#far too backlogged and exhausted for that

[dogicrimsonofficial]

Tansui's Adventures - #1, Arrival

The scorching heat of the sun, welcoming committee of overly hostile guards, and a not-so-friendly Beastkins. What a welcome for a young Au Ra that had been!

At least the imposing walls would offer some protection - and who knows, maybe he could hide within them long enough to recover, and get a better grasp at the-

Hey, was someone watching them?

Cameo: Va'ea Locla by Noid Brightclaw

Sooo... I might have started a new game on new character and wanted to record their story as it happens via arts. Meet Tansui Ginsuke, very short Au Ra with some skeletons in their closet!

Also I am cameoing folks on these - first my patreon members that wanted a spot, then friends, then acquaintances.

Posts once a week as long as I have some backlog on me.

[tojigasm]

﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ ˖ ⠀Imperfect For You

ᥫ᭡... Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Warnings: domestic fluff | comfort | reader had a bad day | smut | flirting | some anal kissing | cussing | NSFW, minors DNI

⊹₊˚ꕤ˚₊⊹ Been sooooo busy with school so here's a little something for you beauties. Hopefully I'll be able to finish one of my Swann Arlaud drafts too. Kisses xoxo

You'd like to think that bad days happen as a frequent collapse of karma you'd earned up over each month or so. Coined as 'The Fuckening' by both Bucky and yourself.

on most annual karmic days of the month, you usually run into small issues throughout the day. you miss a light on your way to work, maybe burn your lip on coffee, or accidently wear two different socks.

However, today was abnormally awful with seemingly no end to your karmic backlog of bullshit built up.

It started with you tripping over one of Bucky's high tops while getting ready, then you missed a light on your way to work, ultimately resulting in you being late, and then you'd stumbled over your words during a work presentation, got nauseous during lunch because you'd forgotten your packed lunch at home without enough time to leave the office, and then almost got hit by someone merging into your lane on your way back home.

upon pulling into the driveway of your apartment complex, you breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Bucky's red Ford F-150 parked amongst a sea of other vehicles. And while you're more than relieved to know you wont be having to wait for him to get home to detail the horrific events of your day, it also means that his giant ass truck took up the very last spot meaning that you're stuck in the teeny tiny garage you can almost never get out of.

Once parked, you immediately hit your head on the top of your car as you step out, falling back into your seat with a groan before grabbing your purse and making your way towards your apartment.

Light from the kitchen settles through the flowery curtains you'd picked out when the two of you first moved in. The amber light illuminating the pastel flowers and nimble green threaded vines.

The smell of lasagna pasta couldn't be more inviting as you made your way into the warmth of your home, slipping off your heels with one hand as the other struggled to shut the front door.

Busy with your shoes, you hadn't noticed Bucky making his way towards you until a warm hand pressed over your own, helping to push the door back.

Letting out a hitched squeal, you jumped slightly before bringing a hand to rest over your racing heart.

"Woah," Bucky stood still at your side as not to spook you further, slowly pulling both hands into the air shoulder width apart.

You turn your head up to look at him as you pull your other heel off.

He's sporting his red Henley that you love so dearly and he's ran his metal hand through his hair recently.

His eyes are wide and dark brows furrowed as he watches you lazily drop both heels onto the wooden floor.

"Hi."

"Hi...?" Bucky drops his hands down to his side, looking you up and down as you made your way through the entryway and into the kitchen, "Y'okay?"

Not having the energy to relax completely at the moment, you offer a weak hum. you're far too exhausted and honestly too pissed off from the events of the day to particularly get into why you've been more on edge as of late.

Bucky follows you into the kitchen but before you're able to make it any further you decide you should go put on your pajamas.

Turning around to head upstairs, you collide face first with his metal arm, and the both of you let out a sharp gasp.

Bucky's hands are instantly on you, cupping your cheeks and turning your head side to side as he looks you over as you nurse the tender spot of your temple.

"Jesus..." Bucky says under his breath, massaging the cool pad of his metal thumb in circles over the small bump, "Sorry, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly, "Didn't realize y'were turning around."

You don't say anything in response, closing your eyes to try and stop the onslaught of tears and wrecked emotions from the wretched events of the day.

irked by your silence, Bucky soothes his hand over your chin softly, "Hey," he coos, and you meet his eyes, "Y'okay?"

Something about the gentleness of Bucky's voice paired with the soft soothing motions of his hold on you sends you over the edge and before you're able to stop yourself, hot tears are running down your cheeks and strewing your thick lashes together.

"Woah, woah, woah," Bucky's eyes widen "What happened?"

You're too tired to speak, too exhausted to explain so you opt to snuggle yourself into his chest, muffling your sobs in the thick fabric of his Henley.

Bucky holds you there, running his hand up and down the fabric of your work clothes, keeping your head tucked to his chest with his metal hand.

After a moment, you start to feel overwhelmed by everything; the fabric of your work clothes is suddenly itchy against your skin and your feet hurt from your heels and your hair feels like its pulling on the nerves of your skull.

Pulling at the hem of your shirt and fidgeting in Bucky's hold, he seems to catch on quickly.

"Shhh, shhh," Bucky presses a kiss to the side of your head, pulling back to lean against the wall as he helps you pull your top off and unbutton your bottoms, "I gotcha'."

Left in your panties and socks, still wrapped in Bucky's thick arms, you mentally thank Bucky for shutting the blinds and curtains to the balcony before you got home.

Holding you there for another moment, he runs his hand up and down your back again before leaning down some to cup your cheeks in his hands again.

"Wanna go put on your pj's and I can get your dinner ready?"

you nod and he whispers a soft "M'kay," pressing a firm kiss to your hairline.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

After changing into your pajamas, that being one of Bucky's navy tops that hangs down to your knees with a pair of striped pajamas shorts, you made your way back downstairs to the kitchen.

Bucky meets you as you enter the kitchen, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and handing you your bowl of lasagna pasta. His right hand scratches at your lower back gently.

"Thankyou," you lean your head against his chest and he hums into your hair.

"Wanna tell me about your day?" He asks, leaning on his metal hand on the kitchen table, keeping his right hand on your lower back.

Swallowing a forkful of your pasta, you give a soft nod.

Bucky nods, "M'gonna go change," he makes his way past you towards the stairs.

With a soft sigh, you make your way into your living room to sit down on your tawny-colored couch.

You scroll through your phone, taking small bites of your pasta as you listen to Bucky rustle around in your shared bedroom.

When Bucky comes downstairs again, he makes his way into the kitchen and you can hear the clinking of Bucky's metal hand against the pot of lasagna pasta as he serves himself a bowl before he comes into the living room, taking a seat beside you on the couch.

He drops his hand to your thigh, gently massaging and squeezing the plush of your skin.

You pull your legs up onto the couch as Bucky turns the TV on, sifting through the streaming services before settling on one of your favorite tv shows.

As the two of you eat, he occasionally runs his hand over some part of your skin or presses a kiss to the side of your head. The softness of his actions settles you into a relaxed headspace as he takes your mind off the stress of the day.

Once the episode finishes, Bucky takes your bowl and places both yours and his own onto the table.

He pulls you into his lap by your arm, helping you settle both thighs over his own and placing your hands onto his broad shoulders.

"Tell me what happened," he speaks softly.

You're compelled to tell the frustrating events of your day as he soothes it out of you with gentle words and soft touches; everything about him far more kinder than whatever heavy cloud was that had been weighing over you.

Taking a shaky inhale as you steady yourself to relive the horribly bad day you'd had, Bucky's quick to shush you softly, whispering "S' okay," as you pull at the hem of his navy blue T-shirt.

"So... first it started with me tripping over one of your shoes while I was trying to get ready and then that made me late to work because I missed a light and then I was flustered from that for the rest of the day and realized I wasn't well-prepared enough for my work presentation. Then, I stumbled over my words during the presentation Infront of my boss and that made me even more flustered and after that I got nauseous because I realized that when I'd gone downstairs while getting ready and tripped over your shoe, I'd originally been downstairs to get my lunch but I forgot and then forgot to pack my lunch and that made me have a horrible headache throughout the rest of the day. And finally, when I was driving home, someone almost hit me while merging onto the highway."

You realize you're still playing with the hem of Bucky's shirt, having not looked up at him once during your rant.

Your eyes tilt upwards to meet his.

"So yeah, today was not fun."

"Doesn't sound fun." Bucky sighs, soothing his hand down the side of your thigh, "Sorry about my shoe by the way."

You nod, bringing your eyes down to his lap again.

"Just wanna forget about t'day. It sucked really bad."

"I can see that," Bucky chuckles lightly, earning a weak giggle form you. "Need some help forgetting about your bad day?" Bucky gives you a soft pout.

"Please?"

He hums and moves to stand up, helping you off his lap as he grabs both of your bowls of the table, "Go upstairs while I clean up."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

On your bed, you scroll through your phone as you listen to Bucky move about downstairs. Texting your friends and googling random things that come across your feed.

You're in the middle of looking at images of colorful sea slugs when Bucky makes his way into your bedroom.

Instantly, you're placing your phone onto the nightstand and sitting up onto your knees to meet him in a soft kiss at the foot of the bed. Towering over you, he keeps his hand on your neck, gently holding you still as he presses soft kisses to the corner of your mouth and down your jaw before placing a final one to the top of your head.

He can tell you're already antsy by the way you're eager to follow his lead, worked up from the day paired with the commanding tone of his voice as he maneuvers you to your hands and knees.

Bucky gently caresses the plush of your ass through the fabric of his top you're wearing, squeezing and smoothing over your skin.

You're impatient under him, whining when he slips his fingers down to run the pad of his cool thumb over the soaked fabric of your panties.

Bucky ignores you, continuing to gently press and circle your clit beneath the fabric, holding his right hand to your hip, keeping you steady.

He takes a seat beside you on the bed, not halting his movements as he switches between hands. He presses his metal hand to the dip of your back, forcing you to rest on your forearms, keeping your ass in the air.

"Good girl," He says warmly, pulling your panties to the side of your cunt before slipping his cool thumb past your soaked folds.

The cool intrusion forces a shiver up your spine and whimper softly into the skin of your forearm.

You readjust yourself on your knees and Bucky lets you, slowing his touch as you sway slightly before settling again.

Bucky continues to gently stroke his thumb over your clit as he pumps his finger into your cunt sweetly, lude noises echoing about your bedroom as your juices soak the metal of his wrist.

"Jesus," Bucky comments and you reach a hand between your thighs to hold at his forearm, pushing his fingers deeper into your heat with a broken whine, "I know, I know."

You almost jump when the scratchy hairs of his beard tickle the soft insides of your thighs, pulling a choked gasp from your wet lips.

His tongue is hot against your folds, licking hot and thick stripes up your cunt. He curls his tongue past your folds, sucking at your heat.

Bucky's metal hand holds you at your thigh, keeping you still as you try to push yourself back into him.

Reaching your hand between your thighs again, you slip your hand around his metal forefinger wrapped around your thigh, to which he drops his hand from your skin to weave your hot fingers with his cool ones.

"Buck...haaa," you coo, dropping your forehead to the hot skin of your forearm, "Feels good," you manage, nearly drooling onto the sheets below you.

Bucky hums into your cunt, nodding his head and bumping his nose against your folds, pulling another sob from your lips, "Mhm."

You blame your quick rise to your peak on the stress of the day as you untangle your hand from his and push him away by his forehead, panting as he takes ahold of your wrist, circling your pulse point.

"Y'okay?" his brows furrow and you fight the urge to teasingly trace the crevices of his face that they make.

You nod against your arm, eyes fluttering in content, "Just need a moment."

Bucky nods, smoothing his cool fingers over your hot and sticky thigh, "M'kay," he presses a kiss to your folds before slipping the top of your panties further to the side, and before you're able to cover yourself, he a presses a soft kiss to your puckered hole.

"James!" you squeal, immediately dropping your butt down and reaching back with both hands to cover yourself.

"What?" Bucky laughs, "S'not like I haven't seen it before," he adds, leaning down and biting the plush of your ass cheek teasingly.

You burrow your face into the sheets with a groan, kicking the tips of your feet under your butt.

Bucky grabs one of your toes through your sock, only letting go when you squeal and tuck yourself into a small ball.

Through a chuckle, Bucky stands up form the bed and pulls your hips up along with him, holding you still as he runs his fingers up and down your folds again, earning a weak mewl from you.

Leaning down, he presses a kiss to your lips and whispers, "Y'want some more?"

[ghostlysoaps]

A Minor Annoyance

They’re back at base again and Ghost has been holed up in his office for the majority of the week in an attempt to get back on track with his ever-increasing backlog of paperwork. The knock on his door is therefore welcome, though surprising. He sits up straighter, wincing when several joints pop in protest, calling for them to come in.

Gaz leans himself against the doorframe. He, too, looks exhausted. Exhausted and irritated.

“I need your help wrangling Soap,” he says without preamble or an arduous attempt at small talk.

Ghost blinks at him.

“What?”

“He’s a stubborn bastard who won’t listen to reason,” Gaz shrugs. “And if it comes down to knocking him out in order to get him to rest, I’d rather have help carrying his leaden arse back to his room.”

Ghost blames sleep deprivation for the way he snorts.

“Alright,” he acquiesces, following behind the sergeant with amused wariness dogging his steps.

-

They find Soap outside surrounded by the scent of petrichor and bleary-eyed recruits. A gust of wind weaves around them, its chilling bite unmistakable where it tugs upon their hair and clothes, rustling through the pine-ridden area like an unexpected whisper. Ghost waits for Soap to send the group out on the track before he approaches, brow furrowed in response to the thickness layered over his voice. He'd sounded as if he spoke from deep in his throat, and with an air of a man pretending as if it didn’t pain him to do so. As he draws closer, Ghost allows the gravel beneath his feet to shift deliberately.

Soap jerks, swings his head around when Ghost comes to stand at his side, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. The tip of his nose is red too, his cheeks a tad puffy, though he carries himself admirably regardless. Straight-backed and refusing to huddle into the oversized jacket he's wearing.

"Lt.? What're y'doing ‘ere?”

“I'm relieving you of your duties. Garrick can take it from here,” he replies, throwing Gaz a look that is met with surreptitious thumbs-up. He'll ask Price to look into leave for him. Soap's not the only one itching to work himself into an early grave by the looks of it.

It must be a cold day in hell, he muses, if I'm the one with the healthiest work-life balance at the moment.

“What?! Get tae and dinnae talk pish! I'm fine. I can work, Sir, I dinnae need–”

“That was an order, Sergeant. You can either leave on your own two feet or slung over my shoulder. Choice is yours.”

Soap's eyes narrow, his shoulders drawing up defensively, lips pulled back in a sneer. “You wouldn't dare.”

Which is about the worst thing he could've possibly said.

All at once Simon is twelve years old again with a defiant Tommy glaring daggers at him from across the stained rug, those fateful words a hiss through clenched teeth. Even the keen knowledge of their mother’s impending disappointment, how she'd give him a hushed dressing down in the aftermath of their scuffle, hadn't curbed his need to lunge for him. It's like the flip of a switch. Three simple words and suddenly Ghost is vibrating with the desire to prove Soap wrong. Some previously dormant code ingrained deep in his DNA flaring to life with all the speed of an oxygen fire.

Those memories carry him forward and the sudden shift in Johnny’s expression, the moment he realises he’s sealed his fate proper, sends a thrill skittering down his spine.

“Wait, Ghost, I–” is about as far as he comes before the words change into an unintelligible blend of Scottish nonsense, voice strained from having his diaphragm compressed. “Put me doon ye clarty bastard! Gaz!”

“Dream come true for you, huh?” Gaz says with a jaunty wave at their retreating backs, mirth etched into the crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I'll fuckin’ kill ye, ye clipe wopper! Lemme doon so ah can wring ‘is bleedin’ neck!” Soap barks, squirming in Ghost's grasp like a recalcitrant eel. It's a blessing that Soap's already running on fumes since, true to his callsign, it's damn near impossible to keep him securely slung over his shoulder.

By his third attempt to claw Ghost's back to shreds, Ghost sighs and pats him firmly on the rump. Soap instantly stills. Flushed to high-heavens if Ghost were to hazard a guess – not that he can see him from this angle. “Settle down, Sergeant, and I might be convinced to let you walk on your own.”

“Hate you,” Johnny wheezes.

Ghost grunts and maneuvers the door open, settling Johnny back on his feet again when it swings shut with a resounding thud. He steadies him when he wobbles on his feet and Johnny lets him with little fuss. Resigned to his fate he shuffles along after Ghost, who detours briefly to score each of them a cuppa. He ladles honey into Johnny’s mug and presses it into his freezing hands. Gets a muttered, unenthusiastic and intentionally mocking “cheers,” for it.

“You're a right cunt when you're sick.”

“Yer a right cunt all o’ the time,” Soap fires back. He's glaring mutinously into his least preferred beverage, cradled close to his chest while he watches Ghost tidy up after them. “Jus’ hate bein’ sick ‘s all. Feel proper boggin’ no matter how many times ah shower an’ my nose is both runny and stuffed as if th’ physics of tha is s'pose to make sense. Could'a powered through it.”

“That's how you end up forcefully strapped to a bed in medical suffering from pneumonia and severe dehydration.”

Johnny pauses. A small smile graces his face and Ghost hastily turns back to wiping down the counters to keep himself from being blinded.

One shouldn't stare directly into the sun after all.

“Speakin’ from experience, sir?”

Ghost doesn't answer, as if that isn't a reply in-and-of-itself, merely nudges Johnny back into moving. He gets him all the way to his door before Soap's brow creases in confusion. His mouth opens, closes, opens again while Ghost trudges inside with little fanfare, door left gaping in silent invitation. Johnny seizes it with both hands after dithering at his threshold a second longer.

He examines the impersonal space with keen interest, slurping obnoxiously at his tea as if to detract from how his hands flutter over scuffed paint and barren walls, his gaze catching over the miniscule signs someone is living there at all.

“Why'ahm I ‘ere, Ghost?” Soap asks when he's done, pinning him in place with the intensity of his stare. It's the same focus he dedicates to a particularly difficult math equation or sketching up blueprints with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. It's a heady feeling to be on the receiving end of it. Heady and terrifying.

“Figured you'd appreciate the en-suite,” Ghost says, violently stamping down on the truth until it comes out in a statement easier to digest. “And someone needs to make sure you stay in place. Bloody flight risk that you are.”

You'd look good in my clothes, in my bed, as a permanent fixture here. This is as much for me as it is for you. A taste of what I can't have.

He hopes Soap doesn't read between the lines this time – always too perceptive for Ghost's questionable sanity.

“An’ where d'ye plan on sleeping?” Johnny smiles, a mote amused and as sweet as the honey lingering on his lips.

“Floor. Or Gaz's room if he doesn't delete those pictures he took.”

Johnny’s eyes go dark as sin.

“Oh, that'll be th’ least of his worries.”

“Sleep, MacTavish. You can come up with your convoluted revenge plot later.”

“Yes sir.” He gives a lazy salute and flops down on Ghost's bed with a grunt – boots and all, the absolute heathen. Ghost watches him rearrange himself into a position more befitting a person who's suffered a recent spinal fracture when Johnny peers up at him again from under thick lashes. “Dinnae think you're exempt from those, Lt. Ah know where ye live now.”

Ghost sighs and tosses the hoodie folded over his chair at Johnny’s face, taking great pleasure in closing the bathroom door in the face of Johnny's indignant name-calling.

