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skzophreniic · 2 months ago

Text

NSFW alphabet with Chan

18+ CONTENT MDNI

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 what being in a relationship with chan is like—after dark version

featuring: Christopher Bahng x reader

notes: this one ALSO got out of hand ngl lmao. um..enjoy?

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Bang Chan wants to take care of you—always. It’s instinct, something woven into him so deeply that even when he’s completely spent, he still reaches for you first.

But sometimes?

He needs a minute.

When the sex is slow and deep, when it’s about connection more than anything, he’s fully present afterward—whispering sweet praises, stroking your skin, kissing every inch of you as he takes his time helping you clean up. He loves those moments, loves the quiet intimacy of holding you, of making sure you feel cherished.

But when it’s rough—when he’s fucked every ounce of energy out of himself, when he’s panting into the crook of your neck, body boneless and sweat-damp against yours—he just physically cannot move right away.

Those are the moments where he collapses onto you, breath ragged, arms still wrapped around you but too weak to do anything but hold on.

"Fuck," he exhales, forehead resting against your shoulder, body heavy against yours. He’s trying—trying to push himself up, trying to get his brain to start functioning again—but he’s just so wrecked.

And you know him. You know he’s going to get up in a second, pull himself together, slip into his nurturing mode and make sure you’re okay. But for now, he just needs to breathe.

So you stroke his hair, rub his back, let him have that moment.

And when he finally stirs, when his strength starts coming back, he lifts his head, cups your cheek, and gives you the softest fucking look.

"Alright, baby?" he murmurs, voice still rough, still hoarse from everything.

And then—after a kiss, after a deep breath—he shifts back into the Bang Chan you know.

He cleans you up, holds you close, whispers sweet words as he runs his fingers through your hair. And when you finally settle, tucked against his chest, warm and safe?

That’s when he lets himself relax completely.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Bang Chan doesn’t think much about his own body. He’s self-critical, always nitpicking, always focusing on what he could improve rather than what he likes.

But if he had to pick a favorite?

His arms.

Not because they’re toned or strong, not because they look good in sleeveless shirts—but because of what they can do.

Because they can hold you close, wrap around you, keep you pressed against his chest when he’s buried deep inside you. Because they can pin you down when he wants to take his time wrecking you, fingers gripping tight enough to leave shadows of himself on your skin. Because they can lift you, shift you exactly how he wants, spread you open, keep you in place when he’s fucking you so good you’re on the verge of falling apart.

That’s why he loves them. Because they let him feel you—hold you—have you.

But when it comes to you?

He can’t pick. He refuses to pick.

Because he loves everything.

Your thighs—the way they tremble when he spreads them open, the way they lock around his waist when you’re pulling him deeper.

Your hips—his hands were made to hold them, to grip them tight as he guides you, as he keeps you right where he wants you.

Your neck—because he loves kissing it, loves feeling your pulse race under his lips, loves the way you tilt your head just a little, silently begging for more.

Your hands—because they always reach for him, always cling to him, always dig into his shoulders, his hair, his back, leaving tiny little reminders that you were there, that you felt everything.

But if he absolutely had to choose?

It’s your eyes.

Because nothing—nothing—undoes him faster than the way you look at him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Chris is absolutely obsessed with it—where it goes, how much there is, how messy he can get you. He’s got a filthy mouth and an even filthier mind, and nothing gets him off harder than seeing the evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined you.

His favorite thing? Making you keep it inside. He loves stuffing you full, fucking it deeper with slow, teasing thrusts just to make sure it stays there. There’s something so primal about watching it drip out of you afterward, thick and warm, only to push it right back in with his fingers, watching you shudder at the overstimulation.

“Ah, ah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dark with satisfaction as he watches your swollen cunt flutter around his fingers. “Did I say you could let it spill out?”

You whimper, body trembling beneath him, but he doesn’t have a shred of mercy left. He scoops up a stray drop, presses it against your entrance, and watches with fascination as you gasp when he slides it back inside.

“That’s it,” he croons, brushing a kiss against your thigh before pulling back to admire his work. “Gotta keep it all in, baby. Can’t waste a single drop, yeah?”

And then there’s the times when he gets off on watching you covered in it. Painting your stomach, your thighs, your tongue—he loves it all. Loves the way you look up at him through heavy lashes, mouth open and waiting, that sinful little tongue flicking out just enough to catch the last few drops.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, fingers gripping your jaw as his thumb smears the mess across your lips. “You look so goddamn pretty like this.”

His breathing is ragged, but he still gathers the cum on his fingers, pushing them past your lips, groaning at the way you suck them clean without hesitation.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal. His thumb drags down your chin, spreading the leftover mess over your skin. “Wanna see you like this all the time.”

And he means it.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Bang Chan is filthier than he lets on.

Sure, he acts like he’s the responsible one—the measured one—the man who keeps it together when everyone else is losing their minds. But behind that composed exterior?

He’s an absolute fucking pervert.

Because his dirty secret?

He steals things from you.

Not in an obvious way—not something you’d immediately notice missing—but little things. The lacey panties you left in his laundry pile. The shirt you wore to bed that still smells like you. A pair of thigh-high socks you once teased him in, bunched up at the foot of the bed after you peeled them off.

And the filthiest part?

He uses them.

He knows he should feel guilty—knows it’s borderline depraved to be alone in his studio, pressing his face into the soft fabric of your underwear, fisting his cock like he’s some desperate, sex-starved idiot.

But he can’t help it.

Not when your scent is still on them. Not when the memory of you wearing them is still burned into his mind. Not when he can picture you so perfectly—back arched, legs spread, teasing him as you pull them off inch by inch.

He’s done it on tour, too. Brought a pair with him, tucked deep in his suitcase like some kind of depraved little token, something to keep him sane when he’s too far away to touch you.

And when he’s alone in some hotel room, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking himself to the thought of being buried inside you, he’s pressing them against his face, groaning into the fabric, his cum spilling all over them—marking them, ruining them—just so when he gets home, he can finally give them back.

And the worst part?

He loves the idea that you might already know.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Bang Chan is dangerously experienced—not just in knowing what feels good, but in knowing exactly how to make you lose yourself in it. He doesn’t just fuck; he studies you, learns every twitch, every gasp, every shift in your breathing like a song he’s fine-tuning in the studio. He catches the way your thighs squeeze together when his fingers trail too lightly, the way your breath hitches when his lips hover at your throat. And he uses it against you.

"Relax, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement as he presses a teasing kiss to the crease of your thigh, just shy of where you need him. He knows you’re aching, trembling under his touch, but he won’t give in until you beg for it. His fingers skim the slick heat between your legs, slow and barely there. "So sensitive, aren’t you? That’s okay, I got you."

And he does. When he finally gives you what you want, it’s devastating—a calculated mix of deep, deliberate thrusts and slow, teasing drags that keep you on the edge but never quite over. He knows when to speed up, when to grind just right, when to slip a hand between your bodies and press his thumb against your swollen clit, growling in satisfaction when you tighten around him.

“You’re so easy to read,” he whispers against your lips, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead as he watches you unravel. “I knew you’d like it like this.”

He’s been with enough people to know what he’s doing, but that’s not what makes him dangerous. It’s the way he adapts, the way he remembers—the way every time he touches you, it’s somehow better than the last.

F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)

Bang Chan doesn’t have just one favorite—he’s too attentive, too adaptable, too desperate to feel you in every possible way to limit himself. But if he had to choose? Anything that lets him watch you break.

He loves missionary, but not the slow, romantic kind—the messy, sweaty, unrelenting kind where he’s got your legs hooked over his shoulders, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he grinds deep, slow, devastating. Where he can see everything—the way your eyes glaze over, the way your mouth falls open on a choked moan when he angles just right. He loves watching your fingers clutch at his arms, your nails dragging down his back when he picks up the pace.

“You feel that?” he pants against your skin, sweat rolling down his temple as he drives into you, relentless and overwhelming. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His voice shatters on a groan, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering as your walls clench around him.

And then there’s riding him—not just because he loves the view, but because it lets him lose control in a way he rarely allows himself. He grips your hips so hard you’ll feel it for days, guides you into the rhythm he wants—slow, deep grinds at first, then faster, harder, until he’s bucking up to meet you, chasing the slick friction with helpless desperation. His head tips back, throat bared as he moans for you, pleasure-struck and utterly wrecked.

“Fuck, baby—just like that, just like that—” His voice is breathless, raw, fingers digging into your ass as he thrusts up to meet you, eyes dark and desperate. He needs you to fall apart first—needs to watch you tremble, needs to feel your body clench around him before he lets himself go.

Because for Bang Chan, his favorite position isn’t just about pleasure—it’s about ruining you, about watching you come undone beneath him, on top of him, all around him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Bang Chan is intense in bed—focused, deliberate, completely tuned into your body—but that doesn’t mean he’s always serious. If anything, his natural warmth seeps into everything he does, sex included. He laughs when you gasp too loud, grins when you whimper his name, and if he ever fumbles—knocks over a lamp, tugs your shirt the wrong way—he’s the first to chuckle, pressing an apologetic kiss to your lips before getting right back to ruining you.

But the real problem? He teases.

