

“Before your next client?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, like she isn't prying, isn't trying to make a home for herself in the remaining hours of your day.

“Sullyoon.”

“Oh,” Bae says once, processing, and then again, “Ohhh.”

You blink, trying to keep up with wherever her mind is racing to next. “What?”

The smile that widens on her face is going to haunt you, you can tell. “Oh, nothing,” she says, but she’s got a secret she’s just dying to share.

But she won’t, not yet.

Bae’s fingers trace a pattern down the centre of your chest, playing over your sternum, circling your navel, and then—there’s that smugness again—heading south. “I was just thinking I might stick around for your next session.”

It’s a declaration, not a question. The way she says it, so casual, so flippant, it’s like she’s talking about sticking around to watch a movie, not grossly overstepping even more lines before you get a chance to redraw them.

And then you're back at square one.

“Just to make sure you and her keep things strictly professional."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

might be an unrelated ask with how things are going on right now, but the only way i ever see traitor ace theory coming into fruition is if he destroys yuu's way back home because of how his feelings will boil over (since he thinks being vulnerable is uncool). i've always tried to convince myself that his silly tsundere moments are yume bait, though i really can't deny the fact that yuu is literally everything that his ex-girlfriend is not. they've watched a horror movie together from idia's lab sr (and sending grim all alone to get snacks???) in playful stage, they ride a roller coaster, and if you tell him you like it, he suggests going again again (just the two of them without grim???) bro is not slick with how attached he is to mc.

I have my own thoughts on Ace traitor theory (which you can read here)! To summarize, I don’t believe in it. If Ace betrays us at all, I think it will be in a trivial capacity (like he does something stupid that the rest of the group disagrees with, like taunting Malleus to attack him) and without malicious intent.

He may think being vulnerable is uncool, but I don’t think he’d take an action as drastic as destroying Yuu’s route home no matter how emotional he got. (That feels more like the stuff I see in angst and/or yandere fan works.) Ace gets mad and acts out, yes—but it tends to be in situations where he feels like being has been wronged, not to hinder the people he cares about. His character and his actions the entire story have done nothing but demonstrate that he values his friends and will be there for them until the bitter end, even if he whines about it the entire time.

And well 💦 when it comes to “is this platonic or romantic”, I always default to “it’s up to individual interpretation”. TWST will never give a “canon” ship for Yuu because that would impede the self-insert mass appeal design of the blank slate character. Not everyone wants to perceive X (in this case, Ace) as a love interest. Not everyone wants to perceive X (again, Ace in this case) as a friend. Therefore, there’s always going to baity lines to feed the yume crowd (Michard voice: give me your ur wallets) but lines are also kept plausibly deniable (framed as “jokes”/nor serious) or ambiguous enough to be interpreted either way.

In Ace’s Suitor Suit vignettes, he says this about his ex: “She said the thrill rides were too scary for her […] She vetoed all the action and horror flicks. Hanging out was just plain boring, so I stopped contacting her as time went on.” And indeed, Ace engages in the activities his ex refused with Yuu. They’re watching a horror movie together in Idia’s Labwear vignettes, as well as riding roller coasters and other thrill rides in Stage in Playful Land. Yes, you can interpret these as romantic since they sent Grim off by himself to get popcorn and want to ride again by themselves.

However, that’s not the only possible interpretation, and nor should it be. It could just as easily be argued that Ace and Yuu were just hanging out as friends in a “kicking back with your bros” kind of way (regardless of whatever gender Yuu identifies as). Watching horror movies and going on exciting rides are normal things that friends could do together. There is nothing inherently romantic about those acts by themselves. It could also be said that Ace is lazy and constantly trying to get out of work, so of course he’d pass off the job of getting more snacks onto someone else. The ride thing is innocuous too—maybe the others just aren’t feeling another round, while Ace and Yuu are still on that adrenaline high and want another hit of it. And again, it’s probably framed as wanting to do activities with Yuu specifically to help foster that parasocial relationship and create a sense of bonding with the player.

Of course Ace is attached to us and likes to hang out. We’re his friend, and that much has been established since the prologue. We are naturally a lot closer with him by default compared to several of the other guys (with maybe a few exceptions, like Deuce). Whether you see Ace and Yuu’s relationship as anything more than that is up to the individual!

That being said, I’d rather not talk in terms that imply one ship is “better”, “absolute”, or “more supported by canon” than others 😅 Not just for Ace x Yuu, but any ship, really. It unintentionally frames the discussion like a competition and leaves some people out of the talk if they don’t vibe with it or have different preferences, y’know?

[bisclavret]

what SICKO wrote the last scenes between gwaine and merlin is what i want to know. because even lancelot's last episode with merlin - which had to have been intentionally gay-coded since it's obvious the man is grappling with his feelings for merlin morphing from platonic to explicitly romantic - is still subtext because he doesn't have the tools to healthily express his feelings so he goes for the biggest romantic gesture he can think of: sacrificing his life to save a loved one. the writers also make sure to root this gesture back to gwen by adding a scene where she's inadvertently asking him to make that sacrifice first, so although it's very obvious that it's more for merlin than for gwen that lancelot dies for, she is there to add some plausible deniability, thus keeping his sexuality within the realms of subtext.

i don't want to delve too deeply into arthur's last scenes with merlin as there is both so much to unpack about what they mean to each other and there is also somehow nothing left to say that hasn't been said before. my point is just that there's so much at stake that if the viewer doesn't want to deal with the romantic subtext between them they can hang onto the 38 other dynamics merlin and arthur have represented to each other that the writers spent 5 years plastering on top of the gay subtext. basically, while the romance feels textual emotionally-speaking, it isn't "canon".

i don't mean to say that any relationship is better than another (even though i obviously have a preference) but that in gwaine's final scenes with merlin there's just no subtext anymore. his becomes the most explicit expression of romantic love towards merlin, and therefore the most explicit acknowledgment of homosexual love and the existence of queer people on the show:

it starts out with merlin suggesting that gwaine saved a girl from the saxons and then looked after her because he has a more than platonic interest in her, and they show us that merlin is right - gwaine and the girl eira slept together - even as gwaine half-heartedly denies any interest (which, why even deny it? merlin saw them holding hands! unless the lie is part of the point). then in that very same scene and directly after this exchange, merlin needs rescuing from the saxons, calls after gwaine, and gwaine performs the exact same role for him that he performed for eira: he saves him from the saxons and looks after him (for as long as merlin lets him).

the parallel between merlin and eira with such quick cause and effect (it literally all happens within the same minute) is where the shift from subtext to text becomes undeniable. yes, there have been other moments on the show where a character's affections towards two different genders are beat-for-beat the same, but, again, there has always been plausible deniability. in this case the parallel is meant to be taken at face value: the core point of it is to show us how gwaine expresses his attraction.

then, the dialogue they chose to bookend this scene with takes it a few steps further by functioning as a textual love confession to merlin himself: the scene opens with gwaine thanking merlin for everything he did for eira, and merlin saying that there is no need to thank him as it was the least he could do. a minute later, after merlin thanks gwaine for protecting him from the saxons as both merlin and the show just concluded gwaine did for eira for romantic reasons (even as he denied it by outright lying), gwaine parrots what merlin said when gwaine thanked him: no need to thank me, merlin, it's the least i could do.

but this comes off as the opposite of dismissive: in fact, this echoing of merlin's words is meant to jolt both merlin and the audience. by saying this right after saving merlin from the saxons, gwaine has now intentionally pointed merlin's attention towards the explicitly romantic parallel between himself and eira. gwaine is directly implying he just did for merlin what merlin correctly deduced he did for a woman because he desired her sexually and romantically, and he is using merlin's own words to challenge him into seeing past the initial flimsy lie that there is nothing between them. and what's behind the lie, of course, is that gwaine has done all of this and more because he desires merlin sexually and romantically. the camera even lingers on merlin, allowing him and the viewer to absorb what just happened. that for as long as we have known gwaine, his motivations have always boiled down to "i want to be there for merlin". and now both the audience and merlin finally know for sure what was motivating him the entire time.