-

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[atozfic]

splish splash.

pairing. san x seonghwa x wooyoung x yunho x fem!reader synopsis. they’re out to prove who’s the best at the breast-stroke- gets dragged off stage as the people boo over such a terrible pun. warnings. no use of y/n, swim team au, lifeguard!reader, pro-swimmers!sanhwawooho, they’re all wearing speedos :), smut ( porn with unnecesary plot, degradation, m+f oral sex, piv sex, anal sex, double penetration, triple penetration bc u got 3 holes for a reason sweetcheeks, mxm interactions, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, hair pulling, way more warnings that there’s honestly no point listing, just know this is pure filth that covers most bases of stereotypical fanfiction smut, mother in christ what have i written? ) no verbal consent is given throughout this but all parties are willing participants !! word count. 20k+ ( of literal porn. i need to leave this physical terrain bc i am not worthy of existing after writing this i fear. ) hyde’s input. hey girlie pops, long time no see.

it’s crazy, what some people will do for money.

take, for example, your roommate. she’s a smart girl. a beautiful one, too. with a promising future in criminal law, once she gets herself that pesky little degree. and, yet, she’s funding her tuition with money she earns distributing high-end drugs on campus. rather counter-productive, most would agree. or, in a far less extreme version, there’s that overly-hyper frat boy, who can always be found doing the dumbest dares at a party, all for a few bucks and a keg of beer.

and then there is you.

you would have arrived home twenty minutes ago at this point, had things gone to plan, a backlog of neglected assignments and a baby bonsai tree in need of watering desperately awaiting your return. yet here you are, stuck in your ugly flip-flops and uncomfortably stale shorts, whistle around your neck and a look of exhaustion on your face.

the swimming pool had closed, technically, an hour and a half ago. the sports centre seems to believe, however, that certain members of the college swim team reserve the right to use the pool for however long they require and desire, even if it is at your expense. if you were being paid overtime, perhaps you’d have a more positive outlook on things and less of a frown creasing on your forehead.

if the swimmers weren’t so irritating, maybe you’d enjoy the view.

“all that height, and for what?” the sophomore boy’s voice- jung wooyoung? you aren’t overly familiar with him, seeing him only in sporadic flashes when you pass each other on campus or at some uncivilised frat party- echos through the large room, his hair a wet mess. if you were gaining anything from being here, you’d perhaps muster up the energy to remind the boy of how a swim cap is necessary at all times in the water. “can’t even out-swim me with those long legs!”

“wanna know what my long legs are for?” jeong yunho, a junior with the face of an angel and the body proportions of a sinner, pipes up from across the olympic length pool. unlike the other boy, a crimson cap keeps his own locks out of sight. “climbing up the stairs to go fuck your mom!”

it’s impossible to stifle your laughter, no matter how hard you try to just play it off as a tickle at the back of your throat, a cough forcing its way out. when your eyes meet those of the glaring senior, however, you’re wishing you hadn’t made a sound.

“even the lifeguard can’t take you seriously, yunho,” park seonghwa speaks, eyes not leaving yours as his muscled arms work to pull himself out of the water, before letting his well-rounded behind sit down on the edge. a breath hitches in your throat as his gloriously muscled thighs come into view, drops of water cascading down them in a pattern set to hypnotise you, keep you staring a little longer than is good for your health. “bet she’s heard all about you and the boner incident of 2019.”

truthfully, you have no clue what the dark haired male is on about. that doesn’t stop you from laughing again though, this time a little out of malice and a lot because it’s quite endearing to see a loudmouth like jeong yunho be silenced so easily, head bowed and ears a little rosier with embarrassment.

this small moment of peace is soon shattered by the reality that these boys can’t spend more than ten minutes in a room- particularly one that includes a pool- without arguing. while one boasts about his speed, the other begins to jab at his lack of endurance, and the remaining of the three reminds them all of the fact he holds the most medals amongst them.

“are they always like this?” you jump, surprised by the cold drop of water that lands on your exposed thigh, all courtesy of the boy who’s invited himself to sit down next to you on the bench.

“not always,” you bite at the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to not look at san in all his wet glory. you’re afraid that, once you start looking at him, you won’t be able to stop. it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fallen victim to the crime that is his enchanting smile. “guess they’re feeling a little feistier than usual, with the district championship just around the corner. rumour has it one of you guys is risking his scholarship if he’s not in the top three.”

are you and san close?

that’s a good question. see, by social standards, you’re not strangers. you share several classes, you attend the same parties, you’ve even texted a few times- mostly on the days one of you miss class (read as: san misses class thanks to his swim-meets) and you need a copy of any notes taken that lesson.

but, you aren’t exactly friends either. you don’t go out of your ways to spend time together, you don’t know more than the surface level about one another, you don’t check-in with each other.

so, is acquaintances the best word to describe you two?

that depends on how common it is for an acquaintance to suck another acquaintance’s cock. granted, there had been a lot of alcohol in the mix, on both ends, with you drinking to forget a botched assignment and san drinking to forget how badly his voice had apparently cracked in front of his crush.

a few weeks have passed since the incident and things haven’t exactly been the same. you’ve missed class twice and ended up contacting heather- a sweet girl who sits down by the front and seems to live with her hand raised in the air- for any notes. likewise, san has found himself declining party invitations, the knowledge that you would be there all too prevalent in the front of his mind.

the irony is that neither of you quite know the reason why you’re avoiding each other, you just are.

or, were, until san had walked in with his swim team buddies- if they could even be considered that- and spotted you in your lifeguard attire. he hadn’t been as slick as he thought he was, sneaking glances at you between laps and even gaining an undeniable smile each time he watched you blow that stupid whistle at some misbehaving kids.

he was slicker with the fact he didn’t need to be here, at this hour. but, he figured staying gave him the chance to stare at you a little longer and, maybe, think up an excuse to talk to you.

“i should-”

“i missed-”

you both speak at the same time, minutes after watching the three musketeers disappear into the locker rooms, with the smallest of them continuing to dig at them for not being able to out-swim him despite their ample amount of height. san’s quick to signal you to go first, a dimple making itself known on his face and reminding you of the deadliest part of him: the false innocence that drips off him like warm candy.

sweet, sticky, making a mess all over the place.

“i should probably start cleaning up.” it turns out san also isn’t discreet when it comes to hiding the disappointment in his face, because no sooner than those words leave your mouth, the dimple is gone and he’s sat a little straighter, a little more ridged, like when the professor points him out in the middle of the class and the golden boy can’t stomach all the attention being on him. “but, what were you gonna say?”

“oh,” and it’s like he’s just remembered that yes, there is something he wants to say. “i missed you in class yesterday.”

it catches you off guard, leaving you to almost drop the whistle you’ve been fiddling between your fingers for the past few minutes. something about sitting so close to him while both of you are dressed so scantily has you feeling unnerved, like you need to run away as fast as possible, yet also wanting to plant yourself right in his lap.

“i didn’t think,” you’re cut off by your own throat, dry and desperate for a drink under his intense gaze. san is a walking contradiction, you think, with his sharp cheekbones and soft heart, his intense eyes and his easy-going smile. his presence gives you never-ending whiplash, never sure if he’s more angel than devil. “i didn’t think you noticed.”

“how could i not? there was no one to laugh with me at professor nam and his weird toe-shoes!” his laugh is infectious, willing your own to make an appearance. 

the sound of distant muffled yelling fills the air of the swimming pool and it isn’t hard to recognise wooyoung’s high-pitched laughter amongst it. clearly, their childish arguing has carried on into the changing rooms. it surprises you in no way, already more than used to their antics.

their rivalry is one for the ages, all of them constantly bumping heads for the spot of the top swimmer on campus, their sports scholarships becoming their pride and joy.

you suppose it doesn’t help that all four boys run in different circles, only really crossing paths when faced with swim-meets and days of practice. the senior, park seonghwa, runs with the richer kids of the college, all sharing their trust-funds and god complexes as a common interest. you’re not overly familiar with them, though you’re certain he and a particular blue-haired boy are rarely seen apart. jeong yunho, the tallest, is in with the jocks, which is mostly just because his taller friend is the captain of the basketball team. and jung wooyoung tends to surround himself with the stoners from the school, something you’d learned from kang yeosang, a dealer you shared a couple classes with back in your first semester.

san, ever the golden boy, drifts between a couple different groups but he can usually be found alone and enjoying his own company, if not being followed by a flock of his own little fan-club, men and women alike begging for just an ounce of his time.

your name echos around the room. your head snaps to the side and you find that san is now closer, staring at you in a way that’s making your insides knot up. you’ve seen that look only once before, and it done nothing but leave your knees and your ego bruised. “were you listening to me?”

“what? uh, yeah, i was,” you’re quick to lie, knowing it’s about to backfire when he breaks out in a challenging grin.

“really? what did i say?” he only allows you to stumble over words for a minute before cutting off your incomprehensible speaking when he grabs at your chin and tilts your head up, staring straight into your eyes. “that’s what i thought. you were too busy getting lost in that pretty little head of yours to pay attention to me.”

you stutter over a noise and settle for that as your response, though entirely incomprehensible and nonsensical. the way he continues to stare at you feels cruel, demons dancing around in those pretty eyes of his. demons that are telling him to tease, torture, torment the fragile eyes staring back at him, the same ones he’d delighted in watching fill up with tears a few weeks back, the pressure of his crown slamming against the back of your tight throat entirely overwhelming you to the point of crying, tears dripping down your cheeks and mixing with your own drool pooling over the swell of his balls.

“need me to repeat myself?” you’re slow to catch up to the fact he’s speaking again, and even slower to notice the hand resting on your knee. at first, you think you’re imagining things, the feather light tracing of nails over your soft skin a mere figment of your imagination. but, no, your eyes flash down to glimpse and his hand is there, fingers dancing over your naked skin like it’s their own personal stage and he’s intending to put on the show of a lifetime. he speaks your name. “questions are meant to be answered.”

“i-” san picks the perfect time to apply pressure on you, hand gripping the flesh on the lower end of your thigh. goosebumps spring to life at the feeling of his cold ring on your damp skin. it takes a shaky breath to try compose yourself but you do eventually manage to get a reply out. “sorry... please say it again.”

“huh,” he pauses to contemplate, slowly leaning his face closer to your own, giving you all the time to pull back if you want to. you stay still and his minty breath infects your senses while the hand on your leg replaces your thigh with your face, the grip he has on it forcing blunt nails to nip at your skin. normally, you’d worry about the marks it’s going to leave behind. right now, you want him to grip tighter, dig deeper into your flesh till he’s drawing blood and licking it off your cheeks. “how the fuck do you still sound so cute begging?”

“is that,” his other hand curls around the back of you, finding a resting place on your hip. the window of opportunity you once had to pull back or run away is slammed shut the moment he tugs you a little closer, the side of your body crashing into his naked chest. “what you said earlier?”

“oh, no.” san almost sounds like he’s cooing, a mocking tone in his voice that has your thighs clenching in a way you’re sure he notices. his eye flickering down to glance at them confirms your suspicions, the smirk taking over his features the metaphorical cherry on top. “i was just talking about how i’ve still not returned the favour.”

mind blanking out on you, you stare back at him in what you can only imagine to be a dumb-founded look, mouth slightly agape and teasing your answer.

what follows, however, is a resounding silence on your end.

“c’mon, princess, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what happened the last time i got you alone.”

forget? it’s all you’ve been able to think of every time you’ve seen him since, whether he was a figure in the corner of your eye during class or making his way down the campus car-park in search of his beaten up mustang.

each time, like an old record player, your mind plays on loop the way he looked staring down at you, long legs spread enough to fit you between them, closing in on you to trap you in place each time you swallowed him a little deeper; replaying the symphony of whiny moans and airy breaths you’d pulled from him, lips swollen and red from trying too hard to hold back his cries of pleasure; reviving the memory of his vice grip on your hair, tugging at the roots to tilt you back into the perfect angle for his hips to piston into your warm mouth, meeting his own crescendo in one final pathetic whimper of your name.

a whimper that’s pushed you over the edge several times since, fingers soaked in your own sins and mouth biting down on your pillow to keep your poor sleeping roommate oblivious to your actions.

“no,” an answer escapes you alongside a shaky breath, something about the way he’s slowly trailing his fingers down your neck and the intensity he’s staring at you with hypnotising you into forgetting all about the boisterous boys and their changing-rooms chanting. “haven’t forgot.”

it’s his turn to stay quiet and you begin to wonder if he’s recalling it too, if he’s reminding himself of how easily your bodies melted together, like candle-wax meeting a flame. the question of if he’s thought about the exact scene, hands stuffed down his pants while a dull ache builds in his wrist, burns the tip of your tongue.

but his eyes burn you more.

they’re usually wide, bright, full of that bubbly nature san is known all over for. but, if what people say is true and the eyes are the mirror to one’s soul, then san’s soul must be a dark pit made up of lustful glares and hooded eyelids, resting so low his eyes almost appear shut.

“then, don’t you agree that it’s my turn to have a taste?”

it’s the question to end all questions, no time to even think of forming an answer when his fingertips are dancing over your skin so rhythmically, like a practiced choreography when they curl and wrap themselves around your neck. they rest there for a heartbeat, and then another, before you feel it begin.

the pressure is dull, at first, and you think you’re imagining it. but it grows, like a seed under the sun, blossoms into thorns squeezing around your airways, a deformed rose made from the red marks his fingers will be sure to leave behind.

you try to breath in, only for it to get caught somewhere between your lips and his tightening hold.

“you’re too fucking pretty, you know?” the hand on your hip has found a new home on your cheek, palm warm and thumb rough as he swipes it over your bottom lip. “all i can ever think about around you, even when you were drooling all over my balls.”

you want to answer, you really do. but between the hand around your throat and the heat shooting straight for your core, burning up in a puddle of arousal, you can’t. all you can do is watch the man before you, raven hair a beautiful mess just begging for some fingers to be ran through it and stare promising to ruin you in the best way possible.

the silence pleases him.

“y’know, it’s so hard to get you alone. always got someone wanting to talk to you, stealing your attention. do you even know how many stupid parties i had to attend to finally get the chance to talk to you?” san pauses, like he’s waiting for you to relay an answer, guess a number. he loosens up the grip on your neck, teasing your skin with a few soothing strokes of his slender fingers, lulling you into a state bordering insanity. “no answer, angel? or are you lost in that pretty little head again?”

“i’m,” your voice is but a whisper, raspy with your new found thirst. “trying to figure out what you want from me.”

if it’s the wrong or right thing to say, you’re soon to find out, the sharp faced boy releasing a dangerously low chuckle as he takes a hold of your chin. like a pretty doll, you move any time and any way his fingers command you to, finding yourself staring right up into his eyes, a swirl of melting caramel that reminds you of how sweet yet sultry every inch of him is. lips near touching, he refuses to break eye contact as he speaks up once more, sealing both your fates when his breath hits your face.

“then let me show you what i want.”

his mouth comes down on yours like it’s the answers to all your prayers and, yet, all your nightmares.

it excites you how easily he works his lips over your own, captivating every inch of you when he tilts his head to the right and deepens the kiss. the rhythm to his kiss is a mismatch of beats, where one moment your lips are moving in a sensual waltz, grazing tongues and dipping heads to get rid of that inch of a space remaining between your bodies, and the next moment your tongues are tangled in a tango, the kind where his teeth send blood rushing to your lips with every bite he drags over them and his hand drags shivers down your spine as it makes its way down your body.

yet it terrifies you how willingly you succumb to san’s touch, intoxicated by whatever witchcraft he currently holds over you. there’s a deadliness to the way his lips part from your own only to begin a seamless descent down your jaw and the expanse of your neck, a poisonous element to the way his hand once again finds itself clutching the meat of your thigh.

the moment his fingertips meet the bottom of your shorts, you’re wishing you’d never slipped them on in the first place, every fibre of your being growing angsty under the weight of his suddenly halted hand. it stays still for an immeasurable amount of time, grazing over the bottom of your shorts occasionally while he continues to mouth at your neck.

like mosses and the great sea, san parts your legs with little to no effort, creating a pathway for his fingers to travel further up your thigh. blunt fingernails drag up your skin, a trail of goosebumps being left behind, a visible marking of where he’s touching you.

his movements halt too soon for your liking, too much distance between his lithe fingers and your body’s very core.

“have you figured out what i want yet, pretty?” his voice is a stark difference to the usual light-hearted, almost squeak-like tone you’ve grown used to hearing from the smiley boy. right now, there’s no trace of humour in the thick rasp and there’s no time for smiling while he’s glaring down at you through hooded eyes.

something compels you to nod your head, even though you’re a little too lost in the thoughts concerning what you want, rather than what the devil incarnate by your side wants.

“you have?” the words come out in a layer of amazement, and you have to wonder if it’s because of the lie you’ve just told or the way your legs have closed in around his hand, trapping it between them. “i want to know what you want, though.”

you want his thumb to stop stroking over the flesh of your inner thigh.

you want his eyes to stop gazing down at you like you’re the perfect prey.

you want him to stop teetering your impending pleasure on a string.

you want-

“you.” is all you manage to breath out.

it seems to do the trick, however, your point getting very much across to him. a softness flickers over his features, brows unfurling and smirk curling up into a full smile for what feels like an eternity, but is actually no more than a couple of seconds before his devilish aura is back.

lips meet lips again, the desperation and force behind each stroke of his tongue against yours the same as before. san, much to your delight, seems to grow just as impatient as you’ve been since the moment he welcomed himself into the empty space next to you on the bench.

one hand still resting between your thighs, his other seizes the opportunity to drag your body closer, so close that you have no choice but to swing one leg over him and slot yourself in his lap.

there was one time, in the middle of what you’ve deemed to be the most boring lecture ever, that you had thought about what it would feel like to sit in choi san’s lap. unintentionally, of course, for how could anyone look over at him in those grey sweatpants, legs manspreading like it was nobody’s business and pen tapping away at the table in front of him, and not daydream about being perched in his lap, head resting somewhere between his shoulder and his soft hair?

you’d imagined him to be the embodiment of soft and comfortable, warm and reassuring the way he’d lazily lay an arm over your hip to make sure there’s no risk of you slipping out of your new seat. you never, for the life of you, imagined you’d feel the outline of his dick resting against your ass the first time you finally claimed your throne.

choosing to not dwell on the heavy feeling of him pressed against you, you choose instead to focus on the way his lips trail away from yours and make their descent towards the top of your chest.

his hand abandons post between your thighs and rises to the surface, where long fingers begin to pull at the straps of your red swimsuit, successfully manoeuvring the nylon material till it’s bunched around your midriff and your breasts are exposed to the damp air of the swimming hall. 

with no want left to play around, he dives right in to dragging his lips down the upper swell of your left breast. you imagine he can feel the beating of your racing heart beneath the goosebump littered skin. it doesn’t take long for his tongue to enter the scene, skilfully flicking over your hardened nipple a couple times before enveloping his mouth around the bud.

one, two, three sucks and he’s moving on to your right breast. there’s no lead up, this time, simply his mouth finding delight in toying with your body while he busies his hand with your left side, thumb and pointer finger rolling and tugging and spreading the remnants of his saliva over your heated skin.

the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and has you arching your own, is the faintest pressure of his teeth biting down on you. it dances on a thin line between pleasurable and painful, exhilarating enough to make you throw your head back as a moan slips past your lips. it echoes in the empty room, replaying your own sound for both of you to hear again and again before the chain is broken by a giggle.

his giggle.

“why are,” he picks the right time to trail his fingers down your body, dragging your swimsuit with them till it sits uncomfortably tight around the top of your hipbones, skintight fabric digging into the damp skin. “you laughing?”

“has anyone ever told you how pretty your tits are?” it’s crude and heartwarming all at once, quite like the man who says it and the little smile he shoots up in your direction as he rolls his tongue over your nipple once again.

“no, i can’t say they have.” the hands that have been resting on his shoulder, grasping them in a vice grip in fear of slipping off of him and and directly onto the concrete floor, gain enough confidence for you let one slide around to the back of his neck and thread your fingertips in the back of his locks, hair as soft as you’ve always imagined it to be. “you’re the first.”