You’re under him, breathless and needy, his fingers lazily stroking between your thighs—but instead of giving you what you want, he’s just…smirking. Smug. Amused. Infuriating.

“What was that sound you just made?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek as he barely brushes your clit, just enough to make you shudder. “Was that a whimper? Or a squeak?”

“Chan,” you groan, hips bucking against his hand, but he just chuckles, his touch maddeningly light.

“No, no, do it again,” he insists, mock-serious but clearly enjoying himself, trailing kisses down your throat. “It was cute.”

And then, the worst part—his mocking little moan, mimicking the breathy sound you made, laced with amusement and pure sin. It’s enough to make you burn with embarrassment, to make you want to push him off—

But before you can, he snaps his hips forward, sinks into you all at once, and suddenly, he’s not laughing anymore.

His forehead drops against yours, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his lips.

“Shit,” he breathes, grip tightening on your waist as your walls squeeze around him. “Yeah, okay. Not laughing anymore.”

Because that’s the thing—Chan might play, he might tease, he might drive you insane with his lighthearted torment—but the second he’s buried deep inside you, the second he feels how fucking tight you are around him?

The teasing stops.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Bang Chan is meticulous about grooming—not just because he likes to look good, but because he knows how much you love it. He keeps everything trimmed, neat, soft, just enough to show he’s put thought into it, but not so bare that it looks unnatural. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes—dark, soft curls, a little messy when he’s been too busy to maintain it, but never unkempt.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Bang Chan isn’t just fucking you—he’s feeling you, knowing you, worshipping you in a way that makes your chest ache and your breath catch in your throat. He’s intense, not just in the way his body moves against yours, but in the way he looks at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this.

His hands never stop moving—tracing your skin, cupping your jaw so you can’t look away, brushing the sweaty strands of hair from your forehead so he can see every flicker of pleasure in your eyes.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, voice hoarse, hips rolling slow and deep as his thumb strokes along your cheekbone. His gaze flickers down to where your bodies are joined, his breath stuttering at the sight before he looks back up at you, soft, reverent. “You feel that, baby? Feel how perfect you are for me?”

And then he’s kissing you, like he can’t stand to be apart from you for even a second—deep, slow kisses, the kind that make you melt into him, that make your head spin until you don’t know where he ends and you begin. He groans against your lips when you whimper into his mouth, his arms tightening around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Mine,” he whispers, hips snapping forward with just a little more urgency, forehead pressed against yours. “You’re mine, right?”

It’s not possessiveness, not in a toxic way—it’s need, it’s vulnerability, it’s him begging you to hold onto him as tightly as he’s holding onto you.

And when you moan his name, fingers digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, he shudders—because that’s all he ever wants. To be as close to you as humanly possible.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Bang Chan hates being away from you—not just because he misses your touch, but because he feels it everywhere, that constant, aching need that only gets worse when he’s alone in a hotel room, thousands of miles from you, and painfully hard with no relief in sight.

He tries to ignore it, tries to distract himself with work, with late-night gym sessions, with exhaustion, but it never helps—not when every text from you makes his cock throb, not when he closes his eyes and all he can see is you, stretched out beneath him, whining his name.

So he gives in. Every time.

Lying back in a stiff hotel bed, phone in hand, screen dimmed, he scrolls through the pictures you sent him before he left—that one where your shirt was slipping off your shoulder, that little video where you whispered his name so sweetly, breathy and teasing, telling him you missed him.

His breath catches, fingers already shoving down the waistband of his sweats, freeing his aching cock, already dripping from how long he’s been holding back.

“Shit,” he groans, head tilting back against the pillows as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slow, teasing, just the way he would if you were here. He imagines your fingers instead—soft, warm, slick with spit as you pump him lazily, giggling when his hips buck into your grip.

He plays your voice message again, bites his lip when you sigh out his name, and suddenly, he’s fucking into his fist like he’s losing his mind, messy and desperate, breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Fuck, baby—” His voice is wrecked, hips lifting off the bed, chasing his high. He’s so close, so fucking close, and if you were here, he’d be spilling inside you instead, groaning into your neck, feeling you clench around him as he filled you up—

The thought alone makes him snap, makes his whole body shudder as thick ropes of cum spill over his abs, his thighs, his hand, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants.

And then, the worst part.

The post-orgasm crash, the loneliness that hits him like a punch to the gut. He sighs, grabbing his phone, fingers already typing.

chan🐺: baby, are you up? i miss you. so fucking bad.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bang Chan is obsessed with the idea of putting a baby in you.

It’s not just a breeding kink—it’s a full-blown, primal, animalistic need that takes over every time he’s buried inside you. He doesn’t just want to fill you up—he wants to make it stick.

And the way he talks about it? It’s downright filthy.

“Look at you,” he groans, watching the way your body trembles, how you’re already fucked-out and wrecked beneath him. “You’re taking me so well, baby. So fucking good for me. Can feel you squeezing me—fuck—you want it, don’t you?”

He leans in, pressing his lips to your ear, voice rough and dripping with hunger.

“You wanna be swollen with my kids? Wanna let me fuck you full, keep you dripping with my cum until it takes?”

And if you whimper, if you nod, if you gasp out a breathless ‘yes’ like you’ll die if he doesn’t do it?

It’s over. You’re not getting out of bed for hours.

He loves seeing it drip out, loves the mess he makes of you, loves when his cum leaks from between your thighs. But the second he sees that? He’s pushing it back in, rubbing slow circles over your stomach, mumbling shit he shouldn’t even be thinking about.

“Bet you’d look so pretty carrying my baby, fuck. So full, all swollen, everyone knowing I did that to you—"

And then there’s his exhibitionist streak.

It’s not about getting caught—not exactly. But the risk? The danger? The idea that someone could overhear the way he’s fucking you senseless, could see the way you’re clinging to him, could walk in at the worst possible moment?

It drives him insane.

He’s taken you in the studio, late at night, when the walls aren’t nearly as soundproof as they should be. Has muffled your moans with his mouth, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tight you’ll be sore for days, hissing against your lips—

“Shh, baby. You don’t want them to know how desperate you are to be bred, do you?”

His teeth graze your ear, and his breath is hot when he whispers, “Or do you want them to hear? Want them to know how good I make you feel?”

The thought makes your stomach twist deliciously, and he feels it—the way you clench around him, the way your breathing stutters.

“Fuck, you do,” he chuckles, low and smug. “That’s filthy, sweetheart.” His hand snakes between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit as he grinds against you harder, the desk beneath you creaking with every movement. “But it’s okay. I like filthy.”

And when he’s on tour?

Hotel balconies. Dressing rooms. Backstage, right before he goes on stage, when he’s already wired with adrenaline and you’re sitting there looking so fucking pretty he can’t stop himself.

You know he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

But then he’s sliding his hand between your thighs, murmuring against your ear—

“Let me fill you up before I go on. Let me go out there knowing my cum’s still dripping out of you.”

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bang Chan loves the bed—deep sheets, pillows to muffle your moans, the ability to take his time breaking you apart—but he’s also not patient, not when he needs you now, now, now.

So his real favorite places? Anywhere he can have you the moment the urge hits.

The studio couch is dangerous. It’s where he spends the most time, where he’s already pent-up and stressed, where you visiting him only ever leads to one thing.

“You should be working,” you murmur, breathless, your back pressed against the couch as Chan hovers over you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

“I’ll work after,” he mutters, hips grinding against yours, cock hard and heavy through his sweats. His eyes flick down, breath hitching at the sight—your panties pushed to the side, already soaked, already so ready for him.

And then, that grin, the one that’s both sweet and filthy, the one that tells you he’s about to ruin you.

“Studio acoustics are crazy, you know,” he murmurs, lining himself up, teasing, teasing, teasing. “Hope the walls aren’t too thin.”

Or the bathroom mirror, where he loves watching you fall apart for him.

“Look,” he pants, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other buried in your hair, forcing your head up. The mirror in front of you is fogging up from how hard you’re both breathing, from the heat of your bodies pressed together.

“You see that?” he groans, snapping his hips forward, watching your mouth drop open in a silent moan, watching the way your legs shake from how deep he’s fucking you.

His teeth graze your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “So fucking pretty like this, baby. My perfect girl.”

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Bang Chan is so easy to rile up—because when he wants you, it’s instant, all-consuming, impossible to ignore. Sometimes it’s something innocent—the way you laugh, the way you stretch and your shirt rides up, the way you bite your lip without even realizing it—and suddenly, he’s hard and restless and aching to have you under him.

But if you’re doing it on purpose? Oh, you’re in for it.

Like when you sit in his lap during meetings, all sweet and innocent, pretending like you don’t notice how you’re shifting just a little too much, how your hips roll every time you adjust, how your weight is pressing down right where he’s already growing hard.

His grip on your waist tightens, his jaw clenched so hard it’s a miracle his teeth don’t crack. **His voice doesn’t waver—**years of self-control in action—but his fingers dig into your skin, silently warning you, silently promising revenge.

And when the meeting ends?

The second the door clicks shut, you’re pressed against it, his hands grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head, his thigh slipping between yours.

“You think I wouldn’t notice, baby?” he breathes, grinding his thigh up against you, watching the way your lips part, your breath hitching. “Thought you could get away with that?”