what's more, by using merlin's own dismissive words, gwaine also implicates merlin's penchant for repression and denial and never allowing himself to be given credit where it's due. this unfortunately never properly gets dismantled on the show, but this moment shows that gwaine knows merlin well enough to know that he goes above and beyond for people, and that merlin's reasons for this ring as false to gwaine's ears as gwaine's reasons for saving damsels do to merlin. it also bittersweetly implies that gwaine has accepted that these are the platonic, repressed terms on which he can have a relationship with merlin. but i think the way in which he explicitly points all of this out to merlin is meant to imply that he isn't entirely happy about having to accept that. or, to circle back to eira, that merlin seems to be cheering for him to enter a heterosexual relationship when gwaine would clearly rather be with him.

what's additionally interesting to me about this is that this is one of the only scenes on this show that touch on same gender attraction that isn't using magic as a metaphor - because merlin doesn't have magic at the moment, yes, but also because gwaine is the more active character in this sequence, and he's an adventure hero, so he simply fights the bad guy to protect the person he loves. there is no metaphor to wrap this in, so he just gets to explicitly state his bisexuality. in the next scene, the very last one he and merlin share, it all becomes about magic again, which is both representative of merlin's sexuality and the show's "plausible deniability" approach to gay-coding, and so neither gwaine or merlin are permitted to acknowledge it. also, and this is for another post altogether, but all things point to "gwaine knew". not least because he gets to come out as queer without the complications of the magic-as-gay-metaphor which in turn emboldens him to ask merlin for the truth as directly as the metaphor-suffocated narrative will allow it.

tldr gwaine textually and canonically expresses and then confesses his feelings to merlin in a shockingly well-written and layered scene which makes gwaine the most explicitly queer character on bbc merlin and it's entirely because he exists outside the magic-as-gay-metaphor plot while loving someone who embodies that entire metaphor and it's crazy to me that we don't talk about this more. once again i ask what SICKO wrote this and where were they for the entire rest of this fucking show

tldrtldr at least gwaine is bi. its like i always say. at least gwaine is bi. at the end of the day. gwaine is bi. dont cry ok? gwaine is bi. at the end of the day. gwaine is bi. when all else fails. gwaine is bi. we'll always have. gwaine is bi

[via-the-cryptid]

Will there be more version of the alternative worlds while the whole gang travels to find a magic crown to help Betty?

originally I was going to say no, but you’ve got me thinking now. F&C would probably happen sooner in the timeline due to Prismo and Magic Simon interference, so Finn and Jake might still be an adventuring duo (ie, Jake might still be alive), meaning that its perfectly plausible for the first thing that Magic Simon and Snow Betty do to be running to the treehouse and yelling ‘GUYS YOURE NOT GONNA FUCKING BELIEVE THIS’. yes they would say fuck and they are two of only three people that still remember and use that slang, and the third is Marceline.

ANYWAYS. Finn and Jake could definitely be present for Scarab’s arrival, and you cannot tell me Prismo would leave his homeboy and homeboy’s brother behind when nabbing the accidents interdimensional criminal accomplices. he wouldn’t. so yeah, Finn and Jake might actually join this adventure! possibly Marceline too if I say she was at the treehouse, which I’m saying now because I like her and I want to see her absolutely wreck the Star’s shit. you know she would. she may not be a vampire princess raised by the Vampire King but she is the Vampire Queen raised by the most batshit crazy woman you will ever meet, and she is feral. Marceline also has more abilities than the Star, due to having cannibalised the other vamps in her world and due to hanging out with two crazy wizards and her science girlfriend all the time.

…also I’m just now realizing that I don’t know if you meant ‘will the whole gang be coming with on the F&C adventure’ or ‘will you add more worlds into the F&C adventure’, so the answer to both is yes. Magic Simon’s gang is a lot more skilled at evading the interdimensional cops, and also Simon is not only a wizard with wizard eyes, but also he’s kinda friends with Prismo and is therefore a little more competent with the universe remote and the crown tracking system.

[planstransamanacanalpanema]

The way diabetics learn about the risks of the disease has permanently altered my brain in comical ways.

So today, I bumped into a doorframe and knocked the omnipod out of my leg but didn't look and therefore didn't know I was bleeding from the site. I went to hang a curtain and looked down and a bunch of blood had dripped onto a specific toe and the blood had splattered around the area. And my initial instinct, as a diabetic absolutely terrified of losing my, at this point, totally healthy and normal feet, was that through some horrific and unmentioned complication, one of my toes had simply exploded and I had not been aware of this because I had developed neuropathy over the course of like an hour.

And granted, this is a funny story that I will be telling at work over the next few weeks, but it's also kind of sad. I've been warned for the last 16 years of every horrifying thing that could and, at least in the way most people talk about it, probably will happen to me, and I've been made terrified of every itchy spot on my feet and every minor vision change over the past few years and every sore spot in my mouth and this and that and everything all at once. Those doctors appointments I have every year, especially my eye doctor, are kind of nerve wracking because I always feel like, ok, this is going to be the year where they finally tell me my body is going to shit in irreparable ways.

There's a point to this in sort of a vague way, but in general. Stop feeding the diabetics in your life the stories about the ischemic bowels of your grandpa and your footless aunt. We know. Everyone knows. We've been told to the point that living a long and healthy life, while completely plausible, especially for young people now who started their lives with diabetes with today's resources, seems completely impossible and blindness and pain and suffering are an inevitability, and maybe we don't need that? Ok thanks.

[bitchesgetriches]

I know this question probably isn’t really in your wheelhouse but I was hoping the mighty bitches could maybe offer some insight anyways? So I’m a 25 year old female presenting person I still live with my parent because cost of living but I pay all my own bills and I pay monthly room and board. I just bought a ticket to go see Orville Peck by myself which I am very excited about the issue is that there isn’t a single person I know that would be cool we me going to see him because he’s gay and even though I’m an adult and therefore can come and go as I please it would be weird for me to go somewhere and not tell my parents where I’m going and also because I don’t know anyone else who would even be remotely interested in going I’m going alone to a different city an hour away to a concert that probably won’t be over until late. The question is how do I go to this concert without telling my parents while also not jeopardizing my own safety? I can’t just say I’m going out and probably won’t be back until late because I almost always provide more details than that not because my parents demand it or anything but just because I don’t see any reason not to. And the only person I can think of who I could tell I’m going to this concert without them asking why I would even want to go to it is one of my coworkers but I don’t have that kind of relationship with her and I think it would be weird if I asked her to cover for me like some teeny bopper sneaking out at night.

TLDR I’m gay everyone around me is either extremely or mildly homophobic and I want to go to a gay concert without outing myself and without getting kidnapped. Any tips?

Darling child, you're clearly very anxious about this. I'm sorry we live in a world where you have to worry about your safety in such a simple situation.

But I truly think the answer is simple: tell your parents or some friends where you're going. Lots of musicians are gay as hell, and lots of Straights(TM) enjoy their music. If homophobia or being outed is a concern, you have plausible deniability.

Also? I bet Orville Peck has fan groups in your area! Take to social media and see if you can find them before the show. Make some friends you can hang out with at the concert.

Good luck, sweet pea. Here's more on awkward parental conversations:

Season 1, Episode 8: "My Mother Demands Information About My One-Night Stands." 