“i’ll wear that title with honour,” he seems to delight in the way you’re carding through his hair, eyes closing while he tilts his head back further into your touch. a delighted sigh follows. “has anyone ever asked you to sit on their face?”

“again, no.”

“another honourable title for me, i guess.” san’s giving you whiplash, with all this switching between being his usual goofy self and the man that minutes before was speaking profanities on how you’d looked choking on his dick. he peaks his eyes open again, slowly, adjusting to the bright lights he stares up at each time he’s doing the backstroke. when he has the nerves to smile at you, all dreamy eyed and relaxed sitting beneath your body on the bench. “now, can you please stand up and get naked so you can fuck yourself on my tongue?”

this time, it’s your laugh that echoes in the air.

“stop, i’m being serious!” he seems to whine his way through his words, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly in a way you’re certain is going to drive you insane. “i can’t go another second like this, you literally sitting on my dick, without blowing my load. and i really don’t feel like having to explain to coach kwon why my team speedos are stained in cum.”

“you’re so-” you give up on trying to find a single word to describe him, knowing there’s no word that can quite capture choi san’s essence. “okay, okay, fine, but you kind of need to let go of me for me to, y’know, stand up.”

“oh, sorry bout that.” san’s sheepish smile shouldn’t be this cute, not when it’s followed by him removing his hands from your half-naked body.

reluctant, your feet meet the ground and you stand up from his lap. he seems to move quicker than you, no hesitation to be seen as he twists his body around and lays along the bench on his back, eyes all the while watching you expectantly.

your fingers are far from as nimble as his, and there’s a shake to them, meaning you’re a lot less slick with how you pull the swimsuit off yourself. you opt for killing two birds with one stone, dragging your shorts down alongside the red suit, till both are pooled around your feet and you’re begging with every cell in your body that you look more graceful than you feel, stepping out of the leg holes.

in all honesty, you’re more embarrassed with the fact he’d watched you remove your clothes than with how you’re now stood naked, legs a little shaky and the wetness gathering between your folds you’re suddenly so much more aware of, the cool air fighting against your pulsating heat.

“well?” san speaks with expectation, legs bent at the knee while the balls of his feet rest on the edge of the bench. “are you gonna just stand there or you gonna sit on my face?”

“are you... sure you want me to?” even you feel the idiocy behind asking such a thing, when he’s laying right there with eyes full of glee and a raging boner pressed against his hip, nothing but the familiar colours of your college to stop you from seeing him all his naked glory. still, you can’t help elaborating. “i mean, the bench isn’t exactly sturdy and, i mean, what if i slip off of you?”

“y/n, are you joking? you have to be joking!” his offence is playful enough to ease a little of the hesitation inside of you. “do you see these puppies, baby? these are my mad gains from flailing my silly little arms around in a pool six days a week!”

you think this can’t be real as you watch the golden boy of the school put on a show, flexing his arms in an effort to display his muscles and voicing the most ridiculous words that not even he seems to be taking seriously, a bubble of laughter popping in every sentence.

“i’m not gonna let you slip, now hurry up!” again with the whining.

“god, you’re so desperate!”

“for you? always.”

the following minute is made up of wobbled steps and a poor attempt at amping yourself up, repeating mantra after mantra in your head that you are the sex goddess and no man is going to make you feel nervous. not even if that man has a jaw one could slice diamonds with.

he’s got a firm grasp of your thighs before you’ve even got the chance to get comfortable, legs a little shaky as you hover over his naked chest and will your knees to find grip on the bench beneath them.

“come closer, my tongue’s not that long!” san’s pulling you up, closer, all the way to where his wanton mouth awaits you. as if to give you a preview of what awaits you, the kisses from before reduced to nothing, his tongue pops out to run over the smooth of his bottom lip. you repeat the process of trying to find balance, a position in which you don’t need to worry about toppling overboard. though, with the way his finger squeeze into your thigh, you doubt you’ll have to worry about that truly happening. “comfortable?”

“as i’ll ever be.”

“all the people that would die to be in your position, and you say that?” he tsks, tongue hitting off the roof of his mouth before a blow of air hits against your folds and, though it’s faint from the distance still between his mouth and where he wants it to be, it sends a jolt of excitement up your spine. “i’ll just have to make sure i over-perform, make you more eager for next time.”

neither of you choose to dwell on the words next time.

him, too occupied with getting his first taste, tongue licking a strip up your core and coming to a stop as the tip of it bumps against your clit.

you, too busy having the air knocked out of your lungs, hand unconsciously finding safety in gripping his hair as you lurch forward momentarily, mouth falling open in a quiet gasp that echoes around and around.

“hmm, make sure you hold on tight.” you know he’s teasing you, with his words, and with his eyes, and with his mouth that seems to find enjoyment in trailing itself over your clitoral hood and up your pubic bone. “you smell mouthwatering, you know? enough to make a man go feral.”

the chance to reply never comes, not when san makes his way back down to your clit and greets it with the stroke of his flattened tongue. every tiny nerve sparks to life under his touch and you feel yourself grow wetter, a wave of warm arousal leaking out of your hole. his tongue dives down to welcome it, not allowing more than a single drop- landing on his chin- to go to waste.

you don’t even notice the lack of his grip around your left leg until you feel it: the first few seconds of his fingertips probing around your soaked cunt, coating themselves in your liquid pleasure until it’s dripping down the back of his hand.

the first finger to enter your hole is gentle, tentative to the way your body receives him, his pointer and ring finger keeping your folds spread and allowing him the full view of the middle one slowly disappearing from sight, burying itself in the warmth of your pussy. distracted, his mouth pulls back and his head meets the bench again while his eyes soak in the sight above him, flickering up to catch your reaction when another finger enters you, this time with a lot less care as it forces you open around it.

“so pretty,” he mutters the words, more to himself than to you, delighting as he witnesses you struggling to bite back a pathetic moan when his digits curl within you. he repeats the action a couple times, flicking his wrist back and forth, fingers brushing over your tight walls each time and culminating in a curl that has him pressing against the spongy-like flesh inside. “so, so pretty.”

your hips begin to rut against his hand, meeting every one of his thrusts with perfect timing that has him reaching deeper, further, better places inside of you. all the while he’s just watching and admiring the furrow in your brow and the way the swells of your breast bounce in sync with you.

your pussy clenches tighter and his fingers fight to reach deeper before spreading themselves wider in an attempt to scissor you open. he’s giving it his all, a third finger slipping in despite the dull ache setting in his wrist while he coaxes you closer and closer to the tipping point.

san takes just as easy as he gives, and it’s that fact alone that drives him to pull his hand back, fingers withdrawing from you and the pleasure you’re pursuing.

“why’d you-” you heave through heavy breaths, brain fuzzy from the unvoiced orgasm you were so close to having, every nerve ready to tingle, every muscle ready to tremble, every toe ready to curl. “stop?”

“because,” the wet smack of his fingers hitting against your clit is louder than the whimper that drops from your mouth. san hears both, however, and grins, quickly landing another smack against your engorged clit. “the goal is to make you cum on my face, not my fingers. consider them the appetiser, something to awaken your senses.”

his tongue licks in an upward motion, starting from the tip of your taint and ending at your clit, and you get deja-vu to just minutes before, when you’d first felt his tongue on your melting skin, the saliva it leaves in a trail behind it serving to cool you down. a shiver runs up your spine as he blows air onto your cunt, the pressure of it doing wonders to stimulate your clit.

“would you stop?”

“look who’s whining now.” san, despite what he says, does as you ask and puts an end what feels like unending teasing- really, it’s hardly been a minute but the pulsing of your heat and the loss of a climax leave you no room to think about something as abstract as time.

his lips make a victorious return, wrapping themselves around your clit and sucking against the pulsing nub. every so often, he delivers a couple kitten licks- ups and downs, sides to sides, figure eights- before swiftly returning to kissing your most intimate parts.

in an attempt to make your toes curl, he dips lower and teases the tips of his tongue over your entrance, wet muscle moving over wet skin and tastebuds covering themselves in your essence, till the moans echoing off the walls are indistinguishable between san’s and your own.

“you can move,” he grunts into you after a few minutes of repeated alternating between kissing your clit and tonguing at your hole. it’s muffled with the way he’s holding you down against his face and you feel his lips brush against your lower ones as he speaks. “need you to move. wanna see you use me, pretty.”

and, who are you to deny the man?

you’re hesitant at first, just like you were all those weeks ago as you sank to your knees for him. you test the waters and give a single roll of your hips. it feels good, great, especially when paired with his own efforts at dragging his tongue over you.

it takes a few more attempts, and san’s patience wearing thin to the point he resorts to grabbing a firm hold of your arse cheeks and planting you flat on his mouth, tongue flat and eyes staring up at you in a demand to move, goddamn it. 

move you most certainly do, grinding down on his tongue like you’ve done many a time with different men’s cocks. it’s messy, sloppy in the way that his spit mingles with your wetness, a cocktail of fluids sliding down his throat, and painting his lips, and dribbling down his chin as he eats you like a man starved that’s alas getting a taste of the sweetest fruit.

the rhythm of your hips is thrown off when the man beneath you switches from having you grinding down onto his flattened tongue to slipping the muscle inside of your hole, thrusting it as far as up as the length of it allows him to. with every time your body comes crashing down on his mouth, the tip of his nose bumps against your clit, forcing you to angle yourself upwards to gain more of the friction.

hands find hair, lips part in unabashed moans, thighs shake with the oncoming of an orgasmic state of mind.

the moment builds too quickly, too unexpectedly, like the ghost of your stolen climax is back with a vengeance and set on ensuring there will be no denying it this time.

“s-shit,” your eyes squeeze shut, too scared to look down at his ecstasy filled eyes in fear of it being what finally tips you over the edge. “i’m gonna- ah- gonna cum.”

san pays no mind to your warning. if anything, he takes it as a challenge, an invisible timer beginning in his head and forcing him to see how quickly he can get you to unravel all over his face. he’s getting everything he asked for, your naked body a mess above him as you fuck yourself on his tongue and your hands, with minds of their own, sliding up to grab and squeeze at your tits.

he watches how the pastel blue nail polish clashes with the darkened colour of your abused nipples, fingers working to pinch, and twist, and pull at them as you lose yourself in the moment.

when you cum, it’s with rolled-back eyes and shaky thighs, his hands gripping at you tighter to steady you as you sway above him, his tongue working at coaxing you through your high.

he licks up every drop of cum he can manage, until you’re cringing in overstimulation and reaching down to push him away. he let’s you move him, mouth moving to trail a couple kisses over your inner thigh, something akin to lipstick stains- yet so much dirtier in nature- being left behind on your soft flesh.

“told you i wouldn’t let you fall,” he’s the first to speak, partly because he correctly thinks you’re incapable of forming anything coherent in the afterglow of your orgasm, but mostly because he wants- no, needs to hear you praise him.

needs to hear you praise him like he’d done for you that night, eyes still hooded and chest visibly heaving as he finished processing watching you swallow every spurt of hot cum he’d shot down your throat. the praise never comes.

well, at least not from you.

at first he thinks he’s imagining the sound of clapping. it’s slow, and booming, and tinted with the slightest hint of sarcasm. it grows louder though, far too loud for it to just be in his imagination. the stilling of your body, going rigid as you fall back onto his chest, the sticky remnants of your orgasm cold against his heated skin, confirms that you hear the clapping too.

“bravo, choi. always thought your reputation with the ladies was a little overhyped, but i stand corrected.”

never has he hated the sight of park seonghwa so much, not even in the times they’ve been head-to-head in the final lap and the older male’s offensively bright swim-cap is all san can see every time he twists his head to catch a breath of air.

the three swimmers stand on the opposite end of the swimming pool, all in various stages of undress.

there’s wooyoung, who looks like he’s not so much as dried himself with a towel, still dressed in his team swimwear. and yunho, who’s got a towel wrapped around his waist messily, hair damp against his forehead and likely smelling of the cheap shampoo provided in the locker-room showers. lastly, seonghwa, who’s seemingly fully dressed spar for one of those irritating long coats san always sees him trailing around campus in.

one look into your panicked eyes is enough for san to spring into action, fumbling to sit himself up and pull your body flush against his, facing your naked back in the direction of his rivals.

he bites back a groan as you shift in his lap, unknowingly- or maybe you do know- pressing your soaked centre against his erection, which already strains inside the confines of the nylon material, leaving very little to the imagination.

“do you mind?” he’s glad the words come out clearly, booming across the pool at them and their unwavering staring.

“not at all.”

san holds you tighter against him, eyeing at your discarded swimsuit on the floor as he listens to a shuffle of footsteps. assuming the three men have made their way back into the locker-room, he’s speechless when he looks up to find them approaching the bench, seonghwa leading the trio with a secure grip on the back of wooyoung’s neck, whose eyes can’t seem to leave the floor, while yunho trails a little behind them, one hand grasping onto the towel around him.

“get your hands off her!” he leans back, pulling you with him, in an attempt to stray out of seonghwa’s reach as he extends his hand out. he fails, however, and the tips of seonghwa’s elongated fingers brush over your shoulder.

a shiver runs down you, one that san feels, the unexpected touch tickling your nerves.

“she’s a grown up,” the eldest of the men muses as he builds a rhythm out of how his fingers soother over your sweat slicked skin. “who i’m sure can speak for herself if she wants my hands off her.”

out of all the men, seonghwa has always been the one san despised most. between the constant boasting of wealth- money he acquired through labor, though not the working kind- and the disrespect he’s never had a problem showing towards others, he never fails to strike a nerve, awakening a dark part of san’s brain that activates his fight or flight response. by far, however, his arrogance is the worst, that sense of entitlement that drives him to think everything and everyone is a piece of clay for him to mold and manipulate till they fit his ideal shape.

the rich boy’s hand smoothes over your naked shoulder and san can’t resist glaring up at him.

“c’mon san, now’s hardly the time to be modest,” behind the oldest swimmer, yunho and wooyoung seem to be battling an inner conflict, yunho fighting to keep his towel in place and wooyoung fighting to keep the shame off his face while his dick visibly strains against the confines of his chlorine-covered swimwear. “not after the show you two just put on.”

“we didn’t,” it’s the first time you manage to speak since covering san’s tongue in your cum, breathing at last steady and face hidden from everyone’s view, much to san’s despair. “know you were watching.”

“and, if you had known, would you have stopped?” yunho is the one asking the question and, suddenly, san’s so much more aware of what exactly he’s hiding underneath his towel.

you give no answer.

“of course she wouldn’t,” seonghwa answers for you, hand moving to grasp the back of your neck. with no warning, he grips a little too tight for comfort and and yanks you backwards, till you’re staring right into san’s eyes and the only thing keeping you perched in his lap is seonghwa’s body pressed flat against yours. “there’s nothing a whore loves more than an audience, right?”

if put on trial in a court of law and sworn to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, over whether or not you’d just clenched around nothing at park seonghwa’s degrading name, you’d plead that you never did such a thing.

you’d be found guilty.

“poor woo nearly came untouched just watching you two. isn’t that right?” the eldest turns to stare back at where you imagine wooyoung to be. “pretty boy nearly whined just at the thought of being in san’s position, a mouth full of cunt and someone using him like the fuck-toy he is.”

the air grows thick, between you, and san, and every other living being in the room. it feels like the walls are closing in on themselves with every second that passes, the sweat dripping down your back and coming to a rest between your arse cheeks evidence that the space is heating up. or maybe it’s just your body, hardly processing the high it’s just come down from and there’s already another source for a new-found arousal, a source in the shape of three muscular men stood behind you and one beneath you, eyes wary as he gazes into your own, like he wants to ask if you’re okay but all the blood is too busy circulating in his crotch for his brain to be productive.

“now, i hardly think it’s very nice of you to get our wooyoung all riled up and not even offer to help him out.” you decide you’re being lulled into a false sense of safety the second you feel the pressure of seonghwa’s hand leave your skin. behind you, there’s a shuffling of footsteps that call you to crane your neck and catch a glimpse of what exactly is going on but san’s eyes beg you to keep staring into his, to count the galaxies that dance within them while he grips at your waist. “so the chance to offer is off the table and you’re simply going to do as told. doesn’t that sound easier, hmm? no having to make pesky decisions, just spread those legs and follow orders.”

at last, you get your first glimpse at jung wooyoung.

he sits down on the bench, no more than a breath of space between where you and san are perched. he’s a vision in himself, shoulders hunched and embarrassed face the same shade of red as the tip of his cock, an angry looking bulbous head poking out the top of far-too-tight speedos.

san’s grip tightens the longer you stare at the other boy, gaze dancing over the shape of his body and mouth-watering as, for the first time, you see the appeal of jung wooyoung. never before have you understood why eyes follow him in the hallways, like he’s more than just another pretty boy on campus- something that’s in abundance. but you see it now, understand the appeal of his stand-out nose; and the veins that run down his arms; and floppy style to his hair, that seems to be calling out to have your fingers running through it. 

with no prior warning, the grip on your hips tightens even more, till san is digging crescents into the soft skin and he’s lifting you, off of his lap and right into wooyoung’s.

the usually boisterous boy’s eyes meet yours, no longer filled with that spark of defiance and, instead, glazed over in tears, a quiet pleading being exchanged between you.

only, you’re unsure what he’s begging of you.

“are you going to just sit there,” seonghwa speaks up, boredom in his tone that has you picturing him rolling his eyes and picking at his manicured nails. “or are you going to help the poor pup cum?”

“what?!” that certainly helps you find your voice, and the guts to turn around and look at the man.

you find him stood closer than you imagined, with tailored trousers hugging his thighs and a perfectly ironed shirt tucked into them, the last few messy buttons the only indication he’d rushed to dress himself. eyes looking past him, you find more of a friendly aura in yunho, who, despite fighting a battle against the towel wrapped around his figure, manages to shoot a smile at you.

and then there’s san, who stands with muscled arms crossed over his chest and a painfully obvious boner resting in the confines of his swimwear, though he’s done a better job at keeping himself concealed than the boy beneath you. his face appears indifferent, yet the twitch in his eye speaks of a tamed anger, a frustration he’s yet to unleash on the men who’d interrupted him amidst his feast.

“are you now deaf along with being dumb or something?” the eldest pulls your attention back to him with little effort, a smirk meeting the glare you shoot his way. “you made that brat hard, now do your job and fix the mess you’ve made.”

words of protest get lost in a surprised gasp as the boy in question takes your hand in his, veiny hand guiding you down to a veiny shaft. wooyoung wraps both of your fingers over his leaking cock, his holding yours in place around him while he ruts his hips up once, twice into your hold, the action sending his swimwear even further down the his length and exposing nearly the full sight of it to the swimming hall.

you don’t mean to compare, yet you’re incapable of ignoring the fact that while wooyoung may be on the slightly shorter side compared to san, he’s certainly leading in the thickness department, with a mushroomed head and the prettiest trail of trimmed hairs leading down his pelvis.

he guides you over his shaft a number of times, a little less shy now as he outwardly whines when your thumb runs over his tip, wiping away the fat bead of precum resting upon it. at some point, he moves his hand away, needing both of his free to lean back on the bench, yet yours keeps moving at it’s own volition, stroking him in a pattern of threes, interrupting every trio with a swipe over his tip or a fondle of his still-concealed balls.

“please,” the whine in his voice is so unlike the jung wooyoung you’ve watched week after week, hurling abuse and echoing boasts of his own talents while keeping himself afloat in the swimming pool.

“he asked nicely.” you’d just about forgotten about everyone else in the room, until seonghwa’s irritatingly unbothered voice serves to remind you of his presence. “rule number one: good behaviour is rewarded.”