Or when you whisper filth in his ear when he’s trying to focus, when he’s on a call, when he absolutely cannot afford to be distracted.

“Bet you’d love to bend me over this desk,” you murmur one night, leaning over him in the studio, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, your fingers tracing down his chest.

His breath catches. His hands clench into fists.

And the moment he hangs up?

You’re bent over the desk just like you teased—but this time, you’re not the one in control.

"That what you wanted?" he pants against your ear, hips snapping forward, his hand splayed against your back, holding you down as he fucks you mercilessly against the desk. "You wanted to be fucked right here, baby? Where anyone could walk in?"

But nothing gets him harder, nothing drives him crazier, than you being desperate for him.

When you’re pulling at his clothes, whimpering, clinging to him like you can’t get close enough. When you’re grinding against him, whining about how much you need him, your voice sweet and breathy and so, so needy.

And when you look up at him, wide-eyed, desperate, pleading—

"Chan, please," you whisper, voice breaking, "I need you so bad."

That’s it.

That’s his breaking point.

Because when you beg for him like that?

He’ll give you whatever you want.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bang Chan has a high sex drive and a filthy mind, but there are some things he absolutely won’t do—no matter how desperate he is.

He’s not into degradation—not really. He can tease, push, challenge, but the second it turns into something that could make you feel small, unloved, or unwanted? Absolutely not.

"Call you what?" he scoffs one night when you suggest it, eyebrow raised. "No way. You're my baby. My princess. My good girl. Why would I call you anything else?"

Sharing? Not happening.

The thought of another person seeing you like this—bare, needy, begging— makes something primal twist in his gut. He’s possessive, protective, a little selfish when it comes to you.

So when someone gets a little too friendly, when someone looks at you just a little too long— his grip on your waist tightens. His smile is there, but his eyes are dark, dangerous.

And later, when you’re pressed against the nearest surface, his fingers laced with yours, his hips grinding slow and deep?

His lips ghost over your ear.

"Say it," he murmurs, voice thick with something unshakable. "Say you're mine."

And finally—denial.

He can tease, sure. Play with the build-up, drag it out, make you work for it. But actually leaving you on edge, desperate, aching with no release?

He can’t do it. Won’t do it.

Because nothing gets him off harder than watching you come undone for him.

So when you whimper, eyes glassy, body trembling, he caves every single time.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, thrusting harder, deeper, chasing your high with you. "Gimme one more—just one more, yeah?"

(He’s lying. He always wants another.)

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Bang Chan lives between your thighs. Loves it. Needs it. He’ll do it for his pleasure just as much as yours, will eat you out like it’s his last meal, like he’s starving for it.

And he’s so good at it.

Because it’s not just his tongue—it’s the way he uses his whole mouth, the way he drags his lips over your skin, the way he groans against you like he’s the one getting off on it.

He starts slow, teasing, kissing up your inner thighs, sucking little marks into your skin, making you squirm. He wants you restless, wants you whining, wants your hands in his hair tugging him closer.

And when you try to push him down, try to rock your hips up against his mouth?

He grins against you before pressing you down harder, pinning you in place with strong arms hooked around your thighs.

"Be patient, baby," he murmurs, breath hot against your soaked folds. "I'll take care of you."

And then? He ruins you.

His tongue is everywhere, flicking, circling, pressing deep. He sucks your clit into his mouth, hums when you whimper, lets his fingers slip inside you at the same time, curling just right—

And when your thighs start shaking around his head, when your moans get breathy and desperate, when your fingers tighten in his hair—?

That’s when he really gets into it.

Because he wants you to fall apart. Wants you wrecked. Wants you sobbing his name because you can’t take any more—

But he knows you can.

So he holds you down and keeps going. Licking, sucking, eating you out like he’s lost in it—

Because he is.

(And if he starts grinding into the mattress, if he gets himself off just from the sounds you make alone? No he didn't.)

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Bang Chan is all about control—of you, of himself, of the way he drags you through every second of pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him.

But his pace?

That depends entirely on how desperate he is.

Because when he has time? When he can savor you, take you apart piece by piece?

He’s slow. So slow.

Deep, measured strokes that leave you gasping, whining, clenching around him, his lips dragging over your skin, whispering sweet filth right into your ear.

"Feel that, baby?" he murmurs, rolling his hips in slow, delicious circles, grinding against your sweetest spot until your back arches off the bed. "Taking me so good. So fucking tight around me."

And every time you try to move faster, try to chase your high?

His hands grip your hips, hold you down, pin you to the mattress.

"Ah, ah," he tuts, grinning against your shoulder. "We go at my pace, remember?"

But when he’s desperate? When he’s stressed, overwhelmed, worked up beyond belief?

Then there’s no patience. No teasing. No control.

Then it’s fast, rough, relentless.

Like when he’s had one too many sleepless nights, when his body is aching, when the only thing that can reset his system is fucking you senseless.

Then it’s him pressing you into the nearest surface, hiking your legs around his waist, snapping his hips into yours like he’s starving for it.

Then it’s gritted teeth, deep groans, breathless curses against your lips—

"Fuck—so tight—feel so fucking good, baby—"

Then it’s his fingers digging into your hips, his pace brutal, his need overwhelming—

And when you start breaking, when you’re shaking, begging, sobbing his name?

That’s when he grins, leans in close, whispers against your lips—

"Not done with you yet."

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Bang Chan loves quickies— but only if they still leave you wrecked.

Because if he’s gonna fuck you, he’s gonna make sure you feel it for the rest of the day.

In the morning? Right before he heads to the studio?

You’re not leaving the apartment with steady legs.

One second you’re sipping coffee in his oversized shirt, looking so goddamn cute it physically hurts— and the next, he’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, pushing your panties to the side, lining himself up in one smooth motion.

"Shh, baby," he breathes, a hand sliding up your stomach, up your chest, closing around your throat as he thrusts into you.

He can’t go slow, can’t take his time. Not when he has ten minutes before he’s late.

So he fucks you fast, deep, hips snapping against your ass as his other hand slips between your thighs, rubbing quick, desperate circles—

"You gonna come for me?" he pants against your ear, grinning when you whimper, already so close. "Gotta be quick, baby. You can do that for me, yeah?"

And when you clench around him, body trembling, moaning his name?

That’s it. That’s all he needs.

But his favorite? Public quickies.

The ones where you’re not supposed to be doing this—

Like backstage at an event, when he drags you into an empty dressing room, presses you against the mirror, pushes his hand under your skirt.

"Five minutes," he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. "Think you can be good for me in five minutes?"

And when you nod, breath hitching, pupils blown wide with need?

His lips curl into a filthy smirk.

"Let’s find out."

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Bang Chan is down for almost anything—as long as it’s with you, as long as it turns you on just as much as it does him.

He loves pushing limits, trying new things, learning exactly what makes your body tick.

"You trust me, don’t you?" he murmurs one night, hands ghosting over your bare skin, eyes dark with something dangerous, something thrilling.

And when you nod, licking your lips, whispering a soft yes?

He grins.

"Then let me show you something new."

Risky locations?

Absolutely.

The backseat of his car, a dark hallway at a party, backstage at a concert, pressed against the wall of his studio, the bass still thumping through the walls—

He loves knowing you could get caught, loves watching you struggle to stay quiet, loves the way your nails dig into his arms when he fucks you just a little too hard.

"You gotta be quiet, baby," he pants against your neck, hand clamping over your mouth, muffling your moans. "Don’t wanna get caught, do we?"

(But he doesn’t stop. Never stops. Not until you’re wrecked.)

Blindfolds? Restraints?

Oh, he’s been dying to try.

The idea of you spread out for him, unable to see, unable to touch, completely at his mercy?

It’s enough to make him groan, to make his cock twitch in his pants.

"Just trust me," he whispers, kissing you slow, deep, as he ties your wrists above your head. "I promise I’ll take care of you."

And then? He ruins you.

Slow hands, teasing kisses, feather-light touches until you’re begging, whimpering, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, watching you squirm, watching you struggle against the restraints.

"So fucking pretty when you’re desperate for me.”

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Bang Chan doesn’t stop until you physically can’t take anymore.

It’s not just about getting off— it’s about dragging it out, about stretching the night as long as possible, about making sure you feel him for days.

And when you think he’s finally done, finally satisfied, finally spent?

Oh, you’re wrong.

Because he’s insatiable.

It starts slow—his hands trailing over your skin, his lips soft against your shoulder, his voice low, coaxing, teasing.

"You okay, baby?" he murmurs, grinning when you nod, still breathless, still trembling from the last round.

"Yeah?" he hums, thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh. "Think you can give me one more?"

And when you whimper, when you shift closer, when you look at him with that fucked-out, hazy expression?

That’s it.

That’s all he needs.

Because once is never enough. Twice isn’t either.

He’ll have you under him, on top of him, against the wall, bent over the nearest surface—

And even when his muscles are sore, when his body is exhausted, when sweat is dripping down his temples, when he’s groaning from the overstimulation?

He’ll keep going.

Because he loves watching you come undone. Loves the way your body reacts to him, loves the way your nails scratch down his back, loves the way you moan his name like he’s the only thing that exists.

And when you’re finally shaking, gasping, whining that you can’t, you’re too sensitive, you’re done—?