[susiecarter]

thank you so much for your wonderful reply to my ask about the wips!❤️ please believe me when i say i’m patiently looking forward to ALL of them! (especially the gq/croc eggbaby series omfggg!!! plus the superbat sequels and top gun big bang aaaaa!)

now i can’t lie, i am constantly eyeing ‘bvs was Bruce Wayne’s kinky coma dream’ because that line alone makes me madly curious! so if i had to pick one idea that i’d LOVE to know more about, it’s definitely that one! thanks a lot again for indulging me!!! ❤️

:D And you are too good to me, anon, I can ONLY HOPE they're each worth the wait in the end! <333 (The eggbaby series is totally growing a plot on me, which I'm praying does not careen out of control. :'D And the Superbat sequels will probably take me the longest, just FYI, but I hope the guarantee of the Top Gun Big Bang makes up for that! :D)

... Honestly, I sometimes forget that not everyone in the entire world has been witness to the great struggle that is BvS Was Bruce Wayne's Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream. :'D Basically, it's pretty much what it says on the tin: fresh out of the theater after seeing BvS for the first time, I found myself pretty firmly convinced that the theatrical cut of that movie makes a hell of a lot more sense if it's Bruce having a strangely prescient, kinky dream than anything else.

Consider the following:

The original theatrical cut of BvS had noticeably less of Clark's POV than Bruce's; the Ultimate Edition has several additional scenes of his investigation of Batman + Lois putting the pieces together and realizing he'd been set up to fail at the Capitol. Without knowing that, though, and having only seen the theatrical cut, I felt like Clark's side of the narrative was weirdly insubstantial, and he seemed a little extra distant, uninvolved, arbitrarily deciding to fly around all stonefaced and threaten Batman ... not unlike the way Bruce might plausibly see him/imagine him to be, in other words.

(Except, that is, when Clark's talking to his mother, and suddenly seems genuinely troubled, more real, warmer; as if, even doing his best to strip Superman of any humanity, Bruce can't manage to imagine a son talking to his mother without some whiff of love and meaning and comfort involved. ;-;)

I have no reason that I know of not to like Jesse Eisenberg, and he's a good enough actor that I'm confident he was doing exactly what he was directed to do, as well as it was possible to do it ... but if BvS is Bruce's dream, it makes fifteen times as much sense to me that Lex Luthor is so blatantly Joker-inflected! Like, of course he is; when Bruce's brain has to generate A Villain, naturally it goes straight for "clearly unhinged, laughs too much, desperately obsessed on a personal level", you know?

(Also, Bruce's kinky brain being in the driver's seat makes Lex delighting in having Clark on his knees on the roof actually secretly a matter of Bruce assuming everyone must want Clark on his knees and dreaming accordingly, which doesn't hurt anything. :'D)

Even in a dream, I don't think Bruce could ever go as far as giving himself the chance to save his own mother; that is both too self-indulgent and too implausible, and he'd reject it as unreal in a heartbeat. The best his subconscious can do is put somebody else's mother Martha in danger, and let him rush in and save her instead. ;-;

The blatant plot U-turn of "oh wait Superman was never the enemy! HANG ON, HERE'S A CONVENIENTLY WORSE ENEMY, let's team up with Superman to beat him!" also makes more sense to me if Bruce, like, needed on a subconscious level to beat Superman up, to prove to himself that he could, but never actually wanted to kill him. Therefore, as soon as he'd pulverized Clark to his own internal satisfaction and indulged the desperate urge to drag Clark around by the throat and put his boot on Clark's chest and (nearly) ~impale Clark his subconscious was soothed, and free to say "okay, now that we've worked through that, we can be friends with Superman, no problem :) let's save the day together!"

HOWEVER, Bruce is still Bruce! There are no true happy endings, in BvS!Bruce's head. The best his brain can do is let Superman die a hero, so Bruce a) was right to have changed his mind about him, b) never has to interact with him again or actually deal with/do anything about any of the shit he was working through via a half-hour-long kinky fight scene where he got to watch Superman gasp for breath in the rain on his knees, and c) gets to dedicate himself to doing right by Clark's memory (and he might, might, even mentally allow himself some hope of success, with Diana there to help).

Obviously this still leaves plenty of stuff to finagle! Why is Bruce's dream so long, so involved, and so weirdly accurate on certain points? I decided the obvious answer to this was my favorite answer to everything: the ship.

So BvS Was Bruce Wayne's Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream became an AU premise that approximated a time-travel fix-it, in which Bruce Wayne was badly injured during Black Zero (along with plenty of other people), and the ship detected that and connected itself to him (along with plenty of other people) to keep him suspended in an unconscious state while it repaired him. Bruce's kinky brain was driving, cast Clark as the villain until it didn't anymore, flavored everything with Bruce's impressions and expectations ... but the ship used its own data to supplement and stabilize the coma dream until he was physically ready to wake up again.

Which is to say: the ship knows Clark's name and Clark's mother's name, even though Bruce couldn't. It knows about kryptonite, even though Bruce wouldn't, not right at the end of MoS. And it also knows about its genesis chamber, its ability to create things like Doomsday if required to, and, of course, Apokolips—which means the Knightmare ALSO suddenly makes sense, not as Bruce being precognitive? being sent messages from an alternate dimension? who tf knows! but as the ship, aware of the actual Space Threat out there, trying to insert that Space Threat appropriately into the narrative ... only for Bruce's ridiculous stubborn subconscious to shove Clark right back into the middle of the Knightmare, still the bad guy. :'D

ANYWAY, yeah, so then Bruce was going to wake up from his Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream, having experienced BvS and his whole arc of coming to the understanding that Superman's not the villain inside of his own head, and knowing Superman is Clark Kent on top of it, and knowing the actual Lex Luthor is out there, possibly an issue, possibly intending to steal Zod's body and make Doomsday. And he himself would also have JUST EXPERIENCED Clark's death and Clark's funeral, and would be wanting, more than anything, to try to make sure Clark doesn't die this time. And he'd already be three-quarters in love with Clark, while Clark has absolutely no idea who the hell he is or why he seems to know random things about Clark/Kryptonians/the ship or why he seems so weirdly preoccupied with and sad about and protective of Clark–

I have had several thousand words of this thing drafted for literally years now. However, when I first started working on it, I didn't know shit :'D and all I had to go off of with Diana was BvS + some early WW trailers where her movieverse powerset wasn't totally clear. So I wrote some stuff that turned out to make no sense, and then stalled out trying to decide how I wanted to fix it, and then JL came along and gave me a new angle on where the plot should maybe go, and and and ...

... yeah. I've reworked bits and pieces of the outline several times, I finally have a pretty good idea how I want the full story to turn out, but I still haven't actually nailed all the pieces down in order, redrafted the early beginning sections, or, you know, written the rest of the darn thing. :'D

Anyway! That got super long, I'm so sorry, I don't blame you if you noped out of that about halfway through :D but yeah, for all the time that's passed, I'm still really stuck on the idea and still really enamored of everything I worked out about what to do with it and how I wanted it to go, so. I am definitely hoping to one day finish what is literally the first fic I ever started writing in this fandom. /o\ :D

[blueskyscribe]

Time to roast Pokemon Gen 5

I was really looking forward to playing Pokemon Black / White (Gen V) because everyone said it was the Pokemon gen with the best story.

Well.

The plot:

Evil Guy wants to take over the region.

Evil Guy is like "Hee hee I will trick people into releasing their Pokemon, then I'll easily take over with MY Pokemon."

Evil Guy tells everyone that keeping Pokemon in pokeballs is exploitative. He frames this in generic terms (no examples) and this is enough to make the crowd gawp and wonder aloud if Evil Guy is correct. They seem shocked by the idea the Pokemon could be exploited, to which I say . . . do these people ever watch the news? Like we have had four previous games full of pocket monster exploitation by bad guys. Anyway, Evil Guy urges everyone to release their Pokemon.

