[He wasn't really about to just throw Akira's suggestion down in the deepest pit of the garbage that is space void, but Simba Poolmba had a certain ridiculous enough name that it would just... have to be. There was nothing more out of the ordinary than taking a highly scientific thing with multiple moving parts, the ability to convert garbage into energy and clean- just to give it a fittingly mind numbing name. Ryuji flashes a thumbs up to Akira to let him know that he agreed.
And while you won't go into specific details, allow me.
Ryuji stands, at a brisk 5'9", arms bent and raised just to his hipline as he sees the scene in front of him break loose. But more important to note is how his silhouette reflects in the water below him, the moment before the ripples start to distort everything. Looking back at him, the surface of the pool gives an image of pure and utter masculine refinement. A biological evolution of man that has reached pique physical fitness. His form, secured to its half naked glory, is only allowed by the crappy jumpsuit now laying folded on the ground and discarded without a care in the world.
The statuesque figure of the blond is striking. His underwear is tight, form fitting. It elaborates on the soft musculature of his runner's thighs, clamps neatly against his waist in just the perfect stretch so as not to allow an inch of room for Jesus in any of it, the band of which refuses to roll down from being pulled too thin. Its height is just right- under a small amount of body fuzz that trails below his belly button, signifying that Ryuji hasn't passed completely into adulthood yet, and the material, although leaving much to be desired, has become comfortably worn in over the last two months. The backside, that hunk of burning hamburger bun, exhibits two perfectly rounded and shaped buttocks, arching slightly upward and away from his back when his posture is actually corrected. Then, just a short trip around the hips is his pride and joy; his meat stick, his beef thermometer, the Herman von Longschlongstein. The pantsu leave nothing to the imagination, of course, which is a vile sort of unhappy thing to see for anyone involved (probably). Which is, to say, relatively average. Modest. Nothing extraordinary, but he's pretty chill with that.
So to avoid talking about Ryuji's dick for another two paragraphs, I'll stop here- as his expression turns to one of aggravation when he's splashed at so willy nilly. ( ;) )
In he fuckin goes, though- and it's with a raucous shout of CANONBALLLLLLLLL that he tries to make the largest splash possible. He's had years of public pool swimming to know that this sort of shit is completely not allowed, so of course, he's great at it. Surfacing, he floats upward on his back, and everything that was described up there is now equally outlined twice as much when it's damp.]
no subject
And while you won't go into specific details, allow me.
Ryuji stands, at a brisk 5'9", arms bent and raised just to his hipline as he sees the scene in front of him break loose. But more important to note is how his silhouette reflects in the water below him, the moment before the ripples start to distort everything. Looking back at him, the surface of the pool gives an image of pure and utter masculine refinement. A biological evolution of man that has reached pique physical fitness. His form, secured to its half naked glory, is only allowed by the crappy jumpsuit now laying folded on the ground and discarded without a care in the world.
The statuesque figure of the blond is striking. His underwear is tight, form fitting. It elaborates on the soft musculature of his runner's thighs, clamps neatly against his waist in just the perfect stretch so as not to allow an inch of room for Jesus in any of it, the band of which refuses to roll down from being pulled too thin. Its height is just right- under a small amount of body fuzz that trails below his belly button, signifying that Ryuji hasn't passed completely into adulthood yet, and the material, although leaving much to be desired, has become comfortably worn in over the last two months. The backside, that hunk of burning hamburger bun, exhibits two perfectly rounded and shaped buttocks, arching slightly upward and away from his back when his posture is actually corrected. Then, just a short trip around the hips is his pride and joy; his meat stick, his beef thermometer, the Herman von Longschlongstein. The pantsu leave nothing to the imagination, of course, which is a vile sort of unhappy thing to see for anyone involved (probably). Which is, to say, relatively average. Modest. Nothing extraordinary, but he's pretty chill with that.
So to avoid talking about Ryuji's dick for another two paragraphs, I'll stop here- as his expression turns to one of aggravation when he's splashed at so willy nilly. ( ;) )
In he fuckin goes, though- and it's with a raucous shout of CANONBALLLLLLLLL that he tries to make the largest splash possible. He's had years of public pool swimming to know that this sort of shit is completely not allowed, so of course, he's great at it. Surfacing, he floats upward on his back, and everything that was described up there is now equally outlined twice as much when it's damp.]
MAN... IT FEELS SO GOOD.