“what do i,” you interrupt your own question to glance over wooyoung once more. “do?” you pinch your thigh, skin stinging as nails bite it, and confirm with yourself that this is not a dream but, in fact, very much real.

jung wooyoung is hard and begging you to do something.

“i don’t care how you do it, just put one of your holes to good use for once and make him cum.”

there’s still an echo of seonghwa’s voice by the time you successfully manage to rid wooyoung of his swimwear, the damp fabric clinging to the warm skin and the taut muscles of his thighs. the boy isn’t much help either, seemingly reduced to nothing but a writhing, panting mess instead of someone competent enough to raise himself off the bench just enough for you to undress him.

the sight is mesmerising, one you’re certain will remain ingrained in your memory till the day you die: wooyoung, disheveled and untouched, with his achingly hard cock pressed flat against his lower stomach, his swimmer-thighs spread with a set of balls between them that you find yourself near salivating over as a trickle of his own precum runs down them.

“your cock’s...” you begin to speak, yet trail off as your digits wrap themselves around his shaft, just to delight in the way his breath jumps when you drag your hand upwards and give a soft squeeze as you reach the head. “so pretty, woo.”

“youngie.” seonghwa cuts in from behind you. “he prefers to be called youngie when he’s getting his cock teased.”

“yeah, youngie?” you try it out.

instantly, he nods and something akin to a whimper flies out of him.

fascinated by his shaky breaths and his pretty chest, where warm, tanned skin appears to be near glowing under the swimming halls bright lights as his cheeks flush a palette full of reds and pinks, your eyes are completely fixed on him. there’s something vulnerable and breakable about the way he’s looking at your with the widest of eyes, his eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip receiving countless abuse from his teeth.

never have you been so desperate to push someone past their own limits.

officially running on nothing but pure instincts, you close your mind off to thoughts, like how the boy you’d spent weeks avoiding and missing is stood only metres away, witnessing the way the tip of your finger teases over the slit of his sport rival’s cock. or like how park seonghwa, perhaps the campus’ most infamous trust-fund baby, seems to have complete control of the situation at hand, yourself and jung wooyoung nothing but idolised dolls he’s moving into whatever obscene position he wants you in.

instead, you focus on how wooyoung’s eyes roll back and he lets out a gasp when you gather up fluids from within your salivating mouth and part your own lips, watching how your own spit drips onto his lower stomach, and your hand, and his painfully hard cock.

the saliva serves not only as a visual pleasure, something that’s awakening inside of you at the sight of it leaving you with whole new kind of excitement bubbling along your body, but as a physical pleasure for wooyoung, who seems to have no protest to how much easier it is to slide your hand up his length with the added lubrication of your own spit. 

“fuck...” he curses under his breath and his hands find purchase on your body, one gripping your hip while the other grabs at your forehand, like he’s scared you’ll release the grip you have on him and strip away the sweet release of friction. “don’t just focus on the tip- shit, ah- play with my balls too.”

“wooyoung!” ready to oblige, ready to give the pretty faced boy anything he demanded of you, you’ve no time to think of a reply before the ringmaster of this circus reminds you of his overlooking presence behind your back. “stop speaking like an ungrateful brat and take what you’re given. or else... well, i’m sure you don’t need reminding of what happens to pups that misbehave.”

the way jung wooyoung’s whole body grows rigid beneath you, paired with the countless times park seonghwa has butted in to speak on the boy’s sexual preferences, leaves you with the sense that the two are not only acquainted with how each other’s bodies move underwater..

“s-sorry,” this is not the voice of boastful jung wooyoung, who near bounces down the college halls and airdrops nudes in class because he’s bored. this is a voice that’s soft and meek. like a beady-eyed puppy, so quick to submit to it’s owner. “just feels too good. i’m sorry”

“yeah, you will be sorry.” seonghwa’s hand is cold against your back and it lulls a shiver out of you as fingers trickle down your spine like water off a duck’s wings. part of you hates him for stealing wooyoung’s attention off of you just as you were beginning to revel in it, a larger part of you wants to know why the sternness in his voice is enough to have your clit aching to be touched. “spitfire, be a good cocksleave and sit on his dick.”

“ok, stop!” a sense of shame comes over you when it takes hearing san’s outburst to remember the fact he’s watching the scene unfold. “don’t you think you’re taking this too far now, park seonghwa? i know you and wooyoung have your... agreement on how you treat each other, but don’t drag someone else into it. not when she never even asked for this.”

“you had your tongue tasting the eighth wonder of the world on that bench twenty minutes ago, both of you knowing there was a chance you’d be caught, and you want to tell me no one was asking for this?”

“that was private! you guys are the ones who-”

“there’s no such thing as privacy in a public area. besides, it’s hardly like she’s not enjoying this. if anything, i think spitfire doesn’t like the way you’re getting in the way of her teaching youngie a lesson in obedience.” you’re naive to think no one would notice the way you’ve began to grind down on wooyoung’s cock, stealing whimpers out of him as the soaked lips of your pussy rubbed up against him and holding back your own moans each time his tip meets the bundle of nerves that make up your clit. “choi, if you’re that much of a pissy pants that can’t enjoy himself even just this once in life, then feel free to leave. i’m sure the four of us will be too occupied to notice your absence.”

you’re not paying close enough attention to figure out if san’s newfound silence is due to his departure, or if he’s simply too stunned to speak, your eyes focused on nothing and no one but the boy at your mercy.

the initial burn of wooyoung breaching your entry reminds you of how long it’s been since you’d been stretched open by something other than someone’s cold fingers or wagging tongue. it’s been more or less three long months of juggling test after test, assignments piling up on your desktop and a relationship with your now ex-boyfriend being tossed completely into the gutter.

not once had you thought your return to the world of sexual bliss would be in front of an audience, much less at the very place you work.

doubting that it’s been as long for him as it has for you, wooyoung still spares nothing when it comes to reacting to your touch. with eyes squeezing shut, head rolling back, abdomen muscles flexing along side every shaken intake of breath, the boy puts on a show so pornographic it puts the professionals to shame. a whine exits his lips, lips that carry marks of his own teeth and look like they’re in need of a healthy dose of chapstick, and look so disgustingly kissable that your own tingle at the thought.

all those rumours of jung wooyoung being a camboy rush to the forefront of your mind, feeling truer than ever when your eyes take in the bob of his adam’s apple, and the perfectly timed run of his tongue over his lower lip, and the pretty way in which the prominent veins in his hands looks as he clamps his grip down on your hips.

he’s a sight worth paying for. 

“are you okay?” not the first thing you’d imagined saying after sinking all the way down on his cock, the need to check up on him taking over before you’d even noticed it’s existence.

“yeah...” he sighs his way through the word, eyes still closed and grip still very much tight on your skin, blunt fingertips likely leaving crescent moons you’ll find yourself staring at for days to come, memories of this moment replaying in a rose-tinted haze. “just need a second, you- you feel good, fuck me.”

“i’m kinda already doing that, youngie.” you giggle, like a lovesick adolescent speaking to their crush of the week, but the boy’s instant smile upon hearing it puts out the fire of shame building in the pit of your stomach.

“hmm,” he hums back, acknowledging your words without giving you the satisfaction of hearing him tell you how you’re correct. “are you okay?”

wooyoung flips the question on you and it parallels with the way he pulls the rains in physically, lithe hips thrusting upwards in search of feeling more, reaching deeper inside of you. in the back of your mind you already picture a look of displeasure on park seonghwa’s face, scowling lips loading up to berate you and demand you take repossession of jung wooyoung’s sanity.

“yeah, i’m-” with the eldest man in mind, you stop and compose yourself, as well as you can while wooyoung’s mouthing at your neck, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts. “i’m wondering who told you you were allowed to touch me?”

control is easily regained, all it takes is your hand squeezing around jung wooyoung’s throat and your soaked walls clenching around his aching cock and he’s melting like ice cream on a warm summer’s day, leaving behind a sticky mess.

satisfaction and pleasure come crashing in tandem, wave after wave moving in motion with each lethargic roll of your body against the swimmer’s, who seems to be a quicker learner than you’d believed him to be, hands flying off your body like it was made up of hot stones and, instead, now holding a firm and grounding grip of the bench beneath you both.

“harder.” you feel a hint of emotion within park seonghwa’s voice this time he speaks. it’s fleeting, and hard to make out quite what feeling it is he’s experiencing, but it’s there and it’s certainly a step up from the usual shameless, egotistical, megalomaniac tone he takes on. “squeeze his throat tighter.”

under the possession of his commanding tone, you find yourself caving into his command, fingers pressing a little harder into wooyoung’s warm skin. the boy gulps down whatever pride he has and delivers a pleasured whine. you grind down harder and an evil, twisted part of you you’ve never met before longs to laugh at the way he so desperately is struggling to keep his composure, fighting back the urge to meet your hips with his own upward thrusts.

so, you do. 

“hear that, youngie?” seonghwa’s voice becomes less grating each time you hear it, once an unwelcome and intrusive thought but now a second voice and a valued player in a game of wreck the wooyoung. “you’re being laughed at. isn’t that just pathetic?”

“y-yes, fuck-” he falls victim to your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock in a vice grip. the image of confidence withers away so easily to reveal a teary-eyed, pretty-faced, cum-desperate man. “i’m pathetic.”

“yeah, you are.” seonghwa circles his way around the rocking bench, no longer out of view hidden behind your back but, instead, staring you down with piercing eyes that cut through you like a knife to hot butter. “he’s getting close. never lasts long, really, even seen him cum untouched just from giving me head. but that’s okay, isn’t it youngie? you’re a slut for having your sack drained, huh?”

the swimmer beneath you has never looked redder than he does right now, secrets of his sexual nature getting exposed to the people he likely considers his biggest athletic competition. though you probably should, you don’t push him away when his face finds safety in the crook of your neck, parted lips covering your burning skin in sticky drool.

“don’t let him fool you guys, he’s into the degrading nature of it all. trust me.” you wonder if it should concern you the way seonghwa speaks about jung wooyoung as though he’s nothing but a pet, a possession of which he just so happens to have complete control over. you’re more concerned with the fact it excites you. “call him a good boy, i dare you.”

the words haven’t even formed in your throat and the boy between your thighs is gripping onto your waist a little tighter, lips near pouting and eyes screwed shut in uncontrollable pleasure, burning down his spine and threatening to push him over the edge of sexual bliss.

you consider having mercy, the inexperienced side of you thinking the boy looks like he’s full of shame and embarrassment. the throbbing of his rock hard cock repeatedly stuffing your aching cunt reminds you he’s getting off on the humiliation.

“is he a good boy, though?” you stare up at park seonghwa, not even sparing a whimpering wooyoung any attention as he begins a rambled protest to defend his good behaviour. “i mean, i don’t remember telling him he could touch me. do you, hwa?”

the hands that grip you tightly let go quick, like your skin were an unexpectedly warm stove, scorching his skin right off him.

“i don’t remember either,” the eldest’s agreement has you reeling in a way you never expected, filling you with a new found sense of control.

a control that is ripped away far too quickly, like park seonghwa sensed you growing falsely confident over the situation at hand.

like a shark circling it’s prey, the tall man makes his way back around the bench, each fall of his shoe-covered feet echoing in the quiet swim hall. click, click, click, and he’s right at your back, not a word uttered as the soft of his palm lands on the nape of your neck. achingly slow does it travel down the expanse of your back, not a single noise filling the space other than the rise and fall of your body on top of wooyoung’s and the same boy’s poorly contained moans and mewls of pleasure.

the silence is interrupted by your own shocked gasp, mouth falling agape in shock as your movements come to a complete halt. his hands, no longer soft and delicate, grip you in an iron-tight hold, fingers greedy as they dig into your meaty flesh with no mercy or regard for the pain it may inflict on you.

“no, get up,” like a switch was flipped in as little as a minute, park seonghwa’s voice has lost all sense of the excitement it had whilst he spoke on jung wooyoung’s dirty endeavours and has returned back to the cold, callous, commanding tone it had originally.

he sounds angry, feels angry in the way the fingers of his free hand tangle themselves in the hair at the back of your head and give a harsh tug, forcing your head back till you’re met with his scowling face and perfectly groomed hair, even in it’s dampened state it seems to frame his face perfectly.

“what?” you babble out, dumbstruck, much like the desperate boy beneath you who’s began to mutter apology after apology between pleadings of please no don’t do this and i promise i’ll behave, i’ll keep my hands to myself.

none of it works.

“you heard me. get. up.” the fingers on your waist tug, pull, drag you away from the quivering mess that has become of jung wooyoung, who near sobs as the cool air hits his now painfully hard cock, tip redder than the bottom of your favourite heels and a vein more prominent under his sensitive skin than the ones on his muscular arms. you’re not given much of a chance to process what’s happening before seonghwa speaks again. “wooyoung, up, now. you’re not getting to cum, so get off the bench and make room for someone else.”

the boy makes no further attempt to protest, cheeks painted pink in shame and chest shining with sweat as he shakily rises to his feet, head hung low when you watch him walk out of your line of sight.

then, your knees meet the floor.

park seonghwa chuckles as you go down, hands finding grip in your hair and forcing you to sit up right. heart beating faster, your mind begins to race with questions of what comes next, who comes next.

what dirty desires are about to be unveiled within you, forced into the unforgiving fluorescent lights of the swimming hall?

“jeong, you’re up,” seonghwa’s knee digs into your back and his fingers tug until your scalp begins to sting a little. you don’t want to like it but, in life, you don’t always get what you want.

there’s a series of shuffles behind you, followed by heavy footsteps. there’s no rush, yet no hesitation, just calm and collected footsteps of someone making their way over to do god knows what with you.

when jeong yunho, with his towel that’s looking a lot tighter around his crotch still around his waist, steps into frame, an inexplicable sense of comfort washes over you.

maybe it’s the way he smiles down at you, or the fact his hands brush seonghwa’s off of you, or the way his fingers take a hold of your chin once he’s seated in front of you.

maybe it’s just the fact he’s jeong yunho, campus himbo with a reputation for walking girls home at night just to make sure they’re safe and for singing britney spears with no shame each time the karaoke mic gets passed around.

whatever it is, it’s turning you on.

your knees are burning with fresh pain as park seonghwa shoves you closer to the mammoth of a man and you can’t help but swallow down the ball of anxiety growing in your throat.

everything about jeong yunho’s demeanour has always seemed large, with powerful arms that drag his body through the weight of water and large hands that effortlessly carry countless textbooks through the university halls; a tall frame that helps him stand out in any crowd and a personality loud enough to set off alarms; his thighs a muscular stairway leading up to a well rounded, remarkably defined posterior. it’s safe to say he’s carried a reputation for some time, one that consists of whispers between girls on campus who recount just how well endowed he really is. 7 inches, 9 inches, 12 inches, you’ve heard it all, each girl claiming it to be bigger than the last.

unfortunately, there’s no ruler at your disposal to uncover the truth of the rumours, but you confirm he’s certainly large as you watch him undo the towel. larger than you’ve ever seen before, with a thickness to match, and two heavy looking balls decorating the base.

he wraps a hand around it and you watch how he gives a light squeeze at the head, slowly sliding down the length of it till he reaches the tuft of groomed hairs on his pelvic bone. one of his hands alone holds half of his cock, leaving you almost certain you’d need to use both hands on him.

“d’you want it, sweetheart?” his words are teasing but his voice is soft, a complete one-eighty to the verbal berating you’ve been receiving- and enjoying- from park seonghwa.

you’re sure he notices the way you clench your thighs as he slaps his cock once, then twice against his stomach, the precum leaking out on to his tanned skinned.

there’s an itch inside your throat, one you imagine only he can scratch.

“you wanna taste it?” he’s still speaking to you through the arousal that fogs over your brain, commanding your tongue to swipe over your bottom lip as you burn your gaze at the glistening liquid on his warm skin, tastebuds aching to have him paint them in white.

you nod your head.

his own throws itself back, a chuckle rupturing out of his chest as he continues to tease himself with his hand.

“fuck, yeah, bet you can’t wait to taste my cock, feel it stab the back of your tight throat.” a smile should never look so sweet while it’s part of the same mouth spewing out such filth. somehow, jeong yunho makes it work. “gonna get it nice and wet for me, yeah? make it sloppy, i love it when a pretty thing like you gets all messy over my cock.”

the knee that’s suddenly digging it’s way into your back has no mercy. you wince, pull in a sharp breath and inch just that little bit closer to the bench. like a glove fits a hand, you slip right in between the muscled tree trunks that make up jeong yunho’s thighs. 

you wonder, if only momentarily, what sweet a death it would be to be crushed between them, taut muscles constricting the flow of air to your lungs like a boa with its prey.

but there’s a far more preferable way to be choked by the man before you, body carved out in such definition you fear michael angelo himself stands in admiration of it.

his hand snakes its way around your body, warm and heavy and imposing with the grip it settles for at the base of your neck. in spite of the sharp stab coming from behind- where you have no doubt one park seonghwa stands with disgruntled impatience written all over his irritatingly perfect face- there is no doubt in your mind that the man in front of you holds the reigns. with eyes of honey and lips of velvet, he peers down at you with a tendered expression, saying nothing yet everything with the gentle, repeated sooth of his thumb over your skin.

you need no verbal instructions this time around.

a hand grips the base of him as the other squeezes the flesh of your own thigh, piercing your skin with just enough pressure to assure you this is the reality you find yourself in, rather than some twisted, substance influenced dream.

the first taste is the sweetest, tongue a missionary sent into the foreign land of his body to discover the way he reacts as you drag it over the tip. he gives nothing but a squeeze to the back of your neck; and that crumbles you under his control.

with a few more kitten licks- for good luck, if anything,- the show begins with the parting of your lips, the widening of your mouth, the burning of your skin as you struggle with your ability to swallow him whole. you make it no further than a third of his length before he’s tugging gently on your roots and bringing you back to the surface of existence.

“breathe, okay,” his voice is gentle, calming your nerves yet sending your heart into a fit of patternless beats. “inhale, exhale, got it? through the nose, that’s gonna help you relax.”

doing as he says, you swallow three whole breaths. shaky, ragged, each feeling hollow in your chest in comparison to the weight of his cock on your tongue.

“pretty girl,” he practically coos, hand cupping your chin as his thumb smoothes over the swell of your bottom lip. it’s tender, sweet, and almost enough to make you forget the sight of his engorged cock that sits angrily between his tree-trunk shaped thighs, crying out for the return of your mouth’s affection. “someone’s gotta teach you to not be greedy, hmm? small little mouth of yours is no fit for me, don’t go choking on it.”

heat flashes between your thighs, your heartbeat dropping right down to your clit and leaving you with a burning ache, the kind only a gentleman like this could soothe. your fingers may have to do, however, if the stubborn arsehole behind you would be so kind as to let you enjoy yourself.

the way park seonghwa curls his hand round the front of your neck and flexes his nimble fingers- that goddamn family heirloom ring a punishing cold to your warm skin, near brandishing you as touched by some nepotism child- when you do so little as clench your thighs together to relieve the pressure, or lack-there-of, between your thighs tells you he’ll grant you no such fun.

“you’d need to have something big enough for her to choke on,” san, precious san. still here, still somewhere beneath this god-forsaken tin-can roof swimming pool, watching you bruise your knees and your ego for another man, another one of his team-mates. what must he think of you? has he lost whatever respect he may have had? does he think he’d been just another body to exchange fluids with, that night at the party? if you could just see his face, you’d not need to wonder all these things. his eyes, they always give him away, too earnest and pure for his own good.