He just grins, presses a soft kiss to your jaw, and whispers—

"That’s okay, baby. I’ll take care of you."

(And he always does.)

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, Bang Chan doesn’t really see the point.

Not because he’s against them—just because he’s confident in what he can do with his own two hands, his mouth, his cock. He loves the way he can pull you apart piece by piece, slow and thorough, knowing every little thing that makes you melt under him.

So when you first bring it up—just casually, mentioning how fun it might be to try something new—he just quirks an eyebrow, arms crossed, amused.

"You don’t think I do a good enough job on my own?" he teases, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, something thoughtful.

So you push a little further, tell him it’s not about replacing him—it’s about amplifying it. About seeing just how much more you can take.

And that’s what does it. Because Bang Chan is competitive, and if there’s a way to get you to fall apart even harder, even faster? He wants to know.

So the first time he uses a toy on you, it’s with cautious curiosity.

A wand, pressed to your clit on the lowest setting, his brows furrowed, studying every little reaction.

At first, he’s intrigued—watching the way your breath catches, the way your body tenses, the way your fingers grip the sheets.

And then?

Then you start squirming, whimpering, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure crashes over you so fast you barely have time to brace for it.

That’s when he grins.

"Fuck," he breathes, pressing it down a little harder, watching your thighs tremble, your mouth fall open. "That good, huh?"

And then he’s hooked.

Because now he knows just how quickly he can break you.

Now he knows how many times he can make you come before you’re shaking, gasping, begging him to stop.

Now he knows how sensitive he can leave you, how easy it is to keep pushing, how fucking desperate you get when you’re teetering on the edge, unable to stop the pleasure from crashing over you again and again.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmurs, watching you writhing under him, completely at his mercy.

"You sure you can handle one more?" he asks, even though you both already know the answer.

And when you whimper, when you nod, when your fingers tighten in the sheets?

He just chuckles, turns the setting up, and leans down to whisper—

"Good. Because I’m not done with you yet."

But when you bring up using toys on him?

That’s when he gets flustered.

At first, he just laughs it off, rubbing the back of his neck, shaking his head. "I dunno, baby."

But you see the way his ears flush, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way he can’t quite look at you.

So you push.

Tease him about it. Tell him you think he’d look so pretty falling apart for you, all helpless, all wrecked.

And that’s when you see it—that flicker of interest, the way his fingers twitch, the way his lips part just slightly.

So the first time you press a cock ring into his palm, ask him to wear it while he fucks you?

He just raises an eyebrow, rolls his tongue over his teeth, and mutters

"You really wanna see me desperate for you that bad?"

But he tries it.

And he loves it.

Because now he’s the one squirming, panting, gripping your hips.

Now he’s the one chasing his high, whining when he can’t get there, cursing when you just smile up at him, running your nails down his chest.

"Shit—" he groans, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temples. "—take it off, baby, please, I can’t—"

And when you finally do, when he finally comes, shaking, gasping, grinding into you so hard you see stars?

That’s when he knows.

He’s absolutely fucked.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Bang Chan lives for teasing.

Not just the casual kind—the light, playful, fleeting kind. No, when he teases, he wants to make you squirm. He wants to make you beg. He wants to push you right to the edge, dangle you over it, then pull you back just to do it all over again.

It starts innocent enough.

A slow, lingering kiss that doesn’t go anywhere. His fingers tracing up your thigh under the table, but never quite touching where you need him most. A whispered ‘later, baby’ when you’re already desperate.

But when he really wants to be mean?

That’s when he takes his time.

Lips trailing over your skin, warm breath ghosting against your ear as he murmurs, "Patience, baby." Fingers brushing over your core, never applying enough pressure. Languid, lazy drags of his tongue that have you whining, gripping at his shoulders, trying to force him to give you more.

But he won’t.

Because he loves the way you get needy for him. Loves the way your voice gets higher, your thighs tremble, your hands clutch at anything just to ground yourself.

And when he finally, finally gives you what you want?

It’s never enough.

A few slow thrusts before he stills, grinning down at you while you try to move your hips, only for his hands to clamp down and keep you still.

"You wanna come that bad?" he murmurs, faux sympathy dripping from his tone.

And when you nod, whimpering, begging?

He just chuckles, shakes his head, and whispers—

"Then you better earn it."

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Bang Chan isn’t quiet.

Not even a little.

He tries to be, sometimes—when the walls are thin, when there are people around, when he knows he shouldn’t be making a mess of you the way he is. But the second he’s buried deep inside you, the second he feels how fucking tight and warm and wet you are around him?

He loses all composure.

It starts low—deep, breathy groans, his voice rough with restraint. His jaw clenches, his brows knit together, his fingers dig into your hips as he tries to keep himself together.

But then you whimper for him, roll your hips just right, moan his name in that desperate, needy little voice?

And that’s when it all falls apart.

"Fuck," he groans, head dropping to your shoulder, breath coming out in ragged pants. His moans spill against your skin, hot and desperate, full of need.

And when he gets close?

That’s when he really loses it.

His voice gets higher, rougher, edged with something so raw and wrecked it makes your whole body tighten around him.

"Shit—baby, please, please—" he whines, hips stuttering, hands gripping you so tight you’ll feel him for days.

And when he finally cums, when he finally spills inside you, groaning your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth?

He doesn’t stop.

Not the sounds.

Not the breathless little whimpers.

Not the needy way he moans against your skin, rocking into you slow, dragging out every last aftershock.

Because Chan isn’t just loud—

He’s completely, shamelessly vocal.

W = Wild Card (a random headcanon for the character)

Bang Chan has sampled your moans in a track.

And the worst part? You have no idea.

It started as a joke. A filthy, unhinged, late-night idea that he never actually intended to follow through with—but then you had to go and sound so pretty for him.

It had been a long night. He’d dragged you into the studio under the pretense of just wanting company, wanting to feel you close while he worked. But one thing led to another—a few teasing touches, a soft kiss turning into something filthier, his hands sliding up your thighs—and suddenly, you were spread out on the couch, moaning his name like the perfect fucking melody.

And Chan, being the shameless menace he is?

He’d hit record.

Not in a weird, creepy way—he’d never do that to you. But his mic had already been on, his DAW already running, and the second he heard that broken, breathless little sound you made when he dragged his tongue over your clit?

He knew he needed to keep it.

For artistic purposes, of course.

That’s what he told himself when he clipped the audio later, tweaking it, pitching it just slightly so it blended seamlessly into the beat. A soft, ethereal little sound, woven so subtly into the track that no one would ever know.

Except him.

And when he finally plays it for you, watches as you nod along to the melody, completely unaware that you’re listening to yourself come undone for him?

He has to bite his lip to keep from grinning.

Because if you ever find out?

He’s so fucked.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Bang Chan’s cock is thick, warm, and heavy in your hand—just the right size to stretch you open without being overwhelming. He’s not massive, but he’s long enough to press deep, thick enough to make you feel every inch.

The veins running along his shaft are prominent but not overly pronounced, just enough to add that extra bit of friction when he drags against your walls. The head is flushed a pretty shade of pink, slightly darker than the rest of him, always leaking just a little when he’s really turned on. His skin is silky-smooth, hot to the touch, twitching when you wrap your fingers around him.

And the weight of it? Perfect.

When he rests it against your stomach, you can feel just how deep he’s going to reach, how full he’s going to make you. And when he slides it between your folds, teasing, coating himself in your slick before finally pressing in?

You swear you can feel every ridge, every pulsing vein, every throbbing inch as he stretches you open.

And it drives him crazy every time.

"God, baby," he groans, watching the way his cock disappears inside you, watching the way your body takes him so perfectly. His fingers grip your waist, holding you still as he presses in deeper, slower, savoring the way you flutter around him.

Because it’s not just about filling you—it’s about making sure you feel everything.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Bang Chan’s sex drive is high—but measured.

He’s not reckless about it. He’s not the type to drop everything the second he gets hard, not the type to demand you at all hours just because he can. He’s got discipline, self-control—until he doesn’t.

Because the thing is, he knows how to wait.

But waiting doesn’t mean not wanting.

And fuck, does he want you.

It’s a constant, underlying hum, a need that sits just under his skin, always there, always waiting. He can push it aside when he needs to—focus on work, go about his day like a normal person— but the second he’s alone with you?

It’s over.

He’s on you in an instant—hands firm, voice low, pressing you up against the nearest surface like he’s been counting down the hours.

"Been thinking about you all day," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

And he has. Not obsessively—not in a way that interferes with anything—but in the kind of way where everything reminds him of you.

The seat in his studio chair—where you’ve straddled him too many times to count.

The way his hoodie still smells faintly like your perfume.

The song he’s working on—and the way it perfectly matches the rhythm he fucked you to last week.

So yeah, he’s patient. He’s measured. He knows how to wait.

But when he finally gets you?

That control? It disappears.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Bang Chan tries to stay awake.

Always.

No matter how drained, how spent, how absolutely wrecked he is—he refuses to pass out on you right away. He needs to make sure you’re okay first, needs to hold you, needs to press slow, lingering kisses to your skin as he murmurs soft praises against your temple.