Evil Guy of course has an Evil Team. And since the Unova region is based on America, of course they are themed as . . . MEDIEVAL KNIGHTS!

But don't worry, this team also has American theming such as Seven Sages, a couple ninjas, and a late game castle which erupts out of the earth.

It's all so generic. It's too bad, because America certainly has a history full of conflicts and villains. All right, there are some topics that I wouldn't trust Pokemon writers to address with enough sensitivity (like racism), but what about "Pinkertons versus unions"? Organized crime and crooked cops? The 1920s had a rash of fake spiritualists bilking people out of their money, what about a team based on them, with Psychic type Pokemon? With a Champion based on Harry Houdini, who loved unmasking fake psychics?

But no, we get store-brand Final Fantasy bullshit.

So anyway, Evil Guy's plan relies on people believing that he means well and is trustworthy. And therefore, Evil Team starts . . . committing a wide variety of crimes! In front of witnesses! They steal pokeballs from children, they kick Pokemon, etc.

"But maybe they still have plausible deniability," you might be thinking. "Maybe people won't believe kids." Well, maybe not, but they also commit crimes in front of Gym Leaders, the most trusted and powerful people in the Unova region. Like, one of the Gym Leaders has a museum, and instead of breaking in stealthily in the night, Team Evil just goes through the front door in broad daylight and steals an item while everyone stares at them.

Let's reflect on some other shortcomings of Evil Guy's plan which, to reiterate, is to guilt people into releasing their Pokemon.

First, if a Pokemon loves its owner, why would it leave just because it was released? Why wouldn't it continue to hang around, like the wild Rockruff that lived in Professor Kukui's house in the anime?

Second, if all Pokemon WOULD rather flee into the woods than stay with their human, then the bad guy is seemingly correct.

Third, what about the asshole trainers who don't care about their Pokemon's feelings? We know they're out there, there's a Pokemon move called Frustration.

Fourth, even if Evil Guy tricked everyone into releasing their Pokemon, there is nothing to stop the populace from catching NEW Pokemon the minute Evil Guy starts using his Pokemon to bully people. Feed Evil Guy's plan to a Trubbish and throw it in the bin, because it's garbage.

On a final note, when looking at the ethics of keeping Pokemon . . . Of COURSE it would be unethical to keep a lot of them irl! Giving children Fire type Pokemon would be grossly irresponsible. Litwick feeds off human souls, you shouldn't keep one. And the Yamask--introduced in THIS GAME--are described as "the spirits of people interred in graves. Each retains memories of its former life."

Now personally I love the weirder Pokedex entries and all the Pokemon with horrifying origins. I love that Pallosand shoots the bones of its victims from its arms and that Phantump is the ghost of a child who possessed a stump. However: Gen V made a beeline for the only rake in the yard and stepped on it. Most Pokemon games sidestep Poke-catching ethics; it's understood that this is all pretend, nothing is actually being captured, and therefore the player doesn't need to worry about such things.

But characters within Black & White bring this argument to the forefront, and without having any rebuttal. This is why the Evil Guy makes generic arguments like "If you don't release your Pokemon they can't fulfill their true potential", instead of telling the crowds "Catching a Yamask means you're enslaving a human ghost" or "Hands up anyone who caught your Pokemon by burning, paralyzing, or poisoning it."

So, yeah. Pokemon Black & White has the second worst story of a mainline Pokemon game. I haven't played Black 2 or White 2, maybe they were better.

[maladaptivemisanthrope]

From the view of a high schooler, school includes:

-lack of autonomy (schedules, activities, and even bathroom breaks have to go through an adult)

-lack of novelty (not enough is new and I'm bored out of my skull within minutes)

-lack of sleep (I get up before 7:00am on school days, which is not enough time for me to get enough rest)

-lack of order (those kids are too loud, it's pissing me off, and the teacher is doing nothing effective to stop them, if they're doing anything at all)

-lack of safety (usamerican exclusive issue)

-lack of challenges (everything is either too easy to qualify or way too difficult. If it's the latter, I call it a hardship)

-bullying/harassment (I'm the weird kid and the teachers do nothing about the comments my classmates make)

-stress (if I can't pass this class, I'll have to redo a grade. If I have to redo a grade, I'll never get into college or a good job. Therefore, failing this class = my life will be shit forever)

Combine all this, and you get a place nobody wants to be. I'd drop out if I had a plan for life afterward. If I could get a retail job with a good wage and health insurance, I'd drop out immediately and work at a Barnes & Noble or something, but I can't.

And, mind you, this is the grace period. The time when I don't have to worry about taxes or mortgages or health insurance or medical bills or retirement, and I am hanging by threads. I want to write, but can I make a living doing what I love in this economy? I really, really want to, but is that even possible? Plausible? If the grace period is this bad, then why bother living to or through adulthood? Wouldn't it just be better to die young?

Youth hurts, and I've spent mine being told this is the good part. If whatever the hell could be worse is inevitable, then isn't it just common sense to... y'know, die instead of living it?

adults are always talking about how “kids will do anything to get out of school” and okay, first of all that’s not true, but I think we really need to ask why that idea holds so much sway.

children’s brains are hard-wired to take in new information and acquire new skills. consider, for a moment, just how thoroughly our society had to fuck up the concept of education for it to be a normal thing to assume kids are universally desperate to avoid learning.

[woozyvee]

hidden touch, secret message

　　　　　　　( bf! seungmin x female reader )

genre: smut.

word count: 2k

synopsis: there's a telltale sign for when your boyfriend is horny.

author's note: just a result of my mushy hard thoughts about this guy because i've got a crush on him. a late happy birthday to seungminie!

It's when he touches your wrist that you know.

Seungmin isn't exactly opposed to a little bit of PDA, letting you squeeze his hand or even discreetly kiss his cheek in the presence of others without much fuss. But he's never the one who initiates it.

Well. Except for under some very specific circumstances.

The light touch almost tickles at first and you have to look down to realize that it's your boyfriend who's causing the sensation. You look up at his face with a questioning arch in your brows as his fingertips softly trace the inside of your wrist. But he's not looking at you, focusing on Chan where he's talking across the table, like the rest of his members. Or, pretending to focus, maybe.

Nobody notices the physical contact, as it's hidden beneath the dining table and perhaps that is why Seungmin's caresses become a bit firmer. Seeing as he still isn't looking at you, you also turn away from him to pretend as if nothing is happening, nodding along to whatever Chan is saying even though you've lost track by now.

Laughter breaks out around the table at a comment Jisung makes, mixing with the surrounding bustle of the restaurant and you instinctively join in, doing your best to ignore the shivers that run up your spine as Seungmin's nails drag along your skin. You half-expect his touch to disappear as he's suddenly addressed but it doesn't and by the time he's finished talking, his hand as fully wrapped around your wrist to hold it.

When his thumb starts rubbing against you in gentle circles, you chance another glance his way but are left hanging yet again. You're not sure why he chooses to ignore you. Because you know that he knows that you know what this means.

So your other hand comes over to grab his hand, stopping its movements. It works, as he finally meets your searching gaze. When you raise a quizzical brow at him he simply slides his hand off your wrist, letting it settle on your thigh instead, where he squeezes the clothed flesh softly. He then throws you a quick wink before turning away again.

But he can't hold back the small smile that grows across his lips and therefore, neither can you. Something excited swirls around in your belly, mixing nicely with the feeling of a full stomach after a delicious meal.

With every sip of beer, the anticipation in your abdomen grows in size. With every shift of Seungmin's hand, that same anticipation travels lower.

The only one who you think notices how Seungmin's hand stays hidden under the table for the rest of the evening, is Felix. Because he sends you this suspiciously happy grin which makes you wonder if he also knows what these secret touches mean. You're blushing from that point onward, Seungmin's hand steadfast in stroking your thigh. Either he doesn't notice that you've been caught or he doesn't care; with Seungmin, the latter is more plausible.