“shut it, choi,” yunho’s bark isn’t half as loud as seonghwa’s booming commands have been, and are nowhere near as malignant. if anything, the gentle giant is humoured by his team-mate’s words, as if he knows they’re a preposterous thing to say about him. then again, you can’t imagine any man remaining humble about themselves if they were so well-endowed. “or do you wanna crack out the measuring tape again and remind yourself of just how much of me there is to choke on?”

silence.

it takes a few moments for the spotlight to return to you, a gradual shift from playful to lust driven energy encapsulating the broad frame of the man before. he cups your cheek, feather-light touch smoothing over your skin while his eyes burrow daggers into your soul.

why must his shoulders be so wide? it almost angers you as much as it sends a wave of heat between your legs.

almost, but not quite.

“‘s cute,” he half mumbles, distracted by the sight you paint below him on your knees, bruises already forming and thighs clenching for some relief of pressure. “your little pussy’s all wet just from having my cock in your mouth.”

“i think you’re forgetting she was bouncing on woo’s dick a few minutes ago, yunho,” the devil on your shoulder won’t let you rest, hand snaking through the threads of your hair and tugging on your roots. not enough to hurt, just enough to sting. “have some modesty.”

“sure, let’s act like i’m not the one who had her cumming all over my face a while ago.” san mumbles a string of words you wish you could unhear, face heating up as the shame burns through your bloodstream.

how had you gotten here?

you’re allowed no such freedom to ponder over previous actions as jeong yunho’s all encompassing frame works to remind you of where you find yourself: on your knees dressed in nothing but your own shame- shame which seems to slip off of you, piece by piece, baring you shamelessly to this pack of wolf-eyed boys’ for their eyes to feast upon.

strong, veiny hands reach out and drag you forwards, just an inch yet it’s all you need to feel the weight of park seonghwa’s domineering figure float off of you, rendering you under the control of this much larger, far smilier looking man. “eyes on me, okay? don’t wanna miss the way i’m about to make them roll back.”

there begins a game of push and pull, where jeong yunho pushes you closer and closer to his evident arousal, all the while teasing you as he pulls his hips back, keeping your waiting mouth open and empty, and oh-so frustrated at the feeling of being so close yet so far away from his dripping tip.

the first real taste you get of him does, in fact, nearly have your eyes rolling back. a kitten lick, barely there yet fully felt, running over the underside of his cock, a taste of salted skin, and musky sweat, and stale chlorine mixing in with the warmth of him flooding your senses. his reaction is no more composed than yours, blatantly parting his lips in a gasp and bucking his hips up, forwards, any direction they need follow to chase after your mouth.

happy to comply, you take pride in tasting him a second time, this time right over the growing drop of pre-cum pebbling on his tip. white flashes behind your closing eyes as his grip in your hair tightens, a pulse of heat firing straight down your spine as your mind floods with images of what it must be like to watch this man, this gentleman, this figure that so wholly encompasses what it means to be a himbo in this day and age lose his cool and revolt into his most carnal, basal instincts to take whatever pleasure he needs from you with a reckless abandon, burrow his throbbing cock down your throat till the beat of his heart takes over your own.

instead, you settle for wrapping your lips around him, at last, and letting him guide you just that little bit down his length. the weight of him feels nice, a strange sense of comfort birthing in your bones as you grow used to feel of him taking up your palate. his breaths seem to run in tandem with the inches he sinks deep between your parted lips.

a deep breath, he lowers you further, till your left cheek begins to bulge out.

tongue pinned to the floor of your mouth, you make use of it as best you can, rolling it over the bottom of his shaft and earning yourself a plethora of gratifying sounds, each deep and desperate and crooning straight out of jeong yunho’s broad chest. 

another deep breath, another inch.

for all the false dominance you wield over the situation, with the heat of your mouth and spill of your own saliva slickening his cock, his real and visceral dominance doubles it by tenfold, with a hand on the back of your neck, guiding your every move, and a knowing, gentle look cast downwards at you from where he sits propped on the bench, thighs a heavy mass to case your body between. a silly little voice in your head whispers a seductive tale of how easily this man could get you in a headlock and suffocate your fragile windpipes. a wave of heat, this one going right down to your core and forcing you to pay attention to it, shifting awkwardly and clenching the muscles in your own legs in hopes of getting some pitiful amount of pressure.

all breathing stops as he hits the back of your throat.

hands pulling tight, a biting pain ripping through your hair and a tired gag creeping out of your constricting throat, yunho holds you still and strong, as unmoving as the mountains that fill the horizon from your bedroom window.

he’s not even fully in, an arguably obscene amount of him still awaiting some form of attention beyond the spill of the spit filling up your mouth. but there’s nowhere for it to go, not within your mouth at least, and so you manoeuvre your hand up and grip the neglected inches, the tip of your pinkie teasingly brushing over the swell of his balls.

he lurches forward, gasping in a breath of air at last. “fucking christ- shit,” he grits his teeth. “her mouth’s warm.”

“well, obviously. this your first time getting a blowjob or something, jeong?” god, the reminder of seonghwa being here, somewhere behind you, fox eyes judging your every move and keeping his cool, no matter how hard you’d seen his cock straining in those ridiculous pant-suit trousers he sports. it’s sickening.

“yeah, yunho, watch out before you have a repeat of 2019.”

if the taller jeong wants to snap at the other, you never find out, instead dedicating yourself to the glory of worshipping him between your parted lips and tight throat, jaw ready to lock itself in place so long as it keeps him inside.

you treat him differently than you’d treated san that night. you’d been tipsy then, buzzing off the colourful shots of who-knows-what you’d been conned into downing a half hours before, mind hazy as you kneeled between him and teased your tongue over every crevice of him it could reach, dripping him in drool and working an ache into your overused tongue by the time you got watched him spill over the edge of ecstasy. that wasn’t even about san’s pleasure, no real care put into getting him off, your own selfish need to indulge in the pleasure of feeling, tasting, worshipping him taking precedence.

but, right now, you’re overwhelmingly sober, mind hazed only by a cloud of inexplicable lust that rolled in the moment san shot you his stupid smile, and you care about making jeong yunho cum. in fact, it’s the only thing on your mind as you bob your head up and down, letting his own hand guide your pace.  

“shh, shh,” he’s hushing your own struggles for breath and carding his fingers through the tresses of your hair, his legs clamping down on either side of you, pinning you in your rightful place. “taking it so good, baby. so fucking good.”

good’s not good enough.

you want to leave him mind-blown, exhausted, unhinged. you want him clenching his jaw, and baring his teeth, and stuttering over any praise he tries to give you. in fact, you need it, need that thrill-driven lust of collapsing the sanity of a man as broad and strong and capable as him.

so you pick up the pace, fight against the steady up-and-down of his grip and try to take just that little bit more of him in your mouth and down your throat, till you’ve no doubt there’s a visible bulge of where he sits down your windpipe. you think back on what he said- i love it when a pretty thing like you gets all messy over my cock- and work towards doing just that, mouth a fountain of over-flowing spit that paints lines down your chin and over his heavy balls. the hand at his base lightly drags the tips of its nails over his burning skin and you physically feel the way his cock jumps in your mouth, head twitching as his hips involuntarily jolt forwards.

eyes as wide as a deer in headlights, you glance up to stare into his own, only to find they’re rolling back in his head, too caught up in the headiness of having your mouth on him to visually focus. it’s erotic, tracing your eyes over the protruding vein in his neck and the unrhythmic heaving of his chest- like every breath he pulls is a rare gift and a miracle- and the straining of his muscled thighs that hold back his urge to buck freely into your mouth, use you as nothing but a hole to get himself off with.

your free hand stakes claim over your own sexual frustration, nimble fingers rubbing tight, slow circles over your clit in an attempt to just ease that heat burning you from the inside out.

“she’s touching herself, jeong,” not even the irritating, grating voice of park seonghwa’s unwanted commentary can take away the kick you’re getting out of working this man into a frenzy. “are you just going to let her, without your permiss-”

“shut up, park,” yunho is wrecked, voice divulging so far from that loud, boyish charm into a dark, broken sort of gruffed out thing, echoing straight out of his chest. but, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t listen to the other man, doesn’t force his eyes open to glance down in a hazed daze to witness your pathetic attempts to work your fingers over yourself.

only, he doesn’t tell you to stop.

he just... watches. and then smiles, squeezes out what can only be described as a broken whine, and tilts his head back once more, relinquishing all control of his body over to you. the scene divulging into a chorus of mumbled words, fuck and please and yes becoming the only word yunho knows, the only three you hear. 

only as he cums does jeong yunho regain that bit of self-control he’s lost, ripping your mouth off him- a stuttered mumble of i wanna paint that pretty face- and erupting in a mess of grunted moans, cock twitching in his palm as rope after rope of white, hot fluid shoots out of it. it’s messy, and disgusting, and sticky, marking the skin on your cheeks, nestling in your hair, dripping over your shut eyelashes.

the last drops land in your parted mouth as his grasp shakes and you regain the right to wrap your lips around his mushroomed tip.

lips stained in pearly white, cheeks and neck matching too. the throb of your neglected cunt, clenching itself around nothing but the mere thought of having jeong yunho stuff you full, break you in two and leave you spent.

the man in question is in a no better state, head thrown back and chest a heaving mess glistening with the shine of his own sweat. his mouth hangs open, near heaving in breaths of air and his hands, adopting a mind of their own, grip harder in your hair and hold you firmly in place, tongue laving over his sensitive tip, pushing him closer and closer to the ledge of overstimulation.

“fuck- uh, fucking look at you,” sweet voice, foul words. two fingers drag over your cheek, coating themselves in the sticky substance he’s painted you in. “drooling all over me.”

he’s right, you are drooling. down your chin, an uncomfortable damp coat covers your overheating skin as you continue to stretch your lips around his length, ready to rip another thigh-shuddering orgasm out of the man.

yunho grants you no such pleasure.

instead, a grip tugs back on your hair and, before you can feebly attempt to catch your fleeing breath, he’s pulling you up into his lap, straddling you across the well-defined muscles of his thigh. those big, capable hands he pushes himself through pools, and rivers, and all other bodies of water manipulate your limbs however he likes, a rag-doll free for him to toy with for as long as he sees fit.

“yun-” you don’t even manage to say his name properly, not when he grinds you down into his lap, smothering his tanned skin in your juices. the friction runs straight for your pulsing clit and you’re rendered to sinking into his welcoming arms, head collapsing into the crook of his neck, parted lips panting up a storm against his sweated skin.

“that nice for you, angel?” the soft words, the rough hands, the perfect roll of your hips. you feel like you could sob, break apart completely. yunho tracing a hand up the curve of your spine and soothing his long fingers over a knot in you back doesn’t help your case. “bet it is. little bit of release to all that tension you’ve been feeling, yeah?”

you think you nod.

it’s hard to tell.

sparks fly within your loins, heating you from the inside out. yunho, at some point, has wound his fist into the tresses of your hair, nails scrapping along your scalp. it’s pleasurable, all over, soothing you into a state of utter relaxation, a being with no purpose other than to take whatever this mass of warmth and muscles and width offers you.

his hand makes a fist and gently tugs, forcing a whine out of you as you’re faced with the bright lights once more. traces of his own cum stain the very place your face had lay. it’s erotic to see, drying up your tongue with a need to lick it clean.

“no, no, focus, right here,” a single finger taps at your cheek, followed by the tilting of your chin that forces you to stare back at the hungry eyes of jeong yunho. “eyes on me. want a front row seat to watching your eyes roll back.”

god, he’s filthy, and delicate, and that just makes him all that more filthy.

swiping his digits through the remnants of his sticky cum, he makes sure you’re staring right back at him as those same fingers snake their way down between your grinding bodies and burrow themselves deep in your soaked heat. shallow pumps of his hand fuck his cum-coated fingers deeper, long and lithe enough he barely needs to move to have you feeling him all over, everywhere.

by the time he curls them, pressing against that spongy wall, you’re just about ready to cry.

“think she’s gonna cum,” oh god, no, why must he remind you of your audience? why does it no longer frighten you to have eyes watching you be defiled but, rather, have you clenching around him tighter, chasing that fever-like ecstasy the man means to deliver? “she’s gripping my fingers so tight- shit, almost makes me wanna bust my load just thinking how warm her pussy would feel round my cock.”

“don’t let her cum,” you vow, some day, to wring the neck of park seonghwa. “just cause she’s gone all cockdrunk doesn’t mean she’s earnt-”

“shut up, hwa,” the boy’s thumb pokes up and you can’t help the way you grind down into it, smothering your clit in whatever pressure you can get. “pretty baby’s more than earned it. stop being bitter that i’m the one who’s gonna give her it.”

give you it, he does.

three fingers deep, the cocktail of your wetness mixing with his cum-cated digits aiding the ebb and flow of his rhythm, jeong yunho has your toes curling, eyes rolling, thighs shaking. you blackout, for only a moment, lost in the wilderness of pleasure.

the aftershocks are barely kicking in when you’re suddenly ripped away from yunho’s hold. the sounds of your beating heart and heaving chest muffle the disgruntled exchange of words between the swim-team, inhibiting your ability to stay clued-in on the events that surround you. all you know is that when your body meets the bench once more, on all wobbly fours, jeong yunho no longer sits tall and proud.

a sharp sting hits your rear- a smack, that echoes in the empty space of the swimming hall. the only appropriate response is the shriek you let out, twisted in your own conflicting emotions of pain, and pleasure, and painful pleasure. a second smack meets the other cheek. this time, there’s no doubt a wanton whine escapes you.

“since the rest of them can’t take orders,” you’d already known it was seonghwa whose hands were suddenly all over you, pinning you in a position of submission. the sound of his grandiose voice sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine, top to tail. “i’ll have to do it myself.”

with no word of warning, he smooths his hands down the globes of your ass, teases the crease of skin where your inner thigh meets your dripping heat, and fucks two whole fingers into your sensitive core. knuckles deep, they sit still upon initial intrusion, basking in the warmth of you and coating themselves in the essence from an orgasm you’ve yet to even fully recover from and the cum yunho’d scooped off your own face.

then, at last, when your nails dig marks into the wood below, he curls them a come-hither motion.

with shame painted on your skin, you toss your head back and release an inhumane cry, eyes hazily gazing up at the horrendous white lights above. “oh god!”

“not quite. i do appreciate the flattery though,” there’s no need to glance over your shoulder to know that pompous, trust-fund baby is wearing the most earth-shattering smirk, some stupid strand of his perfectly groomed hair dangling over one of his eyes, like some 90s heartthrob boy-band member. you do it anyway.

park seonghwa is an unfairly attractive man, sporting a beauty so ethereal it almost makes you angry.

that anger seems to dampen the wetter he gets you.

his touch is slow, but by no means is it gentle. calculated and malevolent, he plays with your insides like they’re nothing but the strings to your puppet. a curl of his fingers and one of your hands shoots forward. the torturously slow pace that he pumps his digits in and out, and your jaw falls slack. his thumb bumps and grinds against your throbbing clit, and your elbows give out, sending you crashing face-first down onto the bench.

his free hand presses down on your lower back, bending you deeper, hiking your ass up higher in the air. and, at first, you think you’re imagining it, that trickle of warmth against your other entrance, believing it nothing but a trick of your melting brain.

you’re who-knows how many hours deep in a whirlwind of pleasure and penetrative stares, people have been driven to the brink of insanity over far less in the past.

but then seonghwa’s fingers leave your cunt, warm and wet trails following their journey over your skin. there’s no imaginative mind great enough in this universe to conjure up that initial shock to feeling how he prods and pokes at your puckered hole, lubricating it with the dirty mixture of both you and yunho’s cum and his very own spit.

the tip of his pointer finger ventures onward first, breaking through the surface of your tight muscles in a shallow intrusion.

the feeling has you frozen, frightened, intrigued. eyes widening, moans dying, pussy pulsating in an empty need.

“don’t go getting shy on us now, spitfire,” the collective language he uses brings back the weight of all the boys’ eyes on you. hesitantly, you angle your face off the bench, and regret it the instant you meet the brown comfort of his eyes. “fun’s just starting. ain’t that right, san?”

a tense energy takes over the large room, with san’s shoulders tensing, and yunho’s feet fidgeting, and wooyoung’s cheeks blushing. seonghwa seems impervious to the shift, whether voluntarily or not, and instead invites himself to further exploring the limits of your body.

he’s kind enough to spare a bit of care into the way his finger sinks deeper into your unexplored hole. another dribble of his hot saliva lands messily onto you, aiding the slip and slide of his hand. two, or three, or four strokes of his finger and you’re submitting to the intrusion, hips rutting higher and presenting yourself more to the man.

“come here,” the command calls over your body and, at first, you think its aimed at you. so you try scooting further back, only to be halted by seonghwa speaking once again. “yeah you, choi. come get under her.”

for the first time since this all began, you’re on the precipice of saying no.

they’d listen, all of them. wouldn’t push you, pressure you or force you to keep going, not if you truly voiced your negation. even park seonghwa, as big an arsehole as he may be, would have no qualms ending his fun and agreeing to never speak of this again.

and it’s not that you don’t want choi san under you. far from it, as you’ve already made pretty clear earlier, thighs his personal ear-warmers while his tongue delved deep for your honey-suckle glory. you’re hardly uncomfortable at the thought of him under you, chest rising repeatedly in frantic breaths and legs bent at the knee to give him just the right leverage to fuck up into your messy cunt-

it’s not till he’s three feet away from you, hands fidgeting by his side, eyes looking anywhere but you and your compromising position, and the world’s most obnoxiously boner-strained tent in his swimming gear that realisation washes over you. you’re hesitating because of him, because of his possible discomfort.

what if he wants to say no? what if he doesn’t want to get under you? what if his eyes will never look into your own again, too shocked and disgusted by all the things you’ve let be done to you? by his own team-mates/rivals, too?

hell, you’ve shocked yourself even, never in a million years had you pictured a day you’d be at the mercy of some rich prick, overdressed for every occasion and looking like a vogue-cover-model reject. but when he’s edging another finger into the already-tight squeeze of your ass, and pushing your buttons just enough to nudge you towards an edge that never seems to arrive, how could you ever dream of being anywhere else?

a hand touches your cheek.

soft. tender. it takes the extra time to soothe the pads of its fingers against your burning cheek.

“you feeling okay?” san’s quiet tone, meant only for you, is enough to move you to near-tears. you crave his hug. the position you find yourself in only allows you to reach out and grasp at where his knee bends as he crouches down to your level. it’s all the same, san knows. san understands. his own hand lands on top of yours, messily threading digits.

“she’s literally stuffed with another man’s cum and you’re worried about her? well aren’t you just the sweetest.” a cheap remark from seonghwa.

san purposefully ignores it, and everything about the man, instead choosing to keep his focus on what matters.

you.

“think you could make some room for me down there?” your nose wrinkles at his choice of words.

his giggle echoes.

“no, no, not... like that,” he guides you as he talks, grip moving to your shoulders and coaxing you up into a seating position. somewhere along the way, seonghwa’s hands leave you. he doesn’t stray too far, however, and your back soon collides against his chest. “here, pretty. want you to make space for me down here.”

within seconds, choi san’s back in his rightful place: splayed out beneath you, body fit snug between your parted legs and hair an unruly, sweated mess against his forehead.

no clothing sits between you both, blessing you with the mouthwatering drag of his cock through your folds. hard, and red, and leaking at the tip, a slight curve to the right, dribbling precum against his well-toned stomach. you’re biting your lip before you fully register your own thoughts, body a mind of its own as you grind down onto him.

control is limited and fleeting, that of which seonghwa reminds you without uttering so much as a word. instead, he clamps a harsh grip down on either side of your hips, rucks you up to where he needs you and guides you down onto san’s cock.

it’s thick, imposing and something that seonghwa blesses you no time to ease into things. instead, you’re slammed down, san buried to the hilt inside of you.