"Did so good for me, baby," he whispers, voice thick with exhaustion, but his hands still move—stroking your back, tracing lazy patterns against your thigh.

But the second he knows you’re comfortable, the second he’s sure you’re warm and tucked against his chest?

He’s gone.

Completely knocked out—breathing slow and steady, arms still wrapped around you even in sleep.

Sometimes, you can feel him nuzzle closer without even realizing it, pressing his face into your hair, sighing softly like even unconscious, he still can’t get enough of you.

And no matter how deep he sleeps, the second you move—whether it’s to shift positions, grab a blanket, or slip out of bed—

His grip tightens, just slightly.

Like even in his dreams, he’s still holding onto you.

#straykids #skz #bang chan #straykids fanfic #bangchan fic #bangchan fanfic #bangchan headcanons #bangchan fluff #bangchan imagine #bangchan imagines #bang chan smut #bang chan angst #bang chan fake texts #bangchan angst #bangchan smut

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ancientroyalblood · 5 months ago

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Balance and Stability Training for Functional Fitness

Mastering foundational exercises to improve balance, enhance stability, and prevent injuries. In the realm of fitness, balance and stability are often overlooked in favor of exercises that focus on strength, speed, or endurance. However, these attributes are essential components of functional fitness. Whether you’re an athlete, a weekend warrior, or someone looking to move better in daily life,…

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#athletic performance #Balance exercises #balance improvement #balance training #bosu ball training #Core stability #Core strength #dynamic balance #fitness tips #Functional fitness #functional movement #Injury prevention #proprioception #rehab exercises #senior fitness #single-leg exercises #stability exercises #stability training #stability workout

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claramelooo · 5 months ago

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HEYYY! It's me again! I'm so happy with all the support words and the great proportion this story is taking that I got excited and I just want write more and more to you guys!! (I'm vacations btw lol)

First of all, I would like to say that I don't know much about the US admission system, so if I got it wrong, please correct me.

Second, if you have any suggestions to improve the story's progress or speed up my writing, feel free to contact me.

Last but not least: enjoy it and comment plsss <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Paring: Mommy Dom Wanda x Brat Fem reader

WARNING: +18

Summary : Wanda wraps you in the web she has created.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 – Predator | Part 3 - On your knees

Velvet Chains

The Prey

It was around 3 a.m., and Wanda sighed, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom. The silence was broken only by the lazy whirring of the fan. Vision lay asleep beside her, turned away, breathing deeply. The space between them on the bed felt like an unbridgeable chasm. She turned her head to look at him for a moment but felt a weight in her chest as she realized there was no warmth there, no real connection.

Sex with Vision had always been… functional, almost mechanical. It was always about him—his needs, his desires. There were moments when she tried to convince herself that this was normal, that love was above all a commitment, but nights like this made it clear: something was terribly wrong.

Wanda shut her eyes tightly, trying to push away the frustration building up inside her. It wasn’t just the sex. It was everything. The suffocating predictability, the lack of intensity, the absence of something she had never been able to name but missed with an almost painful ferocity.

And then there was you.

The memory of your face, the way you looked at her during dinner, came rushing back like a storm. Your eyes held a mix of defiance and uncertainty—something Wanda couldn’t get out of her mind. Since seeing you, there had been a growing need inside her, something primal and overwhelming. It wasn’t just desire—though that was undeniable. It was the way you made her feel, as if she were alive for the first time in years.

Wanda sat up in bed, running her hands through her hair, frustrated with herself. It was wrong. That much was obvious. You were young, inexperienced—a delicate soul who deserved freedom, not the weight of the obsession she felt growing inside her.

But the more she tried to rationalize, the more inevitable it seemed. There was something about you—your innocence mixed with a quiet resilience, as if the world couldn’t break you, no matter how hard it tried. It was hypnotic. She wanted to shape you, to dominate your strength and fragility all at once, to explore every nuance of you until there was nothing left to hide.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to stifle the thoughts.

“This has to stop,” she murmured to herself. “This isn’t who I am.”

But the truth was, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. With Vision, with the life she had built—it all felt so distant, so colorless. And then you appeared, and the entire world gained a new vibrancy, an intensity she hadn’t realized she craved until she felt it.

She looked at Vision again, still turned away, still oblivious to the storm raging beside him. For a moment, Wanda felt a wave of guilt, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Because the reality was clear: she would never feel whole with Vision.

The clock read 3:23 a.m. when Wanda slipped out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor. She needed space, needed to think, but she knew that every step she took was leading her deeper into dangerous territory—a path of no return.

Reaching the living room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey—Vision only drank it to celebrate work promotions—and took a swig straight from the bottle, hoping to drown out the chaotic thoughts of you, of Vision, of herself.

But they didn’t go away.

As the alcohol coursed through her veins, Wanda felt her body float. And then, she felt ready to do something she had never done before. With trembling hands from adrenaline and excitement, Wanda picked up her laptop from the coffee table and searched for what had been on her mind since the moment she first laid eyes on you.

The video was artificial, the expressions of pleasure fake, the moans hollow. But the scene itself sparked Wanda’s imagination.

She pictured you moaning beneath her as she slid a good, thick strap inside your tight little pussy, pinning your arms above your head, leaving you completely at her mercy. She imagined slapping your pretty face until you gave in, sticking your tongue out to accommodate her fingers, letting her lubricate them before slowly sliding them into your tight little ass, driving you wild.

Denying you orgasms until you begged her with teary, pleading eyes. Pushing you until you finally said the one word you so desperately needed to say—and that she so desperately needed to hear.

Wanda also fantasized about riding your face, making you drown in her wet pussy, suffocating on her juices. Marking your neck and chest with bruises she would proudly touch the next day.

These thoughts alone were enough to make Wanda forget the adult film on her screen and focus entirely on you. Her fingers worked diligently over her clit, her body trembling as the signs of orgasm built within her. Moments later, she came, her eyes rolling back, her legs shaking.

Oh, fuck. She had to have you soon.

[...]

The city library was a sanctuary of sacred silence, where whispered voices mingled with the soft rustle of turning pages. You had returned to the country with a single purpose: to study. Your mother never missed a chance to remind you that your bright future hinged on a prestigious university. But after everything, Yale felt like an unattainable dream.

Not anymore.

You still had a chance to transfer and adapt to a new routine—though adjusting had never been hard for you. You’d spent your 18th birthday alone, blowing out the candle on a strawberry cupcake someone had given you, wishing for the power to change your life.

And now, here it was.

Determined, you worked tirelessly to achieve an excellent GPA, nurtured relationships with your professors, and spent the remaining months meticulously preparing your early decision application.

Then came the waiting—waiting and waiting for that damn call. Time passed. You turned 20—too old for a Christian boarding school, too young to face the world—and found yourself staring out of the same window.

When your father finally called, his expressionless voice carried the weight of your shattered dreams.

And now, here you were, standing before an old building with beautiful architecture that probably held some intriguing history. With a pile of notebooks and a battered binder in hand, you pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the library's main hall. The comforting scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped you.

The plan was straightforward: find a corner, avoid distractions, and lose yourself in formulas, essays, and reading lists for the next few hours.

But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

As soon as you entered, your eyes locked onto something—or rather, someone—that made your stomach churn. Behind the lending counter stood Wanda Maximoff.

She wore thin glasses that only accentuated the intensity of her piercing gaze. Her hair was tied back haphazardly, loose strands framing her face. When you walked in, she looked up, and a dangerous spark flashed in her eyes—something intense, hypnotic, and unnervingly expectant.

It was as though she’d known you were coming.

You felt the shift in the atmosphere before you could process it. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction—dangerous, predatory.

"Oh, my, my… What a surprise," Wanda murmured, her voice low and sweet, yet carrying an underlying weight that twisted your stomach. She left her computer and moved toward you, hands clasped in front of her like she owned the place.

You cursed softly.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Dekta?” she asked, her accent curling around your name in a way that made your core tighten despite your best efforts.

“I’m here to study.”

“Ah, yes… Yale, isn’t it?” Her lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer, making your fists clench at your sides. “Your parents mentioned it,” she mused. “I admire ambition—though ambition without focus is a waste, don’t you think?”

Your eyes narrowed. "I have focus."

She took another step closer, her presence suffocating. “Do you now?”

“I’m not a child, Wanda,” you snapped—perhaps a bit too loudly for a space that demanded quiet.

For a brief moment, her pupils expanded, eclipsing the green in her eyes. If you weren’t so innocent, you might have seen the excitement pooling in her gaze. But you felt it—the way your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly, your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of your bra.

Her expression shifted, the intensity replaced by a false, sugary smile.

“Oh, of course, because you’re such a big girl now, aren’t you?” Wanda tilted her head, her tone deceptively kind but dripping with condescension. Her eyes seemed to dissect you, reading your every reaction like an open book.

“I’m an adult,” you retorted, forcing your voice to remain steady. “I don’t need anyone treating me like I’m still in a school uniform.”

Wanda’s steps were deliberate as she sidled past you, gesturing lazily to a nearby table. “An adult, you say? Funny, because what I see…” Her gaze swept over you and then to the table, “…is a little girl with big dreams, crumbling at the slightest challenge.”

Your entire body tensed. You loathed the way she spoke to you, as though she had the right to dissect your maturity.