Whether Felix knows what this evening has in store for you or not, he's no longer in your thoughts by the time you and Seungmin enter your dim, compact apartment.

"Hey, you shouldn't touch me like that when we're with your members," you scold as you step out of your shoes.

"Why?" he asks plainly, shrugging off his jacket.

"It's mean," you sulk, half-heartedly.

"How so? You like it, don't you?" The look he gives you is knowing.

Your pout turns into a glare. "Exactly! It makes me horny."

"Well, then you're meaner. Because you do nothing and still make me horny."

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way his blunt admission makes you feel. "That doesn't make me meaner, if I'm not consciously doing anything. I can't control that."

"You could make an effort to look uglier."

He meets your squinted eyes with a mischievous grin. "You want me to look uglier, do you?"

"Not really. I don't mind that you're mean," he takes a step toward you and you squeeze the material of your long sleeves. "I don't mind that just looking at you makes me horny."

You raise an eyebrow as he comes closer, his touch hovering over your hips.

"And you," he emphasizes, tilting his head down to look at you from under his lashes, "don't mind when I let you know that I'm horny."

A shiver washes over you as Seungmin's fingers move under your shirt, slightly cold against the skin of your waist where they splay themselves out.

"Do you?" The question sounds more like a statement.

You inhale and exhale slowly, letting him guide you to lean against the wall behind you. He presses his front snugly into yours, the grip over your skin squeezing a little bit harder. By the way his thumbs all but dig into you, you can tell that he's still needy, despite the composed expression on his face. The tip of his nose barely brushes yours.

He raises his pretty eyebrows in question, apparently waiting for an answer.

A sigh. "No, I don't mind."

Your boyfriend smiles before he leans down to kiss you, pouty lips soft over yours.

It doesn't take long for your tongues to slip into each other's mouths, Seungmin's hands sliding up and down your skin with an occasional touch over your covered nipples. You exchange air with your heavy breaths, his hips sometimes jerking forward against his will to let you know how hard he's getting within his jeans. Your hands grab at his shirt, the back of his neck, anything to ground you as you nearly drown in the taste of him.

Seungmin pulls away to look down, lips swollen and breathing labored. His hands leave your skin to unbutton and unzip your pants and you press kisses along his jaw to occupy yourself.

You try not to flinch too hard when one of his hands slips into your panties and slides over your wet folds, whimper caught somewhere in the back of your throat. Seungmin sighs and presses himself harder against you, sandwiching you between himself and the wall.

"Were you already this wet back at the restaurant?"

You swallow. "Coulda put your hand down my pants and found out."

He chuckles but it's breathy, hot against your neck. "So you're just playing hard to get, huh? You scold me but really, you're a bigger perv than I am."

"Is that news to you?" Your voice is strained as he coats his fingers in your slick.

"Hm," he hums, burying his face in your neck to place kisses there. "Guess not."

The plush pads of Seungmin's fore- and middle finger draw delicate circles against your clit and your legs shake for a moment, choked sounds slipping past your lips as you muffle your voice with your tongue. He nips at the crook of your neck with his teeth before softly kissing it better. Both your hands are harshly grasping at strands of his hair, only faltering slightly as his middle finger moves down to dip inside you. You try not to moan but fail, whining into Seungmin's shoulder a bit high-pitched and shaky.

"Fuck," Seungmin sighs, his bite a little harder over your pulse and causing your brows to deeply furrow. He slowly pulls his finger in and out of you, drawing more and more warmth to pool between your legs.

He lifts his hand that's resting on your hip to grasp one of your elbows, dragging his palm along your forearm until it reaches your hand where he grasps it in his, pressing it against the wall next to your head. You no longer try to swallow your moans, letting them fall freely from your parted, glistening lips, into Seungmin's neck. He pulls out of you to focus on your clit again, knowing exactly how to caress it to make you buck your hips.

Your boyfriend turns his head, pecks your cheek. "Does it feel good, pretty?"

"Yes," you sigh, louder than you mean to.

Seungmin kisses your jaw, fingers reaching down to collect more of your arousal before coming back up. You're really sensitive now, squirming with his movements against you.

Before you know it, you feel your release building itself up, something warm and tight twisting in your abdomen. Your mewls become deeper, heavier as you curl into Seungmin's body, rocking your hips in time with his fingers.

He lifts his head to watch you, breath ticklish against your nose.

"Getting close?"

You can only nod, voice too busy whimpering to answer. Your fingers curl and flex under Seungmin's hold where he's pressing your hand into the wall, the feeling of being restrained shooting electricity straight down to your crotch.

"Hm. Should I stop?"

Your eyes shoot open, your view of Seungmin's face blurry from the close proximity. "What- no!" You furiously shake your head.

"Oh? But I thought you like it when I'm mean to you," he reminds you and grips your trapped hand a little harder.

Despite what he's saying, his fingers don't let up and you moan louder, head falling back against the wall with a thud. "Fuck, yeah, I do-"

Seungmin snickers but you cannot find it in yourself to care, cheeks burning as you draw closer to the edge and your free hand grasps his hair roughly. He rolls his hips into yours, a tight groan barely sounding from his throat.

"Since you like it so much" —Seungmin stutters over a grunt— "I can be meaner. I can leave you hanging right now and go jerk myself off in the bathroom."

"No no-"

"No?"

"No please-" Your voice breaks as your hips grind into his touch.

"Oh," Seungmin sighs into your ear. "So you like it when I'm a little nice too."

"Yeah-"

"Okay then." Seungmin kisses your earlobe. "I'll play nice tonight. Mostly because I like when you're already fucked out once I put my cock in you."

Your squirming gets stiffer, involuntarily fighting against Seungmin's hold on you as he works you toward your release. He bites your ear and you almost choke on your own spit, abs curling tightly in your stomach.

"Oh fuck fuck please-"

"Mhm," Seungmin hums, hot breath fanning the inside of your ear. "Let go, pretty. I'll help you through it."

You do and he does.

Strong, tingling waves of raw pleasure contract through your body, rolling your eyes to the back of your head as you writhe helplessly between your boyfriend and the wall he's pressing you into. He holds you as you squirm through your high, fingers gentle over your clit and kisses soft against your cheekbone.

"There you go," Seungmin exhales, digging his hard length into your hipbone through your clothes.

Only when you whine and flinch away from his touch does he let up, pulling out of your underwear to hold your waist with both his hands. He takes half a step away from you, only so he can get a good look at your slightly dazed and flushed face.

He's grinning, ear to ear, absolutely beaming from where he's staring down at you.

You huff, relying on the wall and Seungmin's hold to keep you from swaying. "What?"

"Nothing."

You scoff but can't help the curl at the corners of your lips. "Right."

He leans down and kisses you through his smile, tender and heartfelt. Until his movements turn just a bit rough. He pulls away, voice strained.

"Don't get me wrong, I'd love to stand here and keep making out but I really need to fuck you right now and I'm not doing it against this wall."

You giggle airily as he seizes the same wrist he was touching under the restaurant's table and drags you toward your bedroom.

This is why every time Seungmin initiates PDA, you know you are in for a good time.

copyright © 2024 woozyvee. all rights reserved.

[hufflepuffwithaslytherinkink]

Tacenda - Chapter 39 Snippet

By the time Saturday arrives Eleanor is dreading her detention. It’s more the not knowing what she’s going to be doing that’s the problem than the actual detention. She doesn’t want to think about it too much but at the same time it’s all she can think about. Theo and Eleanor decide to skip tea in the great hall, instead opting to eat in the room of requirement so they can spend time together.

They’re lounging on a blanket in the middle of the floor, empty plates surrounding them as Theo traces patterns on Eleanor’s stomach. He’s lifted her t-shirt slightly, his fingers delicately dancing over her exposed skin.