“hey there,” delicate fingers skim up the tense muscles in your thigh and find pleasure in delivering a teasing tickle to your sides. “come here often?”

the cheeky grin, the double entendre, the way san looks so goddamn proud of himself for saying it. you can’t help it, you wind up giggling uncontrollably.

wrong choice. bad idea. danger zone.

san contorts in pain, and lust, and something else you’ve never seen behind his eyes before, hissing through his teeth like some feral cat. his eyes match that of a feline too. “you trying to squeeze my dick off or something?”

you compose yourself upon the reminder of that san can feel you tensing around him, pull in a deep breath and find your voice again, at last. “or... something.”

maybe you’re a little out of breath. maybe you’re a little hoarse. it doesn’t seem to matter to the boy below, his only response being to cant his hips up and lick at the fire burning in your insides.

“you two are disgusting,” once again, park seonghwa wins gold in the nobody-asked-for-you-bum-ass-opinion olympics. let’s see if he’ll continue his winning streak and go for gold in the hypocrite-athon too!

the hands on your sides begin you guide you, with seonghwa squeezing his perfectly manicured nails into your plush skin and bouncing you down onto san. up, down, up and down, repeated strokes like the ones their hands deliver each time they breach the surface.

it’s easy, this pleasure. it’s a gift, hand-delivered by two god-like men that sandwich you between them- one a mass that fills you, the other a weight that controls you. liberating in every sense, you can’t help the way your head rolls back to find purchase on one of seonghwa’s shoulders, completely melting into the ways he winds you over san.

“shit, yes, you feel,” san’s no better than you, mouth agape and hands unsteady as they trace every inch of skin they can reach: the dimples of your back, the swell of your breasts, the hood of your clit. his hips are the only steady thing about him, not a falter in the way they grind up to kiss your dripping pussy with his cock. “so good. so warm, tight. love it.”

a hand curls round your front, travels up between your breast and over your sternum. it settled for a grip a round your throat, no pressure applied, it simply exists against your windpipe, a silent threat.

“look what you do to him, hmm,” a squeeze around your neck. seonghwa’s warm breath fans against your ear, taunting you. “look what you’re doing to them.”

through your glossed-over gaze, you trail your way past the sight of san and all his captivating beauty, settling instead on the equally erotic, not-at-all surprising image that stands just past where his head rests at the edge of the wooden bench.

a sweaty wooyoung, bent at the waist and whining up a storm, while a far more composed yunho pounds his hips into the boy’s arse.

your walls clench and san whimpers, a string of curses and pleads leaving him.

“think you’re finally ready for me?” the devil on your shoulder- at your back, more truly,- smirks into your skin, careless enough to not even feign it being anything but a rhetoric question. ready or not, park seonghwa is going to finally get his own fill of the thrill, his own satisfaction, beyond mere observation and controlling.

the spill of your own wetness slips down your thighs as san continues to fuck himself deep. it doesn’t travel far as seonghwa coats himself in you, wetting his fingers before they slip back inside your ass. a few generous, tempting pumps into your ring of muscles, fingers spreading a little further apart each time, till he decides that’s enough, he’s ready, you’re ready.

the unbuckling of a belt.

an unzipping of trousers.

trousers bunched down muscled thighs.

the first cut may be the deepest, but you highly doubt it’s as deep as seonghwa feels feeding his cock into your arse, stretching you apart to make way for him. a part of you feels like it can’t breathe, impaled on both these men who sit so deep inside you, you fear you’ll feel the ghost of their touch for weeks to come.

but what does it matter, really, when seonghwa pulls you back against him and whispers filth against your ear? 

this is all you’re good for. cock-drunk whore. gonna let us cum inside?

and san’s coaxing you down to trail his mouth over your chest, the tongue flicking over your nipple a terrible juxtapose to his crooning words?

taking it so well, baby. so tight, and perfect, and god. ‘s that what baby needs, huh, for me to touch her little clit?

the two men find a rhythm, a synchronised routine to how they pull and push you around. their thrusts ebb and flow, no moment existing where you sit empty. they treat your body like they treat the pool, swimming through your waves of pleasure and effortlessly advancing to the finishing line, the winning stroke. then, san’s hand meets your cheek and your thoughts are dragged underwater, muffling the sounds of everyone else- the shlickt sound that echoes with each inch of cock fucked into you, the high-pitched whimpers of a fucked out wooyoung, the slapping of skin against skin- as he pulls you in for a kiss.

it’s a hungry one, all teeth and tongue and swollen lips. you pull away more breathless than before and fighting back a big dopey grin, toes curling as the swell of one of their cocks hits a nice spot inside you, body too on fire to know just exactly where the new wave of heat is coming from.

“h-how d’you do it, hm?” it’s almost a whisper, something meant only for your ears, yet you hear him loud and clear, voice stuttering off in a mess of whines and moans. “still got that pretty-girl smile, even while getting fucked silly.”

it almost makes you shy, till you remember what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. you settle for a quick, short answer. mostly because you fear you’re losing the ability to think in full-sentences, much less speak one out loud. “can multitask.”

like your own words are the key to pandora’s box, your eyes widen, and your mouth dries, and your heart reels as a new desire burrows itself somewhere between the parts of you owned by san and the parts owned by seonghwa. the desire makes room for more, for someone more, and, without much chance for second-thoughts or hesitation, you find what little stability you can manage with one hand pressing down onto san’s toned chest and reach forward with your free hand.

fingers, light as a feather, curl around wooyoung’s solid shaft. the man’s hips stutter at the unexpected contact, eyes flying open to glance down in time to watch you reach out your tongue, licking up the droplets of precum that threaten to spill from his mushroomed tip.

“please, god, please!” he’s beyond the point of sense, poor baby, struggling to keep up with yunho’s hips’ repeated slamming into his tight ass. so, you can’t really blame him or shame him for the way he hastily rips his hand through your hair, tugging your mouth as far down his cock as the angle allows.

a few hairs rip from your skull in his grip. you reward him with a pleasant hum, moans muffled with the mouth-full he’s providing you. 

“shit- look at that,” seonghwa pipes up from behind you, the motion of his hips never faulting or failing as he continues to take part in the filthiest three-way tango known to man, hands bouncing you down to meet each raise of san’s hips, plundering the other man’s cock deep, deep, deep, till he’s kissing your cervix and you’re seeing stars before your eyes. “should cup youngie’s- fucking christ- his balls, san, cup ‘em.”

you’re vaguely aware of his compliance, hand lifting off whatever part of you it was touching- your nipple, your hip, your jaw, it’s hard to tell when you feel like san’s everywhere, all over you, part of you- to graze the set of well-groomed spheres that threaten to slap your chin each time wooyoung thrusts forward.

barely two seconds, hardly any pressure against them, and the youngest of the four is nearly in tears, wailing and begging over broken whines that it’s too much, can’t take it, don’t stop.

there’s a ringing in your ear. because everything is becoming too much: wooyoung in your mouth, san rutting up into you and seonghwa’s hands clawing and pulling your body back into each of his overpowered thrusts. the boy in front of you is the first to fall apart, twitching in your mouth and, without a warning, choking you on the cum he shoots down your throat. a hand pulls you back, just enough to paint your face in the final drops released from wooyoung.

one of the other men is next, a string of curses and grunts filling the air. there’s a new stickiness between your legs, gooey white staining your skin. it’s all building up, and up, and up, until you topple over and are sent reeling into wave after wave of blinding pressure, toes cramping up and muscles spasming as you shoot off into another astral field, creaming around san and chocking seonghwa’s cock.

you don’t register the release of your hips nor the crash-down of your body. one moment, you’re pressed back against seonghwa, mouth dropped open in a silent scream for merciless pleasure, and the next you’re cradled in san’s warm embrace, a crooning tone to the way he hushes and calms you, unheard i got yous, and did so good for us, babys, and just let me hold yous falling on deaf ears.

for a moment in your own history, time ceases to exist.

there’s no ticking of the large clock on the wall, reminding you of how long ago your shift had ended. there’s no thoughts of your plant friend drying out in the staleness of your room, desperately awaiting you to revive it with some h2o. there’s no consequences awaiting your actions, no shame to be feared and leaving you unable to look any of the four swimmers in the eye ever again.

instead of being crashed against choi san’s body, a mixture of his, yours, and several other people’s bodily fluids serving as the adhesive that keeps you stuck together in your mess, you’re floating in space, not quite alive but not quite dead, just there. 

nerves tingling, body aching, mind switched off.

four, or five, or ten, maybe even fifteen minutes pass by the time you regain focus on your surroundings.

your name, whispered. it’s his voice that pulls you back, sweet and soft and oh so like the san you’re used to, the one that sends teasing winks your way when your eyes happen to meet his in class, and the one who has the prettiest notes you’ve ever seen, a colour-scheme for his every highlight and the cutest of doodles to go along with the topic on the paper.

the one who’s hand is currently brushing through your hair, fingers careful as they catch on the tangles near the split ends.

“hmm,” you swear you want to say his name, say more than that, but there’s an ache in your jaw that hinders you from even attempting, your voice-box likely having taken a beaten in the throws of your pleasured moans.

“you okay there?” he giggles over the end of the sentence, and you feel your slowing heartbeat stutter at the sound.

he feels you nod into the crook of his neck and lets his free hand find perch against your hip, moments before giving it a light squeeze. 

he’s warm, and pleasant, and soft.

and moving you both into an up-right position, hands splaying flat against your back and keeping you secure against him, your legs wrapping around his slender waist. you drift off again, between time and space, and come to at the first drop of water that lands on your back.

one drop, two drops, and then a downpour of heat crashing onto both of you.

you can tell from the colour of the pinkish tiles along the communal shower floor that you’re in the women’s changing room, and mentally note to thank him, even if he’s not aware, for bringing you somewhere you won’t have to shamefully stumble out of in the nude, your change of clothes safely tucked away within one of the lockers.

“i’m gonna put you down now, okay?” he speaks so gently that it overwhelms you, answering him only with an affirmative nod of your head.

neither of you speak while he lathers shampoo into your hair, nor when he’s dragging his soap covered hands over the cum that stains your skin, wiping it away and leaving nothing but suds where the liquid once was. he doesn’t speak while covering your eyes with his hands, blocking the sting of the shampoo. you don’t speak when you inch closer, head falling forward to rest against his chest.

when he does eventually speak again, both of your fingertips are wrinkled and bodies are clean, the water of the shower serving as nothing but a way to keep warm.

“you’re, uh, not” the echo of his voice in the empty lockers feels so much more intimate than how his cries sounded by the pool. “doing anything on wednesday, right?”

too lazy to move, you angle your face to stare up at him from his chest and take a moment to just stare, look at the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, at the way his eyes are back to being wide, at the way the marks you’d littered along his neck are becoming more prominent.

“how’d you know?” your question confirms his own, and a tenseness you’d not noticed melts off of his shoulders.

“wednesday is race day. you never work race days.”

it’s such an odd detail to have noticed, and it’s making you question everything you thought you knew about your relationship with san. do acquaintances remember each other’s schedules? do acquaintances bring each other soothing teas when they notice the other developing flu symptoms? do acquaintances waste time pulling faces at each other in lectures they should probably be paying attention to.

“i’m not taking part in the race this time, by choice. my grades are good enough, don’t need to worry about winning some championship to keep my education.” san is speaking unpromptly at this point, rambling in a way you’ve only seen him do when he’s nervous, or excited, or both. “it’s okay if you don’t want to, or you have better things to do or places to be! but, i was just thinking, maybe you’d wanna spend some time with me? there’s this medieval market down on main-street, it’s meant to be really cool, and i just think it would be even cooler to go with you? but, again, you don’t have to. forget it, actually, i’m being stupid and assuming you’re not doing something with your friends or your-”

the kiss you interrupt him with is far more innocent than the one you shared earlier, no hands rushing to touch and tongues desperate to taste, just two sets of lips moving as one.

you pull back and he chases after you, lips landing another peck before you’re grasping his cheek in your hold and forcing him back.

“i think you could have asked me to come help clean your apartment for you and i’d still say yes, just to spend my day with you,” you say, and he smiles as if on instinct, unable to stop it even if he tried.

“really?”

“really.”

“good, cause i already bought us two tickets and i really didn’t wanna have to go alone.” there’s drops of water dancing on his eyelashes, and laziness in his every movement, and you’re both still very much naked, but none of that seems to matter when he gives you another peck, like he’s awakened an addiction and your lips are now his favourite vice. “but, now that you mention it, my apartment could do with some cleaning. and i bet you’d look amazing in a maid outfit.”

a slap echoes in the showers.

“hey! don’t worry, i’ll be wearing a matching one!”

[grailfinders]

Grailfinders Viewers' Choice #29: Alice Kuonji

today on grailfinders I desperately see how broken a character who does nothing themselves can be, because we’re making Alice Kuonji from Tsukihime, but she’s also in FGO now, so at least I’m saving myself a future headache. Alice is a Necromancer Wizard because we need an ungodly amount of magic, and also necromancers are just better summoners if all you want to do is summon. ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵉˢ, ᴵ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖˡᵒʸˢ ⁽ᵖʳᵒᵇᵃᵇˡʸ⁾ ᵃʳᵉⁿ’ᵗ ᶻᵒᵐᵇᶦᵉˢ, ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈᵒ ʳᵉᵖʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗ ᵃ “ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ” ᵃᵍᵉ

well I thought I was being clever.

anyways, check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here! I’m taking the next month off as far as vc builds go since I already have a sizeable backlog I need to catch up on and summer isn’t doing me any favors, so the next poll will hopefully be in August!

Ancestry & Background

starting things off nice and normal, Alice is a Satyr.

okay hear me out.

in the nasuverse, Alice Kuonji is a Witch, which is actually a type of fey, and thus not a human. while there are several races of fey that can be played in D&D, a lot of them can be ruled out quickly. Centaurs have the wrong number of limbs and focus on physical attacks, Faeries are just too small to work, and Changelings have a central conceit that we wouldn’t use in any capacity.

that leaves us with Hexblood, which is… fine, I guess, I guess you can use the eerie tokens as more familiars, but Satyrs are one of the most powerful races you can pick in D&D, and Alice is kind of busted, so it fits a bit better. besides, we’ll have plenty of familiars from magic alone, don’t worry.

as a Satyr you are, of course, a Fey, so spells like Hold Person straight up don’t work on you- already off to a great start for your immortality. you can Ram people which is not something we’re using, but your Magical Resistance more than makes up for it by giving you advantage on all saves against all magic. your Mirthful Leaps let you add extra distance to your long and high jumps, which actually fits rather well with your ability to levitate, and as a Reveler you get extra proficiencies. I’m actually going to keep Performance for a lil somethin’-somethin’ later, but you get Deception too, to hide your true nature from humans.

most of your ploys come from your ancestors, making you an Inheritor of their power. that gives you proficiency with Survival and Arcana.

Ability Scores

first is Intelligence- a lot of your ploys have weird conditions and drawbacks you have to keep in mind when you fight, so you have to fight smart. second is Wisdom- you’re actually not that great with the modern world, so most of your actual knowledge isn’t book smarts. of course, wisdom doesn’t have a mechanical benefit here, so it’s lower. third is Constitution. it’s not how much you can bleed, but how hard you can get hit and keep getting up. you have like 18 guts stacked on you by default, so… that’s a lot. your Dexterity is just above average to hopefully keep you alive until level 20. that means your Charisma isn’t great- you’re a shut-in among mages, which is really saying something. of course, we’re dumping Strength. you have other people to do that stuff for you. well, not people, but still.

Class Levels

1. at level one, all wizards get an Arcane Recovery, so once per day you can regain a few spell slots on your short rest, with the total level of all the slots equaling half your level, rounded up. speaking of, you also learn Spells, which you cast and prepare using your Intelligence. since you use a spellbook for these, you can also learn spells by copying them down from other wizards, and with six spells now and two more every level, you won’t be left wanting.

that being said I don’t have all day to exhaustively talk about every spell you’ll learn as you level up, so I’ll break them down into two categories: Familiars and Spells that Make You Die Less. if a spell doesn’t fit into either of these categories, or there’s something specific I want to point out, I’ll do it here, otherwise check the character sheet for the full spell list.

that being said, there’s two spells at level 1 I need to touch on- Detect Magic, because everyone needs an information dump at some point so they can follow along, and Fog Cloud. it’s not exactly Flat Snark just yet, but it’s a start.

2. second level necromancers become Necromancers, so you’re a necromancy savant, so copying necromancy spells is faster and cheaper. you also can reap a Grim Harvest, so whenever you kill a living creature with a spell you get double the spell’s level back in HP (or three times if it’s a necromancy spell). I don’t think this really works for Alice, but we don’t really use it in this build anyway, since you tend to use summons, so it’s never really “you” killing anything. the first couple levels are a bit slow, but things pick up when we can actually summon stuff, don’t worry.

you also learn Sleep this level though. No real reason for it tbh, but it felt like a faerie tale thing a witch would do, which is kind of your MO.

3. at third level you learn second level spells, so now you can make Darkness happen whenever you want. this doesn’t actually make it nighttime, so it doesn’t really affect your spells, but I figured I’d get it anyway as an homage.

4. use your first Ability Score Improvement to round up your Constitution and Intelligence to cast better and live long enough to cast even better later. remember, bonuses to your constitution affect your health retroactively, so you get 4 extra HP this level!

Prestidigitation is the cantrip you give someone when they’re just good at everything, and Alice can levitate, so… Levitate.

5. fifth level wizards get third level spells, and while I won’t go into much detail, you can celebrate gaining your first summoning spell, Summon Fey. you’ve had a couple ploys by now, but this is the first time one’s been really able to help you in battle.

6. at level six you can command Undead Thralls, giving you the Animate Dead spell for free, and whenever you summon undead, they come out with extra HP and damage. while this encourages us to stick only to undead, ploys are whatever the hell you want them to be, so feel free to experiment with the other summoning spells. like Tiny Servant! now you can make an adorable teapot minion to carry out your will. if you overcharge the spell, you can make a whole cutlery drawer do your bidding!

7. seventh level wizards get fourth level spells, and surprise surprise it’s more summoning!

8. at eighth level you gain the Gift of the Metallic Dragon instead of an Ability Score Improvement, so you learn Cure Wounds for a solid healing factor, and Protective Wings, giving you an even better shield. well, it’s not better yet, but shield is +5 AC and this right now is +3, but without using spell slots.

9. ninth level wizards get fifth level spells- Bigby’s Hand is our best simulacrum of a giant murderous you… for now, so I guess this is Flat Snarp’s final form… or is it?

10. tenth level necromancers are Inured to Undeath, so you resist necrotic damage and your HP total can’t be reduced. period. this is a secret tool that will help us later.

also, if you really want a great shield you can use Otiluke’s Resilient Sphere to lock yourself in a resilient sphere. nothing can pass into or out of the sphere, so make sure you summon your lackeys before hiding away in it.

actually don’t do that, most summons require concentration, as does this spell. once again, the rules of dnd prevent us from having a good time in dnd, shame.

11. eleventh level wizards get sixth level spells, and now you can create a Wall of Ice. the moon throws icebergs at people sometimes, don’t ask me for context. also you can Create Undead this level, but only at night! just like your ploys, eh? that’s what we call “flavor”. just. don’t actually lick the zombies.

12. in your final NP you kind of… become the snarp? I guess? so that’s why Tasha’s Otherworldly Guise is here.

13. thirteenth level wizards get seventh level spells, and you can turn the entire world into a fantasy land thanks to Mirage Arcane, letting you warp everything around you whenever you so wish. you can also create your own ploys this level using Create Magen. it’s worth pointing out that this spell normally has the drawback of permanently reducing your max HP, but we can safely ignore that because you’re a necromancer.

14. at fourteenth level you can Command Undead, forcing an undead creature under your control until you take someone else over. you can also use this on intelligent undead, but it won’t last nearly as long. your best ploys are someone else’s anyway, so it works.