“You don’t know me,” you shot back, defensive.

“Don’t I?” She raised an eyebrow, her smile slow and menacing. “Then why are you trembling, Dekta?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. She was right. Your hands, clutching the binder, were trembling slightly, your heart pounding too fast.

Wanda noticed. Of course, she noticed.

“See?” she whispered, stepping closer, her voice soothing yet laced with control as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Adult or not, you still have a lot to learn.” Her words dropped to a murmur, almost too soft to hear: “And I’ll teach you everything.”

Before you could react, Wanda straightened, creating distance as she adjusted her glasses—a deliberate motion that left you inexplicably yearning for her touch again.

“Now, find your table and study. Show me this sharp ambition of yours.”

“You don’t control me,” you snapped, anger flaring briefly.

She chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, Dekta… I don’t have to. You’re already doing exactly what I want.”

With that, she turned and walked back to the counter, leaving you trembling and unsettled, as though you’d just lost a game you didn’t know you were playing.

After 40 minutes of calming down and trying to stop thinking about the woman, you finally manage to focus and regain control of your thoughts. Math had always been something very abstract to you, perhaps even more so than philosophy. There was something about numbers that seemed to elude the logic of your brain, as if every equation were a puzzle with its solution written in a language you couldn't quite comprehend.

You sigh, your eyes fixed on the book's page, where a series of elegantly aligned formulas stared back at you with an almost cruel indifference. It had always been this way. Essays were your forte—your words flowed like a river, structured and persuasive, but numbers? They slipped through your fingers like sand.

With the pencil in your hand, you begin to scribble what seemed to be the first step toward a solution, but your mind soon wavers. Math, with all its precision, left little room for intuition. Every mistake was exposed, every misstep impossible to hide. You had always hated that.

Suddenly, Wanda's presence invades your thoughts again, like a shadow you can't escape. The way she looked at you, as if she knew exactly where your weaknesses lay. Worse, as if she was willing to exploit them.

You shake your head, trying to banish her image, but it’s useless. It’s as if she were still there, standing behind you, watching, waiting for you to fail.

And maybe that was exactly what you needed.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself, turning the page of the notebook with more determination. "This isn't about her. This is about me."

Your strength had always been your ability to adapt and overcome challenges. No matter how impossible something seemed, you had an inner resilience that kept you trying. That was what made you special, even when everything seemed against you.

But that strength came at a price. You were stubborn, almost obsessive, and the idea of failing—for yourself, for your parents, for Wanda—was intolerable. That need to prove your worth, to be good enough, was both a gift and a curse.

Feeling a touch on your shoulder, you jump as if you’d been shocked. Looking at the hand that touched you, it belonged to an elderly woman with a friendly expression on her face.

"Looks like your study session was productive, right?" the lady asked in a voice trembling with age. You simply nodded, still confused by the sudden approach. "But I must inform you, dear. We’re closing now."

"Oh. Yes, of course… I’m sorry," you said as you stood, hastily packing your belongings. "I didn’t even notice the time." You offered an embarrassed explanation.

The lady just laughed, sweetly.

"It's all right! Wanda asked us not to disturb you," she said as if it were nothing, but for you… you felt your pulse quicken with your heartbeat, felt your heart warm at Wanda's indirect gesture.

You looked around, hoping Wanda would appear again to provoke you—to make you surrender to her dominant aura.

But with a click, the library lights turned off, leaving you alone with your confused thoughts.

Letting out a tired sigh, you enter your house. Today had been exhausting, but your mind was at peace from finally breaking out of your loop of procrastination and self-sabotage. It was draining, but it was gratifying—enough to make you proud of yourself.

Arriving in the living room, you see your mother smiling, which makes you raise an eyebrow at her unusual gesture. Noticing you, she stood up, laughing.

"Sweetheart! Come here!" she called, making grand gestures that filled the room.

As you reached the center of the living room, you saw her.

There she was. Wanda Maximoff, sitting in your living room as if she owned the place. Her posture was impeccable—relaxed, but not sloppy. Long legs crossed, her expression composed. She held a teacup in her left hand, her long fingers resting on the porcelain as if it were a luxury item.

Your heart raced. You froze in the doorway, looking from your mother to Wanda and back to your mother.

“Oh, sweetheart, finally!” your mother exclaimed, her voice full of enthusiasm. "I can hardly believe our luck. Wanda offered to help you with your studies! You know how much I worry about your preparation for Yale, and now she's willing to guide you!"

You opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out. Everything felt like a blur. Wanda? The woman who had just turned your afternoon into an emotional whirlwind? Now she was here, in your house, looking more dangerous than ever?

"I simply did what anyone would," Wanda replied, her voice soft but firm. The tone carried a duality: apparent humility, but a pride you could feel beneath the surface. She rose slowly, placing the teacup on the coffee table. Her gaze met yours, and you felt that same shiver from the library.

"Good evening, Dekta," she said with an intonation that made your skin tingle. “I hope you don’t mind my visit. Your mother and I were discussing how I might be helpful for your academic ambitions.”

“Of course,” you responded automatically, trying to keep your composure. “Thank you so much for your help, Wanda.”

Wanda smiled, a small, calculated smile. There was no genuine warmth in it, only something... satisfying. As if she were celebrating an invisible victory.

"In fact," she continued, taking a step closer to you, "I thought we could make this mutually beneficial. Your studies require dedication, and I noticed you have potential. In exchange for my guidance, perhaps you could help me a few hours a week at the library. There are tasks that require... youthful energy."

Your mother seemed more than thrilled with the idea. “Oh, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? You’d spend more time learning, in such an inspiring environment!”

You knew you had no choice. Your mother was already beaming, and any refusal would be a family disaster. But above that, there was Wanda, with that look that seemed to pierce your soul, as if she knew that deep down, you didn’t want to refuse either.

"Sure," you finally replied, trying to sound neutral. “That sounds great.”

Wanda took a small step back, satisfied. "Excellent. We’ll start tomorrow."

Your mother clapped her hands, excited. "I’m so proud of you, sweetheart! And so grateful, Wanda, for being willing to help my baby.”

Hearing your mother’s last words, Wanda’s body tensed, clearly disliking the way she referred to you.

Wanda looked at you again, placing a light smile on her face, but her eyes... they had an almost predatory gleam.

“It will be my pleasure,” she said, but you knew there was much more to that phrase than your mother could understand. "Well, it’s late, and I still need to put Tommy and Billy to bed. S/n, would you walk me to the door?"

Finally, you snapped out of your trance upon hearing your name. "O-of course."

As the older woman passed through the door, she turned to look at you again, her eyes gleaming. “You looked beautiful today, darling.”

The compliment made you blush, and the air felt thin, making it hard to breathe.

“Hmm, what do we say when we’re complimented, Dekta?” Wanda broke your trance once again, touching your chin in a firm grip, forcing you to look at her.

"Thank you, Wanda," you replied softly, in an almost submissive tone. Almost. The exhaustion of the day weighed on your shoulders, and Wanda’s sweet voice left you weak, hypnotizing you and slowly turning you into a needy kitten.

"Good girl." She caressed your face with her fingertips, almost as if you were a raw diamond—precious and ready to be shaped. By her. By her hands.

You hadn’t noticed—perhaps due to exhaustion—but Wanda's hands were trembling. The woman trembled as she touched you, as she felt the warmth emanating from your fragrant, untouched skin. Wanda felt blessed, as if finally that scared kitten was learning to trust her.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow, yes? Good night, beautiful girl." She didn’t want to say goodbye to you. She wanted to stay, make you kneel, rest your head on her lap, and stroke the top of your head to hear you purr.

The mark she left on you lingered until you fell asleep, embedding itself under your skin, making you dream of her, of her floral scent—it was something citrusy. Orange? Lemongrass, perhaps? The fragrance clung to your body, your mind, and suddenly, Yale seemed like a distant dream, and Wanda was the only thing you could dream about.

~*~

Poor S/n... A milf caught her.

Tag list <3

@rosekjsses @vyvvycg @3liyuh

If I forget someone, pls remind me in the comments!

#mommy wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #elizabeth olsen x reader #wlw smut #wlw post #lgbtq #lgbtqia #mommy k1nk #mommy k!nk #bd/sm kink

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rheya28 · 1 year ago

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IronWorks Fitness Centre ♥ The Sims 4: Speed Build // CC

Welcome to Ironworks Fitness Centre. This stunning space combines a sleek design with cutting-edge fitness technology to provide the perfect workout environment. You can take a refreshing dip in the stylish pool or challenge yourself to a boxing match in the boxing ring. Ironworks Fitness Centre's state-of-the-art gym equipment is designed to meet all your fitness needs, whether you're looking to build strength or improve your cardio. The facility offers an energizing cycling classes to get your heart pumping and blood flowing for those who need an extra boost.

➽ I was talking to one of my lovely friend @marilynjeansims about building in Oasis Spring. I realize that I have not build anything for this world so here I am! hehe I am planning on filling up this community strip so watch out for more oasis spring modern and midcentury builds in the future! Megan suggested a few community lot types which I think will be perfect for this world so I'm excited!