“I don’t want to go.” She sighs focusing on the constellations painted onto the ceiling.

“Then don’t.” Theo mumbles, continuing to drag his fingers across her stomach.

“I can’t not go. If I do that I’ll probably get two detentions and he’ll make them worse than what he’s already got planned.” Eleanor whines.

Theo pouts before rolling closer to Eleanor and spreading his hand over stomach. “I could take the blame. Say I dazzled you so much you forgot what year it was, never mind the day or time.”

Eleanor giggles. “Whilst that’s easily plausible, no one’s meant to know you’re dazzling me.”

“I could have done it accidentally.” He suggests.

“I don’t think that’ll work.”

“Why? Aren’t I dazzling enough for you?” He asks in mock offence.

“You’re more than dazzling, distracting, entrancing, mesmerising. You’re everything, but for some reason I don’t think Professor McGonagall or Filch will take that as an acceptable excuse.”

Theo shakes his head. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t it’s obviously true.”

“Obviously.” Eleanor laughs as Theo leans over her to press his lips to her own. His hand moving to grasp her waist gently.

Eleanor hums into the kiss, she wants nothing more than to stay here with him and continue their night together, but she knows she needs to go. She needs to do this detention and get it over with.

She takes a deep breath before pushing at Theo’s shoulders slightly. He moans at the loss of contact but goes back, leaning on his elbow letting his head hang in defeat.

“Fine, choose Filch over me.” He moans. “Just know when you come back… I’ll be waiting for whatever dirty thing you want to do to me.”

Eleanor snorts shoving at his shoulder making him chuckle. “You know if it was up to me I wouldn’t be leaving this room at all.”

Theo grins at her before narrowing his eyes. “The choice is yours love.” He tells her. “If we never leave then you never have to do detention. Therefore, I think that’s an excellent plan.”

Eleanor giggles tugging her shirt back down and starting to stand up, fixing her skirt as she goes. Theo watches her hands tug at the hem, his pupils blown as he bites his bottom lip.

“We could also do something else whilst in here.” He says suggestively.

“Oh really? Like what?” Eleanor asks pulling her converse on.

Theo shrugs nonchalantly watching her. “I dunno, maybe fun stuff.”

“Fun stuff?” She asks with pursed lips. “You’ll have to elaborate.”

“Well I was thinking…” He starts turning to give her a dreamy look, though he’s making it dramatic and funny it still makes her legs shake. “We haven’t tested out your science tablets yet.”

“What?” Eleanor asks in confusion.

“You know the one’s that mean we don’t have to use the spell.” He says his eyes trailing over her body lustfully.

Realisation hits Eleanor and she feels her face flush with embarrassment, oh those tablets.

“No we haven’t have we?” She answers thoughtfully.

Theo moves, positioning himself on his knees in front of Eleanor his hands on her hips as he looks at her through his lashes.

Merlin, have mercy.

“We could rectify that.” Theo suggests, his voice low as his hands trail down her body, past her skirt to the skin of her legs.

Eleanor hums, she’d love to rectify that.

She gasps as Theo’s hand start to work his hands upwards again, pushing her skirt up with the motion.

“You don’t have to leave.” He tells her pressing a kiss to both of her thigh.

Oh God.

Eleanor takes a shaky breath, trying to control the butterflies in her stomach.

“Theo.” She warns him, though it’s ruined by how desperate she sounds.

“How bad could skipping be? They’re not going to expel you for missing one detention.” He tells her his hands continuing to push her skirt upwards.

“No, I’m not skipping.” She tells him firmly pushing his head back gently.

Theo drops his hands, moving back to sit on his heels as he stares up at her sulkily.

“Why not?” He complains.

“You know why. I’m not getting into more trouble; you’ll just have to wait until my detention’s over.” She tells him fixing her skirt once more.

Theo pouts at her before a smirk forms on his lips. “So after?” He asks eagerly.

Eleanor can’t stop the grin from appearing on her face, he’s utterly adorable when he looks at her like that.

“If I’m not too tired.” She tells him.

Theo is instantly on his feet, his hands wrapping around her as he looks at her lovingly.

“Just let me know love. Send me a message and I’ll come running whether to snog you or run you a bath whatever you need.” He tells her pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you.” Eleanor smiles up at him. She adores how he never tries to pressure her or sway her. He does whatever she’s comfortable with and it melts her heart every time. She got more than lucky with Theo.

“Once again, it’s common decency love. You spend way too much time around boorish idiots.” He states pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. “You’d better go or you’ll be late.” He tells her with a small smile.

Eleanor gives him one in return before reaching up to press another kiss to his lips.

“I’ll see you later.” She tells him before turning and leaving for Filch’s office. She heads towards the stairs descending them with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She really was dreading whatever the evening had in stall for her.

She takes in a sharp breath as she reaches the door, raising her first and knocking firmly. She only waits a couple of seconds before it opens and she’s greeted by Filch glaring at her with unforgiving pale eyes.

“Ah another one’s turned up then. Hurry up inside.” He orders opening the door a little wider.

Eleanor darts forward, her eyes roaming the tiny room taking in the desk and filing cabinets before her eyes focus on Zacharias leaning in the corner looking moody as he bites the tip of his thumb. He doesn’t notice her as he continues to stare at a crack in the stone floor.

What was he doing there? Why did he have detention?

“Hurry up and get in.” Filch shoves Eleanor pushing her further into his office so he can shut the door.

Eleanor stumbles and Zacharias finally looks up his eyes widening as he clocks her.

“Elle.” He says apparently stunned by her appearance.

“Zac.” She answers but Filch instantly moves between them.

“None of that.” He warns. “You’re here to be punished not to recite poetry.”

“We weren’t-.” Eleanor starts but he cuts her off sternly.

“I don’t care. If it was up to me I’d have you strung from the ceilings by your ankles right now but as it is the headmaster deems that as inappropriate. I don’t see why considering you’re all insolent deviants.” Filch snarls at them before turning and glancing through his notes. “We’re waiting for two more. One will meet us here the other will join you later. Both of them have already been completing these detentions for a number of weeks.”

Eleanor chews her lip as she wonders if Joe is one of them. He’d had to attend detention every Saturday night since the fight. Her stomach drops at the thought, she told him not to do anything stupid.

There’s a knock on the door and Filch opens it hurriedly. “Finally.” He announces. “Right up you get, we’re going to the dungeons tonight.” He declares.

Eleanor instantly shuffles forward, Zacharias right behind her.

She stops when she reaches the door and notes the other student who’d arrived. It was the boy who shouted at her the first night back, the one who basically declared her the biggest slag in the school.

Her stomach twists at the thought of having to work with him. Why, oh, why did it have to be him she thinks.

The boy stares at her with wide eyes before Zac appears behind her and his eyebrows rise as he sends a scoff their way.

Did he think she was fucking Zac in Filch’s office? With Filch right there? Dickhead.

“Right the fourth one will be along later. He’s having to do something for a professor right now. Don’t worry he’ll be joining you very shortly.” Filch announces.

Great if it is Joe then there’s probably going to be another fight. Eleanor thinks glumly.

She follows Filch down to the dungeons, the darkness of the corridor making her jumpy as their footsteps echo around them. The chill putting her on edge as they make their way further and further into the bowls of the castle.

How does Theo sleep down here so comfortably? She wonders.

“In there.” Filch says pointing to the door of a storeroom.

They all file in, Zac moving closer to Eleanor than the other boy, Greyson she thinks his name is.

“Professor Slughorn needs this equipment cleaning.” Filch announces happily. “All of it, the chopping boards, the knives, the cauldrons, beakers, phials you name it, it needs cleaning. You need to make sure it’s spotless, not a mark on anything and you’re not allowed to use magic. I’ll be back with the other student in a bit.” He tells them walking to the door, he turns back to them with a wicked smirk. “I’d get started if I were you or you won’t be getting back to your beds tonight.”