15. at fifteenth level you can use eighth level spells, like Control Weather. I’m pretty sure this also can’t make it turn to night, but I’d let you do it, fuck it it’s an eighth level spell.

16. sixteenth level wizards get another ASI, to bump up your Constitution again. you can also use Telekinesis now. sometimes the moon throws a carnival at people, it’s fine don’t worry about it.

17. seventeenth level wizards get ninth level spells. Invulnerability makes you invulnerable, and True Polymorph lets you turn random objects into faerie-tale creatures. it turns out the rule-breaking ultramage really likes ninth level spells, go figure.

18. eighth level wizards learn Spell Mastery, letting you cast one 1st level spell and one 2nd level spell for free at will, so you know we have to grab Find Familiar and Levitate. you have way too many familiars and levitation is just something you do for funsies, it all fits.

also, you get Wish. yeah that’s just a thing you can do, idk how there’s any kind of plot with you around I’ll be honest.

19. use your last ASI to grab the Tough feat for 40 more HP. yep.

20. with our last level you get the wizard capstone, Signature Spells, two third level spells that you always have prepared, and they also get a free cast each day. so of course we’re getting Animate Dead and Tiny Servant. whimsical and horrifying, all in one go!

Pros & Cons

Pros:

thanks to the power of necromancy, building and maintaining an army of 30 ploys is not only possible, but not even close to the upper limit you can wield. you could even get the actual 108 you brag about all the time! not only that, but you’re not just limited to shambling corpses, having access to various kinds of fey, elementals, and magen to make some clever clogs under your control.

invulnerability makes you completely immune to damage for ten minutes, which is a long time for a wizard to be able to do whatever the fuck they want. even before that, you’re pretty durable for a spellcaster, with almost 200 HP, access to your own healing, and even having the option to clone yourself and come back time after time.

you have Wish, so you can literally just do whatever you want, forever. yes you have a good chance to lose the spell forever if you abuse it, but still, using it the right way once can end any problem you could possibly have.

Cons:

like most spellcasters, the good shit comes in the endgame, so you’ll have to survive a pretty long time on your lonesome first. you don’t even get any summons until level 5, so hopefully that’s when your campaign starts.

invulnerability is nice, but most of your damaging spells that aren’t zombie-related require concentration, so you’ll have to choose between turtling and living forever or doing stuff and being at risk. if you’re playing to character the former is the correct answer, but it might not be that fun in-game.

that ploy army requires upkeep, and the more you make the more spell slots will be used on just those zombies day after day. at a point, your zombies will be getting taken out in one hit, so just keep that in mind before you burn half your slots each morning.

[stellarcoachman]

Novembmas day 14: Working Late / Surprise Gift

Emmet stares at the paperwork on the desk before him. The words seem to be refusing to focus despite his best efforts. He sighs and leans back, rubbing his eyes. He really needs to rest, but he can’t until all of this is finished. This is what he gets for taking so much time off.

He would do it again in a heartbeat, but the consequences are terrible regardless. He sighs again and opens his eyes, focusing back on the papers in front of him with a little more success this time. At least, he manages to actually read what’s written there, even if his exhausted brain takes way too long to process it.

He adds his required contribution, then signs his name at the bottom and moves on to the next thing. Six weeks of backlogged paperwork is far too much. He hasn’t even been able to battle anyone yet.

A knock at the door startles him and he leaves a long streak on the paper with his pen when he jumps. He stares at it for a moment before he shakes his head and calls out, “come in.”

The door opens not to one of the Depot Agents like he expects, but to Ingo. Emmet smiles brightly, if tiredly, at his brother. Ingo smiles back in his own way. “Good evening.” He holds up a plastic bag as he shuts the door behind him. “I thought you might like some dinner.”

Emmet smiles a little wider. “Thank you.” He shuffles his paperwork aside so his brother can set the bag down on the desk. “Did you go to get this yourself?”

Ingo gives a small, huffing laugh. “Yes, I can manage to procure dinner on my own. I’m not completely helpless.”

“Even though there are self-driving wagons and magic lights out there?”

“Hush, you, or I’ll take the food back.” Despite the threat, he pulls a styrofoam container out of the bag and sets it in front of Emmet. “How is work going?”

“It is verrry exhausting,” he answers honestly. He takes the plastic fork out of the bag and hands Ingo the disposable chopsticks. “It will get better, there is just a lot to catch up on.”

“Why don’t you take a break, then?”

He sighs. “I just have to finish this first. I will be fine.”

“You can finish it tomorrow.”

Emmet laughs. “Who knew living in ancient Sinnoh would make you a bad influence.”

Ingo laughs as well. “Perhaps I simply learned the value of a good rest. It was hard to come by in the Highlands.”

Emmet remains silent for a few moments, simply enjoying his food. Eventually, he answers, “fine, you win.”

“So you’ll come home with me.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna finish this first, though.”

“That’s just fine.” Ingo looks just a little too smug at having won their standoff, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He really is right, after all.

[taisoleil]

Rahu, Saturn, Dopamine, Serotonin, and Persistence: Part 2 - Saturn

Saturn is the persistence in your chart and the long term benefits associated with said work. On another note, it can show ones hesitance to continue because things require long term work. Through the houses, it can vary. Let’s talk more in this thread 🧵

The full version of the houses is exclusively on my Patreon:

This thread including the house snippets can be found on my site:

1H Saturn: you last longer in things pertaining to health. Take care of your body. Instead of makeup, focus on the skincare portion of your life. This will keep your vitality going.

Saturn 2H: When things get too much for you, focus on what you’re earning the money for. It is to invest in something great. There may be dips in your finances from time, but remember what the goal is so the money doesn’t all come out of your pocket.

Saturn 3H: Think long term. How can the thoughts you wanna do be broken up into small parts so they can crate a bigger, more concise idea? Even if you’re not interested in thinking too much about that, think about how your ideas have served you.

Saturn 4H: The home is where you recharge. You may be someone who wants to get out, but know home is where you consider what you truly want. Dealing with generational curses isn’t easy.

Saturn 5H: Happiness is a great thing. It keeps you in the space to create and feel unlimited in your wants. However, doing what you like can have a double edged sword for you. What you love can come with problems. But it’s about what you to solve it.

Saturn 6H: Keep working. Keep doing what you don’t wanna do, but know you need to do. You can clear so much fuck shit and make room when you don’t let what you have to do backlog. That’s even more exhausting.

Saturn 7H: Solidifying the fundamental things, establishing boundaries, and working on your close relationships builds a lifetime worth of happiness and security.

Saturn 8H: Working on regaining what you feel has been lost can be a lot for you. Sometimes it can be easy for you to want to let things go and give up. There may feel like there’s more problems than what you can keep up with.

Saturn 9H: You’re the opposite of the 3Her. You have main quests that’s going to carry your story and they need to be done. You may opt for the side quests, but that’s an insult to your intelligence.

Saturn 10H: Your standards may be super high, and you may want to compromise on them so you can be yourself. The 10H is like the celebrity house. Be careful of having so much pressure on yourself.

Saturn 11H: The grass isn’t greener on the other side. Sometimes you may think that your dreams lie somewhere else because what you’re doing isn’t good enough. Your dreams are a system that comes with work needed.

Saturn 12H: Saturn finds joy here. When it comes to unlocking the unknown, don’t always try to make something out of nothing. It should go without saying that if you look far enough, you’re bound to find something. Good or bad.

[fatteningmenstories]

Benched part 3

Devon was on the floor, what happened next was all a blur of events, from his leg not moving to the shooting pain in his foot it was all a blur , the paramedics rushing to him, to the ambulance and the operating table until now waking up in the hospital room.

Ajay was by his side- wearing clothes that fitted ten pounds ago, was the first thing he saw when he woke up.

“Thank God your finally awake’

Ajay said was he jumped up to hug Devon and give him a kiss on the lips, he smelled like donuts and tasted like chocolate

“You gave us quite a scare’

“What.. happened’

“Well let’s just say you faced a pretty big fall, you were basically unconscious on the floor, apparently your body was so exhausted it was on life support basically’

Getting up he faced a stinging pain in his chest and legs

“Oh and don’t try to move, u survived but you broke a couple of bones in the process not to mention you foot - it was like a 4 hour surgery trying to save it’

Startled with this news, he pulled of his sheets and low and behold there it was, his legs wrapped up in a white cast

“Doc says it should be good as new, but not for a couple of months - ha ha” he laughed hesistanlty

“God what am I gonna do’ Devon was panicking - football was his life, what would happen to him

“Don’t worry babe - come down, here have some chocolate’

“What!!!!”

“Well look around you have gift baskets galore’ taking in the room Ajay was right, gift baskets were everywhere - filled to the brim with get well soon cards and sweets

“There’s even more at home, I hope you don’t mind I’ve had a nibble hear and there” Ajay chuckled next to a nearly finished basket

‘Go on then”, the chocolate was good, tasted amazingly and at least it wasn’t in short supply - he laughed but stopped as the aching pain in his chest stung

“Anyways the doctor says you need your strength especially after your fall babe’

After signing the papers - and a lengthy discussion with his doctor encouraging him to keep his movements to a minimal, Devon was free to go.

The ride back was nice, Ajay by his side, he wasn’t expecting the press outside his front door, and in his temporary wheelchair he felt humiliated having to be carried arm in arm by Ajay and their chief. After a long phone call for his manger, it was settled that that Devon would be able return next season or as fast as his leg was healed- and his space on the field was legally not going anyway. Hanging up the phone call commenced the long haul of recovery.

“Babe I can’t eat that’

“Nonsense, doctor said you need all your strength, besides chief spent all day cooking it’

“Okay fine, but you gotta help”

“Was that even question”

The thoughts of the diet he needed to go on, had slowly faded with his new cast on, he had tried to cut back but with Ajay and chief it was like they wouldn’t take no as answer. Devon reasoned with himself, he would just have to extend his dirty bulk and have a massive cut once he was on his feet again. A small part of himself was very happy with tis conclusion, oh all this food tasted so great and a deep hunger in him needed to be satisfied, he had starved his body on kale salads for far too long.

So began the long process of recovery, its was a foodie bliss, breakfast lunch dinner and most importunely desert served straight to him 24/7. And it all tasted so good and rich finally he was seeing a price for all his hard work and it was in the from or food fit for kings. Anyways there was nothing else for Devon to do, he couldn’t leave the house in this state especially with the papz going crazy over him and his leg - he had even made the headlines for a good week all showing the prized footballer fallen form grace in crutches . He was asked for interviews and podcasts specials for weeks but he decided it was best to take this much needed time off and make the most of it. He had no obligations, he could spend all day catching up tv shows he had missed ,playing the backlog of video games and of course hot steamy sex with Ajay - who was more than happy to check charge with their handicapped partner. In fact Devon was enjoying laying back in bed and letting Ajay do all the hard work in fact he often helped himself to a wide assortment of snacks that was always in arm width not to mention the get well baskets that slowly dwindled in number. And speaking of food ,a massive plus to this new life was that he could finally eat with with no restraint - Not having to worry about training or meetings meant he could laze about all day and just pig out it was perfect, especially with Ajay by his side. And God did the pair of them eat, day in day out, it was the perfect activity as Devon stuffed his face, he felt so good, their always ate unit they couldn’t move and it wasn’t like Devon was doing much of that anyway - with his leg in the cast he would spend hours plopped down in areas of his massive townhouse. And as the months rolled passed he made sure to spend his money freely, buying Ajay all the designer clothes and jewellery he wanted, he loved to see Ajay try on all his new designer clothes and he loved it even more as he outgrew them right in front of his eye. Their chief was also basically free-reign, with Devon even moving them in to make sure their were never far he hadn’t eaten so good in years and he didn’t want it to stop . The biggest money eater of course was defiantly the food, all the finest foods and wines that money could buy was devoured day in and day out Devon and Ajay were properly eating better than royalty , especially with his dirty bulk excuse this was run so far into the ground he barley even thought about cutting back leaving him to ate with no abandonment.

After the months of never reigning in how much he was eating, his appetite explored, more pizzas more burgers more sides - more everything, chief even had to hire a side cook to keep up. Devon was being overtaken with hedonism the pleasure he got from food simply made him fro hunger for more, he was transforming form a man with a clean cut diet to one who was controlled by the gut and it was showing. Over the months it wasn’t only his appetite that grew up, his small starter gut ballooned into a a round bulging gut that demanded to be fed, and all that food it demanded was spreading itself all over his body, all over he was fattened up bulging out, his pecs puffed up into two rounded sagging lumps of fat, his once muscular arms plumped up and were now starting to squeeze outwards due to the massive amount go fat packed onto his torso. And to compensate for this massive rotund gut his thighs swelled up to match - Devon had long forgotten about pants and had resorted to lazing naked nowadays allowing his thighs to fill out as much as possible, with his once muscular butt taken the worst of it, once firm and square it was plumped up and filled with fat expanding out in all direction , and form lazing about all day the muscles he worked so hard at the gym, slowly faded away and were buried in fat all over Devon was undoubtedly fat. And the worst culprit was surely he was once gorgeous face, all that food of course fattened his face, his cheeks had rounded out and now merged with the band of fat that was nestled under is chin, given him a rounded out face that matched his rounded out body. His killer good looks remained but they were fighting a losing battle with the fat

Devon’s and Ajay’s months of bliss was soon coming to the end as after a good 6 months the Doctor finally deemed it fit that Devon was free of hi caste

“Now Devon, given your noticeably changes I’m sure moving about will be a lot harder and your leg will need to adapt to all the extra weight your putting on it’

“Oh all this’ Devon chuckled as he smaked his gut, even he was bit taken back with how soft it was,’Just a dirty bulk- it will come right off”

“Sure”, the doctor responded not sounding very confident’ Anyways I’ve signed you up with the best physio in town we will have back in uhm.. fighting shape any day

let me know on the comments how you want the story to go

[bbs-backlog-challenge]

Fin or Bin: Sunset Overdrive

Last year, after finishing Tears Of The Kingdom, I fell into a deep funk for a few months during which I didn't really play any games at all. TotK was simply too good, and any other game I started just couldn't live up to that. A similar thing happened earlier this year with Brütal Legend following GotY-contender Project Wingman, a game I enjoyed immensely followed by a game that was just okay and looked far worse for it.

Now I find myself in the same situation, coming down from the high of also-GotY-contender Xenoblade Chronicles and forcing myself this time to pick up another game rather than let the depression take me wholesale again.

And, like, Sunset Overdrive is fine. It's fine. It's a visual spectacle with some exceptionally hit-or-miss humour, weird controls, bombastic but shallow combat, a huge open-world city with nothing in it, cool traversal mechanics that become exhausting when you just want to get from A to B, and a robust character development system full of completely meaningless upgrades (+1% damage? C'mon).

So it's fine. And now the question I have to answer is, do I want to play more of it? Right now I feel like the answer is "not really", but is that fair? It's not Sunset Overdrive's fault I played Xenoblade before it. If I hadn't, would my answer be different?

This is a problem that keeps coming up, and since there always has to be a "the first game I played after finishing the best game of my life", maybe next time I should search my backlog for an absolute dog-turd of a game so it's an easy decision. Right now I feel like I just finished eating a Big Mac and have been offered a cheeseburger to follow it with. I love a cheeseburger! I'll happily wolf that bad boy right down most other times. But after a Big Mac I don't want a cheeseburger any more. I just want some chips and maybe a sip of something fizzy, and I think I've lost the metaphor now. i'm hungry

Fin or Bin:

I'm glad I have never posited these as neutral reviews- I have a new respect for the magazine writers of old who had to play both the new hotness and also some lukewarm damp thing, and then write about them both as though they occupied equal amounts of their attention that month. For me in this moment, I think I'm kicking this empty can of Fizzco energy drink into the Recycling Bin.

(Steam)

[thessalian]

Thess vs Being Understaffed

Welp. This is going to be a hellish week.

As sort of briefly mentioned earlier, I woke up way too early - not because I wanted to, but because my legs started doing that pain-spasm thing that I hate so much and I could not lie down anymore. Not that moving them helped all that much, but it was better than attempting to fool myself that sleep was attainable. So there I was, underslept and in an intense amount of pain, and I very much toyed with the idea of calling in, but I figured I'd look at what the work situation was like at the moment. Temp went on compassionate leave a week ago and isn't due back for another two and a half weeks, so I felt like I should at least take a look.

Well. Goblin's on annual leave. So two of our three primary typists are out this week. We do have New Girl, who's apparently starting full time as of now, but ... honestly, I see little evidence of that. She's more obvious about leaving the long and/or frustrating bits of typing for someone else to do than Temp or Goblin ever were, so I wound up with:

The one who won't switch off the recording while she's taking measurements so that more than half of her dictation is silence (indicating her messing around with a ruler or whatever) that I can't even fast-forward through because I don't know when it's going to end

The two who absolutely refuse to put together anything remotely resembling a block key

The one with the mild speech impediment on top of her accent

The guy who constantly skips between long dictation and equally long block key, obliging me to find space in his walls of text for the next few bricks every few minutes

The Breast Guy

The guy who has no idea how to mark urgent dictations as URGENT in our typing system (as well as being a pain to type for), meaning that we're doing these urgent liver and kidney biopsies far later than we should be

The one who insists on reading the lab number for each and every specimen pot we get, even though it is hugely not necessary and is just another time sink

Basically all the aggravating skin excisions

And basically anything more than a minute long

I do not know why we hired this person, but she is not enough when two people are out. Not when she'll only do the really short, really simple bits of dictation really slowly and Milady's idea of helping with the typing is also pulling the occasional short bit of dictation out of the queue. So I literally have no choice but to do the long, complicated, annoying, and / or all of the above ones because there is not much left to do unless I want to do things completely out of order.

I somehow managed to get through the day. Not sure how, honestly. My stepfather is getting the plumbing in the other flat sorted with the help of a contractor and asked if he could come through to get some water, and watching him meant that a delivery guy took it as an invitation to be caretaker for a package for the guys across the corridor. So that was disruptive. Plus the pain and exhaustion, and knowing how far behind we're going to be by the end of the week, even if I'm at my best.

Worst of all is knowing that I will not be at my best this week. But I can't really call out, either, unless I just literally can't move. We're down two main typists and we can't afford to be down a third. If nothing else, I'll just have to kill myself twice as hard to sort the backlog when I get back. Gods know that the other girls won't pick up the pace even a tiny bit.

I want to know where the extra staffer we were promised is.

But mostly I want to take a quick trip to the corner shop and then kind of collapse for the duration. Thank goodness I did a pork roast yesterday so all I have to do is throw leftovers in the microwave. I mean, my appetite is shot, but I'm going to try, at least. Maybe with some good food, a hot bath, and proper sleep, I'll be well enough to tackle at least some of the mess tomorrow. I mean, I kind of have to be, but...

[writer86]

So it's been a week since I last did (checks) one post for Selene. Given the volume of screenshots and events I've played (due in no small part to there being an astonishing number of camp events in early act 1, I think I have enough content here for like... three more posts. Maybe four. One of which is going to be my own creation because it cannot happen in game.

With all this in mind, let's do some more! Figure I can get through my screenshot/event backlog this weekend, since it's a long weekend in the US.

So without further ado:

Selene and Shadowheart work quickly enough to find a suitable campsite. It takes them through the Nautloid wreckage once, and they find a few surviving Intellect Devourers. Selene is again amused by a companion's assessment of her combat prowess, as Shadowheart remarks: "You fight well. Perhaps our survival isn't such a distant prospect."

Slightly more distant a prospect than it was before the worm, Selene muses. The fight has drained her more than she'd like to admit, and she's now determined to do everything she can to make sure it's the last fight of the day.