➽ Speed Build Video

➽ Important Notes:

●Please make sure to turn bb.moveobjects on! ● Please DO NOT reupload or claim as your own. ● Feel free to tag me if you are using it, I love seeing my build in other peoples save file ● Feel free to edit/tweak my builds, but please make sure to credit me as the original creator! ● Thank you to all CC Creators● Please let me know if there's any problem with the build

Female Sims used in the video are by the lovely @largetaytertots Gwen & Solana

➽ Lot Details

Lot Name: IronWorks Fitness Centre Lot type: Gym Lot size: 40 x 30 Location: Oasis Spring

➽ MODS

● Tool Mod by Twisted Mexi ● Let's Get Fit Fanmade Modpack by Cepzid ● Everyday clutterkits become functional by Cepzid

➽ CC List

Note: I reuse a lot of the same cc in all my builds, specifically cc's from felixandre, HeyHarrie, Tuds, and Pierisim so if you're interested in downloading past, present, future build from me i suggest getting all their cc sets to make downloading a little easier! other creators include Sooky, Charlypancakes, Sixam, Thecluttercat, Myshunosun, awingedllama, Peacemaker, kiwisim4. This will also ensure that the lots are complete and are not missing any items upon downloading ! DSCO ● Hunter Fitness set House of Harlix ● Bafroom ● Harluxe ● Orjanic Bbygyal123 ● The balance collection Charlypancakes ● Munch ● Smol Felixandre ● Colonial pt [3] ● Grove pt [3][4] ● Soho (all) Harrie ●Brutalist ● Klean pt [3] ● Spoons pt [2] ● Jardane ● Kichen (shelves only) LittleDica ● Country Side Cabin ● Rise & Grind Peacemaker ● Hudson Bathroom [towel] Pierisim ● Coldbrew ● MCM pt [1][3] ● Oak House pt [2] ● Unfold ● Winter Garden ● Woodland Ranch (ceiling/floor tiles only) Max 20 ● Poolside Lounge Pack Simkoos ● Everyday Clutterkit Addon (rolled yoga mat only) ● Taget Store (Signs only) Sixam ● Hotel Bedroom (desk) ● Small spaces Laundry Room (laundry basket only) Syboulette ● Ballet (mirrors only) ● Fitness ● Karaoke (neon signs only) Tuds ● Brut (ceiling light only) ● Cross ● Cave ● Ind Around the sims ● Swimming pool foam lane ● Swimming pool Starting block

● DOWNLOAD Tray File and CC list: Patreon Page ● Origin ID: anrheya [previous name: applez] ● Twitter: Rheya28__ ● Tiktok: Rheya28__ ● Youtube: Rheya28__

#ts4 #sims 4 #thesims4 #sims #thesims #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 cc #showusyourbuilds #simblr #sims 4 builds #the sims 4 cc build #the sims 4 gym #build #builds

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elicathebunny · 1 year ago

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HEALTH SHOULD ALWAYS COME FIRST! PRIORITISING HEALTH BEFORE EVERYTHING ELSE TO LOOK GOOD + FEEL GOOD.

People always leave out the basics when it comes to trying to improve their looks. Prioritising health is so important before going in and tempering with your body. Your base is what you work with and you can definitely level up with what you've got naturally.

DIET

Your diet also depends on what your goals are. Someone who wants to build muscle will obviously eat differently from someone who just eats relatively healthy. So identify what your goals are and work your meals around that.

Here are some videos to give you a better insight: HOW I LOSE FAT AND KEEP IT OFF MEANS, WORKOUTS + EVERYTHING ELSE PROTEIN EXPLAINED, STRENGTH, MUSCLES, FAT LOSS & ENDURANCE HOW METABOLISM WORKS

Diet not only makes you feel better from the inside, but it also reflects on your outside. Your skin is a huge display of how you eat.

When you consume junk food, it can show up on your skin as breakouts or dullness. Your skin is one massive organ which soaks up everything put onto it and reflects everything you put inside your body. Fix the problem from the inside before getting confused about why your skincare routine isn't working.

FITNESS

Again, your fitness will differentiate from your goals. So work out your goals and make a plan around that. There are so many forms of fitness, some more intense than others and with different results. Working out in general is good for you, our bodies are meant to move. So even if you don't have a goal, staying active is always recommended.

HOW TO CREATE THE PERFECT WORKOUT PLAN

THE BEST WAY TO GAIN MUSCLE, SCIENCE EXPLAINED SIMPLY

Low-intensity workouts:

Yoga: Focuses on flexibility, strength, and relaxation through various poses and breathing techniques.

Pilates: A low-impact exercise method that strengthens muscles, improves flexibility, and enhances posture.

Walking: Simple yet effective, walking is a great way to improve cardiovascular health and boost mood without high impact.

Swimming: Provides a full-body workout with minimal stress on joints, making it ideal for people with joint issues or injuries.

High-intensity workouts:

HIIT (High-Intensity Interval Training): Alternates between short bursts of intense exercise and brief recovery periods to maximize calorie burn and improve cardiovascular fitness.

CrossFit: Combines elements of weightlifting, interval training, gymnastics, and other exercises to build strength, endurance, and overall fitness.

Sprinting: Short, explosive bursts of running at maximum effort, often performed in intervals for cardiovascular conditioning and leg muscle strength.

Circuit Training: Involves moving through a series of exercises targeting different muscle groups with minimal rest in between, combining strength training and cardiovascular exercise.

These are just a few examples, but there are plenty of other workout styles out there to explore depending on your preferences and fitness goals. Walking every day is just a simple way to stay toned.

SLEEP

Sleeping is important for rest and recovery after workouts and energy-consuming activities. Sleep is needed for the brain to function, mood regulation and performance + productivity. Lack of sleep deprives you of all of these things, so getting your beauty sleep is absolutely needed.

School-age children (6-13 years): 9-11 hours per day.

Teenagers (14-17 years): 8-10 hours per day.

Young adults (18-25 years): 7-9 hours per day.

Adults (26-64 years): 7-9 hours per day.

HYGIENE

Upkeeping good hygiene is always needed anyway. Making sure you are clean (smelling good is a plus). Make sure you always wash your hands and take daily showers to remove any dirt on your body (clean those feet and your back well, don't forget them!). Taking care of your oral health must not be forgotten. Oil pulling and brushing your tongue for a healthy mouth. Make sure your hair is also getting the attention to keep it as healthy as you possibly can make it (this also depends on diet). Doing the extra things like spending time on your nails (making sure there isn't that stuff underneath them), making them pretty.

BODY CARE ROUTINE | FOR SMOOTH & GLOWING SKIN, TREATING KERATOSIS PILARIS, SHOWER ROUTINE

ENVIRONMENT

Having a stress-free environment is obviously the best to thrive in. But clearly not even being lucky enough to live like that constantly. So make sure you have that space to be on your own and have some alone time to really recharge. Keeping your space clean for a clear mind. Surround yourself with like-minded people and really set boundaries for those who prey on your mental clarity (energy vampires). Spending time in nature is one of the best ways to detach, rest time should not equal spending time on your devices. Let go and truly let yourself decompress. Mental health will improve how you carry yourself.

EMBODY YOUR POTENTIAL.

#self improvement #self worth #that girl #dream girl #self growth #glow up #self care

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dansformations · 1 month ago

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Just what they needed.

Tags: #IQloss #gaytostraight #fartkink #burpkink #musktfs

Ian, George, and Zachary were three of the few nerds left at the all-boys university in their county, where there seemed to be more and more dumb jocks and fewer young men with a functional brain.

History class had ended — the one class they genuinely enjoyed — and it was time for the thing they hated most: sports.

As they walked toward the field, they saw a group of athletes gathered, laughing at one of them performing the impressive feat of making fart sounds with his armpit. What surprised them was seeing Will, a former member of the debate club, laughing like an idiot with the group.

“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones from this generation to leave this lumberjack town.”

“No hands!” they heard Will shout before lifting a leg and letting out a loud fart

— PRIRRRRRRRRFT.

The other two friends nodded in disgust.

With a sigh, they pushed through the doors to the sports camp. They had never been athletic or into sports, and everyone knew it. They were easy targets during strength games and hated the sensation of sweat on their bodies, and stench in the locker room after the game was repulsive. They usted everything sports related.

Today, after another humiliating class, just as they were about to head to the locker room in defeat, the gym coach approached them and handed them some bottles with protein shakes.

“This is just what you need. It’ll help boost your perfomance. Drink it at night, and you’ll see; show those idiots what you’re made of!”

Confused but happy about the coach’s unusual kindness — since he usually acted like just another athlete — they headed to the locker room with the protein in hand, feeling slightly more positive as they endured the locker room’s infamous scent: sweat, men’s deodorant, and farts.

That night, the three friends drank their shakes, and just as the coach promised, the next day they woke up bursting with energy. So much energy, in fact, that they felt hyperactive, unable to concentrate even in history class — something they never thought would happen but all they wanted was to run and burn off all that restless energy.

Their ability on the field was undeniably better, from warm-ups to the game itself, where they suddenly seemed to understand football perfectly and even managed to score a few goals. The other jocks glanced at each other, and the three nerds hoped to see looks of surprise on them... but instead, the athletes exchanged knowing glances.

However, the excitement of their success quickly made them forget about it.