He quickly shuts the door, leaving them in the not quite-big-enough storeroom, the only light coming from a dim lamp in the corner.

“That’s alright you don’t like your own bed do you Harris.” Greyson says to her with a smirk.

“Watch what you’re saying.” Zacharias growls at him.

Greyson gives him a curious look, leaning back against a set of shelves. “Aren’t you the one who kindly informed the rest of us how willing she is to open her legs?”

“I was wrong.” Zacharias announces, his jaw set. “I was angry and said stuff I didn’t mean, Elle’s not like that.”

Greyson watches him for a minute before shrugging. “I guess ass really does control men if you’re saying what she wants you to.”

“That’s not-.” Zacharias starts to say but Greyson holds his hand up with a bored expression.

“Mate I couldn’t care less. Do what you need to get laid.” He announces before rolling his sleeves up and moving towards a pile of chopping boards.

Zacharias is breathing heavily, glaring at Greyson’s retreating figure before turning to Eleanor.

“Are you okay?” He asks his voice full of guilt.

Eleanor shrugs. “I won’t pretend he doesn’t make my skin crawl but I won’t let someone like him get to me. I know it’s not true.”

Zacharias nods though she hears Greyson scoff from the corner. She sends a glare his way before walking towards the phials and picking them up. Zacharias watches her nervously before dropping down beside a pile of cauldrons.

Eleanor moves towards the sinks; she’s going to have to soak the phials to get most of this gunk off. It’s caked to the inside of them, and she doesn’t feel like sticking something inside to scrape at them for hours. She’s just started to fill the sink with soapy water when she hears the door open and Filch reappears, she almost drops the phials as she spots Dean walking in.

Oh fuck.

[chaotic-demonboy]

I wish I could get out of my own head

I know that my thoughts are just that, my thoughts, and that they are not my entire self. They are s very small part, other people don't even seen them, I don't have to be tamed by them.

But for some reason, the illusion in my brain seem so enticing. I figured it's because o can control them. What I wish to happen always happens on my dreams. I'm always in control.

That control goes away whenever I try to take a chance in the real world and I try to make that thought I had into a reality. Because things stop being in my control. I'm at the mercy of someone or something else.

That shit gives so much anxiety. And like, I already know. I already know that is all in my head. That whenever reality doesn't work out the way I dreamt it, that it's not because people never really liked me and just tolerate me. That never the reason. Yet, that's always where my brain goes.

I already know the steps. I want to do something. I don't do it right away and therefore a barrier in my brain is created. I start dreaming of how I ideally want that situation to go about. The more time passes, the bigger the barrier gets. I get anxious and am always thinking about it. Then I decide that I have to take the step, in hopes that is aliviates my anxiety but the thought of getting a no as answer just giver me even more anxiety. So I stay in limbo until I'm tired and I bit the bullet and try to actually do the thing. Then I feel extremely anxious for like a day, and I avoid contact. And then, depending on the answers I get there are too possible outcome. If the answer is positive, and it sort of matches my dream, them I'm left feeling that I could've just avoided all the anxiety if I asked right away what I wanted and a huge weight is lifted of off my back. If the answer is negative though, I get anxious, because my brain goes into that place where I think I'm not enough and that people just tolerate me, and don't really want to hang out with me. I then have to remind myself that that isn't the case, but it's unsuccessful. I either just with time forget about or get tired of feeling like shit, or I get an explanation from the other side, as to way they said no, and literally aleays is a plausible, completely understandable reason and not a lot because they have me, which aliviates my anxiety and again, leaves me thinking, that I didn't need to feel anxious in the first place and I should've asked what I needed right away.

All I'm saying is, even though I already know how my brain is going to react, I haven't figured out how to stop this cycle. It frustrating and sometimes I wish I could get out of my own head.

My brain hurts.

[uncommon-etc]

*cracks knuckles* *puts dusty former-media-studies-teacher hat back on* as it so happens, when I was having to teach a bunch of 15-year-olds who mostly loved horror and genre-TV the likes of Barthes, Butler, Mulvey, Neale, and Jenkins, I used a lot of clips from Supernatural. Why? It wasn't just because I was a pre-teen in the mid 00s, watched the show from the beginning and had something of a fondness for it, much of the show is a masterclass in both semantic and cultural coding, and my students needed a lot of help to tell the two apart.

Semantic coding at its most basic level is additional meaning by connotation, but those connotations are broadly universal (i.e. that guy's face is creased into a frown, he must be frustrated) Cultural coding by contrast is not universal, it requires a shared understanding of visual language specific to the culture in which you've grown up (including, crucially, subculture). My students had all grown up in fairly enlightened times in a relatively affluent area and roughly a quarter of them were openly queer. It was interesting that the LGBT+ kids picked up on cultural coding much more quickly, but on the whole all of them eventually got the hang of it.

We would watch certain scenes and I'd ask them to distinguish between semantic and cultural codes in the dialogue, visuals, and actions of the characters, so for example in the scene where Dean first meets Aaron Bass, the semantic codes are clear even to a clueless straight person (the students would write things like 'dean is clearly flustered - evidence: he bumps into a table') but then we'd look at the cultural coding; the prolonged eye-contact, the FBI pass slid a little more slowly than was needed along the bar, the facial expressions (and yes, the face does very different things when you're grossed out that someone you're not attracted is into you or flattered that someone you are is openly flirting) all of these choices were deliberate, and it seems nigh-on impossible that decisions about the acting, cinematography, and stylings of a scene could have been made in isolation, that's simply not how TV works.

Even if you remove Cas from the narrative entirely (and that's a big if) the whole show is littered with these instances, there's plausible deniability to an extent because the writers clearly wanted some scenes to be read as far more ambiguous to a straight audience, but even some of the dialogue employs this semantic/cultural coding combination in a way that's actually pretty clever. When Garth says 'what, purgatory purgatory?' and Dean goes 'No, the one in Miami.' the semantic coding of his tone/body-language is clear, but it takes someone with a working knowledge of the shared culture of the American LGBT population to go 'hold on, isn't that the name of a famous gay-bar? How does Dean know about that?'

It's a truth sadly and universally understood by all who lived through that era that 00s TV was absolutely rife with casual homophobia, so yes, to begin with a lot of those moments are probably written for laughs particularly around the insinuation that two actual siblings could never be close enough to live together, share motel rooms and travel around together as adults, therefore they must be a couple, but it's interesting that from the start the writers made a conscious choice to make Dean the primary focus of these gags. And when the 'mistaken for a couple' schtick grew stale, it doesn't take a genius to be conscious of how Sam was never the one put in situations where he might be perceived as showing an interest in other men.

Ironically one of the most telling lines appears in one-such late-00s homophobia played-for-laughs scene very early on in the series, Dean says 'I suppose the most troubling question is why do these people think we're gay?' and Sam goes 'well you're kind of butch, maybe they think you're overcompensating.' out of context and in isolation the semantic coding of the scene is a simple one-sibling-teasing-the-other dynamic, but A) this was an era where Brokeback Mountain had just been released and trying to look as masc as possible as a queer man was such a common occurance they did a whole bit on My Name is Earl about it, and B) the more observant viewer knows the characters well enough by now to have noted Dean's tendancy to over-idealise and emmulate his father, in a way that looks exactly like over-compensating for not being straight.