Still, it seems to take Shadowheart by surprise when - once they find a good site to camp - Selene is not inclined to leave it that evening.

"You strike me as the reliable sort," she says, one eye on her own discarded armor, "but are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Don't fret," Selene answers calmly. "We need some rest."

Or is she not feeling the same exhaustion Selene is? In a moment of doubt, she asks, and is slightly gratified when Shadowheart does somewhat back down.

"A little weary, perhaps," she confesses, "and I suppose I kept my distance on the Nautloid. You took on a devil and a mind flayer at close range. It's a wonder you're still standing at all."

She sighs. "Fine. But not for too long. Each hour that passes, the thing inside us grows. We need to find a healer. Let us wake up at first light."

"Agreed," Selene is quick to say. "Our top priority as far as I'm concerned."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Shadowheart muses. "We're overdue some good fortune. Rest well. We'll need our strength."

On that, we can agree, Selene thinks as she collapses to her bedroll. But to her distress... sleep does not come easy.

*This is not the world you know. Rest feels impossible, no matter how heavy your eyes become. Every time they flicker shut, the tadpole seems to twitch behind them.*

*Dragons, gith, and the Hells themselves have come after you, and that's just in the last day or so. Yet it is this creature that lingers in your skull.*

It's strange to think about. She can't say she knows much about mind flayers, let alone their parasites; even in six hundred years, she's never encountered them. But if it seeks to change her, as the gith woman said, then it should know she's not letting it have her without a fight.

*You focus on the spot of pain from when it slipped behind your eye, to where it now lurks. You cannot prod it, but you can make it clear that you are watching. What is there to fear when it is the one stuck inside you? It is a minor victory, but enough to soothe you to sleep.*

[happyk44]

"Your work ethic has been outstandingly inadequate as of late."

Hypnos rubbed the back of his neck nervously. The weight of Hades' look - intense black eyes - nearly had his feet pressing into the ground. As it was, they were just grazing the carpeting in front of his desk.

"Sorry, Master," he said. "I, uh-"

"Hundreds of shades flock my halls and yet I only see a few dozen names listed," Hades carried on. His voice stung deep into Hypnos' head. "I have given you more chances than you deserve. Your insolence is becoming more than that of my son."

"I don't mean to be insolent, Lord Hades." Hypnos wrung his wrists. A yawn stifled in his mouth, his tongue sluggish in his attempt to hold it back. "It's just awfully exhausting greeting shades every day and night."

"How exhausting can it be when you are lazing about, in pathetic belief I cannot see you?"

"Oh!" Flustered, he stared down at the floor. "I wasn't aware you had noticed that."

"It is near impossible to avoid my notice," Hades growled. "You seek to spend your hours asleep, as though I would continue to pay for services unrendered? Perhaps you will be better suited to the deepest depths of Erebus then."

"Ah, I would prefer to avoid Erebus, if I could, Master."

"You provide me with little benefits these days, Hypnos." Hades folded his hands over one another. "I'm sure your mother would be happy to visit."

A chill burned down his spine. "That's not…. really my concern, Master."

"Then you should have thought of that beforehand." His growl rolled so thick in the air, Cerberus perked up in curiousity, his muzzles snarling before he recognized the tone.

"You of all people should know my sole duty is to house the dead. The living must prove themselves worthy of remaining in my home, lest they find themselves banished. If you are so fearful of Erebus, perhaps you should do as Zagreus does and appeal to the Olympians good graces."

His feet hit the ground. The sensation shuddered up through his soles. His thighs shook. "But I am the god of sleep. It just comes so naturally to me, sir!"

Hades' black eyes bore into him. His knees quaked. "And your brother is death, yet I do not see him dying every minute he should be working!"

"Ah, well, Master-"

"Silence yourself, Hypnos." Hades glowered harder at him. Hypnos near fell to his knees. The trembling began to vibrate throughout his whole body, almost shaking the plush cloak from his shoulders.

He whimpered, averting his gaze. Beside him Cerberus let out a soft woof and began cleaning his center muzzle with one paw.

"You think I shouldn't punish you for your insolence?"

"No, Master. I just…" He did not want to be sentenced to Erebus.

Bleak and cold with no one to visit. And his dreams would not penetrate very far under all those layers. He glanced up once more. The firmness of Hades' stare made his voice crack. "I can do better! I swear!"

"You've sworn the same all too many times!" Hades bellowed. "I cannot sit idly by and allow you to continually disappoint me! The dead do not stop flowing! I cannot have months of backlog on my desk, the hall filled to the brim with shades, so thick I can barely see past them!"

He thumped a mighty hand against his desk. The walls and floor shook. Hypnos squawked as he landed in an ungraceful heap on the ground. His ass burned.

"Their chattering is meaningless and bothersome, Hypnos! I prefer to see them moving out rather than lingering."

"But- but-" He flailed to his feet again, stumbling back.

"I have no use for someone who lacks such productivity! Even Zagreus in his administration days worked as well as he could! You-" The snarl echoed throughout Hypnos' head. Heated tears brimmed at his eyes. "-do nothing of the sort."

"My responsibilities to the sleeping are-"

"Inconsequential!" Hades shouted. He stood to full height and Hypnos collapsed back down once more. "People will sleep, people will die! You are not the reason it exists! People died long before your brother was born. People slept long before you were born! Wars were waged long before that blasted Ares was born! You are the belief of it! Not the thing itself!"

He spluttered, flailing.

"You think you do not deserve a punishment as horrendous as Erebus, fine!" Hades appeared in front of him in a flash of flames and shadows. He whimpered. "Then tell me, Hypnos, what should I do with someone so incapable of doing something as simple as greeting the dead."

Such venom dripped from his name that he hated it. Never had he been spoken to with such contempt before. "I-" He looked around for help but the hall was completely vacated of anyone but shades. "I-"

Cerberus ignored him, cleaning the other two heads. He swallowed thickly and weakly whimpered out, "I can do better, Master."

"You can barely stay awake to do better."

"I- I- I can stay awake!" He frantically gripped at his own clothes to avoid desperately clawing at the towering man in front of him. "I'll have the chef make me coffees or-or-or I can- I-"

Hades' large hand gripped through his curls and yanked his head back. His knees buckled.

The pull of his curls sent shocks and shivers down his back. He whined loudly, reaching up to alleviate the pain but Hades only slapped his hands away and forced him even farther back. The angle only sought to prove how terrifying Hades could be up close and in person.

Tall, large and completely imposing. Black eyes like a starless void, whispering nightmares.

"You think you should be allowed to impose your uselessness on the Head Chef?" he hissed. Tears burned at the edge of Hypnos' eyes. "If you cannot keep yourself functioning on your own, then what purpose do you serve me?"

"I can- I can still serve you, Master!" His hands drew up to Hades', still clenched tight in his curls. This time the man didn't bat him away but only tightened his grip.

Pain spiked down the back of his neck.

Don't send me to Erebus, he begged voicelessly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Like a chariot collision, his thoughts were firing rapidly, slamming into each other at high speed. His voice slurred together, endless promises echoing.

"I can!" he swore again. "I can service you!"

Hades' raised an eyebrow. Brief amusement coloured his pastel gray skin.

His slip of the tongue hit him like a spear to the chest. He sputtered rapidly but nothing came out.

"Service me?" Hades' voice crawled over his skin like a shroud of chilling flames. Burning so hot it felt as though he'd been buried alive in the snow. It froze him still in Hades' tight hold. His lips fell open but nothing but a wheezy gasp slid past his tongue.

"Perhaps that would be where you would be best suited, Hypnos."

He whimpered. "Master, I-"

"Silence!" The boom of his voice echoed throughout the filled hall.

The shades lingering began to shuffle away, sliding through walls in fear. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the tell-a-tale clack of shoes turning in the other direction and Dusa's nervous gasp before she'd likely ascended far and out of view.

No one else wanted to become privy to their Master's

[deuxesse]

suddenly felt the urge to write something because i just went through a backlog of old posts, and realised how important it is to journal for time-capsuling purposes - so here i am!

lately life has been overwhelming yet bone-deep joyful. learning how to love a widowed parent while moving on from grief, deliberating old friendships, rethinking my career path in the next year, and preparing to uproot my life to another city isn't a simple feat but it's not an unhappy one. but it's definitely too fast-going, claustrophobic a lifestyle to have had any room for ruminating.

one thing that's not hit me yet is how much i'd actually miss this place. tax haven and sunny days aside, i wonder if i'll miss this version of myself because inevitably it's going to be reshaped by a new place that might or might not let me be myself fully. weirdly, i won't miss my friends here so much because i know it's a great way to test the ones who will stick it out till i come home again eventually - and perhaps i'm naive but i've faith that my friends very much will.

a question i'd ask both myself and future-self too is whether patterns are a consequence of the place and people, and if i could perhaps find a way to break out of this pattern that's exhausted me subconsciously. being used to living on turbo autopilot mode has made symptoms more invisible, that no longer have i been good at digging deep at the roots - which is obviously why in the first place i've left the pages on here emptier and emptier.

perhaps leaving organised religion contributed to this lack of introspection and tact as well. not that it was even really so healthy to begin with - in fact my introspection in the past in church was always thrown me between two far ends of self-aggrandising delusion and tons of self-pitying navel-gazing. and then once i went on to adult life, i found it more realistic to not live in such extremities but thoughtfully learn how to house duplicitous, contradictory feelings and thoughts within the finiteness of a mortal vessel.

but yes, back to the subject of journaling/introspection - i think the habit may very well come back in london when i get less social commitments and spend more days indoors sheltering myself from the gloomy cold. not sure if this will send me deeper into seasonal depression or help me live more consciously second-by-second, but whatever comes i need to remind myself with this post, when i eventually look back on it, that all emotions are worth feeling and questions must always be asked !!

[witflitmanict]

Podcast ads are getting to savvy.

Let’s talk about ads people.

….

Recently, when listening to podcasts, the same ad has been coming up over, and over, and over again. And it’s not the usual squarespace, Lomi or HelloFresh ad that each podcaster says with their own self respecting spin. In fact it’s not the podcaster or a podcaster at all. It’s a local ad by the local government, directing you to their website to check your name and see if you have any unclaimed assets. In order to get this ad you have to be basically exactly where I am, without driving too far in any direction, or the website would not apply to you. 

So the fact that this ad has been popping up has really gotten me thinking. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this ad actually might answer another question I had about podcasts recently; how is it that old, backlogged episodes have advertisements for current shows or tours? If you’re like me and you like a podcast, you probably go back to their old episodes and work your way towards the current stuff. And sometimes when you do that you can find that an episode which originally aired in 2020 has an ad at the beginning by the podcaster advertising their current tour. Which has always struck me as odd mostly because I lack in depth knowledge into how podcasts and sound files are made, but also because the only thing I can compare it to is video files and it seems like it would be exhausting to adjust the files the same way. 

Like I said, I am no sound engineer. And for that matter, I’m not actually a film or video person either, but I have worked tangentially in that field. You see I have a brother who is a video engineer (as well as a cameraman, editor, director, and general all around film guy), and I’ve assisted on enough projects to know that at a bare minimum he would have to cut out and replace the section of the video with the new ad. As far as I know podcast places are not like TV stations where there is a start and stop point in each video that tells the computer when to start playing the ads approved for this show. I’ve always assumed they are just files that have been uploaded to a server somewhere, where I as the consumer can then download and listen to them, or stream them. So even if it was a marked section that one could simply delete and then paste the new one…that would still be EXHAUSTING for something that has 300 episodes. And then there would be all the time spent having to export the work to a playable file.I mean yes, I assume sound files take significantly less time to export than video files but still…if you have to do that for all those episodes…talk about boring. 

And yeah ok I never did look up how sound exporting works (or ask the several friends I have who work as musicians…too much talking). But I did look into how ads are placed into podcasts, as that seemed like it could answer both questions. 

It turns out that, just as there are advertising firms that put and choose the ads for youtube videos or that run on the side of cheap websites, there are now ones that do the same for Podcasts. These agencies have the ability for the podcaster to go through and choose what kind of ads they want played on their podcast. Presumably, this same technology can also be applied for inserting ads into any of the episodes, old or new. So, while I had always assumed that podcasts worked as essentially one long sound file uploaded to a server that then can be downloaded from, it is clearly complex than that. Something in its coding, at least, is letting the advertising agency know that now is the time to play an ad, similar to how TV shows are broadcast, and that ad can be whatever they chose to in that moment. (or it’s just as simple as a podcast being a couple different files that stop and start with ads in between but…the world is usually more complicated than I imagine).

My continued quick search indicates that it was Spotify that started this trend on their own platform. They created a system that allowed podcasters to choose the kind of ads they would want played, and then would play them, rather than the podcaster having to record all the individual ads themselves. And it actually seems to have started earlier than I noticed; like as early as 3 or so years ago. (Although as someone who gets their podcasts off of the Apple podcast app, it may be that this was a case on spotify first, and you, dear reader, may have noticed it before me). ((or I am just slow on the uptake))

Regardless, I am quite happy that I hadn’t noticed it until now. Because as soon as I heard the first locally targeted ad my mind did not go “oh wow, that’s so cool!” but instead had an immediate “fuck.”

So…why don’t I like this new development? The local ad is annoying, which definitely is part of it, but annoying ads exist everywhere and I, like most people, largely skip through them. But this one wasn’t annoying me just because the guy’s voice is too earnest, or because the content of the ad has nothing to do with me…this one annoys me because it is local. And since it’s local, then it’s targeted. And one of the things that I did not realize until about a week ago is that apparently one reason I like podcasts is because their ads are not targeted.

I mean ok yes, they are targeted in the sense that people of a certain ilk are more likely to listen to certain podcasts. I’m going to listen to a podcast that largely fits into my political views, or talks about topics I am interested in, or teaches me something that I need to learn…and skip over the ones that don’t fulfill some interest of mine. And so the ads I get are going to be things that the podcasters believe people who like their podcast are also going to be interested in. So for me across many of my podcasts it’s a  lot of ads for the same things, or different versions of the same things. Green goods, internet related bits and pieces, the occasional media recommendation, and meal kit delivery apps are the most common. But even though they are targeted, they are not targeted at me. After all, I could in fact be nothing like the person listening to the same podcast on the other side of the country, except for the fact that we both listen to this podcast.

But the local ads are different. Now it is targeted at me. Or at least more precisely targeted at me than before. They now have some metric of me that they can surmise, and are thusly giving me a direct ad about it. 

That is really, really annoying. 

The internet already knows enough about me (and honestly it knows less about me than most people because of how long I lived abroad, and that is already too much for me). And now podcasts, something which have always seemed internet adjacent but not, in fact, the internet…they are going to get to know things about me too. Sure, right now it’s just my location, something they probably get from the download information, from my IP address or the cell tower I’m connected to…but what else could they get from me? Are they going to start looking at my account info? Will they have access to my age, sex, and other downloads? Will they start listening to me too??

Probably not. But I still don’t like the idea of it. And there doesn’t seem to be any way to opt out of this either. So I guess, for now, I’m stuck listening to the same local ad about something that doesn’t actually relate to me spoken by a guy who clearly took some dictation lessons. And honestly? I’d rather hear the same squarespace ad a couple more times. Sure, I’ll still never use it but at least it isn’t targeted. 

Word Count: 1407

[tavyliasin]

Reblogging again to add this~ a little short Haarlep x GN Reader 😈

Oh, and naturally, this reader is an artist 😉

-------------

-------------

“Still sleeping, are you?” The voice carried across the short distance to your ears as you resisted the urge to move. You could feel their weight on the end of the bed as they were already beginning to join you again. Even with your eyes closed you could see their smile, the blaze of the fire in their eyes, the hunger in their look.

You couldn't remember when Haarlep had left the bed last night, you were far too exhausted from the relentless pleasure that had left your entire body and soul feeling as if it were made of jelly. 

They had comforted you, at first. Holding you close, soothing muscles that still quivered in the afterglow, waves of overstimulated bliss still intruding every time your mind turned over the events of the hour that felt like an eternity of ecstasy.

The incubus had run their claws over your scalp delicately, waiting for your eyes to flutter closed in sleep rather than the another of countless orgasms, soothing you with the lightest touch that made your mind feel like it could float away as you curled in close to their warmth. They had wrapped their wing around you like a blanket, surrounding you with them and only them, every sense permitted only to know them - the scent of Haarlep's distinct cinnamon blended with Raphael's perfume, the taste of their kiss still fresh on your lips, the heat of their touch sinking through your muscles, the sight of crimson skin just beyond your eyelids, and the musical sound of their voice-

“You cannot sleep all day, Little Thief, I have indulged you enough.” They were sat on the end of the bed still, their voice carrying over to you with a blend of seduction and the edge of threat. “Come, now, do you not have more portraits to paint?”

You groaned slightly, dropping the ruse enough to roll over and pull the covers closer, relishing the feeling of silk sheets yet feeling a slight emptiness that they lacked the warmth of the fiend that had held you softly as your dreams took over.

“That might fool a lesser being, painter, but it will not fool me.” The sound of their wings spreading behind them almost distracted you from the tail that crept under the sheets, curling around your ankle to squeeze it. “So, are we doing this the easy way? Or the hard way?” 

Your mind turned over the clear intent in their words. You weren't sure you could handle more of Haarlep's “hard way”, and yet the idea was still as enticing as the suggestion to join them had been the night before.

Perhaps you'd regret the words that fell from your lips almost unbidden, although the incubus never planned to leave you space in your mind for any thought but “Haarlep”. 

The easel on the balcony remained undisturbed by your brush until late in the afternoon.

---------

---------

Happy New Year, darling~

Thank you for the endless inspiration of your beautiful works, I very much look forward to seeing more as I always do. Ever the loud and delighted fan of every piece, though my favourites might be a little obvious~

If ever you wish a full fic written to your personal preferences, you need only ask and I shall add it to my list. I have a few in my backlog, but I will get to each one eventually. You see, I did promise a little something when I awoke, and here we are~ I do take a contract seriously after all 😈

Still sleeping, are you ?

You see, I can also draw something that's not smut......

I was going to practice Raphael. And this one took over my vision 😂

I like cropping pictures for no reason.

[frozenrose13]

Oh gods we are so so much paying for yesterday...

: /

Need to do contacting still, need to follow up with places about my wheelchair and get more information on what the actual fuck we are supposed to be doing here

Adapt, adjust, move on. Small goals today so I think that means holding off on the big long extra exhausting contacting until monday and do the easier smaller contactings today, might be able to stack them since a bunch are emails

Finally bank shit is no longer being Fucked which is a huge relief and should help with symptoms now that im not chasing after them too, now that we can actually get caught up on commission backlog

Hoping by end of next week we'll be caught up enough to start the big sewing one, fabric should be in for that by then too, especially since I think all but the 2 printer coms can be done from bed probably. Oh and the cricut parts of the sewing com but chair fits at the Machine Table so that should be fine if I keep us able to sit up and actually use our wheelchair

Frustrated that we are this far behind, frustrated that it feels like I lost a month to chasing after my bank, and now losing more time to chasing after my wheelchair problems but. Yanno. It's w/e, we are making progress.

Doing it all sober still which is. Huge. Interesting data too, we are much more Glowstick Noises and more frequent subluxes and more frequent seizure symptoms and not "bouncing back" from activity as effectively and cognition is all over the place and the muscle weakness is way way more pronounced. Some of it is probably withdrawal symptoms but am finding Must stay on the other pain management shit otherwise Cannot Function at all through the pain/etc. So thats all...neat data, if nothing else. Not that we can really bring it to the drs but at least for my own purposes. Might be talking to them about going off the psych meds completely since no difference off them aside from annoying meds withdrawal.

Trying real hard to make today a Decent Day even if that means bed for most of it even if that means being stuck places.