“I can’t believe all we needed was a protein shake!” Ian exclaimed.

They headed to the locker room, where the other athletes soon filled the air with their constant lack of deodorant and gas competitions, but this time they were so caught up in their enthusiastic conversation that they barely noticed.

“U guys think the coach will give us more?” George asked.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Zachary replied, leading his friends to the coach’s office.

PRRRFFFFRRRRT

They entered the coach’s office just as he was finishing letting out a loud fart, leg lifted from his seat at his desk.

“Oh, sorry, boys, you caught me at the right time,” he reacted, waving away the stench.

It was the first time they’d been in his ‘office,’ which looked more like a lazy teenager’s room: messy, trash on the floor, and the same locker room smell.

“How can someone like that be a teacher!?” they thought.

“Let me guess, you came for more,” he continued.

“Uh, yeah, we... We really improved today and were wondering if we could get some more...”

Smack!

The coach dropped three protein containers on the table.

“One for each of you. I promise that with one or two shakes a day for 15 days, you won’t even need it anymore, you’ll be masters.”

“That’s it? We don’t owe you anything?” George asked, surprised.

“What are you talking about! No!, can’t a coach care about his students?” he said, pulling them into a sweaty, musky hug.

“Oh, thank you!”

“Really, thanks, Coach!”

“You’re the best!”

The three friends left, thrilled, and as soon as they got home, they almost immediately drank their shakes. The next morning, they thought one more shake to kickstart the day wouldn’t hurt.

Their energy during class was even more hyperactive than the day before — every lesson felt unbearable. They didn’t take notes or pay attention; they just wanted to run across the field and burn off the excess energy.

When sports time came, they practically sprinted to the field and delivered an incredible performance, which they knew was outstanding. Completely sweaty, they walked to the locker room, each feeling an odd discomfort in their stomachs, but they ignored it.

This time, they didn’t even notice the smell, and they didn’t realize they were practically part of it with their sweaty bodies blending into the odor.

“It was amazing,” Ian said. “Zach ran faster than I’ve ever seen, passed me the ball, I sent it to George, and with a header—GO-OOOOURRRP!”

As he tried to shout "goal," that strange feeling in his stomach finally manifested as a loud, forceful burp. Ian blushed, caught off guard.

“Eeeeeh!”

“Nice one!”

A few athletes cheered from a distance.

“Ian! That’s disgu—agh!” George grimaced as a sudden pain struck his stomach, clutching his abdomen.

“You okay?” Zach asked, concerned.

The pain faded, and George sighed in relief, but as his body relaxed... PPPPPPFFFFFFFT!

He unleashed a loud, rumbling fart that echoed through the locker room, earning just as much celebration from the other athletes. The stench soon reached his nose—and his friends’—and embarrassment flooded his face.

A bit curious about the reaction and partly wanting to make George feel less embarrassed, Zach squinted one eye, gave a slight push, and let out a satisfying:

“PRRRFFFFRRRRT!”

"Ahhhhh" he even said at the end.

The fart reverberated throughout the locker room, and the jocks roared with laughter, clapping like fools. The three friends looked at each other and couldn’t help but laugh too—maybe it was kind of funny after all...

As the days went by—and the protein shakes too —their concentration in class worsened. Not only did their interest decreased, but their understanding of the lessons also slipped away. Subjects that once seemed simple and addictive became increasingly dull and tedious.

On the other hand, their performance on the field wasn’t the only thing that improved; their passion for it grew too. The game became all they thought about.

Their hygiene, however, took a nosedive. Deodorant became an afterthought, and the once-offensive stink of the men’s locker room no longer bothered them—because now they were part to the odor with constant farts and belches. Without realizing it, they had become part of Will’s group—the group who laughed at armpit farts and, well, just farts in general.

That day, the team decided to host a grand gas competition, and the new members of the team were eager to show their skills.

“ThEeEe cOONSTeEST IS ARR-ABOUT TO START!” announced the team captain, speaking entirely in burps.

One by one, rows of sculpted faces stepped forward to belch loudly with exaggerated expressions, while perfect, rounded butts packed in tight athletic shorts deflated with long, pungent farts.

The three friends now laughed and celebrated those actions, feeling comfortable and happy there. And soon, it was their turn.

Ian stepped forward with a confident grin, pounded his chest, and let out an exaggerated:

“OOOOUAAAAAARRRRRRP!”

His long burp rumbled through the locker room, immediately sparking a wave of celebratory noises. Motivated by the reaction, he pretended to catch the burp with his fist, shove it back into his mouth, and then lifted one leg:

“PRRRFFFFTFFFRRRRRRRFF!”

A fart erupted, filling the room with a rancid taco smell—maybe gone bad tacos.

“Whew! That one was spicy, bro!” George laughed with a dopey chuckle. “My turn!”

The once-intellectual George stepped up confidently, unleashing a long, loud burp, tapping his throat to create varied sounds:

“UU-UR-UUHRP-URP-URR-UARP!”

The divided burp, made up of several smaller belches, had the entire team laughing even harder. Not missing the chance, Zach stood next to him and pretended to “eat” the burps, then immediately lifted his leg and...

“PRRRFT - PRRFT - PRRFT...”

A series of short, rapid-fire farts burst from Zach’s rear in perfect sync with George’s finishing burps—a coordination worth studying... at least in their minds.

“UUUORRRP - PFFFFT - OUURRRP - PRIRRFIFR...”

The three friends laughed, unaware that with each fart and burp, they weren’t just expelling gas and odor, but also shedding the remnants of their personalities. Their dreams of studying away from town and becoming successful artists faded, along with their passion for art. Now, the game was their only focus... Oh, and girls. Zach and George’s homosexuality was sended away if it had never existed. Zach forgot about his long-standing crush on his no-longer-brilliant friend George and now saw him only as a buddy, a bro. George forgot how attracted he had been to all those jocks with perfect bodies—even though he always denied it, he would never admit feeling atracción for guys so gross and dumb, but now he knew thats how a man should be—dirty, gross... and definitely not attracted to other men. All those filthy athletes were nothing more than His friends, His bros, and that was all he wanted them to be.

A month had passed, and protein shakes were a thing of the past—they didn’t need them anymore. They had energy to spare, rarely attending classes, preferring to hang out on the field with the other athletes.

Ian, Zachary, and George had practically become entirely new people. There was no trace of the nerds they used to be—not only had their minds changed and their IQs plummeted, but their bodies had transformed too, now sculpted and athletic from countless hours of playing.

“PRRRFFFFRRRRTFTT!”

Zach let out a massive fart while sitting in a manspreading position with his friends.

“Well?” he asked.

The coach watched from the field as the new athletic, masculine, heterosexual, and dumb friends played a game of guessing what they had eaten based on the smell of their farts.

“Huh... KFC-style chicken,” George said in a much deeper and slower voice, while Ian just fanned the stench, laughing.

“KFC-style chicken!” Zach confirmed, grinning.

The coach smiled as he watched the three friends celebrate that ridiculous achievement, then crossed their names off a list. Proudly, he walked to the principal’s office and handed over the list.

“All done! Who’s next?”

The principal gave him a satisfied smile and handed over the next list.

“Perfect, Coach,” he said. “By the way, the literature teacher has been sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong—apparently worried about the "decrease on the academic performance around here". Maybe you should invite him for some shakes too?”

“Oh HAHA, love to hear that!” the coach replied. “You know, I think we could give some to every one of them; these boys need real men as their superiors, true role models.”

The man grinned.

“I’ll work on the list,” he said, and the coach walked cheerfully out of the office.

On his way out, he spotted a romantic couple—a two guys romantic couple. Without checking if they were on the list or not, he led them with lies straight to the field, knowing the principal would understand that some cases were priorities.

“Boys, give a warm welcome to the new members!” the coach called out, pushing the pair toward the bleachers where Zach, George, and Ian were waiting. The couple tried to resist, saying they never agreed to join the team, but the friends were already ready to welcome the newcomers properly, just as they knew:

The coach smiled and prepared two protein bottles for the new recruits.

It turned out, with the rising abandonment rates in town, the mayor had begun to worry about running out of men for labor—firewood production and farming were the town’s primary sources of income, and they couldn’t afford to lose them.

They realized that the academic ambitions of young men played a role: the more they wanted to succeed academically, the more likely they were to leave town. The more they worked their minds, the less they worked their bodies...

So the county’s all-boys school came up with a solution: the coach’s special formula.

The formula promised to enhance physical performance and interest while shifting aspirations to something simpler, easier... Well, maybe leaving them with no aspirations at all.

“This is just what we need!” the mayor had said.

It was settled—the coach began mass-producing the formula, distributing it to the coaches of the only other two colleges in town. It was working flawlessly—the town seemed to be filling with more dumb jocks and fewer young men with functioning brains. Just what they needed.

_______________________________________

Hey guys, sorry for taking so long to post, but I’ll make it up to you with this story—it's one of my longest ones so far. I promise the next story won’t take as long to arrive, but I want you to know that besides this blog, I also write other things that take higher priority, and I have a pretty demanding job—that’s why it takes me so long.

Without further ado, enjoy! ;)

#dumber #gay to straight #fart kink #male tf story #fart #burp kink #nerd to jock #musk tf

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