Showrunners always want to have their cake an eat it, attracting large and loyal LGBT+ audiences without doing anything gay enough to scare off straight fans with unchecked biases, and yes, it's easy for me to look back on the show in light of all of the much more diverse and openly queer shows we have now and feel like I spent most of my teenage years being queerbaited. But the standard formula for any genre show in the 00s and early 10s was to have one token gay character who never got much of a storyline of their own beyond being the token gay character, then kill them off as soon as it looked like they had the chance to be happy. It was as if writers (even those who were queer themselves like a certain R.T. Davies) were only prepared to give us queer stories cloaked in shame, trauma, and tragedy, or create queer stories with straight romances (ala Bryan Fuller and Pushing Daisies, still one of the greatest straight love-stories written for TV purely because it feels so friggin gay).

So while it doesn't make it right, maybe having a queer-coded main character who got to survive 15 seasons, experience a full range of emotions and lived experiences, and be studied by future generations as a fascinating example cultural coding in genre-tv isn't such a bad thing after all?

the thing is that if you take each individual queer!dean moment in isolation you can look at them and go 'wow straight people are fucking oblivious huh' but if you zoom out a little and start looking at the whole picture there is very clearly a purposeful pattern happening there from the writing to the acting to the directing to the editing and i know these days it's a crime worthy of being dragged through the public square to say hey actually maybe the people working on the show supernatural knew what they were doing but um maybe the people working on the show supernatural knew what they were doing

[tiredrobin]

(wakes up) the batter from OFF and spamton deltarune should be put in the same room together (lays there in a fugue state for seventy minutes) and they should be friends i think (decays into my bedsheets)

[tomwambsgans]

could you expand a bit more on your theory of what happened to greg's dad? so far it seems super interesting

so it's def not something i thought of independently, i've seen similar musings in other ppl's posts (though idk if i've reblogged any of em and idk exactly who has said what) but here's the rundown of my thinking, particularly about the "your father used to sleep with all the men in sausalito" line:

it's likely referring to either prior to greg's birth or very very early on in greg's life, which would have been in the late 80s and/or early 90s

sausalito is basically right across from san francisco, which is/was THE gay man hub and which therefore had some of the most known cases of HIV during the AIDS crisis. which was the era that greg's dad was apparently having a lot of casual sex

also if caroline was there to know that her niece-in-law's baby daddy was not only gay but actively, functionally so, and laughs about it directly to greg like it's not some secret at all, then it stands to be assumed that their relationship was at the very least open and most likely never serious to begin with.

add this to connor telling greg about his mom sitting on the lap of gore vidal who is famously bisexual, giving her a track record of hanging around mlm. she was def the kinda girl who went to gay bars back in the day. anyway

going from there, personally i've come to the conclusion that, whatever motivated it - mr. hirsch thinking for a sec he might be bi, or him actually being incidentally bi, or just drunkenness and random fun - greg was born out of more or less a hookup that tied his parents together out of obligation.

given that greg never mentions the guy and looks explicitly uncomfortable when caroline says the sausalito line, i have to then also assume that greg's dad wasn't a positive figure in his life. which, based on how greg is, i can only imagine being the case if the guy just wasn't in it. then add THAT to allusions made to viruses particularly re: greg multiple times in the show.... basically it all creates a big steaming pot of, both functionally in-universe and as meta symbolism, It's Very Plausible Greg's Dad Died Of AIDS-Related Complications.

also imo i feel like even before dying the guy was probably not super present? like i do want to think that he made an effort to stay in greg's life but then, that he'd have been pretty unhappy trying to Make It Work with marianne so he didn't try to pretend to be anyone he wasn't. and the man he was was a bit of a whore. and i also figure that they were living in california before greg was born, and then marianne probably moved back to canada to be near ewan sometime shortly after, so if mr hirsch moved there with her, he wouldn't even have had nearly as much community up there as he def liked to have.

..point is, i think he planned on being a dad just as little as marianne planned on being a mom if not less. and he maybe didn't have it in him to settle down and make fatherhood his full time thing even assuming that he did love greg.

ntm ewan probably hated greg's dad's guts and didn't like the idea of him taking part in raising greg if he was also gonna be openly gay (especially if he was diagnosed with HIV and if ewan knew about it), which would make it a good chance that he was a factor in the guy only visiting sometimes at best and never bringing male partners with him.

so long story short i'm not like 100% set on it as a greg's dad backstory but i think it would make greg's behavior (especially as it relates to greg himself being gay) make a lot if not the most possible sense

[not-bcring]

「 ☆ 」 Breath catches at the sound of Bill's voice, heart stalling in his chest and a fresh wave of tears threatening to well up at the IDEA of getting caught crying by his... crush fuck-buddy best friend ( with benefits ) . A counterproductive reaction, but one Kazuichi has no control over. Hastily, he turns his head and wipes at his eyes with the heels of his hands as ❛ discreetly ❜ as he can, praying to a god that clearly does not like him for Bill to not notice. As if the red-rimming and glossiness from tears already long-shed don't already give him away.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he shakily exhales right as his friend sits beside him. Tense in his spot, knees still hugged to his chest and fingers GRIPPING the bright fabric of his jumpsuit. A difficult situation to explain away... and thankfully, Bill spares him the embarrassment of needing to. Although, it wouldn't be the FIRST time he looked like a fool in front of Bill. The other an odd mixture of familiar and... strange. Acting eerily like men Kaz has spent plenty of time around before. His dad, his former ❛ friends ❜ : those he fumbled to try and fit within certain expectations.

Yet amongst these similarities lie a dizzying amount of difference. Opportunities for Kaz to act in ways he NEVER could before. Engage in interests he was long denied. Be given attention and... often sometimes, affection he was certain could only come from a girl. Therefore, would never come. As much as Kaz may still pretend, may be terrified of Bill looking at him too closely— learning the full extent of who Kaz is and the shame he carries —he also can be more himself around Bill. For better or worse, Bill has experienced more of the real Kaz than anyone has in... a long time.

He doesn't want to lose that.

He can't lose that.

❝ S-Sorry, I totally spaced and must have just- lost track of time. ❞ Kaz fumbles a half-excuse, uncertain if he had made plans with Bill. With how this holiday tends to mess with his head... It's completely plausible. Once he was so out of it, he couldn't even recall the entirety of the day. But apparently he made some hefty promises he had to pull several all-nighters to accomplish, simply nodding his head while muttering agreement as if on auto-pilot. Of course, Bill could also just be saying that because... well, they hang out a lot. Why wouldn't he expect to?

Either way, Kaz feels bad for making him wait.

Clearing his throat into a closed fist as if that'll disguise the lump within it, making his voice sound thick with tears unshed, he tries again with a lilt of faux playfulness, ❝ Hope your day wasn't too sucky, havin' to wait to hang with me. ❞ It feels... wrong; the forced smile on his face. The energy in his voice when the rest of him feels utterly defeated exhausted. Being around someone else on a day meant for— ... On a day that shouldn't matter to him. It doesn't matter. Like he's stumbled into a parallel universe where he doesn't sit and cry and HATE himself for doing-so. Where instead— for an unfathomable reason —there's a person who wants him around.

Someone to smile for. To be ❛ okay ❜ for. To hate himself silently for.

All things considered... this is the better option, instead of wallowing in misery. Right? 「 ☆ 」

Bill Dickey, as is his character, has completely forgotten it’s Mother’s Day. So when he goes to find Kazuichi, he’s not expecting to find anything dramatic or personal happening, especially not if Kaz is out with his machines. He sees him sitting on the ground and trots over, a little more eager than he’d like to seem, and calls out to him.

“Hey, grease monkey! Where the fuck have you been?”

He sits down next to Kazuichi, his smile fading as he notices that Kaz has definitely been crying. He won’t acknowledge that until he has to. Usually he’d make fun of it, call him weak or something, but for some reason that’s no fun with Kaz. He likes him too much— or, nah, he probably just doesn’t like that it makes him cry. Annoying.

“I thought we were gonna hang out.”

There. Maybe that’ll get him to act normal again.